Chapter 11
LEO
Blockbuster was packed when we got there, which is typical for a Friday night but still slightly overwhelming when you’re trying to navigate it with a four-year-old who has the attention span of a goldfish.
The fluorescent lights were bright and there was that particular smell that all Blockbusters seem to have—a combination of carpet cleaner, popcorn from the concession stand, and the plastic of a thousand VHS cases.
Families were everywhere. A dad with three kids arguing over whether to get Jurassic Park or Mrs. Doubtfire, his wife conspicuously absent, presumably having drawn the short straw and stayed home.
A couple in their twenties browsing the new releases, the guy trying to convince the girl that they should watch Speed instead of Sleepless in Seattle.
An elderly man asking the teenager working the counter where they keep the classic westerns.
But Annie was a miracle worker.
Somehow—and I still don’t entirely understand how she did it—she convinced Emma to rent An American Tail instead of The Little Mermaid.
She crouched down in the children’s section, held up the VHS case with the little mouse on the front, and told Emma it was about a mouse who lived in New York City, just like us, who was looking for his family and had all these adventures.
Emma was skeptical at first, her arms crossed, clearly weighing whether this unknown mouse could possibly compete with Ariel.
But then Annie started talking about how Fievel—that’s the mouse’s name, apparently—gets separated from his family and has to be brave and figure out how to survive in a big scary city, and how there’s this really beautiful song about missing someone you love, and how the Statue of Liberty is in it.
“The real Statue of Liberty?” Emma asked.
“The real one. The one we can see from Battery Park.”
“Can we go see it?”
“Absolutely. But first we have to watch the movie so you know Fievel’s whole story.”
And just like that, Emma agreed.
I’d leaned in close to Annie while Emma ran ahead to return The Little Mermaid to its shelf. “I didn’t realize your favorite movie was about a mouse.”
She’d turned to me, barely suppressing a smile. “I’ve never actually seen it. I just read the back of the VHS cover.”
“What? Are you serious?”
“I’ve never seen it,” she whispered. “But at this point, anything is better than watching Ariel give up her voice for a man she’s known for three days.”
“I’ve been saying that for months!” I said.
“It’s a terrible message for women of this generation.”
“The worst. Ariel needs to be banned from this household.”
“Preferably forever.”
“At minimum.”
What I noticed, though, throughout the entire Blockbuster experience was the way people kept looking at Annie.
Not in the way men usually look at attractive women, though there was undoubtedly some of that too.
But more like they were doing double takes.
Almost as if they recognized her but couldn’t quite place from where.
It happened at least four or five times while we were browsing and again when we were checking out—someone would glance at her, look away, then look back with this confused expression like they were trying to solve a puzzle.
Which wouldn’t be that strange if she’d lived here for a while. New York’s not that big when it comes to certain neighborhoods, and you start recognizing faces after a few months. But she just moved here, according to what little she’s told me. So why did so many people seem to recognize her?
Did she have a mugshot out there I didn’t know about? Was she secretly famous for something? It was starting to make me genuinely curious, which was probably not appropriate given that she’s my employee and her personal life is none of my business, but still.
I’m still turning that over in my head when we get home as I set the pizza box down on the kitchen counter.
It’s from Lombardi’s, the place I only go to when we’re in Little Italy because that’s where the closest Blockbuster is, which means a full thirty-minute subway ride each way.
The box is still warm, miraculously, and I can smell the garlic and tomato sauce and that particular charred-crust smell that makes my mouth water.
Somehow Lombardi’s pizza stays hot and fresh even after being on the subway for half an hour.
It actually tastes better, if that’s possible.
Emma’s already kicking off her rain boots, leaving them in the middle of the entryway where they’ll definitely be a tripping hazard later, and struggling out of her jacket.
“I’m ready for pizza!” she announces loudly, like we might have forgotten that was the plan.
Annie and I hadn’t been able to talk much on the subway.
On the way there, Annie and Emma sat together and chatted while I stood and offered my seat to a pregnant woman who looked like she might burst into labor at any second based on how she kept adjusting her weight and grimacing.
On the way back, I gave my seat to an elderly woman with a cane who told me I was “a good boy” and asked if I was married, which was awkward.
Annie and Emma sat next to each other again, Emma showing Annie all the pictures on the VHS case, narrating what she thought was going to happen in the movie based entirely on the mouse’s facial expression.
“Can I help with anything?” Annie asks, hovering near the counter like she’s unsure whether she should be useful or stay out of the way.
Before I can tell her no, that she’s technically off the clock and shouldn’t be helping with anything, Emma cuts in. “You can help me build the pillow fort in the living room!”
Annie looks at Emma, then at me, then back at Emma. “Pillow fort?”
“Yeah! We always watch movies and eat our pizza in a pillow fort in the living room. It’s so fun! And you get to be inside it and it’s like your own little house and nobody can see you except—”
“Maybe this time we could all just sit on the couch,” I try, already knowing it’s a losing battle.
“Nope!” Emma’s already grabbing Annie’s hand, pulling her toward the living room. “Come on, Annie, you’re gonna love it!”
Annie looks back at me over her shoulder and shrugs, like what can I do?
and I find myself smirking. It’s kind of nice, if I’m being honest, not being the sole person responsible for Emma’s entertainment anymore.
Not having to be the one who builds the fort and comes up with the games and figures out how to make a normal Friday night feel special.
I can hear them in the living room while I’m getting plates from the cabinet and cutting the pizza into manageable slices.
“Okay so we need all the cushions from the couch,” Emma’s saying, very authoritative, like she’s a general commanding troops.
“All of them?”
“All of them. And then we need the blankets from the basket. The fuzzy ones.”
“These fuzzy ones?”
“Yeah! Perfect! Now we have to make the roof. That’s the hardest part. Daddy usually does it but we can try—”
There’s a sound like something collapsing, followed by Emma’s giggling.
“Okay, maybe we need a different approach,” Annie says, and I can hear the smile in her voice.
By the time I walk into the living room with three plates of pizza, they’ve constructed something that technically qualifies as a fort.
The couch cushions are arranged in a sort of semi-circle, the throw blankets draped over the top and weighted down with whatever they could find—books, a couple of Emma’s stuffed animals, the TV remote.
It’s precarious at best, probably going to collapse at some point during the movie, and very, very small.
Emma’s kneeling in front of it, arms spread wide like she’s presenting a masterpiece. “Ta-da! Do you like it, Daddy?”
Annie’s standing next to the fort, and I can tell by her expression that she’s thinking exactly what I’m thinking: there is no possible way three people are fitting in there.
“It’s very impressive,” I say, because diplomacy exists even in pillow fort negotiations. “You two did a great job.”
“I can sit in the armchair,” Annie says quickly, gesturing to the chair in the corner. “You guys take the fort.”
“What?” Emma looks genuinely offended by this suggestion. “No! We built it so we could eat in it together!”
“Yeah, but Em, I think it’s probably only big enough for you and one other grown-up—”
“We can all squeeze!” Emma’s already shimmying into the fort, her little body disappearing under the blankets until all you can see are her arms reaching out. “Give me my pizza!”
Annie lets out this surprised laugh that ends in a snort, and she immediately covers her mouth with her hand like she’s embarrassed. I grin and she looks at the space next to Emma—which is maybe two feet wide, max—and then at me.
“I’ll leave that spot for your dad,” she says.
“Get down here, Annie!” Emma’s voice is muffled by blankets but still very commanding.
“Come on. How can you argue with that?” I say, and I’m definitely smirking now.
Annie narrows her eyes at me, which only makes me want to laugh. She walks over to the TV and puts the VHS tape in, pressing play, and then straightens up and looks at the fort like it’s a trap she’s considering whether to walk into.
I set the pizza plates down on the coffee table and lower myself to the floor, already regretting this decision.
I’m getting too old for pillow forts. Or maybe I’m just getting too big for them—my back is going to hate me tomorrow.
The fort is basically a cocoon of blankets propped up by cushions, and the floor underneath is just carpet with maybe one thin throw pillow for padding.
I shimmy in next to Emma, my knees bent at an awkward angle, my head ducked to avoid hitting the blanket roof.
“Careful of the support beams, Daddy,” Emma says seriously, pointing to a couch cushion that’s supposedly holding everything up.
“The support beams. Right. I’ll be very careful.”
“You’re squishing my space.”
“You told me to get in here!”