Chapter 12 #3
We lose the game, barely, and I stick my tongue out at Jim as we pass each other before giving him a gentle side hug and thanking him for the game.
A little while later, I spot a kid wobbling through the yard, maybe five years old, his face blotchy with tears and his paper plate sliding dangerously sideways.
“Hold this.” I hand Noah my lemonade and move on instinct.
I crouch beside the kid, gently righting the mound of food that includes both spaghetti and marshmallows. “Hey, little man. Let’s fix this up, huh?”
He nods solemnly, sniffling.
“Alright. Operation Plate Rescue. You steer. I stabilize.”
Together, we make our way across the lawn toward a flustered woman waving from a picnic table while trying to wrangle three other kids under five. I pat him on the head and stand up, brushing grass off my knees.
Noah hands me back my cup. “You’re good at that.”
“What, kid herding?”
“No. That thing where you step in. Without making it weird or performative. Where you want to help people.”
I shrug, suddenly shy. “Old habits. I used to think if I were helpful enough, no one would notice I didn’t have it all together.”
He tilts his head. “And now?”
“Now I’m just helpful and falling apart openly, I guess.”
We both laugh, and for a second, it feels easy and simple. The ache in my chest releases, and I forget that Owen is gone and that I’ll be going home to an empty bed.
And then the music changes.
Just a few gentle chords, strumming slow and familiar, makes me stop cold.
Owen’s song. The one he used to play while flipping pancakes in boxers and singing off-key like a drunk lumberjack.
My stomach twists. My hand grips the Solo cup like it is a flotation device in open water. Around me, people laugh and chat and clink plastic forks, but I can’t hear anything over those damn chords.
I don’t move.
Don’t cry.
Just stand there, paralyzed by the ghost of a life that used to be mine.
The guilt snakes around my heart, chastising me for forgetting to be sad the last few hours—for forgetting Owen.
Then, without a word, Noah bumps my shoulder with his.
Just a nudge. No big gesture. No intrusive questions or pity parade. Just demonstrating his presence.
And that, somehow, unravels me more than if he’d said a word.
I glance at him, blinking fast. That song still hangs in the air like smoke that I can't wave away.
He looks ahead, arms crossed, voice even. “I never knew why Owen loved this song. It’s terrible.”
I blink again, John Legend’s voice swirling around my memories. “What?”
“Cheesy as hell.” His voice is casual, like we’re discussing who won last night’s baseball game and not his dead best friend and my dead husband’s favorite song. “Sounds like it was written by a guy who’s only ever loved his cat and a deep-dish pizza.”
Despite myself, I huff out something between a laugh and a gasp. “Wow. Harsh.”
Noah shrugs. “Sorry, Birdie. I respect the dead, but I don’t have to respect their playlists.”
A beat passes. “Okay, music snob. What’s your favorite song?”
He doesn’t even hesitate.
“‘Return of the Mack.’”
I whip my head toward him. “Are you joking?”
“Nope.” He says it with the same calm conviction someone might use to announce they’re running for Senate.
“Return of the Mack? That’s your song?”
He nods solemnly. “It’s got everything. Resilience. Groove. A betrayal arc. Love. And that beat drop? Come on. That’s how you know love’s real, when it survives betrayal and a key change.”
I’m laughing now, a real one, loud and sudden and unladylike. “You’re unbelievable.”
“But think about it,” he continues, totally straight-faced. “You get your heart broken. You go down. You get back up. And then boom—‘Return of the Mack.’ You’re back, baby. That’s romance. That’s life. That’s healing.”
I shake my head, still smiling. “You might be insane.”
He finally turns, his eyes darting over my face. “Maybe. But it makes you smile. So maybe I’m really winning?”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For not making it worse.”
His blue eyes reflect the faded sunlight. “You already made radish stars for America, Birdie. You’ve got nothing left to prove.”
And for once, I almost believe it. “So tell me about your heartbreaks? What inspired this ‘Return of the Mack’?”
Noah’s smile drops. “There weren’t a lot of notable heartbreaks. Just one. And the rest of the women I dated didn’t hold a candle to that heartbreak. I ended it before it even had a chance to begin.”
I cock my head to the side. “Only one heartbreak?”
He shrugs, eyes studying the sky, avoiding mine. “It’s true what they say, you never really get over your first love.”
______________
We walk slowly, like neither of us is in a hurry for the night to end.
A soft breeze brushes past, lifting the edge of the foil over the container I’m balancing in both hands, half-eaten plate of nachos and all.
Noah carries a plastic tub of what might have been someone’s attempt at chili, or possibly dessert. Hard to tell.
“Remind me again why you didn’t grab your own dish?”
“I’m telling you, Mildred stole my container. It was the bacon. I put too much bacon in it, and people do crazy things for bacon. She took my mac and cheese in the good container and left me with this. She and I will be having words later.”
Above us, the stars have come out in full force, scattered like glitter across navy velvet. Crickets sing from every bush and tree, not loudly, just constant. Like background music for a movie scene I didn’t realize I was walking through.
“I didn’t expect tonight to feel…” I trail off, trying to wrap words around the squirmy thing in my chest. “Good. But also weird. I’ve never had that much fun at a neighborhood block party before. Should I feel guilty about that?”
Noah glances over at me. “Do you think you should?”
I snort. “Maybe. But I don’t want to.”
“It’s okay to enjoy life again.”
I smile at the sidewalk. “Thank you. For tonight. Even if I did insult a neighborhood matriarch and question the emotional integrity of her Bundt cake.”
Noah slows his steps until we stop at the edge of my driveway. He shifts his container under one arm. “Anytime.”
A breeze kicks up again, carrying the scent of someone’s barbecue and the distant hum of laughter still drifting from a few houses down.
“You were perfect,” he adds, so casually that I almost miss it.
I turn toward him. “Don’t lie to me, Noah. I was a hot mess and probably committed the equivalent of social HOA arson.”
“Maybe. But like… the charming kind. The kind that warms up the whole place.”
My mouth opens, a retort halfway out of my lips, but I stop. He’s looking at me like he sees right through all the layers I usually keep zipped up tight. I’m not sure if it makes me want to run or stay still forever.
We reach the porch, and I fumble with the key before realizing it’s in the wrong pocket. Of course it is. Always so polished, Birdie. Except when you're not.
He waits patiently, not saying anything, shifting from foot to foot and looking up at the sky like he's cataloging stars.
I finally get the key in the lock but don’t turn it. Not yet. I lean in closer, my breath catching in my throat. When was the last time I had a first kiss? Am I ready for this?
Noah mirrors my movement, his breath shallow, his lips just inches from mine. His head tilts, like he’s ready—but his hands stay at his sides, clenched now. He looks at me, really looks, and something shifts in his expression.
Regret.
Not for wanting this.
For wanting it with me.
His eyes flick away for the briefest second—toward the ground, toward the past, I don’t know—and then we both pull back like we touched a live wire.
“See you Monday, Mailman?” My voice is lighter than I feel.
“You got it.” He turns to go, stepping off the porch with the easy stride of someone who’s not trying too hard.
I watch him walk down the driveway before he throws open his truck door and backs out. He doesn’t look back.
But I kind of wish he would.