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 typeBridal dress shopping invitationand delete it immediately because that phrase implies I would be there.
Baxter makes a low, unimpressed sound from somewhere near my left ankle.
