Chapter 5
Chapter five
George
The cursor on my screen has started to blur at the edges, which usually means one of two things: I need sleep, or I have been pretending to work while thinking about something else for far too long.
Then Eleanor’s ringtone cuts through the quiet of my home office, three ascending notes I programmed specifically so I would never accidentally ignore her. I still have not decided whether that was foresight or self-sabotage.
Baxter lifts his head from the floor before I've even reached for the phone, ears pricked, already more socially attuned than I am.
I pick up on the second ring. "Eleanor."
"George!" Her voice arrives at a pitch that tells me she's been waiting to make this call for at least an hour, possibly rehearsing it.
I lean back in my chair and brace myself. Eleanor at that decibel level always precedes a logistical ambush.
"We're doing bridal dress shopping. A whole day of it! And I need your girlfriend there."
The word girlfriend lands in the middle of my chest with a quiet, awkward weight, like a chess piece set down on the wrong square by someone who does not realize the entire board has changed.
I keep my voice level anyway. "Tell me the details."
She rattles off a date, then launches immediately into descriptions of a boutique on Marchmont Street and the names of women who will also be attending. I pull up my calendar with my free hand, already translating her enthusiasm into actionable data points.
"Girls only," she adds. "So don't even think about showing up."
"I wasn't," I say, which is entirely true.
Baxter sighs deeply from the floor, and I find myself agreeing with him.
Eleanor describes the boutique in considerable detail. Apparently it has a champagne wall, which sounds less like an architectural feature and more like a cry for help, but I write it down anyway because context has a way of becoming relevant at inconvenient times.
A small, unwelcome thought moves through me as I do.
I am taking notes for an event my fictional girlfriend will attend with my sister, and what I feel most strongly about the arrangement is a mild concern for scheduling clarity.
That seems like information I should probably examine more closely. I elect not to.
"We want to get to know her. And she'll love it," Eleanor says, with the confidence of someone who has already decided how this will go. "By the way, this mysterious girlfriend of yours—does she have any hobbies? What can I talk to her about?"
I realize I have no verified data on this.
“I’ll make sure she knows about the champagne,” I say, which is technically true and in no way an answer to the question Eleanor actually asked.
"You're no fun, George."
“That is one of the many advantages of being an older brother,” I say.
Baxter sighs his disapproval from the floor.
After we hang up, the office feels quieter than it did before. Baxter pads over and drops his chin on my knee, and I scratch behind his ear without looking down. He exhales heavily, as though he, too, has survived a Maddox family planning session.
I open a new email window and type Tessa’s name into the recipient field.
Then I stop, because I am suddenly aware that there are at least twelve ways to write this message and eleven of them make me sound either robotic or deranged.
I type Bridal dress shopping invitation and delete it immediately because that phrase implies I would be there.
Baxter makes a low, unimpressed sound from somewhere near my left ankle.
"I'm aware," I tell him.
I settle on a subject line. Eleanor’s Event: 'Girlfriend' Attendance Required. It is professional, clear, and so unromantic that I suspect Tessa will find it either irritating or hilarious, possibly both.
A small, deeply unhelpful part of me finds that possibility intriguing.
In the body of the email, I list the date, time, location, dress code, which Eleanor described as smart casual but make an effort, and a short summary of the attendees. Thorough. Efficient. Entirely inappropriate for anything involving the word girlfriend.
I add a final line: Please confirm attendance and confirm receipt of the prior brief.
Then I read it back. The single quotation marks I've placed around girlfriend are doing a great deal of heavy lifting.
An image surfaces, uninvited and far more detailed than necessary. Tessa reading this email. Her head tilting slightly. There is an expression on her face that she gets when she is deciding whether something is funny.
I realize, with some discomfort, that I should not be thinking about Tessa's expressions.
I add a line: If you require additional context, call me directly. Then I delete it because the last thing I need is Tessa calling me while I am already not entirely balanced. Then I put it back, because removing it feels uncomfortably close to cowardice, and I do not do cowardice.
I hit send before I can second-guess everything I've written. Again.
Baxter looks up at me with his amber eyes, and there is something in his expression that resembles pity.
"She's a professional," I tell him. The words come out slightly more defensive than I intended.
I turn back to my original work document, but the cursor just blinks at me, unimpressed.
Then my phone buzzes—a reply, already, which means Tessa had either been at her desk or had her notifications on, and for some reason both possibilities feel faintly unsettling, like two sides of the same coin I wasn't expecting to find in my pocket.
I open the email. Noted. Anything else?
Two short sentences. Efficient. Entirely in keeping with the professional tone I have established, which should be reassuring and is not.
I type back: Eleanor is perceptive, so my girlfriend should be prepared.
Three seconds pass before her reply appears.
Your girlfriend. Right.
I read that twice, trying to determine whether the tone is dry or pointed, and find I genuinely cannot tell, which is an unusual experience for me. I am generally good at reading people on paper. Tessa, apparently, writes in a dialect I have not yet mastered.
Baxter sneezes.
Another reply arrives before I've formulated a response: Your girlfriend will be there, studied up and ready for your perceptive sister.
I set the phone face-down on the desk and press two fingers to the bridge of my nose. The office smells faintly of the coffee going cold in the mug I forgot about. The afternoon light has shifted while I was not paying attention, laying one long pale stripe across the floorboards.
When I pick the phone back up, there's one more line waiting.
You're welcome, George
No period. The lack of it feels deliberate, like a door left open exactly one inch on purpose, and I cannot explain why it catches under my skin enough to make me read it a third time.
I type: Thank you, Tessa. Period, firmly placed.
Baxter circles twice and lies back down, satisfied, as though the matter is entirely resolved.
It isn't. I stare at my screen, the cursor blinking in my neglected document, and I am aware that something about this situation has shifted slightly off its original axis. I don't catalog the feeling further. I note it exists, file it somewhere imprecise, and return to work.
Baxter lets out one soft, knowing woof.
I don't dignify it with a response.