Chapter 18
Chapter Eighteen
“Grape Goodness or Guava Goddess?” Viv punctuates her question with the fizzy pop of a kombucha cap twisting loose. A jet of bubbles fizzes over the rim like it’s trying to escape.
My kitchen looks like the party aisle at Party City had an emotional breakdown, glitter, catalogs, metallic fringe curtains, inflatable flamingos, and about four hundred sample napkins, most of which are either sequined or themed around being “over the hill.”
“Is water still an option?” Marin eyes the bottle with the suspicion of someone about to lick a subway pole on a dare. “I’m not sure my intestines have recovered from the last round of this stuff.”
“Girl, water was never an option,” I half-whisper behind my hand as Viv waves two wine glasses in our direction like a kombucha sommelier.
“Is it supposed to sound like that?” Marin asks, wincing.
“Is it supposed to smell like that?” I wrinkle my nose.
“Yes,” Viv declares, pouring with flair. “That’s the sound of fermentation and gut magic. Don’t question the gut magic.”
“When you said you’d grab drinks, I thought you meant a classic bottle of red. You know, something with a cork. Not this fizzy foot juice. You sabotaged us with it last time, and I’m not falling for it again.”
“Too much alcohol kills your liver and your aura,” Viv says serenely. “Fine for a wild night or a steamy romance novel binge, but you can’t live off the stuff. We’re here to restore, not rot.”
The three of us clink glasses. Marin sips.
Her face does things. Regret. Confusion. Possibly betrayal.
“Tastes more like vinegar than last time,” she mumbles.
“That’s the gut biome calling you to the dance floor.” Viv’s already half-finished with hers. “Bottoms up.”
I raise my glass. “To Owen’s fiftieth. And breaking every PTA rule in the handbook.”
We clink with dramatic flair, like warriors before battle.
My table is a war zone of party supply catalogues, glitter swatches, and a spreadsheet Marin made color-coded by chaos level.
There's a sticky note stuck to Viv’s sleeve that says Confetti cannon?
Tasteful? One of Owen’s old ball caps perches on the back of a chair like he’s overseeing the entire circus.
There’s a notecard that reads “Pinata or fire dancer?” and another that says “YES TO BOTH” in Viv’s handwriting.
“Okay.” I pull up the catering site again. “So, we’ve narrowed it down to ‘Sandwiches and Sips’ or ‘Nacho Explosion.’”
“I vote nacho.” Viv takes another big swig of her drink. “Nobody cries with cheese in hand.”
“Agreed.” Marin’s face pinches as she takes a reluctant sip of her drink. “Speaking of cheese, do you still have that brie in the fridge? It would, um, pair nicely with this grape situation.”
She says “grape situation” like it’s been court-ordered.
I try not to laugh. I’ve already caught her subtly trying to offer some to Frank, who sniffed it once and walked away like the bougiest stray ever.
Viv’s off on a tear now, passionately defending her case for making a life-size cardboard cutout of Owen in his 90s karaoke glory.
“Or,” Marin’s voice is as dry as a cracker, “we could honor him in a way that doesn’t scream backyard haunted house meets dollar store memorial.”
“Okay, first of all, rude.” Viv flips her hair to emphasize her offense. “Second of all, it's what he would've wanted.”
“How would you know? You’ve never met the man.” Marin leans over to my potted fern to pour her drink into it.
“I know his soul, Marin.”
My phone pings. I glance down, expecting a text from Noah—maybe something flirty, maybe something about the pinata size he offered to handle (which, now that I say it, sounds inappropriate).
Instead, I see:
From: Jill
Subject: Re: Snack Roster
Hi Birdie,
I wanted to follow up on your email. A few of us read it and, well, we’re a little worried. It didn’t quite sound like you.
If you’re feeling overwhelmed, please know it’s okay to step back quietly. We’ve all been there. No need for dramatic declarations. Just take the time you need, and maybe avoid replying-all next time?
We’re all here if you ever want to talk through anything.
Wishing you peace and perspective,
Jill
I read it aloud. The “” makes me want to throw my phone into the compost bin.
Marin snorts. “She means well.”
Viv leans in. “She means be quiet and polite and please stop being publicly unhinged in front of the gluten-free cupcake moms.”
“Oh, please.” I set my drink down. “She’s worried I’m mentally unraveling because I finally said no to being the designated snack serf.”
“I don’t know.” Marin sighs. “Sometimes I wish I could be that honest. Say the thing. Do the thing. Stop worrying what people will think.”
Viv grins. “Then let’s do it. Let’s say the things we’ve never done because we were scared of being too much. Or not enough. Or offending the other cookie cutters out there.”
“Viv.” I hold my hand up in protest. “I am the other cookie cutter out there.”
“Exactly.” She winks. “Okay, I’ll start. I’ve always wanted to pole dance. Not professionally. More recreationally. Like, climb it like a sexy fireman and spin dramatically.”
Marin nearly chokes on her kombucha. “You want to become a Cirque du Soleil stripper?”
Viv smirks, unbothered. She shifts in her chair and crosses one leg over the other, swirling the last bit of her drink with intention. “I want to reclaim my core strength and my narrative, Marin. And one day I will float down from the ceiling wrapped in silk scarves, and you will weep.”
Marin raises her cup in a mock salute. “Have you even found a class near you?”
Viv shrugs, suddenly studying her nails. “Yes. But I haven’t signed up. I’ve always chickened out.”
Marin leans forward, propping her elbows on the table, her tone suddenly earnest. “Fine. Your grief dare is to find a class and sign up when you get home.”
I blink. This is the first time Marin has dished out a dare. “You’re giving dares now?”
“Yep. It’s time for me to step up and join in. And I’m even giving myself one.” She hesitates, watching the bubbles rise and settle. “I’ve always wanted to make a dating profile.”
I straighten at the same time I feel Viv turn her full attention to Marin.
She hesitates. “But I never did. I met Theo in college, and that was that. Then I blinked and it was twenty years and two kids later and now I’m a widow who’s never even swiped on a stranger. And now I went on a date with Len, so can I really make a profile?”
Viv’s mouth hangs open. “Marin! It was one date. You aren’t exclusive!” She’s already got her phone out. “Well, tonight is the night. We’re building you a profile and you’re going to fall in love with a decent man, or at least get a drink with someone who owns pants without drawstrings.”
“I don’t think I have any pictures that scream ‘I’m ready to flirt.’ Is this one okay?” Marin turns her phone toward us with the hopeful look of someone holding up a half-burned casserole.
Viv recoils. “Not unless your goal is to attract a serial killer who collects Civil War memorabilia.”
“It was from my niece’s graduation.”
“You’re wearing orthopedic sandals and holding a meat tray, Marin.”
Marin huffs. “Well, I have other photos, somewhere.”
Viv points dramatically toward the hallway. “You have five minutes to go change into something that says ‘I might kiss you on a second date’ instead of ‘I teach Sunday school and my hobby is structured silence.’”
“I’ll see what I can do.” Marin disappears toward the guest room-slash-costume-closet with the resigned sigh of a woman about to make poor decisions in borrowed sequins.
Meanwhile, I’m back at my laptop, staring down the PTA queen’s passive-aggressive email like it’s daring me to bake gluten-free muffins and feel shame about it. I crack my knuckles and start typing.
Subject: Re: Re: Snack Roster
Hi Jill,
Thank you for your concern. I’m touched that you’re worried about my mental state after I dared to step away from napkin duty.
Please rest assured, I am doing well, but I will no longer be volunteering with the PTA. I wish you all the best with prom this year.
Warm regards,
Birdie
I read it aloud with the kind of pride typically reserved for standing up to homeowners associations or getting out of a timeshare.
Marin snorts from the other room. Viv pumps her fist in the air. “Hit send,” she says, “for all the moms who’ve been emotionally blackmailed by the juice box mafia.”
I do. And it feels like exhaling after holding my breath for years.
Marin reappears in one of Viv’s old glitter tank tops and black jeans that somehow both fit and stun. Her hair’s fluffed, her lips are glossed, and she looks alive.
“How’s this?”
Viv clutches her chest. “You’re a MILF with boundaries. You’re a divorced Renaissance woman. You’re a kombucha-fueled goddess of second chances.”
“I’m a woman who borrowed a tank top from a friend who owns four crystals and an erotic candle shaped like Mr. Darcy.”
“Potayto, potahto.” Viv shrugs and starts snapping pictures. “Now give me brooding. Now give me accidental joy. Oh, look like you saw your high school ex, but you’re hotter than ever.”
Marin laughs, which turns out to be the best photo of the bunch.
Within minutes, Viv’s got a profile built with an opening line that reads: Recovering snack mom seeking man with sense of humor, respect for boundaries, and a working knowledge of composting.
Viv’s already swiping like it’s an Olympic sport. “Okay, this one has a fish, so nope. This one’s holding a baby tiger, either emotionally unstable or vacationing in Thailand in 2013. Pass.”
Marin leans over. “What about that one?”
Viv zooms in. “He’s holding a sword and calling himself a ‘dragon of desire.’”
I squint at the screen. “That feels like something you pick up in a humid renaissance fair tent, not a life partner.”
Marin laughs nervously and does her first real swipe. Right. Then another. And another.
“Okay, okay!” Her cheeks are pink and she’s beaming. “This one looks normal. He’s got a beard and I don’t know. Something about his flannel is speaking to my inner suburban lumberjack.”
Viv nods solemnly. “That beard could solve at least two-thirds of your emotional issues.”
“Swipe right,” I call from the other side of the kitchen where I’m prepping popcorn.
“You should look at him, Birdie. He looks like he owns tools and listens when women talk.”
“Popcorn calls and I believe you!”
We fall into a rhythm. Every profile comes with a mini roast session.
“Too many mirrors in the background. He lives at a gym.”
“Is that a python? Swipe left before he invites you to his ‘reptile room.’”
“Oh no. This one has a quote from The Wolf of Wall Street. Left, left, LEFT.”
Marin claps her hands over her mouth and gasps.
“What?” I almost drop the popcorn seasoning, preparing to fight whatever intruder has broken into my kitchen.
“I think I matched with the hot flannel guy.”
We crowd around the screen.
Viv squints. “Ohhh. He’s hot and local. We love a responsible king.”
Marin stares at her screen like it’s about to bite her. “Do I message him? What do I say?”
Viv snatches the phone and types. “‘Hey, what’s your go-to comfort meal?’ Boom. Flirty and practical.”
She hits send before Marin can protest. And Marin stares frozen at the screen, a small smile pulling across her face. “Viv!”
“I accept your hatred and your future wedding invite,” Viv replies.
My phone dings with an updated delivery notification, and I remember the party.
“Back to business, ladies. Owen’s pinata isn’t going to design itself.”
We start tearing open glitter packets and paper fan decorations with renewed energy.
Marin’s still holding her phone like it might catch fire, but there’s a little sparkle in her eye now.
We mock up an invite with glitter borders, the phrase LET’S GET LIT (FOR OWEN) across the top, and a quote from Owen’s favorite karaoke song in Comic Sans, because I’m still salty.
I click send on the invitations, and not two minutes later, my phone buzzes.
Harper: Comic Sans? Are you trying to get exiled from society? You’re lucky I love chaos.
Harper: Also, this is the most unhinged invite I’ve ever seen.
10/10. Don’t change a thing.
I lift my kombucha. “To dead husbands, dating apps, and glitter bombs.”
Viv clinks her glass to mine. “And to you, Birdie. For finally telling off the snack mafia.”
“Honestly.” Marin raises her phone like a toast. “I think we’re all a little feral tonight.”
“Probably buzzed on probiotics,” I mutter.
______________
The phone pings on the kitchen counter, wedged between a half-eaten granola bar and a crumpled grocery list that says “milk?” in three different handwritings.
I wipe my hands on my pajama pants and answer without checking the number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, may I speak with Birdie Lawson?”
My stomach drops. The voice is young and crisp, someone I don’t recognize.
“This is her.” I already regret my tone, which somehow comes out like I’m either answering a census or being interrogated.
“This is Callie from the Seattle Art Museum. I’m calling about your application for the Exhibition Curator Internship. We'd love to schedule an interview if you're still interested?”
Still interested? I choke on air.
“Oh! Yes! I’m very interested. Enthusiastic, even.” I sound like I’ve never spoken to another human before.
“Great!” I can hear the smile in her voice, but she otherwise seems unfazed by my exuberance. “Does tomorrow at 10:00 AM work?”
“Absolutely.”
“Wonderful, I’ll email you the details shortly.”
We hang up, and I stare at my phone like it proposed marriage.