Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Viv and Marin left two weeks ago, and much to their dismay, I still haven’t worked up the nerve to talk to Noah.
Instead, I’ve perfected a very sophisticated routine: hide out in the back of the house, peek through the blinds when he drops off the mail, sprint back inside, study the current art showings at the museum in preparation for my internship starting next week, then spend the rest of the day marinating in guilt and confusion. Rinse. Repeat.
But this morning is different.
This morning, Harper is perched at the kitchen counter, her long legs tucked beneath her and her laptop open, a half-empty mug of coffee sitting beside her.
Now that classes are over, she’s been home more, and the house doesn’t feel quite so cavernous with Viv and Marin gone.
I love having her here. It anchors me. Reminds me that not everything is changing at once.
Sunlight streams in through the window, catching the glittery cover of my pink notebook, my grief dare book, casting sparkles all over the wall like a disco ball for feelings.
Frank, clearly unimpressed, narrows his eyes at the sparkle display and pads toward the porch, desperate for his morning constitutional.
I open the door for him, then glance at the table. “What’s this doing out here?” I haven’t opened the book in over a week, and I have plenty of excuses why. I’ve been helping Marin find a rental, trying to convince Viv to move here too, busy with the internship.
Harper looks up from her screen and shrugs. “Viv and Marin texted me. Said to add one last dare and make sure you saw it.”
I groan, already suspicious before crossing the room, flipping open the notebook, and finding Harper’s unmistakable handwriting:
We double-dog-dare you to take the honesty you brought to yourself and bring it to Noah, preferably before breakfast.
Frank lets out a sigh from the porch that’s somewhere between judgment and gas.
I raise an eyebrow at him. “Don’t judge me, sir.”
Behind me, Harper clears her throat. “Actually, there’s more.”
She turns her laptop toward me. On the screen is Matt, bleary-eyed and definitely calling from a dorm room that looks like it smells faintly of Axe body spray and poor choices.
“Hi, Mom.” He gives a little wave before stifling a yawn. “Harper said this was urgent.”
I blink. “Isn’t it noon over there? Why’re you still in bed? Is someone dying?”
“Nope.” Harper’s all sunshine. “Just your love life.”
Matt grins. “Late night. Look, I know we had that whole heavy talk, and I meant every word. But I’ve been thinking. And talking to Dad, well, thinking about Dad. And I want you to be happy. For real.”
Harper nods. “You don’t have to carry grief like it’s the price of loving someone.”
“You’ll never replace Dad,” Matt says gently. “But that’s not what this is. This is about not wasting a second chance. If someone makes you laugh, and brings you coffee, and goes to poetry readings with you—”
Harper smirks. “—even when those poetry readings are truly awful.”
“—then maybe that someone deserves to know how you feel,” Matt finishes.
I swallow. “You two rehearsed this, didn’t you?”
“Obviously,” Matt deadpans. “Now, what are you waiting for?”
“You never turn down a dare.” Harper pushes the book closer to me, like it’s a fact etched into my DNA.
I stare at the screen, heart thumping. Then I glance at the notebook again. The pink sparkles glint like they know something I don’t.
“You guys are the worst,” I mutter, wiping my eyes.
“And yet,” Harper’s already standing up, “you’re reaching for the leash.”
Frank lets out an excited yip, practically vibrating with anticipation. He may not know what’s happening, but he’s fully committed to the idea of a walk.
“Fine.” I grab a hoodie and jam my arms into it. “But if this goes terribly, I’m blaming both of you.”
“Chalk it up to part of all of our healing journey.” Matt nods. “But also, go get him, Mom.”
Harper gives me a thumbs-up. “Before breakfast. That was the dare.”
I glance down at Frank, who’s already nose-first at the door like a tiny, overdramatic herald of fate.
I sprint up the stairs and run my hairbrush through my long, stick-straight strands before glancing in the mirror.
Should I go for a little mascara? Heart check.
Will there be any emotional meltdowns or crying that will cause it to run?
I think it’s a safe bet to put some on. With that decided, I swipe a few coats of mascara on my lashes, grab Frank’s leash, and push open the door.
Noah should be turning onto Beecher Street a few blocks up right about now. If I hurry, I can hopefully do this whole thing away from the prying eyes of my own neighbors.
We’re halfway down the block when the dark, looming clouds that’ve been hanging around since late last night decide now is the ideal time to unleash their fury.
Perfect.
The deluge comes on fast and hard, easily soaking through my thin long sleeves and yoga pants. The thin, sky-blue shirt is now translucent, and I’m pretty sure the soggy material is doing little to hide my braless nipples.
I fold my arms across my chest, but it’s too late. The damage is done. I look like a woman on the verge of a nervous breakdown who’s also trying to seduce the postman.
Which, ironically, isn’t far off.
I consider turning back. Dry clothes. Dignity. Sanity.
But no. Viv and Marin double-dog-dared me. You can’t ignore a glitter notebook and a double-dog dare. Not when you’re the founder of the Dead Husbands Society. Our glitter notebooks are basically binding legal contracts.
So I do what any slightly damp, mostly mortified woman would do: I square my shoulders, wipe mascara from under one eye, and keep walking toward my fate.
Because nothing says ready to be honest about love like showing up braless, soggy, and racoon-eyed in the rain.
That’s when I see him.
Shit.
He must be moving fast because of the rain, because we aren’t out of my neighborhood territory yet.
Mailbag slung low over one shoulder, forearm flexing under the weight like it’s nothing.
His sleeves are pushed up, revealing those strong, tanned forearms that have no business looking that good at nine in the morning.
There’s a bit of scruff on his jaw, enough to be dangerous, and his hair is a little damp from the rain, dark strands clinging to his forehead in a way that reminds me entirely too much of The Notebook.
That familiar crease sits between his brows, the one that always made me think that he’s the kind of man who could handle other people’s nonsense and still have room to hold yours, too.
My heart stumbles, and for one completely irrational second, I wonder if the rain has been building to this all along. Like the universe needed drama. Mood lighting. A shirt that clings perfectly to the muscles under it.
God help me, it’s working.
And that's when Frank decides now is the perfect time to start scooting his bum across Mildred’s perfectly trimmed yard.
I freeze before going into hyperdrive and tugging on Frank’s leash like an insane person trying to get him to remove his bottom from the grass.
And that’s when Noah notices me. The rain is running over his mail baseball cap, creating little streams of water along his jawline, and in a moment of brief insanity, I wonder what it would be like to run my fingers along that same spot and follow their path down.
Of course, he’s wearing a rain jacket and entirely prepared for the weather.
“Well. This isn’t something I was expecting to see today.” Noah’s voice is equal parts warm and husky and does not help the peaked nipple situation.
In my desperate attempt to separate Mildred’s prize-winning grass from Frank’s very determined butt, I’ve somehow tangled myself in the leash.
Which is how I’m twisted like a pretzel, with Frank perfectly centered between us, tail lifted, eyes locked with mine, just as Frank starts pooping on the neighbor’s lawn.
Because of course he does.
I shift my weight, trying to draw attention away from Frank’s business. “So, this is your route.” Why did I say that? Of course this is his route. Shouldn’t I have gone with, ‘does walking by my fennel plants devastate you because I couldn’t even look at them the last few weeks?’
“Yep.” He lifts the bundle in his hand. “Same route that it’s been for the last fifteen years. Mail waits for no man.”
Or woman with a rogue mutt and boundary issues, apparently.
I wrack my brain for the perfect speech that I’d been writing and rewriting in my mind and on my notes app for the last few weeks.
Something that didn’t seem desperate, or in love, or too eager, but also let him know I really am able to move on.
But standing here, the rain pounding the pavement between us, shivers working their way up my arms, all I can think of is,
“Rain looks good on you.”
“I’d say the same.” Noah’s eyes move over my body, fixing on my pebbled nipples. “But, uh, you also look a little cold.” Before I can protest, he’s pulling off his rain jacket and closing the distance between us to drape it over my shoulders. It’s warm and smells like him.
There’s a weird silence. Like neither of us knows who we’re supposed to be now. We were friends. Then not. Then more. Then very much not. And now?
He clears his throat. “So, uh, how’ve you been?”
“Good,” I lie. “You?”
He nods. “Also good. Lots of envelopes. Got a few scented ones the last few days.”
My heart beats. Once. Twice. Then I gesture at Frank. “We’re out for our morning constitutional. He’s training for a marathon.”
Noah raises an eyebrow. “Does the marathon involve frequent bowel movements?”
“Only if he’s winning.”
He huffs a laugh, but it dies quickly. The air shifts. The silence stretches again—tight, uncertain.
I look at him, and I see it. The thing he’s trying not to show. The hurt. The guilt. The hope, still flickering behind his eyes even though he's trying to smother it.
I take a breath, then another. My hands are ice in his sleeves, and I decide I need to own up to my dare and be honest. “You weren’t my first love. But you’re the first person I’ve wanted to love since. And that has to mean something.”
His face, his whole body, goes still.
“B…”
“I know. I’m late. Like, comically late. But I needed time. And a glitter notebook. And two friends with no boundaries.”
He looks down at his shoes. “It’s not only you. I’ve been holding back, too.”
“Because of Owen.”
He nods. “I made a promise to him. I loved him. He was my best friend. And I—there were years where I wondered if I screwed it all up by feeling something for you. Like I’d broken some sacred code.
Or that me wishing that we could be together caused something catastrophic to happen in the universe.
Like checking on you, wanting to comfort you, was the ultimate act of betrayal. ”
The rain is drumming harder now, creating little rivers in the street. “I can’t speak on behalf of the universe, but you didn’t. You were there. You took care of us. You were you.”
Noah’s face twists into a grimace, like the words are splinters he’s still working out.
“I don’t want to replace him. That’s never what this was.
” He pauses, dragging a hand down his face.
“I went up to our old fishing spot last weekend. Brought his favorite sandwich, sat on that rock where he always used to yell at me for tangling the lines.”
A quiet smile ghosts across his lips, then fades.
“I talked to him. Like he was sitting right there next to me.” He swallows hard.
“And I don’t know, maybe it sounds crazy, but I felt like he was listening.
Like he gave me his blessing or something.
Like, he was okay with this. With me trying to keep living and loving the one person he’d do anything for. ”
I swallow. “I’m not promising anything except honesty. I’m not fixed. I still cry in the laundry room sometimes for no reason.”
“I once teared up a bit in the frozen peas aisle.” His voice is husky and low.
“Yeah. Owen used to hate peas.”
“You don’t owe me love,” he says quietly. “But maybe you owe yourself the chance to try. Whether it’s with me or someone else.”
That’s when I step closer. Close enough to see the lines at the corners of his eyes and the hope he’s still trying to bury.
“I am trying,” I whisper. “Right now. And I wouldn’t want it to be with anyone else.”
And then I kiss him. The water cascades down our backs and faces, the scent of rain mingling with his warm cedar smell and minty taste.
My body pushes into his, instinctively craving his touch and the brief thought runs through my head.
I have to tell Viv that I did it. Yep. I rain-troped the mailman.
I had it worked out in my mind that it would be sunny and sweet, but it’s not.
There’s the faint smell of Frank’s poop that’s now running down a river in Mildred’s lawn, and the water is dripping down my pants into my underwear.
It’s not neat or choreographed. It’s real.
The kind of kiss that tastes like laughter and tears and too much time spent pretending we didn’t want this.
I step back before tilting my chin up. “I’m still scared, and a little guilty, and not entirely healed.”
“Me too.”
Frank snorts.
We both look down at him. His tongue flops out of his mouth, and he looks at us like he’s above all this emotional nonsense.
“Want to walk my route with me?”
I glance up at the still thundering sky and then over at Noah’s already soaked shirt.
“I mean, I’m not wearing a bra, but sure.”
He grins. “Neither am I.”