Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
I adjust the webcam, then immediately regret it. What is it about this angle that makes my chin look monstrous? I lean back, tilting the screen down.
Better.
“Will you stop moving the camera!” Viv’s voice fills my bedroom.
Harper is sprawled beside me on the bed, holding two hangers like a judge on Project Runway. On-screen, Viv and Marin wait, respective beverages in hand, judging the lighting and my posture as if this were a high-stakes fashion consult.
“Okay.” Viv waves her fingers, twirling her kombucha in her wine glass. “Spin around. Full twirl, Birdie.”
“I’m not twirling.” I shuffle, pulling at the taut material of Harper’s “flowy” blouse, which is anything but flowing on me. My chest is bulging out. “This isn’t prom. It’s a block party with questionable lukewarm potato salad and HOA drama.”
“Exactly why you need to look incredible.” Marin takes a sip of her herbal tea. “Distract them with a blouse so bold they forget to ask invasive grief questions.”
“Can’t I wear this?” I move toward my signature black conservative knit sweater. It’s the one I’ve worn for most outings since Owen passed.
“Mom.” Harper lets out an exasperated exhale. “I’d never seen you wear that a day in your life before dad died. It can’t be all you wear now. Time to go back to some color, some life.”
She holds up my silky blue, cropped-sleeve top. “This one’s good. Less ‘recent widow,’ more ‘cool mom who might flirt with the mailman.’”
“Yes.” Viv nods in approval. “That one is so much better than that sad little black thing. We should burn that top.”
I shoot my daughter and Viv a glare but take the blouse anyway. Ducking out of frame, I shimmy into the top and a pair of just-tight-enough jeans. They were Owen’s favorite, and he said they gave me ‘an ass that just won’t quit.’”
“I feel ridiculous.” I waltz through my closet door. “Like I’m playing dress-up for something that’s supposed to be casual.”
Viv leans toward her screen. “It’s not about the clothes. It’s about showing up. That’s the dare. But I am a firm believer that clothes help you show up with more confidence.”
“We’re proud of you!” Marin cheers.
Harper tosses me a pair of silver earrings. “Besides, if you’re reentering society, you might as well look good doing it.”
I laugh despite myself and fasten the earrings, the silver catching the glow of the lamp. I glance back at the screen, where Viv is doing a slow clap and Marin has lifted her pottery mug like she’s toasting royalty.
“Alright, ladies.” I smooth the front of my blouse. “What do you think?”
Viv grins. “Grief’s got nothing on you, girl!”
Marin leans in, squinting like she’s assessing me through a lens. “You’re ready for Thriving and Thirty magazine.”
I snort. “Is that a thing?”
Harper, now curled sideways with a throw pillow under her arm, doesn’t miss a beat. “And will they mind that you’re well past your thirties?”
I toss a pillow at her, which she deflects without blinking, already scrolling through her phone. On screen, Viv and Marin dissolve into laughter.
“You’re lucky you’re cute,” I mutter to Harper.
She grins. “What can I say? You gave me good genetics.”
______________
The sun dips behind the trees when I step outside.
A warm breeze tugs playfully at my messy bun as Noah’s truck rumbles into my driveway.
He climbs out slowly, his blue jeans hugging his ass in a way that might be criminal.
Then he leans one elbow on the passenger door, smiling like someone who stepped out of a Dodge commercial.
“You, uh…” He scratches the back of his neck. “You clean up alright, B.”
His voice is quieter than usual, like even saying that much borders on betrayal.
“Is that flattery?” Is it inappropriate to mention how well he cleans up? His white button-up shirt accentuates his tan skin, and he’s put some kind of gel in his short hair, causing the dark strands to stand up in delicious disarray. “Or are you buttering me up so I’ll carry your mystery dish?”
He lifts a foil-covered casserole with a flourish, and I hate that I notice how his forearm flexes as he does it. “Nope. I take full credit for this beauty.”
I fall into step beside Noah, my own foil-covered dish warm in my hands as we head up the street. The evening is golden and twilight is setting in with porch lights beginning to flicker on like quiet applause for summer's last act.
“You cooked?” I go to nudge him with my elbow but pull back at the last minute, worried about any kind of physical touch.
He smirks. “I’m a single bachelor who likes to eat. Of course I cooked.”
I raise a brow. “And what did you bring into existence?”
“Jalapeno mac and cheese.” He raises the dish in mock reverence. “With bacon. Possibly too much bacon.”
“There’s no such thing. Bacon is both flavor and philosophy.”
He glances down at the dish I’m carrying. “And what about you? What’s under that expertly folded foil?”
“Nachos.” I fight the urge to let my bangs fall over my face like some self-conscious teenager. “I could’ve gone fancier. Honestly, I usually do. I’ve been known to hand-stencil labels for artisanal dips and cut fruit bouquets. Owen used to joke that I had a pathological need to win the potluck.”
Noah snorts. “That tracks.”
I laugh, but it’s tight in my throat. “But after he died, I didn’t have the energy. Caring about what people thought and managing the sadness took too much energy. So tonight, I told myself that I was going to throw something together and be done with it.”
He tilts his head, curious. “And what’s on these so-called ‘thrown together’ nachos?”
I sigh. “Black beans, ground steak, roasted corn, green onions. Three kinds of cheese. A homemade guac on the side. I dusted the chips with lime zest and sea salt before baking.”
Noah stops walking and turns to look at me fully. “Birdie, that’s not phoning it in. That’s you still giving it your best.”
I shrug, a little embarrassed. “That’s still dialed back Birdie. I didn’t want to feel like I was trying too hard to impress everyone, because that’s not the point. I want to show up and not perform for once.” Why was I telling him this? He had only asked a simple question about nachos.
“It’s okay to show up with your best.” His voice is gentle like the warm sunlight caressing into my back. “But it should be because you want to. Because you love feeding people. Not because you think you have to earn their affection with perfectly melted cheese.”
I blink, caught off guard by how accurate he is.
He nudges my arm, less teasing now, more grounded. “You don’t have to hustle for anyone’s love, Birdie. Prove that you were the perfect wife and now the have-it-all-together widow. You get to show up. However you are.”
I look down at the dish in my hands. They’re just nachos, but they also aren’t. They’re the halfway point between who I was and who I’m trying to be—cheesy, overdone, and still made with care.
I meet his eyes, grateful. “You’re still kind of annoyingly insightful, you know that?”
He grins. “I’ve been told.”
______________
The block party is already in full swing.
Lights zigzag across the cul-de-sac, folding tables groaning under the weight of communal carbs, and children darting between lawn chairs like over-caffeinated squirrels.
I clutch my nachos, trying not to feel like I’m walking through a minefield instead of a simple neighborhood event.
“Birdie!”
The voice cuts through the murmur of the block party like a knife through Jell-O salad. I turn to see Mildred marching toward me, her sensible flats slapping against the pavement with a purpose that says she’s got questions and zero concern for boundaries.
Still spry at seventy-something, she’s dressed in her signature twinset and pearls, looking like a cross between a church lady and a mafia don. Her gaze could slice deli meat.
“Oh, sweet girl.” She reaches out to pat my arm with a hand weighed down by a ring the size of a gumball. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here.”
Before I can answer, Janet, who lives across the street and always smells vaguely like eucalyptus and Cheerios, appears with her toddler on one hip.
She shifts the child and gives me a soft, tilted-head smile that somehow manages to feel both sympathetic and performative.
Her short, brown bob accentuates the movement.
“We’ve all been wondering, how are you doing?
Truly? It’s such a tragic thing. We loved Owen.
He always cut my grass when John was out of town for work. ”
I force a small smile, the one I’ve been practicing in the mirror. Not too bright, not too bleak. Somewhere between “I'm fine” and “please stop talking.”
“Taking it day by day,” I offer, my voice as even as I can manage.
Mildred nods like she’s tasted something bittersweet and intends to chew on it all night. “Of course. Of course. And have you given any thought to selling the house?” She leans in slightly. “It must feel so big now. All alone like that.”
The words hang in the air like a cold breeze. I open my mouth, either to laugh or scream, I haven’t quite decided, but before I can do either, I catch a flash of copper hair and dread coils in my stomach.
Missy.
She’s weaving her way through folding chairs and collapsible coolers like a heat-seeking missile. Her auburn braid swings behind her like a smug little metronome, keeping time with her unsolicited opinions.
“Birdie!” Her voice drips faux-surprise.
“Is this the first time at a neighborhood event since, um, Owen’s unfortunate passing?
I totally understand why you’ve needed time, but it’s so good to see you around the block.
Running into you at the occasional PTA meeting isn’t cutting it.
” She places a hand on her heart, eyes misting in a way that screams rehearsed.
“And this is the perfect opportunity to talk about prom this year. I know Harper graduated two years ago, but you are still such a vibrant presence.”