Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Me: There’s some major plot holes in this grief dare.
Marin: For example?
Me: How am I supposed to actually go on a date if no one has asked me out?
Viv: … Wait… are you serious?
Me: Yes, I’m serious. Last I checked, asking someone out was the guy’s job. I read a book in college that said men need the thrill of the chase. I can’t do the chasing.
Viv: That book was written in 1954 by a woman who probably hated orgasms or a man who hated women.
Me: I don’t want to emasculate him by being too forward.
Marin: You’re not proposing marriage. You’re talking about coffee.
Viv: Or fennel. Didn’t he say something about trimming your fennel plants?
Me: That’s not code, Viv.
Viv: Make it code. “Yes, Noah, I would love it if you came over and handled my delicate blossoms.”
Me: Absolutely not.
Viv: Suit yourself. But he offered. The least you could do is hand him a pair of shears and a flirtatious smile (not the one where you don’t blink. Or show too much teeth. Maybe skip the smile for now.)
Me: This still feels inappropriate.
Marin: It does have the makings of a reality tv show. Not going to lie. But reality tv drama doesn’t mean weird. Remember, it’s about feeling seen by someone who knew you before Owen.
The video call comes through and I drop the little wrench I’m fiddling with to slide the answer button over. Viv’s face fills the screen, followed quickly by Marin’s.
“This was too important for the group message thread. An intervention is needed. I have some though—wait, what are you doing over there?” Viv squints at me through the screen.
I grunt as I wedge a bolt into the underside of the table I’ve been building for the past hour. The instruction manual is taunting me with cartoon diagrams that make no anatomical sense. One leg keeps leaning inward like it’s contemplating early retirement.
“Putting together this side table from IKEA. Or, you know, attempting it without adult supervision.” I flick a rogue wooden dowel off my lap into the growing pile of leftover hardware. There’s no way all these pieces are necessary. I think they just throw in extras to test your self-esteem.
I sit back and exhale. “Owen ordered it, said it was time to replace mine after the leg finally gave out. But it was on backorder and when it came, I didn’t have the heart to deal with it. It’s been sitting in the garage ever since.”
I run my hand over the half-built tabletop, steadying it even though it’s still a little crooked. “He was supposed to put it together. But I finally dragged it out and figured, why not me?”
I shrug, like it’s no big deal, even though it kind of is. “It doesn’t have to be perfect. It just has to stand.”
Viv blinks. “Is this the same table that started our whole conversation? The same piece of infamous furniture?”
Marin blinks. “And you’re building it? By yourself?”
“Why does everyone sound so shocked? I can follow a diagram. I once diffused a fistfight between two dads over gluten-free muffins. This is nothing.”
I jiggle the table. It wobbles. Not ideal. Hopefully, neither of them noticed. But the point is it stands.
Viv lets out a low whistle. “Well damn, Birdie. Look at you doing things imperfectly. On purpose.”
“Honestly?” Marin adds. “I think that’s kind of badass.”
I try not to smile, but I might. A little. I tuck the last screw into the drawer I’ll never use and pretend I meant to do it all exactly this way.
“Our point is you don’t have to date him. Or you can. It’s up to you, and it can be a little messy and a little imperfect.” Viv nods before taking a sip from one of her many pottery mug projects.
Marin nods from her kitchen table, where I can see a half-eaten brownie and a knitting project competing for elbow room. “Yeah, like that table.”
“You started this grief dare book,” Viv goes on, pointing at the screen with a painted pink nail. “You’re my fearless leader. Don’t chicken out now that we’re heading into battle.”
Marin nods solemnly, then spoils it by grinning. “Now text him.”
I pause, wiping my hands on my jeans, which are now smudged with whatever mystery grease came from the bag of bolts. “I don’t have his number. That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
Viv leans in, raising a single, judgmental eyebrow. “Step one: Get his phone number. Step two: fennel. Go.”
______________
Frank gives his trademark warning bark before the mail truck even pulls up, and I glance at the clock like it’s suddenly responsible for my fate. 9:39 AM. Too early to look like I tried. Too late to pretend I didn’t.
I open the door as Noah steps out of the truck, his baseball cap slightly askew, box in hand, mail tucked under one arm. He’s wearing a fleece jacket this time, thank God, though the sleeves are still rolled up to his elbows. Of course.
“Morning, Birdie!” His voice is cheerful in a way that makes me suspicious of anyone who delivers bills with a smile.
“Hey. Mail day!” I point at the package in his hand, and then wish I could take the words back.
“Technically, Monday through Saturday is mail day.” He gives me a crooked smile.
“Yes, yes. Anything good, or am I the proud recipient of more home gardening magazines?” I tilt my head toward the box in his hand.
He hands it over. “Just this. And it appears you’ve been chosen to receive what appears to be a magazine featuring a very important set of seasonal throw pillows.”
I look down at the magazine cover. “I hate how accurate that probably is.”
A brief silence settles, and I flip through the few pieces of mail, hoping for a conversational lifeline. “Well, this one’s from a seed company, so I might get some real plants to accompany the fake ones on my impending throw pillows.”
Noah nods. “You do have a beautiful garden. Besides the rogue butterfly garden.”
He set it up perfectly. “Oh! Speaking of that…” I pause, mentally slapping myself for being so obvious. “You mentioned helping with trimming them.”
His eyebrows show up, and he shifts on his feet. “Offer still stands.”
“Well.” I blink. “They’re very fennel-like. Still wild. Still weedy.”
“I grew up helping my grandmother prune her garden every spring. It’s oddly satisfying work.”
I nod, the idea sounding oddly intimate now that he’s repeating it out loud. “I might take you up on that.”
There’s a pause. I hold the box a little tighter.
“I don’t want to cross any weird lines.” My voice comes out fast and breathy. “I know you and Owen were close and then not so close. You knew both of us, together. And it’s probably strange that I’m even talking to you like this. About fennel.”
Noah tilts his head slightly, his expression unreadable. “Owen and I will always be close. But that doesn’t make it weird. Unless you think it does.”
I open my mouth. Then close it. “I don’t know what I think. Most of the time, I still expect him to walk through the door with a grocery bag and ask where we keep the cumin.”
He doesn’t flinch. Just nods and stares at the plants, as though he’s trying to figure something out that I’m not aware of.
“I’m not trying to be inappropriate,” I add, my voice smaller now. “It’s hard to know what’s allowed. After.”
His voice is gentle. “Grief doesn’t come with rulebooks. Only a lot of people pretending it does.”
I glance down at the box in my arms again. “I didn’t mean to keep you.”
“You didn’t. Always a pleasure to talk to you.” His face breaks into a charming half-smile.
I hesitate. “Could I text you, you know, if I decide the garden needs a trim?”
“Sure.” He tips his baseball hat and turns toward the road.
“Noah!” I call after him.
“Yeah?”
“I don’t have your number.”
“Oh.” Then with a slight smile, “So is this you awkwardly trying to ask for it?”
I blush. “I—maybe. I mean, yes. But in a very professional, plant-care-related context.”
“Got it.” He pulls out his phone. “Strictly botanical.”
I grin, finally. “Exactly.”
He rattles off his number, and I punch it into my phone, labeling him Noah—Mail/Fennel. That feels safe. Distant. Appropriate.
He gives a small wave as he walks back to his truck. “See you around, Birdie.”
And I’m left on the porch, holding a box of something I don’t remember ordering and the phone number of a man who’s not my husband.
______________
It didn’t take me long to text him. I can’t back out of the dare, which was a date. Not just getting a number, and I already know that making this to count as a date will be a far stretch.
The clippers make that satisfying snip each time Noah lops off another dead bloom, his forearms flexing with every motion. I’m pretending to be helpful by carrying the bucket of trimmings, but let’s be honest. He’s doing all the work.
What is it about a man doing yard work? The primal sweat?
The dirt smudges on his forearm? The quiet grunt when he shifts his weight to reach a stubborn branch?
The way his fingers, strong and sure, navigate the thorns without flinching?
It’s like my subconscious is trying to send my confused perimenopausal hormones over the edge with every glance.
And then, just as predictably, the wave crashes in: Owen, standing in this very spot, nurturing the plants, singing some offline version of Johnny Cash, excited over what butterflies will stop here. Guilt spreads in my chest like the plant’s roots, deep and stubborn.
“You okay?” Noah turns in time to catch me staring.
“Yep. Appreciating your technique.” I gesture vaguely in the direction of the bush, mortified.
Noah smirks, and I feel another wave of heat wash over my cheeks. I guess I could’ve skipped applying blush to my pre-non-date make-up regime.
Noah wipes the sweat from his brow with the back of his forearm, fingers still wrapped around the pruning shears. “You’ve been neglecting these guys.”
I cross my arms and squint at the thorns. “I’ve been a little busy trying to patch my life back together after my husband died of a brain aneurysm in this garden.”
Great. Now I’m oversharing.