Chapter 17 #2
I nudge his leg with mine under the table, and Len startles in surprise and looks at me. Whoops. “You admitted to helping build the coffin, so don’t pretend you were innocent.”
“I wasn’t.” His voice is softer. Intentional. “Not then. Not now.”
I glance at him, and suddenly the restaurant feels smaller. Quieter. His gaze lingers on mine like he’s remembering all of it—me, Owen, the stupid fog machine I insisted on using for “atmosphere,” the black umbrellas we handed out even though it wasn’t raining. The laughter. The absolute absurdity.
And something about that memory, about us, then, makes me feel like me again. Not a widow. Not a mom. Not a ghost haunting the aisles of Whole Foods. Just a person, still strange and still here.
“Thank you.”
Noah raises his eyebrows. “For what?”
“For remembering the ridiculous stuff. For not looking at me like I’m broken.”
He leans in, elbow brushing mine. “You’re not broken, Birdie. You’re just rebooting.”
My stomach flips as a memory crashes over me, vivid and sudden.
I'm twenty-eight years younger, back in the dim hallway of our college dorm a few minutes past midnight. Noah and I are whispering dares, stifling laughter, plotting our mission to rescue Owen’s backpack, launched into the old oak tree after too many Jell-O shots and too few good ideas.
I can still feel Noah’s breath warm against my cheek, see the way his eyes flicked to my lips, how he looked at me like I hung the stars myself.
Something about the memory pulls at me.
I drop my hands and look at him, that soft, serious look in his eyes doing a number on my ribcage. For a moment, it’s just us. Just me and Noah. In this weird little echo of who we were before life handed us all its losses.
But before I can analyze it, Marin lets out a delighted cackle across the table, something about her date misunderstanding the word “fermentation”, and the moment snaps like a stretched rubber band. The spell breaks, but the warmth doesn’t leave.
Noah leans back with a slow exhale, like even he feels it.
Len pulls out a laminated cheat sheet of dad jokes from his wallet (I swear), and Viv is already halfway into her wine while explaining to her date that she doesn’t believe in monogamy unless it’s with carbs.
He nods in full agreement before launching into an enthusiastic discussion about her aura, and Marin starts explaining to her date why she no longer drinks things she can’t pronounce.
Meanwhile, I pick up my wine glass and take a long sip, because if this is what dating looks like in your 40s, I might need a bottle.
By the time our dessert arrives, we’ve polished off three bottles of wine and enjoyed learning about Len’s latest dermatologist visit.
I shove another bite of chocolate torte into my mouth and savor the way the tart raspberry coulis balances out the rich dark chocolate.
It is utter perfection in a single bite.
I must be making an embarrassingly blissed-out face, because Marin bumps me with her elbow, grinning.
“We need to use the bathroom.” Viv grabs Marin’s arm and hoists her up before shooting me a pointed look. “All of us.”
I try not to look back wistfully at my little slice of chocolate heaven as Viv tugs us all toward the ladies' room. But the second the bathroom door closes behind us, I hiss, “You better have a fantastic reason to have pulled me away from dessert. It’s the best thing I’ve tasted in years!”
“I pulled you in here to talk about dessert! That man out there is the final course. Not the cake.”
“Okay, yes, dinner was lovely, but I don’t want to ruin our friendship. Noah and Owen were friends for years, and we’ve been friends a long time. It might be better to keep it that way.”
“Friends don’t look at friends like they want to devour them like pieces of chocolate cake.” Viv raises her eyebrows in pure skepticism before sashaying into the stall and closing the door.
The bathroom lighting is merciless. Too bright, too reflective, and far too honest. I try not to cringe as I touch up my lipstick, feeling like a woman who’s acting half her age.
I tug at the straps of my dress, wishing it were a little looser. “Fine. There has been a bit of chemistry.” I shudder; even using the word sounds ridiculous. “I feel like I’m seventeen again. Do I kiss him? Do I wave? Do I fist bump?”
Marin is dabbing her lip gloss on, looking very serious. “I think you should be polite. Maybe a hug. A respectable, non-romantic hug. Never a fist bump. I’m not even sure what that would look like.”
Viv emerges from the bathroom stall looking horrified. “If you hug him, I will take your phone and text him your pap smear results to spice things up. Kiss the man.”
“Shouldn’t he kiss me? Me kissing him seems much too forward. And maybe he likes being in the friend zone. He’s been there for years. It’s cozy. He probably has a stack of comic books in the corner and his favorite chair dialed in. It would be tragic to move him now.”
“Girl. You have spent the last decade being appropriate. Let this be your Roman Empire moment. Make the first move. Kiss the damn mailman.”
We all go quiet for a second.
Marin blinks.
I blink.
Viv lifts her chin like she delivered a TED Talk before leading the charge back to the table.
“We’ve got it all covered, ladies.” Len smiles, stuffing a card back into his wallet while Viv’s date grumbles something about it being the 21st century and halfsies are an acceptable and even feminist choice to make.
Noah’s waiting near the curb, one hand stuffed into the pocket of a worn Carhartt jacket, the other dragging along the back of his neck like he’s trying to decide if he’s about to offer me a ride or propose a joint savings account.
“Can I drive you home?” He sounds almost sheepish.
I nod before I can overthink it. “Yeah. That’d be nice.”
Behind me, the others are waving like it’s the last scene of Grease. Viv mouths “Empire moment” and does a very committed hip thrust before Marin elbows her with surgical precision.
I pretend not to notice as Noah opens the passenger door for me like some forgotten gentleman from a decade I’m pretty sure none of us actually lived through.
Once I’m in and buckled, he slides behind the wheel and glances over, a half-smile playing at his lips.
He looks at Viv waving and smiling with some kind of “knowing” look on her face. “Your friends are subtle.”
“Oh yeah,” I deadpan. “They specialize in quiet dignity and zero public embarrassment.”
He laughs, low and warm, before pulling his large pickup truck onto the road.
We drive in silence for a few seconds, just enough to make me hyper aware of everything: the heat in the car, the way his fingers drum lightly against the steering wheel, the smell of soap and something woodsy that’s definitely not cologne but still unreasonably attractive.
“So.” He glances sideways. “You survived your first group date.”
“Barely.” I fidget with the seatbelt strap, trying to look casual. “There was kombucha pre-game, that’s what Harper said the kids are calling it these days. Marin ordered calamari and had no idea it was squid. I was emotionally unprepared.”
“You didn’t seem unprepared.”
“I was bluffing. The key is to say ‘hmm’ a lot and pretend you’ve had squid before.”
He grins and taps the turn signal. “I was impressed.”
“Really?”
“You made three different men laugh. Not at the same time, but still, pretty solid odds.”
I glance at him. “You keeping score?”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker in his eyes, something warm and maybe a little possessive.
“Maybe.”
That one word is doing a lot of heavy lifting. My pulse skips like a teenager’s.
We stop at a red light, and he finally turns to look at me fully. The kind of look that lingers.
“I like that dress. It reminds me of one you wore in college to the first frat party we went to. But I think you paired that one with Converse, not nude heels.”
I exhale, a little too loudly, and look down at my lap like it’s fascinating.
“You clean up nice too. I wasn’t sure you owned anything that didn’t say USPS on the chest.”
He chuckles. “This is my off-duty look. For special occasions and mild flirtations.”
My eyebrows lift. “Mild?”
“Well, I didn’t want to overstep.”
I meet his gaze again. His eyes are steady, playful, with something deeper simmering below.
“You’re safe,” I whisper. “I’ll let you know when it’s too much.”
The light turns green. He doesn’t move right away. Just watches me for a second longer. Then his hand tightens ever so slightly on the gear shift, and he accelerates, turning down my street.
Finally, he clears his throat. “I didn’t expect to have this much fun tonight.”
The words are simple. Sincere. A little reckless.
I don’t know what to say, so I don’t. I let it settle, warm and aching somewhere in my chest.
We pull into my driveway, the porch light casting everything in a soft glow.
He shifts into park and kills the engine.
He turns toward me, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting near the console, inches from mine.
“I’m glad you came out tonight. I’ve been wanting to see you outside of mailbox territory again ever since the block party. ”
I unfasten my seatbelt, and the click it makes is much too loud.
“Well, you’ve officially seen me at my worst and medium-best now.
Next stop: Costco, where I really shine.
” Reaching for my purse with one hand and the door handle with the other, I pause.
“Thanks for tonight. For driving. For being good company.”
He turns toward me again, his expression unreadable but focused.
“You want me to walk you to the door?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, yes. I mean, I think if we stand too close, I might forget that I’m supposed to be sad.”
Noah’s grin falters. “And that would be bad?”
“Potentially. For my reputation. For the HOA.”
He chuckles, but it’s quieter now. He gets out of the truck and walks around to my door, opening it for me and offering his arm. I take it, and he laces his fingers with mine—warm, steady, a little hesitant.
As we head toward my porch, he says softly, “What if I’m a little afraid of forgetting too… but I still want to try?” He leans a little closer, and before I can process it, his fingers reach up and brush a loose strand of hair behind my ear. It’s a small touch. Barely a touch.
But my body responds like it’s everything.
And then, before my brain can shout what are you doing, I lean in.
Just slightly. Just enough.
He meets me halfway. “May I?”
My voice is a whisper. “Yes.”
The kiss starts tentatively, testing my reaction.
His lips are soft, careful, like he doesn’t want to scare me off.
But when I don’t pull back, when I press in, enough to let him know I’m still here and I want this, his hand finds my jaw.
His thumb brushes against my cheek, and something in me splinters open.
The kiss deepens, slow and hot and aching, like he’s been thinking about this longer than he’ll ever admit. Like he’s memorizing it.
My fingers find the front of his jacket, searching for something to hold onto, something to tether me while my heart does gymnastics in my ribcage. He slants my chin higher, and his tongue gently brushes along my lips.
And then, too soon, he eases back. Gently. Reluctantly. Like it’s the hardest thing he’s had to do all night.
His forehead rests against mine for a breathless second before his voice cascades down my back, husky and broken. “I should probably go.”
My whole body protests, but I nod. “Right. Yeah. Of course.”
He lingers for a second longer, eyes searching mine like he’s looking for a reason to stay.
God, I want to give him one. I want to reach out and say, Come inside. Let me get lost in you. Make me forget, just for tonight.
But grief is sticky. It clings to you even when no one’s watching. And is it ever alright to forget the person you loved?
So I do what I’ve always done.
I smile. The same smile I’ve worn my whole adult life: Polite. Polished. Appropriate.
His gaze drops for half a second—like maybe he’s carrying something too. Maybe he knows what it’s like to want something and feel guilty for wanting it.
He opens the front door for me and steps back. “Goodnight, Birdie.”
And then he disappears into the night like some tortured rom-com antihero with excellent posture and self-control I deeply resent.
I sit there in the silence for a moment, pulse racing, lips still tingling, trying to remember how breathing works. I try to smile like I’m calm and unbothered, not internally spiraling about what I did wrong or whether my lips taste like breadsticks.
I watch his taillights fade, feeling equal parts flushed and feral.
“Stupid perimenopause,” I mutter, unlocking the door and stomping inside like a rejected Disney princess in orthopedic slippers.
But even as I kick off my shoes and lean against the door, I know better.
This isn’t hormones.
It’s him.
And now I have a real problem. Because I want him to do it again.
But longer.
Without stopping.