“Well, yeah, I have to get home—”
“No, for your job. Are you really going to move to New York?” She looked up at him, eyes wet.
“Oh!” he said, then squatted down and hugged her. “Gretel, nothing will change if I move.”
“Except that everything will change,” she grumbled. “Can you come over once a week if you’re in another state?”
“Well, no . . .”
“Will you be able to come to my band concerts? I’m going to start playing the French horn next year.”
“Maybe Mom can hold up the phone and I can watch through FaceTime,” Everett suggested.
“FaceTime isn’t the same!” Gretel wailed, burying her face in his shoulder.
Everett exhaled. He hadn’t expected this. Obviously he knew that he and Gretel spent a lot of time together, had always spent a lot of time together since the day she was born, all pink and wrinkled and angry-looking. But he didn’t know she liked it. Most of the time, she acted annoyed with him, and he didn’t mind because being annoying was part of the older-brother contract.
But this . . . well, this was a surprise. Gretel wanted him around.
“Hey,” he said, “nothing’s decided yet. We’ve had one meeting, and I still have to go there and check out their offices. Let’s not worry about it, because it might not happen.”
Gretel wiped her eyes. “It’ll happen. Your show’s great, and everyone loves you.”
“Hold on,” Everett said, handing her a tissue. “Can you say that again? I want to record it.”
Gretel punched him in the arm. “I hate you.”
“Not what I heard,” Everett said, and they both stood up. “I promise you’ll be the first person I tell if I get any news about the show, and even if I do move—which isn’t guaranteed—we’ll work something out, okay? I’m not going to disappear.”
Gretel sighed, then shook herself off. “Pretend you never saw this.”
Everett smiled. “I’m never gonna forget. Come here. Hug.”
“Nooooo,” Gretel whined as Everett wrapped her in his huge arms. She was still so little—sometimes he forgot that. She was just a kid who wanted her family, like so many of the kids who wrote to him.
He knew he needed something more, something different, and moving the show to NYC and making it bigger and better would certainly be that. But could he leave all this? The coziness of his family’s house, the weekly dinner with his aging parents, and his little sister?
Right now, as he hugged Gretel and she tried not to start crying again, he didn’t really want to think about it.
30
“He thinks we should meet!” Teddy shrieked.
“Oh, fun! You can finally go on a real date!” Eleanor said from the sewing machine, which they’d set up at a table in the corner of the living room. Scott’s comforting hum was keeping Teddy company as she idly scrolled through her phone before pajama-movie night started.
“No, no, no,” Teddy said, standing up and pacing. “This is bad. This is so bad.”
Eleanor stopped sewing. “You don’t want to meet him?”
Teddy threw her hands in the air. “Of course not!”
Eleanor furrowed her brow. “Then why are you emailing him?”
“Nothing I’m doing makes sense to me!” Teddy yelled.
Kirsten walked in, wearing pajamas. “Why is there so much yelling going on in here?” she asked, curious but unperturbed.
“Because Teddy won’t meet Everett St. James,” Eleanor said, returning to her sewing. And then, in a singsong voice, she said, “And it’s tearing her apart!”
“It is,” Teddy said miserably. “I just . . . I can’t meet him. Does that make sense?”
“No!” Kirsten said. “It makes zero sense. Why are you emailing him if you don’t want to meet him?”
Teddy sat back down and slumped into the couch cushions. “I don’t know!” she wailed. “Weren’t you apprehensive when you met the Viking?”
“Not at all,” Kirsten said, sitting down beside her. “He was sitting in the European art section of the Columbus Museum of Art and I sat down beside him and said, ‘Listen, do you want to go get milkshakes?’”
Teddy thought about it. “And that worked?”
“Of course it did. Who doesn’t want a milkshake?”
“The lactose intolerant,” Eleanor said, not looking up from the sewing machine.
“I can’t do that, though,” Teddy said. “This works over email because he doesn’t know me. He can’t see me. If he actually meets me and finds out I’m not nearly as witty in person as I am over email, he won’t like me and then I’ll never be able to watch his show again because it will only remind me of my shame and how Everett St. James thinks I’m a big loser.” She took a breath.
“Or,” Kirsten said, tilting her head, “maybe . . . and hear me out . . . maybe you guys get along, since you’ve been getting along pretty well online?”
“Also, didn’t he approach you at karaoke?” Eleanor asked, looking up. “So clearly he thinks you’re cute. Oh, shit. I need to pay attention. Scott does not thrive on neglect.” She stuck her tongue out and kept sewing.
“I like things the way they are now,” Teddy admitted. “I email him. He emails me. I look forward to our conversations. It’s comfortable and easy and I don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Hmmm,” Kirsten said, tapping her chin and pretending to think. “Sounds like you think meeting Everett would be . . . scary.”
“No.” Teddy pointed at her. “It’s not on the list. I like the sense of comfort I have now. It’s safe.”
“Safety sucks!” Eleanor yelled, then stood up, yanked her project off the machine, and held it up. “Look, pants!”
Eleanor had indeed sewn a pair of pajama pants out of a cute raindrop-printed flannel.
“Did you make pajamas for pajama-movie night?” Teddy asked. “They look great.”
“I told you,” Kirsten said proudly as Eleanor tugged the pants on under her dress. “We take themes seriously around here.”
“They fit!” Eleanor said.
Tonight their movie was Singin’ in the Rain, which Teddy had never seen but Kirsten swore was one of the greatest films ever made. For their snacks, they had sandwiches and milk, because that was what Gene Kelly, Debbie Reynolds, and Donald O’Connor ate before busting into a song-and-dance number.