He pushes himself up on one elbow. “Birdie?—”
“I haven’t moved that picture since the funeral,” I snap. “I’m not ready to explain what this is or how I feel about any of it, because the truth is—I don’t know. I just know it’s too soon to be caught with you in Owen’s spot. And I don’t want to hash it out with them over scones and kombucha.”
The hallway creaks.
“Window. Now.”
Noah blinks. “It’s thesecond floor.”
“You deliver mail. You climb porch steps for a living. You can handle one measly trellis.”
“Again, I thought they were fine with this?”
“Yes.” I pull on yesterday’s T-shirt and try to flatten my hair with the palm of my hand. “But they’ve been fine with a lot of things lately, and I haven’t had coffee yet, and I’m not emotionally stable enough to deal with Viv’s face when she walks in here and sees you half-naked in Owen’s bed.”
He frowns, finally sitting up. “It’s your bed.”
I pull my hair into something that might resemble a ponytail in certain lighting. “It is and it isn’t. I’m not—God—I’m not ready to have a post-hookup brunch while my dead husband’s toothbrush is still in the drawer.”
Noah sits up, rubbing his face. “B…”
“I like you.” I press my palms into my eyes. “And that’s the problem. It felt good. Too good. And I’m scared that if I let it keep feeling good, I won’t have room for the grief anymore. I’m scared that if you stay for coffee, Owen will disappear completely.”
A beat passes.
Then, he places a gentle hand on my back. “Take a breath. You’re okay. This was a big step. It’s grief, and it’s normal. But he’s not disappearing.”
I flinch like he’s touched an open wound.
“Don’t—” I pull away, wrapping the sheet around myself like armor. “Don’t try to make this neat. It’s not normal. It’s not okay. I woke up with you in his spot, Noah, and I couldn’t breathe.”
He’s quiet for a long moment. Then he exhales through his nose and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I know. Believe me, I know.”
He stands, gathers his clothes in one hand like they’re shame made cotton, and walks to the window with a stiff sort of grace.
“You’re not cheating on your grief, B.” He’s not looking at me. “You’re surviving it.”
“Don’t do that,” I snap. “Don’t give me permission to feelbetter. Don’t offer some bumper sticker wisdom and pretend this doesn’t change everything.”
He turns, finally. His eyes are tired, and there’s something raw in his voice now. “You think I don’t feel sick about it? He was my best friend. He trusted me.”
“And I was his wife.”
The words slice through the room like glass, and for a second, neither of us moves. The morning light turns everything soft and golden, and I hate how beautiful it is in here. Like the world should pause while I try to untangle what the hell I’ve done.
Noah swallows hard. “I know.”
“No, you don’t.” My voice is barely more than a whisper. “You can’t. Because if you did, you wouldn’t be standing there looking like you want me to say it was okay.”
His jaw tightens. “I don’t want you to say it was okay.”
“I wasn’t supposed to fall in love with you.” He presses a hand to the windowsill. “I was supposed to protect you. That’s what you do with your best friend’s girl, right? You keep her safe. You hold the line. And instead… I crossed it.”
Silence. It roars between us.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he adds, almost to himself. “But that doesn’t make it better.”
Viv’s footsteps are coming down the hall now. “Window.”
