"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 aroundgirlfriendare 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.
