Chapter 16 #2
“Doing a round of yoga. Viv cornered Marin into it, and I escaped with the excuse of weeding before they started. They promised to come help me when they were done. Mostly, Viv sits with her bare feet in the earth, grounding, and giving unsolicited emotional commentary like she’s narrating a documentary.
‘Here we see the widow in her natural habitat, tending grief and geraniums.’ Marin is really the one who digs in and will get the weeding done. ”
He laughs, unguarded, and something warm uncoils in my chest.
I reach for my wine glass, stalling.
“I was actually hoping to ask you something.” He starts fiddling with the small assortment of weeding tools next to me, and I try not to laugh at the sight of this strong, rugged man nervous over a simple question.
“Is this where you ask if I’ve tried yoga for my healing?”
“No.” He smiles, small but sincere. “I was going to ask if you’d want to have dinner with me sometime. Nothing fancy or dramatic, something that doesn’t involve a neighborhood potluck and a suspicious Jell-O salad.”
I blink.
“You’re asking me out?” That flicker of excitement barely has time to take root before guilt comes barreling after it, fast and merciless, choking the joy.
“Unless you’d prefer to call it a grief-adjacent social experiment with light appetizers.”
I laugh, but it catches in my throat. The air shifts, heavier now, as excitement flutters up just in time to collide with the sinking feeling in my gut.
Setting the daisy down, I wipe my palms again, telling myself I need to get the dirt off them.
It’s not because all my guilt and grief are trying to escape in the form of sweat.
“I haven’t done this in a long time.” I press my lips together.
“I know.”
“I still have his slippers by the door. I yell at his ashes when the washing machine leaks. And some mornings, I cry because the coffee tastes the same.”
He nods, like he knows exactly what I mean.
“You don’t have to say yes. I didn’t want to walk past your fennel every day wondering if I should’ve said something.”
My chest tightens. He’s waiting, a half-smile on his face, hands smudged with my garden’s dirt. There’s something there. Not pressure. Just possibility.
I swallow hard. “I’m not fixed. I’m not even sanded down. I’m still rough, and some days I’m held together with bathrobes and sarcasm.”
“Perfect,” he says, no hesitation. “Then you’ll fit in great at dinner with me.”
I stare at him, all warmth and nerve and ridiculous potted daisies, and realize I’m smiling. That quiet, reluctant kind of smile that sneaks up before your brain can veto it.
“I could do appetizers.” My voice is barely above a whisper. “No promises. Only appetizers.”
He stands, brushing off his jeans. “One mozzarella stick. No pressure. Though if you have two, I might ask you to dance. There’s no excuse about you not knowing how. Remember, I saw the video.”
“Don’t push your luck,” I mutter.
As he heads for the gate, he pauses, glancing back over his shoulder.
“Nice flannel,” he calls. “Your husband had good taste.”
I press my hand to my chest and swallow.
Yeah. He really did.
Good taste in friends.
Shame he couldn’t say the same about his traitorous wife.
______________
I lean over the counter, stirring the stir-fry on the stove.
“How was the weeding?” Viv skates through the door, and Marin flops in behind after her.
“Good.” I take in Viv’s energized bouncy up and down and Marin’s half-dead expression. “How was the yoga?”
“Revitalizing!”
Marin rolls her eyes. “Next time, I’m coming out to the garden with you. My body wasn’t made to move like that.”
“Well, the garden wasn’t exactly peaceful this evening.”
The ladies both stop and stare.
I hold up my phone like it’s radioactive. “Noah asked me out. I might have said yes. Kind of. Soft yes. Only a whisper of a yes to appetizers.”
Viv immediately throws both hands in the air like she’s scored a touchdown. “Okay. My brain is confused. This is a good thing, but you’re delivering the news like it’s a bad thing?”
“It’s a horrible idea. What will the neighbors think? It’s too soon!”
Viv takes a dramatic sip of her chamomile, which she’s added three splashes of wine to, because that’s the way the “love of my life always drank it” and she’s “never going back to boring tea.”
“I mean, the man has the bone structure of a Disney villain. If anything, you owe it to the community.”
I groan and flop into a kitchen chair, hugging a throw pillow like it might absorb my panic. “It’s too soon.”
Viv slides me a glass of water, eyeing me like I’m seconds away from spiraling.
“Is it too soon because your heart or your guilt is saying it is? Or because you’re worried about what everyone else will think?”
I stare into the water like it might reflect the answers back at me. “All of the above?”
But it’s more than that. It’s the way I still reach for a second toothbrush in the Target aisle.
It’s the empty side of the bed. It’s the memory of casseroles and pity smiles and being told “you’re so strong” when I didn’t ask to be.
I don’t know if I’m ready, or if I’ll ever be ready to love again.
But I do know that moving forward feels suspiciously like leaving him behind.
I tap my phone like it’s going to offer me an out. “I should probably cancel. I mean, what would the neighbors think? The PTA president already looks at me like I microwaved communion.”
Viv leans in, voice calm but sharp enough to slice through my panic. “Birdie. Your husband has been gone for over a year and a half. You’re not cheating. Also, you once mentioned you hosted a shrimp boil for the HOA. You’ve done your time.”
I snort despite myself. “That shrimp boil had three Yelp reviews and a minor fire hazard.”
Marin perks up suddenly, her phone lighting up. “Also, you’re not going alone.”
I blink. “What?”
Viv smirks like this has been her master plan all along. “We’re making it a group date.”
My jaw drops. “So many questions. First, how did you two even communicate that? Telepathically? Second, who would go with you?”
They answer at the same time.
Viv: “The guy who taught me how to twirl.”
Marin: “Len. From the barrel.”
Viv adds, “And good souls are able to communicate with good souls. We did yoga together. We’re bonded.”
I look between them like I’ve entered an alternate timeline. “I need to join you all for yoga because I want this superpower. You got their numbers?”
Marin shrugs. “It was a vulnerable environment.”
“This is happening. You’re going out. You’re not canceling. And we’re going to wear things that don’t have elastic waistbands.” Viv snaps the elastic on her yoga pants.
Before I can respond, my phone pings with a new email. The subject line alone is enough to make me break out in stress hives:
Subject: Friendly Reminder - Snack Roster Incomplete!
From: pta.party@
I sigh and fall silent, reading as the background noise of Viv and Marin discussing outfits fills the air.
Hi Birdie!
Simply a quick nudge to remind you we still need a confirmed nut-free, dye-free, vegan-friendly snack option for next Thursday’s student council training!
We know you always come through!
Also, could you bring paper napkins? We’re trying to be eco-conscious but still festive!
Warmly,
Your Friends at the PTA
I stare at the screen, blinking slowly like I’m rebooting.
The emotions hit fast and hot—anger, humiliation, something dangerously close to hurt—but habit kicks in before I can feel them all the way. Deep breath. Smooth it over. Make it look nice.
“Everything ok?” Marin places a hand on my shoulder.
Pasting on a sunny smile, I nod. “Yep. Just a little PTA trouble. No big deal.”
Viv looks up, horrified. “Are you seriously still on the PTA? Didn’t your daughter graduate three presidents ago?”
“Okay, not that long ago,” I mutter, already starting to type a response. “I never unsubscribed. And technically, I’m an ‘alumni liaison.’”
Viv snorts. “That is not a real thing.”
“It is,” I argue weakly. “They said I bring legacy continuity.”
Marin, now several sips in and aggressively swirling her wine. “You bring Costco napkins, repressed rage, and the ability to make everyone else’s life easier. I know the drill. Theo loved it when I was distracted with some PTA project. He swore it made me less ‘needy.’”
Viv points a finger at Marin. “You have needs. You are not needy.” Then she grabs the phone from my hand mid-keystroke.
“And you are not a legacy anything. You are not bringing kale muffins to the next fundraising bake sale. You’re going on a date with the hot mailman.
And you’re letting the PTA figure out snacks like the grown adults they pretend to be. ”
I reach for the phone, but she holds it hostage behind her back. “I will write an out-of-office response if I have to.”
“Viv…”
She narrows her eyes. “Birdie. Look me in the face and say you want to spend your one wild and precious life chasing carrot sticks for underfunded extracurriculars instead of dancing with the man who brings you flowers.”
I slump back into my chair and groan. “Fine. I’m muting the thread.”
Marin raises her glass like a toast. “To bold moves.”
Viv clinks hers against mine. “To unsubscribing from martyrdom.”
And just like that, I start to feel it—not the sangria exactly, but the possibility. The tiniest shimmer of something I can do for me.
We’ve moved from sangria to the dregs of a forgotten bottle of prosecco Marin found behind the rice cooker. Viv poured it with zero shame into mismatched mugs and declared it “festive.” Things have escalated.
Viv tops off our glasses with a dramatic flourish, like she’s christening a new ship. “Okay. So. Are you going to seduce the mailman or what?”
I nearly choke on my drink. “I’m going to need more wine before we even say the word seduce.”
Viv grins. “That’s not a no.”
I groan, dragging my hands down my face. “I haven’t kissed anyone but Owen in over two decades. I’m not even sure I remember how.”