Chapter seven
George
The game is on low volume, Baxter is draped across my feet like a weighted blanket, and I am halfway through persuading myself this qualifies as a relaxing evening. The couch has that familiar dent from too many nights exactly like this one, and I have a beer going warm on the side table, a football game I am not fully watching, and precisely zero obligations until morning.
Then my phone buzzes against the armrest and Eleanor's name lights up the screen.
My stomach drops. I look at the phone. I look at the television. Baxter lifts one ear in my direction, as if he too is waiting to see if I'm fool enough to answer.
I answer, of course.
"George, oh my goodness, she is absolutely perfect," Eleanor says, and she's already at full speed before I've managed a single word.
I open my mouth, close it, and stare at the muted television, where someone appears to be either scoring a touchdown or bruising a rib. I genuinely cannot tell.
"The dress consultant was completely missing the problem with the first gown," Eleanor continues breathlessly, "and your girlfriend just looks at it for about five seconds and goes,'Could you raise your arms?'and suddenly everyone realizes the boning was completely wrong."
A cold dread settles in my chest like everyone else seems to be on chapter twelve and I have somehow misplaced chapters seven through eleven. I say "mmm" in what I hope is a warm, knowing tone, buying myself exactly three seconds and spending all of them trying to work out who ended up at a bridal appointment with my family on a Thursday.
"And Mom immediately started interrogating her," Eleanor says cheerfully, "which you know she does when she likes someone."
I pinch the bridge of my nose.
"She handled it perfectly. Not defensive, not flustered, just... calm. Like she'd done this kind of thing a hundred times."
Something about that description snags in my chest in a way I don't immediately examine. I scratch Baxter behind his left ear and he groans with his whole body, deeply unbothered by my quiet unraveling. The two of us, I think, are operating at very different stress levels right now.
"She even helped us pick the bridesmaid dress color," Eleanor adds. "Sage, by the way. She had a whole explanation about undertones."
I exhale very slowly through my nose. Sage. My girlfriend picked the bridesmaid dress color. I stare at the ceiling and try to construct a timeline that makes any kind of sense, and I come up empty every time.
"And when I started spiraling about the whole wedding thing," Eleanor says, her voice softening, "she just said the sweetest thing."
I catch myself wondering what this girlfriend’s face looks like when she says something kind. Whether she goes quieter when she means something, or whether warmth just comes out of her naturally, as effortless as breathing. Then I catch myself having that thought at all and set it down firmly, like a hot pan on a cold burner, before it can do further damage.
"She told me the important part was the person waiting at the end of the aisle," Eleanor says quietly. "Not the performance of getting there."
I say, "She's—yeah," and Eleanor apparently takes this as profound agreement. Baxter shifts his weight and pins my left foot more firmly to the floor, which feels thematically appropriate. Neither of them is cutting me any slack tonight.
"George, I can't believe you never told us you were dating. But really, she seemed great."
"Yeah," I say. "Thanks."
Eleanor makes a delighted sound. "You're being cagey, which means you really like her."
I stare at the ceiling and briefly consider faking a bad connection. I could make a static sound with my mouth, claim the call is breaking up, and preserve what remains of my dignity. I am thirty-four years old. It would not preserve my dignity.
Eleanor pivots to the dress itself, and I let her voice wash over me while my eyes drift back to the television, unseeing. My hand has gone still behind Baxter's ear and he nudges my palm impatiently, deeply unimpressed with my emotional availability right now.
"George, are you listening?"
"Yes," I say, which is both true and more complicated than it sounds.
Eleanor moves on to logistics. The next gathering is a dinner. Our mother is already planning the seating, which means lives are probably being quietly rearranged in a spreadsheet somewhere as we speak. I take mental notes with the grim focus of a man preparing for an exam he should have started studying for two weeks ago.
Then I hear myself ask, as casually as I can manage, “Did she seem comfortable?” and dislike myself almost immediately for asking.
"She seemed absolutely at ease," Eleanor says, without hesitation. "You wouldn't believe how well she fit in. I can't believe you kept her a secret for so long. You should have just told us."
