Chapter 12 #2
I barely get a chance to mumble something noncommittal before Karen swoops in from the snack table like a vulture wearing Tory Burch.
“Birdie!” She wraps me in a warm embrace, and I feel the tension I’m holding in my spine relax a little.
“Don’t pay them any mind. I’m so happy you’re here!
” Her eyes flick toward Noah, who’s still planted loyally at my side like some kind of human shield.
“And how lovely that you brought a friend. I want to hear all about how you’re doing and if you need anyth—Oh, will you excuse me a moment?
It looks like Ted needs me.” I follow Karen’s line of sight across the yard where her husband is standing holding their two newborn twins while their toddler throws marshmallows at Missy’s cat.
Before I can beg her to stay and then feel guilty for needing her, she’s off across the yard yelling, “Come find me! I have a huge piece of chocolate cake with your name on it!”
Karen’s warmth bolsters my confidence, and I stride toward the tables, setting down my nachos just as Sharon sets down her infamous Bundt cake. She’s wearing a floral apron and pumps that are so high they have no business being worn to a block party.
“Noah!”
Sharon’s voice rises like a flute over the hum of the party, all sugary notes and sharp edges. She practically glides toward him, wielding a paper plate with a piece of Bundt cake.
I don’t miss the fact she doesn’t address me.
“I have to get your opinion,” she trills, thrusting the floral plate into his hands. “Tried a brand-new recipe. It’s lemon poppy seed, with a hint of almond and the faintest whisper of lavender. All organic, of course. I milled the flour myself.”
I blink. Of course she did.
Noah, ever the gentleman, raised on politeness and probably traumatized by church potlucks, takes a forkful like it’s his civic duty. He chews, then gives a polite nod, the kind you reserve for when someone’s newborn baby isn’t cute but you’ve committed to the lie.
“Wow.” He pauses to swallow. “That’s amazing.”
Sharon beams like she’s won a ribbon, basking in his approval. Then, with practiced sweetness, she swivels toward me. Her smile stays in place, but her eyes gleam with the kind of challenge you only see in a small-town bake-off or a Real Housewives reunion.
“Birdie,” her voice is all faux warmth and condescension frosted in charm, “you have to try it too. You know, just to practice.” Her voice lilts like she’s doing me a favor.
“That poor chocolate cake is forever in my memory. Oh, what was it…” She taps a manicured finger to her chin.
“A little dry? But bless your heart for trying.”
I stand frozen for a beat. My eyes drop to the platter of nachos still cradled in my arms, my humble rebellion.
My attempt at saying I’m showing up as I am.
But the truth is, I’m not quite there yet.
Not really. I still care what these women think.
Maybe not as much as before, but enough that her words still land.
Noah leans in, his voice low, only for me. “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone.”
I glance back at Sharon, who’s holding out a plastic fork like a baton in a pageant. Her smile is tight and toothy, eyes glittering with expectation. Around us, the neighborhood women hover like cats waiting for a can to open, watching, measuring what I’ll do.
And then, like muscle memory, I reach out and take the fork. Because that’s what I’ve always done: smile, be agreeable, keep the peace. Don’t make waves, Birdie. Keep your voice sweet and your posture poised.
I scoop a bite from Noah’s plate and chew slowly. For a second, I try to do it the old way. Try to find something neutral to say, something safe. But the weight of it, the fake smiles, the pretending, the ever-present urge to earn a gold star for existing, it all feels so heavy.
Too heavy.
I square my shoulders.
“Actually—” My tone is calm but firm. “This cake tastes a little like despair.”
The air around us tightens.
“And dish soap,” I add.
A stunned silence follows, thick and delicious. Sharon blinks once. Twice.
Noah makes a sound that might be a cough or a laugh being strangled to death.
“Well,” Sharon sniffs, her voice clipped now, “it’s been a hit with everyone else.”
Color drains from my face as the words catch up with me. “I—sorry. That slipped out.”
Noah leans in again, his breath warm against my ear. “Bold review. Gordon Ramsay would be proud.”
Across the lawn, the other women stand in a half-circle of shock, their mouths forming synchronized Os.
Noah gives them a casual nod. “Ladies.”
Then he gently guides me away with a hand at the small of my back.
“What came out of my mouth?” I whisper, stunned at myself.
He smiles. “Apparently? Honesty. And it looks good on you.”
______________
The evening was off to a bit of a rough, or possibly glorious, start after my confrontation with Sharon, the rest of the neighbors standing a few feet back. I figure I’d make a polite exit after twenty minutes with a half-hearted excuse about “needing to check on the cat.”
Wait. I don’t have a cat.
Needing to check on Frank. Yes, that’s much better. Frank sounded like a dog with gout. Very believable. And there’s no reason to fake Frank because Frank is real. Maybe I’ll take him for a walk around the cul-de-sac tomorrow to prove his existence.
But then Noah appears at my side, with a confident smirk and blue-eyed mischief.
“So.” He holds out a paper plate like a warrior with a paper shield. “I dare you to try every single dish on this table. No exceptions.”
He nods toward the chaotic spread of questionable casseroles and ambiguous Jell-O molds, the kind of offerings that could only come from a family reunion or the seventh circle of culinary hell.
I narrow my eyes, crossing my arms over my chest. “Are you sure about that?”
“Positive.” He steps closer, so close I catch the warm scent of cedar and laundry detergent, something too domestic for how feral he looks with that cocky grin.
“Well, I dare you right back.” I grab a second plate and slap it against his chest, throwing down the paper plate gauntlet.
He puffs out his chest like we’re in some kind of middle-aged dare showdown, and I can’t help but notice how his shirt strains across his shoulders with the motion. Rude.
“I’m not worried about me.” His voice is low, teasing. “I’m worried about what’s lurking inside that crockpot over there.”
I follow his gaze to a bubbling mass of beige something, possibly potatoes.
“Don’t look directly at it,” I whisper. “It knows.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder, surveying the buffet table like we are entering battle, which, in a way, we are.
There are no name tags on the dishes. No allergy warnings.
No ingredients list. Just total chaos. The PTA would have a fit, and as an honorary member of the PTA, I should have volunteered to make hand-written signs in my perfect calligraphy.
I grab a scoop of something mushy and violently green, plopping it into a red Solo cup for dramatic effect. I lift it in both hands, as if offering it to the gods.
“I present to you,” I intone with the kind of solemnity reserved for ceremonial toasts or nuclear codes, “the infamous Mystery Dip. I overheard Janet say it’s ‘family famous,’ which either means delicious or potentially hazardous.”
Noah leans in, squinting at the sludge. “This feels like a prank from someone’s great-aunt who lived through the Depression.”
I dip a chip in, hesitate, and take the tiniest bite.
It hits me with a sucker punch of sweet, tangy, and, was that tuna? No. Pineapple. Wait. Both? “Oh no. Oh no. That is, well, that’s aggressive.”
Noah scoops a bite for himself and recoils like he’s licked a battery. “How is it simultaneously gelatinous and crunchy?”
“Is this how I die?” I cough. “Taken out by pineapple-fish paste at a neighborhood potluck? I always knew I’d go out dramatically, but I hoped for something with better seasoning.”
He leans in, eyes crinkling. “At least you’ll die fancy. Your earrings are working overtime.”
I roll my eyes and move over toward an empty spot on the curb, plopping down into the grass. “You know, I used to spend two hours prepping for events like this?”
“No.”
“Yes. Hair curled. Lip gloss layered. Pinterest-worthy snacks labeled with calligraphy. One time, I made a crudités board shaped like the American flag.”
“Of course you did.”
“I made radish stars.”
“I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
I raise my fork to his. “To courage. And gastrointestinal bravery.”
He clinks it against mine. “To surviving until dessert.”
Right as we are about to take our final bites, a voice calls across the street. “Hey! Birdie! We need two more for cornhole!” and before I can say I’d rather take my chances with the Cool Whip chaser, Noah raises both his hands and rushes forward.
He looks over his shoulder at me, still planted firmly against the cool cement curb. “Come on! Live dangerously. Again.”
“Do I look like someone who plays cornhole?” I hiss.
He waggles his eyebrows. “Not touching that one.”
“Ugh, you know what I mean.”
But then I find myself holding a beanbag, standing barefoot on lumpy grass, wondering when I became the kind of woman who played yard games in flats and fitted jeans.
My old self, the one desperate for neighborhood approval, always-smiling, well-manicured version, would be horrified.
She would’ve stood politely to the side, cheering him on, pretending to scroll on her phone and looking for reasons to go “check the oven.”
Now? I launch my beanbag with a dramatic arm swing and whoop when it lands squarely on the board. “Take that, Jim!”
Jim, across the lawn in a monogrammed windbreaker, looks personally offended.
Noah whoops behind me. “You’re a menace!”
“Am I trash-talking? Is this who I am now?” I turn to him, eyes wide with faux horror.
“I’m so proud of you.” He raises his cup in mock salute. “Birdie 2.0: now with sports-based aggression.”