Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
“Stop spiraling, Birdie.” I give myself a stern glare in my entryway mirror. “It’s just a normal Wednesday.”
A normal Wednesday where I happen to be wearing my favorite jeans, the ones that make my butt look like I still do daily Pilates, and a snug, floral blouse that has no visible dog hair.
Frank watches me from the rug by the front door, his head tilted like he’s trying to figure out who I’m trying to impress. I smooth my dark strands and avoid eye contact with his judgmental brown eyes.
“I’m allowed to be curious about a person,” I mutter, checking the time. “It’s not a crime to be aware of another human being. And this is about moving past grief and developing my sense of self. And proving to the girls that things are moving along nicely in the emotional baggage department.”
He blinks.
I raise my eyebrows, which I may or may not have plucked this morning. Just because they needed plucking, mind you. “I’m not flirting. I’m being neighborly.” Why am I trying to justify this to a dog? And why does my dog seem so judgmental?
The truth is, I’ve timed the mail delivery.
It usually arrives between 9:36 and 9:46, depending on how bogged down Noah is with packages for the day.
I glance out the window for the third time in five minutes, then force myself to sit on the couch and pretend to read a book.
It’s some romance Viv recommended and it’s not doing anything for my nerves.
I keep glancing toward the driveway like a teenager waiting for their prom date.
When the mailbox clangs shut, my heart hiccups.
Frank lets out a single bark.
“Nope.” I bolt up. “We’re not running to the door. We are not chasing the mailman.” I give Frank a pointed look. “We are calm. We are composed.”
We are peeking through the curtains like it’s a neighborhood stakeout.
Noah is halfway down the driveway, the sun catching the dark waves of his hair. He’s wearing his usual navy USPS polo, and somehow, it fits him as if it were tailored. He looks like he belongs on one of those fake calendars Viv would ironically order—Hot Mailmen of the Pacific Northwest.
Before I can talk myself out of it, I open the door and attempt to look casual, as though I were passing by and not peeking out of my curtains every twenty seconds.
“Noah!” My voice is entirely too loud, and I’m pretty sure I hear a few birds stop midsong in panic.
He turns, surprised. “Hey, Birdie.” He walks back toward me, casual, his gait loose and confident. “Did I forget a package? You look nice. Going somewhere?”
“Oh! No.” I run a hand through my long, dark hair, which I’m sure makes my stick-straight bangs stand on end. “I wanted to say hi.”
He raises an eyebrow, amused. “Hi.”
“So, how’s the weather?”
He glances up at the sky and squints. “Sunny. Few clouds.”
“Oh. Yes. Um, I knew that.”
We stand there for a beat, quiet, except for the distant sound of Frank licking his own paw.
Noah runs a hand over the scruff on his jaw, and I watch it a little too long. It’s a very attractive jaw. And a very attractive hand. Why is that suddenly a thing I notice? My stomach flips with nerves and guilt. Always guilt.
Before I can stop myself, I blurt out, “Have you ever auditioned for one of those, uh, hot USPS mail delivery calendars? I don’t know if they have one, but if they do, you could definitely make a little extra cash.
Not that you need money. I don’t know your finances.
I meant—it would be a favor. To the calendar industry. And housewives everywhere.”
There’s a silence so thick it could be cut with the edge of my embarrassment.
Noah chuckles and then laughs, an actual laugh, deep and low, that sends heat rushing to my cheeks.
“I’m not flirting,” I blurt.
Why did I say that? How did those actual words come out of my actual mouth?
I wince and scramble. “I mean—I am, I guess. But not on purpose. It’s part of this, uh, grief dare. You know how I am with dares. A thing my widow support group is doing. Like exposure therapy, but for sadness. And romance. And personal growth.”
Noah raises an eyebrow, clearly trying not to laugh. “Romance?”
“Not romance…” I continue helplessly. “I’m not saying we love each other.”
Did I just say love? Backtrack. Backtrack now.
“I mean, I’m not objectifying you. You’re not a piece of meat.
Or a calendar. Never mind. This isn’t about that.
I’m trying to show up for myself. Not looking for something extra on the side.
That sounds like I meant something, uh, inappropriate.
I didn’t mean that. Of course, nothing inappropriate.
Calendars are not inappropriate.” Oh my God, I need to stop talking.
Noah chuckles again, the sound warm and deeply amused. “I think the last time I saw you this flustered was when we got separated from the group during that five-day class trip to Washington, D.C.”
“I was right to panic!” I point a finger at him, grasping in desperation onto the topic change. “We were supposed to be studying Public Policy and Institutions, and I was not about to get a bad grade because I couldn’t read the bus schedule. I hated that class.”
Noah pulls his lips into a dramatic pout. “Wow. That was the only class we ever had together, and I’m not going to pretend I’m not a little crushed that you hated it.”
I smirk. “Okay, the best part of that class was you. Happy now?”
“Marginally.” He leans back, shuffling a few pieces of mail between his hands. “If I remember correctly, you were the one who confidently led us in the wrong direction for three metro stops before realizing we were headed toward Maryland.”
I groan. “In my defense, I’m pretty sure there’s some bus schedule gremlin who enjoys seeing people get on and off at the wrong place.”
Noah just beams, continuing on, “And then we tried to call the chaperone, but your phone was dead and mine was… Damn, I don’t remember where it was.”
“That was the same problem we had back then. You never could keep track of your phone. I’m pretty sure we found it in your checked luggage.” I roll my eyes. “Who does that?”
“An optimist!” His hand is on his heart. “I believed in the structure of the itinerary.”
“And yet there we were.” I start laughing as the full memory floods my mind. “Stranded, hungry, and terrified we were about to end up on some missing students flyers.”
But even then, under the city lights, shivering on a park bench, I was only half-panicked because Noah was there. I always felt safe with him.
“Speak for yourself. I was more scared of you stabbing me with a pencil because I asked to be partnered with you when you wanted to be partnered with Lucy Fennec.”
I shrug. “You weren’t wrong. She got the best grades in the class, and you wore a corduroy suit jacket, ironically.”
“It wasn’t ironic.” He purses his lips, clearly pretending to be offended. “It was practical. And you weren’t complaining when it stopped your shivering on that park bench, remember?”
I smile despite myself. “Yeah. I drowned in that thing. It smelled like Calvin Klein and spearmint gum.” I don’t tell Noah that I still love corduroy because of that stupid jacket.
He chuckles again, the kind that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Still, not a terrible night. We walked ten miles and discovered an all-night diner with cinnamon pancakes the size of your face.”
“Yep. Paid for it with that horrible duet you had us sing in those hats we found. Never before and never again.”
“I think we could’ve made a career out of busking!” Noah argues.
I level him with a stare. “The years are eroding your memory, my friend. If it hadn’t been for that drunk old man who dropped us a $100 dollar bill, which I’m pretty sure he thought was a $1, we would still be there trying to turn ‘Barbie Girl’ into a duet and arguing over who had to be Ken.”
“Is that why you drug Owen and me to so many nights of karaoke after that? You always were a perfectionist. Was it about redemption at that point?” Noah stares like all the missing pieces of a puzzle are falling into place before his eyes.
I scoff. “No.”
“It totally was! Owen and I know way too many vocals to way too many songs because of you.” Noah’s eyes are wide in horror.
Know. Present tense.
I guess Noah forgets sometimes that he’s gone too.
Maybe Noah senses the shift, sees the way my eyes start to water, because he’s adding, “Don’t forget the hour we spent rating historical monuments on hotness during that trip. You gave Alexander Hamilton a nine, which still feels generous.”
“He had confidence.” I sniff, pulling back the unexpected tears, grateful for the topic change. “That’s sexy in a man. Looks are 50% genetics and 50% confidence. And I did get 82% on the final for that class.”
We’re quiet for a beat, just long enough for memory to settle in.
“You know—” I give a tentative smile “—as awful as that night started, it ended up being one of my favorite parts of the trip.” I twist my finger through the air like I can still feel corduroy brushing my shoulders.
Noah glances at me, and something in his expression shifts. Softer. Sadder. “Mine too.”
I groan and cover my face with the stack of mail. “Maybe it’s just easier to focus on the past. Back then, everything fit—him, me, the life we made. You and my ridiculous side quests. Now I feel like I’ve wandered into someone else’s story.”
He doesn’t answer right away, just looks down at the ground between us like it holds some kind of map.
“Yeah.” When he does speak, his voice is tight and strained. “It was simpler then. You were his. I was… me. And we all knew our parts.”
The breeze shifts, brushing past us like it’s trying to move something along. It brings that scent of cedar and rain and Noah—something so familiar it hurts. One of the envelopes slips from my pile. As I bend to pick it up, so does he, and his fingers brush the inside of my wrist.
The jolt is immediate.
Electric.
Uninvited.
Unfair.
Too much like how Owen used to touch me.
My chest tightens like I’ve been punched. Like Owen’s ghost has curled a fist around my ribs.
He steps back, mirroring my own retreat.
Frank barks from the porch, startling us both.
“Thanks for the mail.” The words come out too fast, and I’m already backing away, blinking against the tears pressing behind my eyes.
Noah straightens, his own face riddled with guilt. His voice shifts into something professional and distant. “I should get back. I’ve got… a ton to do.”
“Right. Yeah. Of course.” I nod like a bobblehead in a windstorm. “Deadlines. Mail. The world keeps turning.”
He gives a faint smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “Take care, B.”
I watch him walk back to his truck, the distance between us growing with every step, and try not to wonder why my grief suddenly feels lonelier now than it did before he showed up.
Frank lifts his head and follows me back inside, like he’s seen enough.
I close the door, heart racing, and lean my forehead against it. “Frank, that was not neighborly.”