Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Me: Noah. Salutations. I hope this message finds you well.
Me: You told me to text you. About plants. Or lasagna.
Noah: Or grief… What's the topic tonight?
Me: The fennel plants look good.
Noah: I’m glad. They’ve got good soil over there.
Me: Also, I burned the leftover lasagna when I was reheating it. (But I ate it anyway.)
Noah: Says a lot about your character. Can’t waste food. I admire that in a person.
Me: I keep picturing my grandmother shaking her hand at me, telling me about starving children in Africa. It was crispy in a very intentional way.
Noah: Crispy is the new al dente. It’s rustic. Any grief updates?
Me: Nope. I’m thriving.
Noah: Didn’t I see you rush inside in your bathrobe the other day on my route?
Me: A midday bathrobe is not a mark of sadness. I’m living my best widow life. I’m even thinking of going to this block party next weekend. Sharon invited me. Although in the name of honesty, it was a very sad-sounding invitation. Like she was worried I’d forgotten how to leave my house.
Noah: Are you asking me to go with you?
Me: I’m thinking of thinking about maybe asking you.
Noah: That’s very decisive of you.
Me: I didn’t want to sound weird. Or make it weird.
Noah: You opened with “salutations.”
Me: Touché.
Noah: I’d go. Just say the word.
Me: Okay. Maybe. Maybe you’ll see me (not in my bathrobe) on your route tomorrow.
Noah: It’s a date… Well, not a date. Simply one mailman talking about pasta and plants with a widowed bathrobe wearer. (Very normal.)
Me: Extremely normal.
GROUP CHAT: The Dead Husband’s Society
Me: Hey! Quick check-in. How are we feeling about our grief dares this week?
Viv: Wow. Straight to business. No “hey queens” or “what’s up”? Cold, Birdie.
Marin: She’s deflecting. Did you chicken out?
Me: Absolutely not. I’m a woman of courage. I texted him.
Viv: Did you ask him?
Me: I technically sent some words into the void. Not sure what category that falls into.
Viv: Category: cowardly.
Me: I said something about lasagna and flowers and chaos. Which, in some cultures, is the same as asking someone out.
Marin: What cultures have you been studying? Clearly not this one.
Me: Okay, FINE. I panicked. But enough about me. Viv, how’s that singles group you were thinking about joining?
Viv: I see you. I see you're deflecting. I will address that later. The singles group is sad. Not anything like our group. Motion to change my grief dare for this week?
Marin: You picked a dud. I’m the only one who looks like I’m nailing this week’s dare. Is judging other obviously sad people considered progress?
Me: Maybe the group’s not a dud. It’s showing you that people can be happy by themselves with their own thoughts.
Marin: I say it counts as progress, but stop judging me.
Viv: Your plan backfired. That group proved the opposite.
Marin: Fine. How about we change your dare to a solo yoga session in nature? No class, no teacher, just you in the grass (no smoking it) and some time to process.
Viv: That one speaks to my soul. And my glutes. I shall commune with the Earth and pretend not to notice the ants crawling on me. Very healing. Very primal.
Me: Nailed it, Marin. How’s your grief dare coming?
Marin: I wrote Theo a letter and then immediately shredded it. My feelings varied from great to violent to something like healing? Maybe?
Me: Your challenge was to decide if you were going to tell the kids about what you and Theo were going through.
Marin: I know. I wrote it out in a letter to Theo. Like we were trying to decide together. I don’t know if it will do more harm than good now. He’s gone.
Me: Want advice or a sounding board?
Marin: Right now, sounding board.
Viv: Whew, okay. That’s a relief. Because I’ve got zero advice for this one, and you know the universe and I are usually on a first-name basis. Always here for you, Marin.
But Birdie, your grace period has officially expired.
Me: Oh my. Look at the time. I got to go, um, take Frank out.
Viv: TOMORROW. We’re not dragging this out. You don’t want to let Sharon and her bundt cakes win, Birdie.
Marin: We believe in you. But also, tick tock.
______________
I stand on my porch, gripping the banister like it’s going to help me find the courage I clearly left inside next to Frank and my Spanx. Noah is a few houses down, walking his route with the same easy rhythm he always has.
Today’s the day. I’m going to ask him.
I smooth my hair, adjust the waistline of my floor-length, floral skirt, like I’m preparing to walk down the runway, instead of stepping off my porch.
“Noah—”
But before I can say another word, a voice slices through the air like a sugar-coated dagger.
“Noah! Noah!”
I watch his jaw tense from here. The grimace flashes across his face so fast he probably thinks I didn’t catch it. But I did. I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.
Sharon approaches with a bounce in her step, her perfectly permed blonde hair bobbing with each overly rehearsed movement. She’s dressed in workout clothes that have probably never seen a squat and is carrying what looks like a flyer and a mission.
“I thought you couldn’t hear me.” Her voice is breathy and amused, and she titters as she runs a manicured hand over his arm like she’s checking it for durability.
“I know you aren’t an official neighbor, but we’re having a neighborhood block party, and I would love for you to attend.
You’ve been doing this route for years, and I made a motion to make you an honorary neighbor.
” She shoves the flyer into his hand and what looks like a little “official Maple street neighbor certificate.” Her hand lingers longer than I feel is necessary for a flyer handoff.
“My Bundt cakes are famous around south Seattle for a reason, you know. And if you can’t find a dish to bring, I’ll let you share mine. ”
My mouth falls open a little in quiet horror.
Her flirtation is so bold it should come with a legal disclaimer.
I’m tempted to ask whether her short, balding, beige-sweater-wearing husband, the one who quotes traffic laws at dinner parties, would be thrilled to hear she’s offering to share her Bundt cake with the mailman.
But I bite my tongue. Proper women don’t tear down other women. At least that’s what the bumper stickers say. What kind of message would that send about sisterhood and the feminist cause?
Sharon turns, finally acknowledging me. “Birdie knows how incredible my Bundt cakes are. She’s been trying to duplicate one for years.”
I haven’t. I baked a chocolate cake for the first block party years ago, not knowing that cakes were Sharon’s domain. And it came out a little overbaked. Sharon has never let me forget it.
She winks like we’re in on a little secret, but in suburban housewife code, that’s a full-on culinary smackdown. “Tell him, Birdie.”
I paste on my practiced grin, the one I use to look good, keep the peace, stay prim and proper, and pay the price for my honesty—and apparently my cake. “It is delicious.”
“See?” Sharon beams. “What do you say?”
Noah glances at me for half a second. Then, casually, too casually, he grins. That annoying grin that makes my perimenopause hot flashes act up. “Actually, Birdie already asked me to go with her.”
My eyebrows shoot up. I did not. I very much did not.
He nudges my elbow, like this is a team sport we agreed to play. Like we’ve had some secret meeting about block parties and subtext and Bundt cake defense strategies.
Sharon’s smile falters enough to be satisfying, then she recovers. “Oh! Well, that’s, um, how lovely,” she chirps, though her voice goes up half an octave. “I guess I’ll see you both there. Jim and I will be thrilled to see you out of the house, Birdie.”
She walks away, hips swaying like she’s auditioning for a high-heel commercial. I wait until she’s a safe distance down the street before I turn to Noah.
“Did you say I invited you to a block party?”
“You’re welcome.” He doesn’t even bother to hide the grin.
“I was about to do it myself! You robbed me of a chance to be brave. To push the feminist movement forward.”
He quirks an eyebrow. “With a potluck?”
“Yes!” I huff. “With a potluck. There was going to be courage and intentionality and possibly a sweaty armpit situation. But no, you had to swoop in like some Bundt-cake-blocking hero.”
He shrugs, holding out a few letters to me. “You hesitated.”
I scowl, even as my cheeks betray me with a blush. “Next time, I’m inviting someone else. Maybe the UPS guy. He brings exciting boxes, and you just bring bills.” I snatch my mail. “Bills and obnoxious flyers and catalogues that suck my time and my money!”
Noah stands there, that annoying, lazy smile firmly in place. “Does the UPS guy ask about plants, lasagna, and grief?”
“Nope. But he can deliver roses and lasagna, and that medicates the grief. I’m all converted.” I storm up the porch steps, before turning on my heel. “You don’t even live here and Sharon accepted you into the fold—with lamination!”
He leans against the side of his mail truck. “In my defense, I earned this with years of loyal Bundt cake acceptance. I’ve delivered to Maple Street since 2017. At some point, they started acting like I belonged. That counts for something.”
I tilt my head. “What made you choose the mail route? I know Owen helped you get it, but do you actually like it?”
He shrugs, folding the flyer again, slower this time. “I’ve grown to like it. After the divorce, I needed the stability. As you know, my literature degree was everything I wanted, but—” he gives a small, sad smile—“turns out reading The Brothers Karamazov doesn’t pay divorce lawyers.”
I give a sad smile back. “No regrets?”
He shakes his head. “None. I’d choose it again. It gave me something worth carrying. Even if now I mostly carry catalogues and real estate mailers.”
There’s something unexpectedly tender about that. A man who loves words but delivers credit card offers. I swallow against the ache that rises in my chest.
He lifts the laminated certificate and salutes me with it. “Honorary neighbor, delivering the mail. It’s what dreams are made of.”
“We need to work on your dreams.”
He grins, unapologetic. “What time should I pick you up?”
“Seven.” I’m not sure why I still sound so hostile.
“I look forward to it.”
“Me too!” And then I slam the door.