Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
I’m staring at the email from the Seattle Art Museum… again. Same subject line. Same blinking cursor. Same quiet sense of impending shame.
It’s been sitting in my inbox like a dare. Ticking down to the deadline while I do absolutely nothing.
Every morning, I open it.
Every morning, I hover my mouse over “Start Application.”
And every morning, I chicken out.
I tell myself it’s timing. The laundry, the dishes, the ghost of Owen lingering in the corners of this house.
But the truth is, I’m scared.
Scared I missed my chance.
Scared I don’t belong anymore.
Scared that dreaming at this age is embarrassing.
Viv appears beside me, peering over my shoulder before I even register her footsteps. “What’s this?”
“Nothing.”
My face flushes so fast it feels like a betrayal. I scramble to close the tab with the open email, but it’s too late.
Marin walks in, nursing her late afternoon tea and raising an eyebrow. “What’s nothing?”
“Still nothing,” I mutter, fumbling for my mug like it might deflect the attention.
Viv’s already squinting at the screen. “Seattle Art Museum internship?” she reads aloud, like she found a love letter I swore I’d never send. “Birdie!”
I groan and bury my face in my hands. “It’s dumb. I’m too old. It’s probably meant for fresh-out-of-college twenty-somethings with graphic design certificates and ring lights. I have Owen’s life insurance money. It’s not like I need a job.”
“You have an art history degree.” Marin leans against the counter. “Didn’t you tell me you wanted to work there once?”
“I did.” I exhale, the kind of breath that comes from deep, dusty storage.
“Back in college, I used to walk past the museum and pretend I worked there. I thought I’d wear long skirts and talk to people about Van Gogh’s brushstrokes.
Maybe write some poetic little blurbs for the wall labels. It felt possible back then.”
“So why didn’t you?” Viv asks the question as if the answer is simple.
It’s not.
“I met Owen. Then I got pregnant. One baby turned into two, and suddenly I blinked and twenty-something years vanished into field trips, soccer games, PTA meetings, bake sales, and playdates. I was updating my résumé, telling myself that once Harper hit fifteen, I’d finally go back—start building a career, step back from being that mom who was always at the school. ”
“But…” Marin prompts gently.
“But then Owen died.” I nod, the ache still sharp even after all this time.
“And suddenly, getting a job wasn’t even on the table.
I had life insurance, so the money wasn’t the first priority.
My grieving teenage daughter, son who just left for college and was struggling to keep it together, and a house full of grief was all I had the mental capacity for.
I needed to keep everything from falling apart. I needed to hold her up. Hold me up.”
I swallow hard, the lump in my throat thick and unrelenting.
“And now? Now it’s just me. And this stupid email.
And this even stupider idea that maybe I could still do something for myself.
But what if I apply and they laugh? Or worse—what if I actually get it, and I’m the awkward, out-of-touch intern who doesn’t even know what’s in style anymore? ”
Marin smirks. “Then at least you’ll be the brave, awkward old intern. Honestly, Birdie, what’s the worst that can happen?”
“I’ll look like an idiot.”
“You fearlessly danced in a conga line and in a competition at a goat wine bar. You don’t fear looking foolish anymore! You don’t care what other people think!”
“You say that, but I feel like I’d need a translator to understand the office coffee machine. They don’t want someone like me. I’m someone’s mom. I was someone’s wife.”
“No.” Viv turns, rummaging through the junk drawer. “You’re someone. Period.”
“What are you doing?” I eye her suspiciously as she moves to the living room.
She rifles through a stack of books on the coffee table and returns with the pink glitter notebook raised in her triumphant hand.
“Oh no. No, no, no.”
“Yup.” She’s already flipping to a fresh page.
“Viv, I swear—”
Too late. Her pen is already in motion, her dramatic lopsided cursive etching its decree into my paper sanctuary.
#11. Apply to Seattle Art Museum Internship. I double-dog-dare you.
I lunge for it. “You can’t add things! There’s an obvious theme to my dares, romance, love, human connection, remember?”
Viv lifts the notebook over her head like I’m a toddler trying to reach for cookies. “This is a human connection. It’s a connection to yourself.”
Marin folds her arms. “Honestly, I think she’s right. These dares aren’t about falling in love with someone else. They’re about remembering who you are. Before Owen. Before the kids. Before Noah. Before the grief.”
Viv nods. “No man is going to rediscover you for you, Birdie. That’s your job now.”
And just like that, I’m staring at the screen again.
Same blinking cursor.
Except this time, I pull up the resume I’ve been editing and re-editing for years, open the link, and start filling out the application.
______________
I’m on my knees in the garden, tugging weeds that have no business growing this aggressively. There’s dirt on my cheek, a smear of something unidentifiable on my leg, and my wine glass is balanced in the mulch like it belongs there. It’s the most glamorous I’ve felt in weeks.
The gate creaks behind me.
I don’t look up.
“If you’re another neighbor asking if I’ve ‘found peace,’ I swear on my begonias, I will throw compost.”
Maybe it’s time to take a break from the wine.
A quiet laugh follows. Not the neighbor.
Noah.
Figures.
“I come in peace.” His voice is warm with amusement. “And bearing flora.”
I turn to look. He’s standing at the garden gate, holding a potted daisy, bright yellow, cheerful, the kind of flower that has no idea the world can be terrible.
“For you,” he adds. “Thought your fennel looked lonely.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I stare at the plant.
“You brought me a daisy.” I stand slowly, brushing the dirt from my knees. “Bold choice. Very Anne of Green Gables meets Home Depot clearance rack.”
Noah snorts, pretending to look offended but failing miserably. “Hey, the Home Depot clearance rack is sacred. You once dragged me through three aisles to find a discounted pot of half-dead mums because, and I quote, ‘Every sad flower deserves a second chance.’”
I roll my eyes but can’t help laughing. “I stand by that. They needed love and water and maybe a little luck.”
He nods solemnly, twirling the daisy between his fingers like it’s a peace offering. “Exactly why I brought you this little guy.”
“I love the Home Depot clearance rack.”
“I know.”
He grins, and something in me softens at the ease of it.
“Remember when Owen and I broke that closet handle in our dorm room and he went into a full panic spiral about getting kicked out or charged extra and what his parents would say?”
My heart aches at the memory. “Yeah. He was convinced it was a felony-level offense. I thought he was going to try to file a police report on himself.”
“We both sprinted to the nearest Home Depot like it was a covert mission. Owen was combing the aisles looking for an exact match, sweating bullets, while you—” Noah chuckles, eyes bright, as though he’s holding back tears.
“—while I found a box of mismatched hardware in the clearance bin and said, ‘This one’s close enough. Spray paint it and tell them it’s vintage.’”
He points at me. “Exactly. And he was horrified. Said that would be ‘deceiving the institution.’”
I shake my head, still smiling. “God, he was such a rule-follower. And you were always the middleman, trying to calm him down while also pocketing an extra handle for ‘future emergencies.’”
“I still have it.”
My eyes flick to his. “You do not.”
He shrugs. “Top drawer. Next to my loose batteries and a lone Allen key that probably doesn’t go to anything.”
I laugh again, but it’s softer this time, because there’s a kind of ache underneath it. The kind that comes when a memory brushes right up against everything you’ve lost.
Noah watches me closely, the playfulness in his expression giving way to something gentler. “He was the glue back then. You know?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “He really was.”
A quiet settles between us. Not uncomfortable, just full.
And then he clears his throat, nudges the daisy toward me again. “Still think it’s too Anne Shirley?”
I take it from him, fingers brushing his. “Nah. It’s exactly right.”
And for a second, it feels like we’re back there, college kids with broken handles and stolen daisies, before everything cracked open.
I kneel back down, digging out a space next to the lavender bushes. Noah crouches beside me, elbows on his knees, watching like he’s not quite sure if he should say what he’s about to say.
“I like it out here. It’s quiet. You’re different when it’s quiet.”
“Different how?”
“Softer. Like you stop bracing for the next disaster.”
I pause, little hand shovel suspended above the dirt, and really look at him.
The sky is shimmering with gold behind him.
His beard’s a little longer than usual. I wonder what it would be like to feel it against my cheek.
The intrusive thought fills my mind, and I feel heat creeping up my cheeks into an obvious flush.
“Well, don’t get used to it. I’ll be bracing again by morning.”
Noah’s voice is honey-smooth. “I like both versions.”
I swallow, feeling the sun-kissed dirt crumble beneath my palms. Suddenly, I feel seventeen again, skin buzzing, unsure if it’s attraction or fear. Unsure of what to say.
“Where’s Viv and Marin?”
I feel the smile pulling at my cheeks. He remembers their names. But then I’m remembering I’m in Owen’s garden and smiling shouldn’t be allowed here anymore.