Chapter 8 #2
“I did. And then I blurted out that I wasn’t flirting. Which was, of course, also a lie. He told me I was terrible at it, and honestly? He wasn’t wrong.”
Viv fans herself. “But did he say it in a mean way or a hot way?”
I hesitate, guilt washing over me in waves.
There’s no way it’s appropriate to call him hot.
But then again, I did compare him to a male calendar model, and I do tell the girls everything.
Finally, I mumble, “A hot way. He kind of brushed my hair out of my face, and it was too much. Too intimate. I short-circuited and basically ran back inside.”
Marin lifts a brow. “That sounds kind of sweet.”
“Not sweet,” I mutter. “Vulnerable. Awkward. Gave me way too clear a look into my issues, which is why I hated it.”
Marin’s voice stays warm, like she’s used to holding messy things without trying to clean them. “And what issues are those?”
Her knitting needles click gently in the background while I lean down to rub Frank’s head, hoping it’ll calm the pounding in my chest.
“That I built my whole life around Owen.” My voice is a whisper. “And now the loss is swallowing me whole, because I don’t know who I am if I’m not someone’s wife. Or someone’s mother.”
The silence that follows isn’t empty. It’s full of breath I don’t want to take.
Viv’s voice, usually flippant and wild, comes soft this time. “So who are you without those things?”
I dig my thumbnail into a spot on my jeans until it hurts. “I don’t know. I wish I did. I keep reaching for pieces of myself but all I come up with are his things. His stories. His friends.”
I glance at the screen. “Do you think I shouldn’t have flirted with Noah?”
Neither of them answers; they both just hold the silence for me.
“I mean, he and Owen were close,” I go on. “We all were. In college. It feels… wrong. Like I touched something I wasn’t supposed to. And weird.”
Still quiet.
“They played poker together every Thursday night for years. He came to Owen’s funeral. He brought us macaroni.”
Viv lets out a slow breath. “Macaroni is quite the hill to die on, Birdie.”
I laugh, but my throat’s too tight for it to last. “It just feels close. Too close to the past. Like I’m… disrespecting it.”
Frank nudges my leg with his nose and I reach down again, grateful for something solid to touch. “I don’t want to feel like I’m stealing something. Like if I let someone see me, even just flirt with me, I’m erasing Owen. Like I’m rewriting our story.”
Marin’s cat climbs over her keyboard, blocking her face with a blur of calico fur. “Maybe you’re not rewriting anything.” Her voice carries through the fuzz. “Maybe this is just… chapter two.”
That feels too generous. Too hopeful. My voice wobbles. “But what if people think I moved on too fast?”
Viv snorts. “Anyone judging a grieving woman’s timeline can come talk to me and my chakras.”
Marin’s quiet. “Grief makes everything weird.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “It does.”
I look at them both. “I just want to find myself again without feeling like I have to bulldoze over the woman I was. The life I had. I want to move forward, but I don’t want to lose her. Or him. Or us.”
Viv’s smile is full of sparkle, her blue eyes passionate.“Maybe you don’t have to step over her. Maybe you have to bring her with you.”
Something in my chest crumples and rearranges itself.
I blink fast, my voice hoarse. “Okay. That’s enough emotional beef stew for one night. Someone please say something wildly inappropriate.”
Viv grins. “Do you want me to ask Noah if he’s open to a holiday-themed shirtless mailman calendar? For research purposes only.”
I laugh. “God, no. But also, maybe.”
Marin smiles. “I’ll design the cover. I’m a wizard with Canva.”
“So we all got vulnerable today.” Marin looks at Viv, and the message is clear.
Viv clears her throat, stares past the camera, picks at her cuticle, and then, seeing we aren’t letting this go, throws her hands up in the air.
“Fine. I know I make jokes about the chakra guy, but the truth is I miss my husband. I miss having someone to talk to at night. I miss being picked. And when I’m alone, the silence is so loud it feels like it’s echoing off the walls.
So I keep trying to fill it. With people.
With videos. With noise. With turmeric lattes and imitation Jason Momoas. ”
Marin gives her a look that’s more love than judgment.
Viv shrugs. “Grief is lonely.”
“It is,” Marin agrees. “Even when it’s shared.”
We sit with that for a second.
Then I take a breath. “Okay. So. What if we each build on what we started this week? But make it specific.”
Viv raises an eyebrow. “You mean more homework.”
“Dares,” I correct.
“Dares do make it sound more dangerous. Can we add the word ‘danger’?”
“Fine. Grief danger dares,” I concede. “I’ll go on an actual date. Not a failed flirtation in front of my house, but me showing up as a woman who still exists outside of what she's lost.”
Viv starts slow clapping. “That is one impressive dare.”
Marin nods. “I’ll keep writing letters. The ugly ones. The ones that say all the things I didn’t get to. Maybe it’ll help me start to forgive myself for not being more honest while he was alive.”
We both look at Viv.
She groans. “Ugh. Fine. I’ll take myself to dinner. Alone. No co-op cuties, no alignments. Just me, some quiet, and maybe a journal. But if I get emotional, I’m allowed to order dessert.”
“New rule.” I grab my flamingo pen and start to write. “We are all allowed and encouraged to add chocolate to each grief dare.”
“Deal,” Marin echoes.
Viv lifts her tea like a glass of wine. “To grief dares.”
We all raise invisible glasses in solidarity.
“To grief dares,” Marin and I chant.
And in the background, Frank lets out an approving snore.