Have I ever been dumped? Oh, have I. Prepare to regret asking this question, because I’m about to give you far more information than you wanted.
I had a girlfriend once (sorry, I didn’t mean for this to sound like I’m an ancient sea captain looking out to the ocean while smoking a pipe and recounting his lost love). Her name was Elissa, and she was great—funny and smart and supportive. My family loved her. I loved her. She thought we were going to get married, but I . . . well, I wanted to get married. Theoretically. Someday. But in a practical sense, in a sense where we got engaged and picked a date and—I don’t know—tried a bunch of cakes (my knowledge of wedding planning is limited)? I didn’t care. She tried to talk to me, but I was never 100 percent there, because I was always 100 percent with the show. Eventually, she broke up with me because she said I’d never be married to her while I was married to my work.
The worst part of it was, she wasn’t cruel about it. She was sad, and so was I, because I loved her. But I didn’t love her the right way, and that’s the part that makes me wonder if there’s something fundamentally wrong with me. Like maybe I’m too much of a fuckup to accept love. And if so, maybe I’m a fraud for doing a children’s show about feelings.
But there’s the real heart of it. I understand kids. I understand their feelings. Other adults? Or, God forbid, myself? Not always.
Well, let’s assume you’re no longer worried that your email was too personal. You know I’ve never told anyone any of this? Even my family and friends don’t know why we broke up.
Theodora, take it from me, someone who might, in fact, be a bad person and/or a robot who doesn’t know how to fully love: you’re not damaged goods. You’re not a reject. I don’t even know you, and I know you’re an incredibly special person who is willing to take a chance to make her life better. Not everyone can do that. That takes guts.
On a slightly jazzier note: up until this point, I thought that Jazzercise was merely the stuff of myth. I certainly didn’t know it was still happening, let alone so close to home. Is it weird that I’m intrigued? What would happen if I attended a class? Are men allowed at Jazzercise? Do I need to break the Jazzercise glass ceiling, or would my presence as a large man be tainting a safe, jazzy, male-free space?
I hope you gain so much strength through Jazzercise that you’re able to drop-kick your shitty ex in the face.
Keep me updated about your project.
Jazzily,
Everett
Teddy read the email once, twice, and then a third time. She had the sudden urge to clutch her laptop to her chest, like she was a woman holding a wartime soldier’s letter in an old movie.
In all the years with Richard, he’d never been this honest with her. Never made her feel this good. Certainly never been this emotional.
Everett St. James was in touch with his feelings, and it was extremely hot.
Eleanor popped her head in as Teddy fanned herself with her hand.
“Sorry,” she said. “Do we need to turn down the heat?”
“What?” Teddy asked, startled.
“You’re all sweaty and fanning yourself,” Eleanor said. “If we’re keeping it too warm, let us know! Anyway, we’re ready to go to the teahouse now if you are.”
Apparently, the Cambridge Tea House was where Kirsten and Eleanor discussed all official roommate business, which was as wide-ranging as what kind of cake to get for Kirsten’s birthday celebration (ice cream, obviously) to whether they should get a pet (they’d decided on a goldfish). And now, as they sat at their table, they were discussing how, exactly, Teddy would change her entire life by confronting her fears, a decision that was at least marginally more important than what cake to choose (but only marginally, because Kirsten really loved cake).
“I can’t believe I’ve never been here before,” Teddy said, taking in their surroundings as they sipped their tea. The teahouse, which was in a building with a pointed roof that evoked a cottage, was decorated in red and gold. All around them sat families and friend groups sharing pots of tea and tiered trays of finger sandwiches. Also, Teddy noted hungrily, scones.
“You’ll love it,” Eleanor assured Teddy. “I mean, what’s not to like about scones with jam?”
Kirsten held up a hand. “With cream. Always with cream. You’re gonna have to be the tiebreaker here, Teddy.”
“I think I’ll go with both,” Teddy said, and the girls nodded appreciatively.
“I like the way you think, woman,” Kirsten said, and Teddy attempted to study the menu but zoned out as she thought about Everett’s email. Her entire body flushed, like she was a teapot in one of the cute little teapot cozies she saw on the next table. Sure, she’d always admired Everett on the show, but now she knew he was more than an extremely attractive, sensitive man with beautiful eyes and touchable hair (not to mention the hands again). Now she knew he was smart. Funny. Reassuring. Remarkably self-aware. Not one of those guys who referred to his exes as “crazy.”
“Teddy?”
Teddy jolted and sloshed tea out of her cup.
Eleanor laughed. “What is up with you today? I mean, generally you have the vibe of a woodland creature, but right now your vibe is like ‘woodland creature who’s being hunted.’”
“You can share it with us. The teahouse is a safe space,” Kirsten said.
Teddy shook her head. She wasn’t about to tell the girls about Everett. They’d let her stay in their pee studio but maybe they didn’t want to know about her clandestine correspondence with a puppeteer. They’d probably think she was a stalker and kick her out, and then she’d have to go live with her mother and get a business degree.
“I don’t know the first thing about business,” Teddy accidentally muttered out loud.
“Most woodland creatures don’t,” Eleanor said with a smile. “So we usually get the afternoon tea—it comes with finger sandwiches and a scone on those fun little tiered trays.”
“Yes.” Teddy nodded. “I need that tiered tray.”
She thought about what Richard used to tell her, especially on nights when the girls invited her to hang out with them and Richard wanted her to go to yet another night out with his friends. “They aren’t good friends,” he’d say, leaning toward her as if he were letting her in on a secret. “Come on . . . Kirsten is an ‘artist’? And Eleanor teaches kids, but she dresses like one, too. Is that really who you want to hang out with?”
Teddy had bristled. She loved the way Eleanor dressed, all bright colors and printed tights. She wished she had the courage to dress like that, instead of in the basic dark skinny jeans and sweaters she usually wore. And she loved Kirsten’s art.
But she hadn’t said that to Richard. Kirsten and Eleanor would be fine without her, and so she put off every invitation with a texted excuse and a few sad-faced emojis. And eventually, her social circle narrowed to include Richard, Richard’s friends, who mostly shared inside jokes about school and work, and that was it.