We clink with dramatic flair, like warriors before battle. My table is a war zone of party supply catalogues, glitter swatches, and a spreadsheet Marin made color-coded bychaos level. There's a sticky note stuck to Viv’s sleeve that saysConfetti cannon? Tasteful?One of Owen’s old ball caps perches on the back of a chair like he’s overseeing the entire circus. There’s a notecard that reads “Piñata or fire dancer?” and another that says “YES TO BOTH” in Viv’s handwriting.
“Okay.” I pull up the catering site again. “So, we’ve narrowed it down to ‘Sandwiches and Sips’ or ‘Nacho Explosion.’”
“I vote nacho.” Viv takes another big swig of her drink. “Nobody cries with cheese in hand.”
“Agreed.” Marin’s face pinches as she takes a reluctant sip of her drink. “Speaking of cheese, do you still have that brie in the fridge? It would, um, pair nicely with this grape situation.”
She says “grape situation” like it’s been court-ordered.
I try not to laugh. I’ve already caught her subtly trying to offer some to Frank, who sniffed it once and walked away like the bougiest stray ever.
Viv’s off on a tear now, passionately defending her case for making a life-size cardboard cutout of Owen in his 90s karaoke glory.
“Or,” Marin’s voice is as dry as a cracker, “we could honorhim in a way that doesn’t scream backyard haunted house meets dollar store memorial.”
“Okay, first of all, rude.” Viv flips her hair to emphasize her offense. “Second of all, it's what he would've wanted.”
“How would you know? You’ve never met the man.” Marin leans over to my potted fern to pour her drink into it.
“I know hissoul, Marin.”
My phone pings. I glance down, expecting a text from Noah—maybe something flirty, maybe something about the piñata size he offered to handle (which, now that I say it, sounds inappropriate).
Instead, I see:
From: Jill
Subject: Re: Snack Roster
Hi Birdie,
I wanted to follow up on your email. A few of us read it and, well, we’re a little worried. It didn’t quite sound like you.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, please know it’s okay to step back quietly. We’ve all been there. No need for dramatic declarations. Just take the time you need, and maybe avoid replying-all next time?
We’re all here if you ever want to talk through anything.
Wishing you peace and perspective,
Jill
I read it aloud. The “” makes me want to throw my phone into the compost bin.
Marin snorts. “She means well.”
Viv leans in. “She means be quiet and polite and please stop being publicly unhinged in front of the gluten-free cupcake moms.”
“Oh, please.” I set my drink down. “She’s worried I’m mentally unraveling because I finally said no to being the designated snack serf.”
“I don’t know.” Marin sighs. “Sometimes I wish I could be that honest. Say the thing. Do the thing. Stop worrying what people will think.”
Viv grins. “Then let’s do it. Let’s say the things we’ve never done because we were scared of being too much. Or not enough. Or offending the other cookie cutters out there.”
“Viv.” I hold my hand up in protest. “I am the other cookie cutter out there.”
“Exactly.” She winks. “Okay, I’ll start. I’ve always wanted to pole dance. Not professionally. More recreationally. Like, climb it like a sexy fireman and spin dramatically.”
Marin nearly chokes on her kombucha. “You want to become a Cirque du Soleil stripper?”
