Viv smirks, unbothered. She shifts in her chair and crosses one leg over the other, swirling the last bit of her drink with intention. “I want to reclaim my core strengthandmy narrative, Marin. And one day I will float down from the ceiling wrapped in silk scarves, and you willweep.”
Marin raises her cup in a mock salute. “Have you even found a class near you?”
Viv shrugs, suddenly studying her nails. “Yes. But I haven’t signed up. I’ve always chickened out.”
Marin leans forward, propping her elbows on the table, her tone suddenly earnest. “Fine. Your grief dare is to find a class and sign up when you get home.”
I blink. This is the first time Marin has dished out a dare. “You’re giving dares now?”
“Yep. It’s time for me to step up and join in. And I’m even giving myself one.” She hesitates, watching the bubbles rise and settle. “I’ve always wanted to make a dating profile.”
I straighten at the same time I feel Viv turn her full attention to Marin.
She hesitates. “But I never did. I met Theo in college, and that was that. Then I blinked and it was twenty years and two kids later and now I’m a widow who’s never even swiped on a stranger.And now I went on a date with Len, so can I really make a profile?”
Viv’s mouth hangs open. “Marin! It was one date. You aren’t exclusive!” She’s already got her phone out. “Well, tonight is the night. We’re building you a profile and you’re going to fall in love with a decent man, or at least get a drink with someone who owns pants without drawstrings.”
“I don’t think I have any pictures that scream ‘I’m ready to flirt.’ Is this one okay?” Marin turns her phone toward us with the hopeful look of someone holding up a half-burned casserole.
Viv recoils. “Not unless your goal is to attract a serial killer who collects Civil War memorabilia.”
“It was from my niece’s graduation.”
“You’re wearing orthopedic sandals and holding a meat tray, Marin.”
Marin huffs. “Well, I have other photos, somewhere.”
Viv points dramatically toward the hallway. “You have five minutes to go change into something that says ‘I might kiss you on a second date’ instead of ‘I teach Sunday school and my hobby is structured silence.’”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Marin disappears toward the guest room-slash-costume-closet with the resigned sigh of a woman about to make poor decisions in borrowed sequins.
Meanwhile, I’m back at my laptop, staring down the PTA queen’s passive-aggressive email like it’s daring me to bake gluten-free muffins and feel shame about it. I crack my knuckles and start typing.
Subject: Re: Re: Snack Roster
Hi Jill,
Thank you for your concern. I’m touched that you’re worried about my mental state after I dared to step away from napkin duty.
Please rest assured, I am doing well, but I will no longer bevolunteering with the PTA. I wish you all the best with prom this year.
Warm regards,
Birdie
I read it aloud with the kind of pride typically reserved for standing up to homeowners associations or getting out of a timeshare.
Marin snorts from the other room. Viv pumps her fist in the air. “Hit send,” she says, “for all the moms who’ve been emotionally blackmailed by the juice box mafia.”
I do. And it feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years.
Marin reappears in one of Viv’s old glitter tank tops and black jeans that somehow both fit and stun. Her hair’s fluffed, her lips are glossed, and she looks alive.
“How’s this?”
Viv clutches her chest. “You’re a MILF with boundaries. You’re a divorced Renaissance woman. You’re a kombucha-fueled goddess of second chances.”
“I’m a woman who borrowed a tank top from a friend who owns four crystals and an erotic candle shaped like Mr. Darcy.”
