Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
I stare at the front door like it might open and swallow me whole.
“I don’t know why I’m nervous,” I mumble, wiping invisible lint off my ironed jeans for the third time. Harper had mocked me for a full five minutes while I pressed them earlier, complete with air quotes and runway commentary.
“Ooh, nothing says ‘casual-chic’ like heat-pressed denim!” she’d teased, draped dramatically across the couch like a judgmental fashion editor. “You trying to impress your grief girlfriends or the mailman?”
“It’s not like they’re royalty,” I add now, mostly to myself. “Or strangers I’m picking up for a blind date.”
Harper appears in the hallway, wearing a flowy sundress and her favorite Bohemian crocheted purse slung across her shoulder, her hair pulled up into a messy bun that looks accidental but is absolutely curated. She’s the kind of effortlessly cool I used to pretend to be.
“They kind of are royalty.” She nudges me aside to grab a granola bar from the counter. “At least in the weird little world of your grief Zooms. You’re basically meeting the Real Housewives of Widowhood. Or like… the Sisterhood of the Traveling Trauma.”
“Thanks. That helps.”
She grins, unwrapping the bar. “I mean it in a good way. Viv seems terrifying in a fun, aunt-who-drinks-margaritas-before-noon kind of way. Except maybe with her, it’s not margaritas.
Maybe it’s like… pine soda she fermented herself in the woods while aligning her heart chakra with a family of squirrels. ”
I snort despite myself.
“And Marin’s totally the sweet one who pretends she doesn’t need anyone except her cats, but the second she meets Frank, she’ll fall in love with dogs and realize that maybe her life needs more than zooms and felines and then, bam!, instant family.”
I give her a look. “You’ve constructed full backstories for both of them, haven’t you?”
“Absolutely. I’ve seen your Zooms. I had to build lore to keep myself invested. Plus, someone has to balance out the drama now that Matt’s not around to hog the oxygen with his Division II basketball glory.”
She says it quickly, but she has the same look on her face that she did fifteen years ago and suddenly I’m transported to our backyard.
A memory of the two of them playing in the backyard together flashes across my mind, Harper in tears when Matt wanted to shoot hoops with his friends and didn’t want her to tag along. “I see it now. You miss him.”
Harper shrugs. “I do. But also, college Matt is a whole new species. He sends me gym selfies and reels of motivational quotes like he’s trying to become someone’s favorite podcast guest.”
“You’re not wrong.” I laugh. “He texted me last week asking for protein powder recommendations. I told him, ‘Do I look like someone who would have a ready-to-go list of protein powder or more like someone who still eats Pop-Tarts when I’m sad?’”
“I feel like this is a trick question, so I’m going to go with the protein powder list. Where have you been hiding it, Mom? And have I mentioned how nice those gains are looking.”
I don’t even bother asking what “gains” means. Instead, I take a deep breath and grab my keys and sunglasses, more for something to do with my hands than because I need them. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
Looking over my shoulder, I fling open the door, glancing behind me to see if I grabbed my phone off the table before careening straight into a wall of hard muscle. My body might have enjoyed it if not for the shock and surprise of running into a sculpted male chest when opening my front door.
Noah.
He’s standing on my porch with a Tupperware container in one hand, the other raised to the door frame as though debating if he should knock. I fight back a smile, picturing him waffling on my front step without the confidence of his mail.
“Oh.” I try to tamp down the blush I know is turning my cheeks cherry red from the aforementioned physical contact. “Hi?”
“I need you.”
I raise an eyebrow at him. “You need me?”
“For a mission. This is Mildred’s container. I’m pretty sure she has mine. And I want it back.” Noah’s voice is low, as though we’re already conspiring.
I mimic his tone, leaning my head closer. “What’s so important about this container?”
“It’s one of those nice ones.” His eyes stare into mine, mock serious. “The glass one with the special suction lid. It’s my favorite.”
That’s it. I take three steps back, throwing my hands in the air. “Who has a favorite container?”
“People who like leftovers.”
“So why’re you knocking on my door with your container peace treaty?” I jerk my thumb in the direction of the street. “Mildred is three houses down.”
“I need backup.”
“You need me to go with you to retrieve your container?”
“Well, um, yeah. And maybe help me avoid that awkward conversation with Mildred about how I took three months to return her Tupperware after a holiday party.” Noah shoves a hand in his pocket, scuffing a tennis shoe along the worn boards of my front porch.
“Plus, I figured since you fearlessly faced Sharon and her Bundt cake at that block party, you might be a good wingwoman to fend off any, you know, hostile container negotiators.”
“Scared?”
“Terrified.”
Harper appears in the doorway like a secret agent barging in on a covert operation, a bemused smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “I’m sure Mom would love to go with you, but we’re actually running a little late for the airport.”
“Airport?” I blink a few times. “Oh, uh, yes.” I try to tamp down the sudden onslaught of butterflies staging a full rebellion in my stomach. “Company.”
“Company?” Noah repeats. “Visitors?”
“Just Mom’s grief gals,” Harper tosses over her shoulder as she strides over to my sensible Subaru.
“Grief gals? How do I have more questions every time one gets answered?”
I shrug, looking down at my open-toed sandals. I don’t know why I hadn’t told Noah about my grief group before. It technically falls into one of our three approved texting categories—“lasagna,” “plants,” and “grief”—but it never came up.
Harper leans out the passenger door, calling, “They’re like a secret society, but instead of secret handshakes, they do group therapy with their favorite respective drinks and grief dares.”
Noah smiles in that lazy, lopsided way that makes me momentarily forget I’m a grieving widow and not the lead in a rom-com with a very confusing rating.
“Sounds intense.” His voice is warm and a little teasing. “I hope I get the chance to meet them?”
I force a small laugh and try to keep my expression neutral, but my cheeks are heating up again, traitors that they are.
This whole thing, Noah on my porch, his Tupperware diplomacy, the way he keeps looking at me like he sees past all the careful armor I’ve put on, is starting to make me feel uncomfortably alive.
He leans in slightly, not enough to cross a line, but enough that I feel the heat radiating off his skin. “I want to hear more about these grief dares. And if I’ve been used for any of them.”
My mouth opens. Closes. I want to assure him he hasn’t, but really, he’s been a leading player in most of mine so far.
“I plead the fifth,” I mumble, then try to pivot toward the car like I’m not mildly combusting.
He glances down at the container in his hand like he’s just remembered why he’s here. “Well,” he steps back, “I’ll leave you to your grief society, then.”
“Thanks.” I nod too fast, like a bobblehead on a caffeine bender. “Airport run awaits. Have fun with the Tupperware hostage situation.”
I’m already halfway to the car before I realize I didn’t even ask how he’s doing. I didn’t offer coffee or small talk or anything resembling the person I used to be. The new version of me, the one standing with shaky hands and a heart doing the Macarena, is just trying not to drown.
Harper waves enthusiastically from the van, shooting Noah a wink. “See you later, Noah.”
Noah waves awkwardly. “Later, ladies.”
Harper snaps her seat belt into place with a barely contained smirk. “He totally wanted to be invited inside.”
“Harper,” I warn, gripping the steering wheel like it might launch me into space.
“What? I’m just saying. You’ve still got it, Tupperware temptress.”
______________
The arrivals area is a circus. Luggage carts zipping. Children screaming. A man in a full unicorn onesie holding a “Welcome Back, Carl!” sign. Harper’s got her phone out, narrating the entire thing like she’s a travel influencer with a very niche audience.
“We are live at Terminal 2.” Harper’s doing her best impression of a mock-documentary voice, angling her phone toward me as I double-check the arrivals screen for the third time.
“Mom’s having what can only be described as an emotional stroke.
Will the grief ladies be normal humans or hyper-organized mourning club cult leaders? Stay tuned.”
“Can you not?” I swipe at her phone, which she dodges with ease; years of practice in her teenage years have paid off.
“I’m trying to help you go viral. This is wholesome content.”
“I’m already spiraling. Please don’t livestream it.”
Before she can respond, we hear it: Viv’s voice, unmistakable, slicing through the baggage claim din like a hot knife through butter.
“BIRDIE!”
I spin in time to see Viv barreling toward us with a leopard-print duffle bag slung over one shoulder and a yoga mat strapped to the other.
She’s wearing neon leggings, a tank top that reads “Sage Against the Machine,” and big sunglasses, despite being indoors.
Marin trails behind her beige pantsuit, in stark contrast to Viv, as she tries to keep her rolling suitcase from toppling over, looking like someone who has survived the emotional equivalent of turbulence and a crying baby in 15A.
“Oh my god,” Harper whispers. “You didn’t say they were walking personality quizzes.”
Viv hugs me like we’ve known each other for decades and she’s missed me every day. It’s slightly suffocating and wildly comforting.
“Birdie, you look even more vibrant in person. Grief looks good on you. Is that weird to say?”
“Yep. But I would expect nothing else.” I’m laughing and hugging her.
Viv pulls back, assessing Harper with a keen eye. “You must be the daughter. The one with the astrology tattoo and the suspiciously incredible hair. Do you bleach or is that natural?” Viv reaches out a hand toward her hair. “Natural. You lucky girl!”
Harper blinks. “Are you a psychic?”
“No, I internet stalk. You should consider bangs.”
Marin finally catches up, slightly out of breath.
“Hi.” She gives a small, shy wave before lowering her voice and looking around. “I brought wine in my checked luggage. Don’t tell TSA.”
“I love her,” Harper proclaims.
We stand there for a moment, in the chaotic swirl of the airport, four women staring at each other, unsure of what comes next.
“Okay.” I clap my hands. “Let’s go get your bags and get out of here before Viv starts offering to cleanse people’s auras.”
“Too late.” Viv’s already eyeing a stressed-out businessman rubbing his temples.
Marin nods toward the exit. “Do we get snacks? I feel like snacks should be part of this reunion.”
“Snacks are a cornerstone of healing,” Viv adds.
Harper’s already walking ahead. “We’ve got gluten-free pretzels and way too much nacho cheese. Buckle up.”
As we herd ourselves toward the parking garage, Marin’s suitcase tips again, her knitted handbag fringe getting caught in the wheels.
Viv offers to help an elderly woman who’s hobbling along by showing her a few yoga poses to loosen her hips.
Harper keeps muttering observations into her phone, like she’s workshopping a Netflix special.
And me? I take a deep breath. Somehow, for the first time in a while, the chaos feels good.
Like home.