I think of my beige, neutral, striped boring color-coded closet now and wonder what happened to that version of myself.
I breathe in. Out. My house is actually quiet.
It hasn’t been quiet like this in weeks, and I’m not sure how I feel about the familiar silence being back.
At least it won’t be quiet for long. Matt texted me this morning to say he and one of his college teammates were comingto the big 50th bash this weekend. Which means I should probably hide the emotional support wine by Friday morning.
Viv, who made a miraculous and not-at-all-suspicious recovery the moment Noah left earlier, had insisted on overseeing my outfit like a deranged fashion fairy godmother. After rejecting seven potential tops for “lacking romantic tension,” she’d poured me into a dark green wrap dress that “brought out my latent sex appeal.” My hair was curled in loose waves that screamedI woke up like this(I did not), and a swipe of berry lipstick had been declared “powerful yet kissable.”
I’d drawn the line at stilettos, opting instead for ankle boots that gave me enough height to fake confidence without risking a twisted ankle and a viral moment. I looked like someone who’d readEat Pray Lovetwice but still paid her taxes on time. After a final nod of approval, she disappeared with Harper to “work on RSVP logistics” on the back patio. Translation: drink canned sangria and spy through the window like two underpaid P.I.s. They had a full night of espionage ahead of them with Marin due back from her date soon.
Now it’s me and the ticking of the kitchen clock and the knowledge that my date is with someone who has known me since the era of Avril Lavigne and microwave ramen.
I do one last check in the entryway mirror. Not bad. The curls are keeping their form in my stick-straight hair. My mascara is doing the Lord’s work. I give myself a firm nod and open the door.
Noah stands there in a navy button-down that fits his body like it was personally tailored by someone who specializes in sculpting forearms. The sleeves are rolled up the perfect amount to make me press my thighs together, Lord knows why. He’s holding two to-go cups, and I swallow hard as I stare for much too long at the way his long fingers wrap around the drink.
“I brought caffeine.” He holds them up. “Or poetry survival juice. Dealer’s choice.”
I laugh before I mean to. “Look at you, coming prepared.”
“I’ve met you.” He grins. “I remember college. I came emotionally prepared for a night of metaphor and regret.”
“Metaphor and regret is the name of my memoir.”
He chuckles, then leans in slightly, his arm brushing mine, and it’s entirely unfair how fast my nerve endings notice. My skin is a traitor, a teenage traitor in a very uncool mom body.
“If I remember correctly,” I lock the door behind me as we walk to his truck, “you used to drag Owen to those same poetry nights and then immediately undercut the vibe by trying to impress whatever girl you were dating with a hot take about modern verse being ‘culturally overindulgent.’”
“I did not.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock-offended.
“You said spoken word was just therapy with an audience.”
He winces. “Okay, that one sounds familiar.”
“And you said enjambment was an ‘emotional crutch for people who don’t believe in punctuation.’”
“Wow,” he mutters, opening the passenger door for me. “I was kind of a tool.”
“Oh, honey.” I climb into the truck’s cab. “You were a handsome tool. Which is why it worked.”
He shuts the door, and I let myself grin at the sound of his footsteps rounding the front of the truck. I sip the coffee. It’s sweet, steaming hot, just how I like it. This whole thing feels absurd and charming and oddly normal, which is somehow even scarier than it being a total awkward disaster.
He gets in, starts the engine, and glances over at me with a smile that doesn’t feel like a joke. Not a performance. Something soft and maybe slightly hopeful.
“Ready to enjoy poems about heartbreak and seasonal affective disorder with me?” I ask, tilting my head as I lock my seatbelt into place. “Nothing like existential dread echoing through a converted art gallery. Honestly, I might be more excited about the gallery walls than the open mic. Last time, they had this whole series on rusted bicycles and abandonment. It was incredible.”
Noah shoots me a sideways smile, the kind that says he’s bothamused and mildly alarmed. “Define ‘ready.’ Are there snacks? A panic button? A safe word?”
“You could’ve said no, you know.” I nudge him with my shoulder as he pulls out into traffic. “This was a volunteer mission.”
He shrugs with exaggerated martyrdom. “Nah. I figured if I was going to spiral into existential dread, I might as well do it next to someone pretty.”
I roll my eyes. “Charming. Is that on your Tinder bio?”
“First, how do you know about Tinder? Should I be worried I have competition? Second, I don’t have Tinder. I have taste.”
“Oh, please. You once tried to impress a girl in college by quoting Death Cab for Cutie.”
