Chapter 4 #2
Noah’s eyebrows quirk upwards but, to his credit, he doesn’t say anything.
He takes the glass of water out of my hand and glances down at his watch.
“I’ve got a few more streets to hit, but I’ll see about working a half day.
I have so many unused vacation and personal days that my post master will be thrilled I’m taking an afternoon off. Can you manage for a bit?”
“Manage a dog with a limp and my deep, engrained, soul-crushing sense of maternal responsibility?” I give a half shrug. “That’s my entire personality.”
He smiles, easy and unbothered. “I’ll swing back by when I’m done, and I can help you take him in, if you’d like.”
Then he lifts Frank off the carpet, moving him onto the plush green towel I’ve laid next to him like it’s nothing.
He sets Frank down gently before turning toward the door. “Back soon!”
I nod. “Go deliver the nation’s coupons.”
I’d forgotten how easy it is to talk to Noah. How much I used to love it. I’m still grinning like a middle schooler with a crush, and I don’t love the way my stomach flips as he walks away. It used to do that for Noah. And then I met Owen. And the rest is history.
I close the door and exhale—maybe a breath I’d been holding, or maybe a sigh. Or maybe it’s grief again, doing that thing where it shapeshifts into longing and shows up in places it doesn’t belong.
I look down at Frank. He blinks up at me like he knows.
I’m too old for this.
Too worn down.
Too… widowed.
Still, I grab my phone and type out a message.
Me: Hypothetically, if someone felt a flicker, a flutter, an uncalled-for awareness of someone’s biceps. Would that be a symptom of perimenopause, or do we blame that on grief too?
Marin: …what kind of biceps?
Viv: BIRDIE. WHAT DID YOU SEE. WHO DID YOU SEE. WHERE CAN I FIND HIM.
Me: There was a dog. I named him Frank. He hurt his leg. One of my good friends, who also happens to be my mailman, carried him back to my house. He was best friends with Owen. I shouldn’t notice his biceps.
Marin: Hormones. You’ll live. Also, please describe the lift in greater detail.
Viv: NO. I need to know his name, route, availability, and if he owns a flannel.
Me: Focus, ladies. Frank. Smile. Lift. Biceps. Guilt.
______________
Noah pulls back into the driveway as I’m wrapping Frank in an old beach towel. The poor dog looks like a disheveled burrito.
“Ready?” He nods toward the pickup truck idling in my driveway. He’s still in his uniform, though his shirt is a little rumpled now, and there’s a speck of dirt on his cheek that, if I were someone else, I might feel something about.
Instead, I gesture toward the green towel where I’ve already cooked Frank a chicken breast and given him a big bowl of water. “He’s not great with small talk, but he appreciates the ride.”
“Good.” Noah shoots me another one of those annoying smiles. “I can carry the conversation.”
He lifts Frank again, easy and sure. I follow behind, heart steady, breath even, nothing stirred—guilt and mourning firmly back in their rightful places.
Frank groans dramatically from the backseat of the truck as Noah pulls out into traffic.
“Vet’s probably going to ask how it happened.” Noah nods toward the back. “What do we tell them?”
“That he was contemplating the meaning of life in the middle of the road and miscalculated the curb.”
“I’ll let you handle that. You clearly have a gift with words.”
The sun rests low in the sky—golden in a cinematic way that makes people fall in love by accident.
I don’t.
But I do notice that Noah adjusts the radio when it’s too loud, and that he drives with one hand on the wheel and the other resting near mine. Owen used to drape his hand over the center console and rest it on my leg. It’s been a long time since someone’s done that.
We drive a few more streets in comfortable silence, save for Frank’s occasional groan and the dull tap of turn signals.
“I think this is the most we’ve talked in years.” As soon as I say it, I regret it. We’re hardly talking now.
“I wasn’t sure where I fit after Owen passed.” Noah keeps his eyes on the road, his voice low. “Wasn’t sure if I should check on you, or really how, outside from delivering the mail.”
“Even before that.”
Noah’s face flushes, and his eyes bore into the road. “I wanted to respect Owen. Still do.”
I wait for further explanation, but when none comes, I add, “You could've called.”
“Don’t have your number anymore. My phone fell in the lake on that fishing trip Owen and I took a few years back.
Lost all the contacts.” He lets out a small breath that might’ve been a laugh but doesn’t quite get there.
“Felt weird asking for your number after so many years. If I needed to talk to you, I could talk through Owen.”
I nod, letting the silence stretch a second too long.
“Still, it's nice. Talking like this.”
He glances at me briefly and smiles.
At the vet, he opens my door before I can grab the handle.
My stomach still does a little flip like it always did when he opened the door for me in college. “You don’t need to do that.”
He shrugs. “Old habits die hard.”
The vet clinic smells like antiseptic and anxiety. The tech takes one look at Frank and ushers us into a room.
“You his people?” Her voice is clipped and all business.
I hesitate. “Apparently.”
She takes him back for X-rays and leaves us in the main room. Noah leans against the counter while I sit in the vinyl chair, arms crossed tight.
“You’re quiet.” He nods in my direction.
“I’m usually quiet.”
He smiles. “You forget that I’ve known you for over two decades. You’re only quiet when you’re uncomfortable. You didn’t have to bring him in, you know. Or let me come with you.”
“I know.” I fix my eyes on the generic art in the waiting room so I can avoid his gaze.
A watercolor landscape—meant to soothe, I guess, though the horizon line was crooked and the trees bled into the sky like someone gave up halfway through.
Owen and I used to joke that waiting room art was the visual artist’s version of a novel that never left someone’s hard drive.
I still found myself mentally tracing the brushstrokes, wondering what the artist was trying to get right. Or what they’d given up on.
“But it was either this or leave him to become an allegory in the road. And there’s no way I was lifting him into the car without you.”
“Still,” his voice is gentle, “not everyone would’ve stopped.”
My eyes never leave the abstract beach scene on the wall. “I know what it’s like to lose your person and not know where to go.”
“I know what that’s like too.”
The vet comes back a few minutes later, cheerful and brisk.
“Poor boy’s leg is sprained. I would guess he’s around eight years old. No chip and no tag.” Frank hobbles over to me in his bright green bandage and rests his head in my lap.
“Do you need me to call a shelter?”
I don’t hesitate. “No. He’ll be coming home with me.”
The vet’s lips twitch up in a smile before she turns back to her other patients. The receptionist sends us on our way with pain meds and a bill.
Back in the truck, Noah carefully settles Frank into the back seat again.
“He’ll be fine.”
I nod.
“And so will you.”
I don’t answer. But the part of me that felt something when he lifted that dog, or smiled in that slow, quiet way, stirs a little.
And I blame the hormones.
And the packages.
And grief.
Mostly grief.