Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
I’ve written and rewritten this text five times.
“It’s really not that hard, Birdie. Suck it up and press send already. You’ve birthed two babies, unmedicated. You’ve survived your husband dying and that atrocious, yet no less courageous, email to the PTA. You’ve got this. Do it.”
I hear the floorboards creak and glance up, hoping Viv, Marin, or worse, Harper, isn’t going to walk into the room to overhear my less-than-stellar self-pep talk.
Luckily, it’s just Frank. Although, surprisingly, he’s mastered the same judgy eyes that Harper nailed in high school.
The two must be spending too much time together.
The text is simple enough:
So about Saturday.
I pause, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard, debating if I should send a wide-eyed emoji or carry on with the rest of the text.
Decisions, decisions.
Before I can finish typing the rest of my hours premeditated thought, my jumbled nerves cause my thumb to slip, and I accidentally hit send.
He’s not going to message back. Or maybe he will.
Honestly, I’m not sure what would be worse at this point.
Can I unsend a text? It’s not even a finished text? It’s half a text.
Wait… he’s typing back.
He’s responding to half a text.
Damn you nerves and my trigger happy thumbs.
Noah: What about Saturday? Are you going to tell me you came down with Kuru?
Me: A prion disease transferred by cannibalism? Don’t forget I was there when your last date tried that on you. She really should’ve read the entire Web MD article before choosing that one.
Noah: Phew. Good cause I’m still recovering from that ego blow. So what about Saturday?
Me: Why are you answering so fast? I wasn’t done typing.
Noah: Pretend I didn’t say anything. Continue.
Me: Is it alright if Viv and Marin come?
They also have dates.
Not that I don’t want to spend time just us.
I do.
I think.
But it might help.
Does the block party count as a date?
I was thinking maybe not, and in that case, this would be my first official date, since, well, you know, and
I rapidly fire the text messages one after the other, the train of thought clearly derailed, wreaking havoc through my mind and transmitting out my fingertips.
Too eager. Too weird. Too “what will the neighbors think?” But Noah’s typing bubbles pop up.
Then disappear. Then reappear. And the sight of them is enough to break my rambling.
Who knew it was even possible to ramble in a text stream?
Noah: Sounds perfect. I like your friends. Viv said I look like “someone who models flannels.”
I smile, despite myself.
Me: Do you want to pick me up?
Noah: I do, but only if that doesn’t make it feel like too much. Otherwise, I’ll meet you there.
Me: Let’s meet there. One step at a time.
Plus, I could do without Sharon’s eagle eyes peeping through her Pottery Barn drapes and her commentary.
Noah: Every great journey begins with a single step.
Me: Quoting Lao Tzu? You didn’t strike me as a man into Chinese philosophy.
Noah: What can I say? I have layers and social media (I’m pretty hip with the groove), and an old college philosophy book around here somewhere.
Glancing up from my phone, I smile, right into the eyes of Owen smiling back at me from our wedding photo still next to my bed. The guilt hits hard.
Me: Got to go. See you Saturday.
I set the phone down and immediately begin sweating through my shirt.
______________
We arrive at the restaurant like some kind of reality show cast reunion, three women in slightly-too-tight clothes, hyped up on kombucha and nerves.
Viv walks ahead of us, all hips and high heels, swearing that the bottles of kombucha she had us all chug before walking out the door will energize us, renew our minds, and release any pent-up emotions we’ve been hiding deep within our intestines.
Marin stumbles along behind Viv, nearly tripping over the maxi dress she found on clearance two days ago that somehow makes her look like she owns a boat.
I, Birdie “Emotionally Frazzled” Lawson, am in a casual knee-length black dress, that may or may not be inside-out, it’s hard to tell with all the stretchy material, and enough concealer to spackle drywall.
Noah’s already there, seated at a long table with two other men I vaguely recognize from the winery, though they look less intoxicated and slightly more nervous than I remembered.
Viv’s guy is hard to miss: shoulder-length silver hair pulled into a loose ponytail, a turquoise ring the size of a small pebble, and a patterned shirt unbuttoned halfway down his chest. He’s bearded, confident, and has the vibes of a man who sells handmade guitars at the farmers market but will absolutely ghost you to go on a silent retreat.
Marin’s date is the opposite: hunched posture, neat polo tucked into khakis, and socks with sandals like a man who’s prepared for a casual hike and an IRS audit. He offers a shy wave when we approach and immediately drops his phone trying to pick up his water glass.
And then there’s Noah, clean-shaven in a soft flannel button-down, sitting upright with that easy sky-blue eye smile that makes my ribs feel like bubble wrap. He stands the second he sees me and pulls out a chair like we’re filming the warm-up reel for a Hallmark Christmas movie.
I melt a little. Not a full puddle. But enough to need a breath before I sit.
“Hey,” he whispers softly, like it’s just the two of us. “You look stunning and slightly happy to be here.”
“I am happy to be here. I think.” I adjust the strap on Harper’s dress, pulling it higher up my shoulder, still in shock that I could squeeze into it. “Thank you.”
Marin shuffles awkwardly into a seat next to Len, fidgeting for a moment before pressing her back into the wicker, like she’s never used a chair before.
It’s obvious she has no idea what to do with her hands or eyes.
Viv is practically vibrating out of her seat, but is, for the first time since she landed a few days ago, silent.
This moment is what I’d been dreading, and hoping to avoid by adding more people to the mix, but now I’m wondering if I exacerbated the awkwardness. We all stare at each other in silence, sipping our drinks.
Noah tries to bridge the silence with some kind of group opener. “So how do you all know each other?”
It’s a soft ball, really. An innocent, friendly question. And it is the absolute wrong thing to say.
Viv sets down her glass and grins like a cat who sees the can opener. “Oh. We’re part of a club.”
Marin shakes her head, eyes darting around the room as though she’s hoping to be rescued by the server asking if we’d like more wine. When the silence stretches for a few more uncomfortable seconds, she finally blurts out, “The Dead Husbands Society.”
Marin’s date, Len, pushes his glasses further up his nose, a very uncomfortable laugh leaving his lips. “The what?” He probably thinks he misheard.
Viv doubles down cheerfully. “The Dead. Husbands. Society.”
His laughter stalls in his throat. Viv’s date leans forward like he’s hoping for an explanation but also questioning the universe for leading him here. There’s another thick beat of silence where we all look at our menus and pretend like this is normal.
Noah’s shoulders shake with a quiet laugh beside me.
I want to disappear. Or dissolve. Or hide under the table where our newly appointed grief mascot, Frank, would be snoring if he were allowed in public spaces.
“Should I be worried?” Len finally asks, one brow raised, probably wondering if we meet in graveyards.
“Only if you lie about your favorite color or try to explain cryptocurrency to me.” Viv’s eyes stay fixed on her menu, her face a perfect composition of seriousness, and I can see her date move a few visible inches closer to his corner of the table.
Noah’s arm brushes mine, and I feel goosebumps radiating up my skin. “Is this how you introduce each other regularly?”
I glance at him sideways, trying to read if he’s judging me or entertained. “Only on triple dates with complete strangers. We like to weed out the faint of heart.”
He laughs, low and genuine. “Mission accomplished.”
“So, who named the club?”
I pretend to study the drink list. “Um, well, it was a group effort.”
He doesn’t respond, and I can feel the weight of his stare while I keep my eyes fixed on the menu.
“Okay, fine. It was me.”
The others break into side conversations, presumably about our society, while Noah leans toward me, voice low. “You haven’t changed.”
I raise an eyebrow, peering over the menu. “I’ve changed a lot.”
“Maybe. On the outside. But that doesn’t change who you are. I enjoy all the versions of you I’ve seen. It’s just that introduction, the name of the club…” He laughs softly. “You’ve always had a thing for making people wildly uncomfortable.”
I glance over at him, happy to see everyone else is still engaged in their own conversations. “That’s a bold accusation.”
“You once hosted a mock funeral for your goldfish. Owen gave the eulogy, and you made everyone walk a candlelit lap around the dorm.”
“Oh God.” I cringe, smiling despite myself. “You remember that?”
“I still remember the haiku you wrote about his 'brief but slippery life.'”
“Okay, in my defense, Gil was a fighter. He survived a week in a cracked tank, and I’m pretty sure he’s Lord of the Underworld Sewers after I flushed him down the toilet.
And it wasn’t that dramatic.” I try my best to sound serious, knowing that my statement about Gil’s life added to the evidence that I can still be quite dramatic at times.
“You made Owen wear a thrifted suit and conduct the ceremony like a Methodist minister. You had a soundtrack. There were printed programs.”
“It was performance art.”
Noah takes a sip of his wine before pursing his lips together. “You made me build a casket out of stolen cafeteria trays.”
I snort into my wine. “I was very theatrical in college. It was the bangs.”
“Or the combat boots. You were a menace.” He winks.