Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Marin is upstairs doing what Viv calls “final date prep” and what I call “light panic grooming.” Viv swore she had a foolproof plan—lip gloss, highlighter, and a touch of cleavage.
“We’re going to manifest love through power lipstick and spiritual contouring.” She’s already pulling out a makeup bag the size of a carry-on.
Marin blinks. “Is that a real thing?”
Viv ignores her. “You’ve been cloaked in beige cardigans and widow energy for far too long. We’re opening your aura with bronzer and unleashing your inner hot girl.”
By the time she’s done, Marin is barely recognizable. Fake lashes that won’t stop peeling at the corners are pasted onto her eyelids, lip color that could stop traffic pops off her lips, and a flowy floral kimono is giving her a “mystical but accessible” vibe.
Marin tries to act cool, but the minute she attempts to leave, her sleeve gets caught in the doorframe.
“Jesus,” she mutters, trying to wriggle free while also keeping her lashes intact.
Harper, naturally, is filming the entire thing on her phone from my bed.
“For posterity.” She doesn’t look up. “And possibly TikTok.”
Marin finally yanks herself loose and spins, breathless and exasperated.
“I don’t know how I feel about this outfit.”
Viv beams. “You’re welcome.”
That’s when it hits us—none of us actually know what this man looks like.
Not really. Just a blurry profile picture where he’s holding a golden retriever and standing in front of a suspiciously majestic mountain that may or may not be Photoshopped.
He’s also wearing a very flattering flannel, which frankly could be doing most of the heavy lifting.
“Birdie!” Viv hisses, eyes wide. “Go stand guard!”
I freeze mid-sip of my iced tea, lowering the glass slowly. “Why me? I’m the only one here who hasn’t even seen the profile picture. How am I supposed to know if it’s the same guy?”
“You’ve got great Mama Bear energy.” Marin’s already peeking through the blinds from my upstairs window like she’s in a rom-com stakeout. “You’ll feel it in your gut if he’s a serial killer.”
I stare at her. “That is so much pressure.”
Viv waves a hand dismissively. “Trust your instincts. If your hackles go up, run.”
Seeing I’m getting nowhere, I stand and can’t resist muttering, “My hackles haven’t been activated since 2009, but sure, let’s roll the dice.”
So I’m sent outside to “casually monitor the perimeter,” which is how I end up crouched in a flower bed with no actual flowers, pretending to weed in the dark like I’m part of a poorly budgeted spy movie.
It’s not even a real flower bed. It’s mostly bark mulch and a weed-blocking mesh that’s holding on for dear life.
There’s nothing here to weed. I tug at invisible stems anyway, doing my best to look casual while blatantly staring at the road.
If Marin’s mystery date turns out to be a murderer, I at least have to get a good look at his face first. That’s friendship.
I glance at my phone. No messages. No sightings.
Inside, I can hear Viv coaching Marin through a second outfit change. Something about the first blouse being “too stepmom at curriculum night.” I try not to laugh.
I’ve started talking myself down, telling myself this is all ridiculous, that serial killers don’t want to drive for dates into idyllic suburban neighborhoods, when a silver Prius glides up to the curb.
I straighten up instinctively, brushing nonexistent dirt from my jeans. The Prius eases to a stop, and the door opens.
Out steps a man in a tucked-in polo shirt and khakis. He’s holding a single daisy and wearing an expression that’s equal parts hopeful and terrified.
And then I see it. The bumper sticker.
Floss Like a Boss.
Oh. Oh no.
“Hi.” His voice is warm, deep, and familiar. But it comes out all warbled, coated in nerves and an awkward smile. “I’m looking for Marin?”
I squint at him, stepping slightly closer. “Wait, Dr. Reynolds?”
He blinks, surprised. “Birdie? Oh, right, the crown. No, cavity! Lower left molar. Great enamel, by the way. What’re you doing here?”
My mouth opens and closes like a confused goldfish. “You’re here… for Marin?”
“Yeah, we matched on the app. She said to pick her up here?” He shifts from foot to foot. “I brought a flower. I didn’t realize this was your house.”
Just as my brain is short-circuiting with this new information, the front door creaks open.
Marin steps out, moving slowly. She’s wearing dark jeans, a soft button-down blouse that says “responsible citizen” more than “available bachelorette,” and the unmistakable face of a woman who assumed we were kidding.
Viv follows her out, kombucha in one hand, popcorn in the other. “You’re welcome!” she calls out to Marin’s date as if she’s delivered her to a red carpet instead of my cracked concrete stoop.
Marin’s eyes widen when she sees Dr. Reynolds.
Dr. Reynolds waves the daisy with a hopeful little jiggle. “Hi again! I brought coupons.”
“Of course you did,” Marin murmurs.
And just when I think the scene can’t get any more absurd, a familiar rumble hits the curb.
Noah’s truck.
Of all the times for him to show up.
His headlights spotlight the entire uncomfortable scene before Noah cuts the engine and steps out slowly, eyebrows already knitting as he surveys the situation.
His gaze moves from me, still half-squatting in the mulch, to Dr. Reynolds with his flower and tucked-in optimism, then to Marin, and finally to Viv, who gives him a little wave like this is the most normal thing in the world.
“Everything okay?” His voice is low and careful.
Dr. Reynolds steps forward. “Hey! I’m picking up my date.”
Noah’s eyes snap to mine.
“Your date?”
“Not me. I’m not dating my dentist,” I immediately protest.
“This isn’t a date,” Marin says at the same time.
We all blink at each other in the awkward silence.
Marin straightens up, shoulders back, like a soldier heading into war.
“You know what? Fine. This is a date. I’m going to dinner. I’m going to talk about goats and floss and probably regret everything by dessert.”
She walks toward Dr. Reynolds like she’s storming the beaches of Normandy. He beams, clearly thrilled to be part of whatever this is.
Viv raises her kombucha. “A gentleman and a saver.”
As they drive off, him waving like someone’s dad on the first day of school, I realize Noah hasn’t moved. He’s still standing at the curb, hands now tucked in his jacket pockets.
“I gotta say,” he says, finally, with a crooked grin, “I didn’t have ‘dentist love triangle’ on my 2025 bingo card.”
I cross my arms, heat blooming in my chest for no good reason. “It’s not a love triangle.”
“No?” His smile widens, slow and infuriating. “Because I think you were a little more into the glitter bombs than you were into him.”
I narrow my eyes. “You’re jealous.”
“I’m just saying, if I’d known your type was men in polos who come bearing floss-related pickup lines…”
I swat his arm. “Stop. He has a gentle touch. For root canals.”
He laughs, and something soft flickers in his eyes before he’s clearing his throat and stepping back.
“What brought you by anyhow?” I smooth my hair in an attempt to look casual and not like I’ve been half-crouched in a mulch bed that isn’t even real.
He leans against the porch railing with all the nonchalance of a man who does this every Tuesday and is definitely not thrown off by the chaos of my front yard or my face.
“Mrs. Stevens, three houses down, was convinced her CBD dog treats had been stolen. Panic attack incoming. Turned out, she misread the tracking info and they’re not even out for delivery until tomorrow.”
“That explains the siren of anxious barking I heard earlier.”
“Yeah.” He nods. “Bingo. She was spiraling, so I dropped off a ‘care package’ of mint tea and melatonin dog biscuits to keep her from calling the mayor. Again.”
“How civic of you.”
“And then,” he adds, narrowing his eyes at me, “as I was being the neighborhood emotional support human, I looked up and saw you crouched like a Navy SEAL in a flower bed that I know is bark mulch on top of a plastic Home Depot screen.”
“This is espionage,” I say with mock seriousness, gesturing at my mud-free gloves. “I am surveilling a date in progress.”
“Ah. Spycraft. Of course.”
“High stakes. Very classified.”
Before he can retort, Viv steps onto the porch dramatically, draping an arm across her stomach like a Victorian ghost. “Birdie, darling, I hate to interrupt your leaf patrol, but I’m suddenly not feeling so great. A touch of the vapors. Possibly food poisoning. Or moon allergies.”
Harper follows, gently rubbing Viv’s back with all the sincerity of a kid who helped stage the crime scene. “She really doesn’t look well. And Marin’s out with your dentist, so I think I should stay home and nurse her back to health.”
I turn, slowly, already feeling my eyebrows knit into suspicion.
“Viv, we both know you ate two slices of gluten-free pizza and a mango La Croix.”
Viv puts a hand to her forehead. “And now I feel faint.”
“Wasn’t tonight the poetry reading? At that little art boutique you love so much?” Harper chimes in innocently. “Mom’s been talking about it all week. But she can’t go alone, right?”
I glare daggers at them both.
Noah straightens up, interested. “Poetry reading?”
Harper’s eyes go wide with weaponized sweetness. “It’s local. Downtown. Very cool, very angsty. She was so excited. I would hate for her to have to experience it by herself now that Viv is sick. Art and poetry truly pair beautifully together, you know.”
“I can absolutely go al—”
“No,” Harper cuts in brightly, placing a hand on my shoulder. “No one should go listen to sad poems by themselves. That’s how people end up writing their own sad poems at a coffee shop while it rains.”
Viv nods solemnly, still clutching her chest like she’s seconds from swooning. “She needs a date.”
My brain short-circuits for a second and then reboots mid-panic. “I’m sure Noah has far better things to do with his evening. Like saving more neighbors or reorganizing his spice rack alphabetically.”
But Noah gives a slow, amused shrug. “Actually, I’m pretty free tonight.”
I freeze. Like, full-body, statuary-level freeze. This was not on my dare docket for the week.
He smiles, the kind that feels like a challenge. “Let me go change, and I’ll pick you up around eight?”
Before I can answer, Harper jumps in. “She’ll be ready!”
Viv coughs delicately. “By eight-oh-five, max.”
I’m still trying to form words as Viv yanks me by the elbow toward the porch, and Harper makes a show of waving goodbye.
Noah walks off toward his truck, tossing a wink over his shoulder like he’s got all the time in the world. Like this isn’t a trap sprung by a meddling houseguest and a daughter with dangerous matchmaking tendencies.