I’ve assumed anyone getting that close would eventually find a reason to leave. That my issues and past would drive them away. But that’s not what happened here—I forced him away by giving in to my own worst fears. Neither of us has an uncomplicated past, like Joanna said. It was never that I was too much for him.
In fact, he’s gone out of his way to prove the opposite. I like the real version best, he said. How could I have let myself forget that so quickly?
I stick the invitation on my fridge with a Halestorm magnet, and then with a new sense of determination and a cartoon Torrance watching over me, I open up my jewelry box and get to work.
33
FORECAST:
Partly sunny, with a chance of extraordinary courage
THE SYNAGOGUE IS new to me, a gorgeous building in Seattle’s upscale Madison Park neighborhood that I’m delighted to see has solar panels. I’m instantly reminded of what I love most about temple: the way everyone seems glad to see you, even if they’ve never met you.
“Shabbat shalom,” the security guard at the door says brightly.
“Shabbat shalom.” I straighten the raincloud brooch on my modest plum dress and deposit a small jewelry box on the table of gifts inside.
“Ari Abrams, channel six meteorologist? At my daughter’s bat mitzvah?” a familiar voice calls, and Liv rushes over to me, looking sleek in a black skirt suit, her short hair pinned back. “It’s great to see you!”
“I was so glad to get Elodie’s invitation,” I tell her as she hugs me, which I was not at all expecting. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’m about to jump out of my skin.” She holds out her hand so I can see it shaking. “Of course, El’s cool as a cucumber. All that theater training.”
“She’s going to be spectacular,” I say, trying to act as though it is perfectly normal to have this conversation with my ex-boyfriend’s ex-girlfriend, the mother of the girl who invited me to her bat mitzvah.
“Yes, but will I?”
I laugh along with her, then greet her husband, Perry, who introduces me to Clementine, a chubby-cheeked nine-month-old with a full head of dark hair and tiny hands reaching toward the gift table.
“Clearly has her priorities straight,” says Perry, before he and Liv excuse themselves to greet more of the guests.
I take a seat toward the back of the sanctuary, behind a group of preteen girls who I’m guessing are Elodie’s friends from drama. Every time someone enters, I twist around, looking for Russell, though I don’t exactly want to confront him this way. This is a big day for him, for Liv, for their daughter. It’s not about the two of us.
Oh god—what if he thinks I’m intruding? Overstepping?
Just when I’m deep in a spiral of second-guessing, Russell appears in the doorway. He looks, well . . . he looks dashing and perfect, because the universe is unfair. Herringbone suit, polished oxfords, the softest wave to his light brown hair. I hold my breath as he makes his way up the aisle, catching my eye for a brief moment and giving me a quizzical look. I try my best to communicate your daughter invited me with a few lifts of my eyebrows, but I’m not sure he gets the message.
Fortunately, the service starts shortly afterward, and the rabbi introduces Elodie, today’s sole bat mitzvah, to the congregation.
Up on the bimah, Elodie’s in a lavender taffeta dress, her hair curling past her shoulders. There are some nerves at first, I can tell, but then she comes to life. I shouldn’t be surprised, given her penchant for theatrics. She is riveting, the Hebrew words like music in her voice.
The part of bar and bat mitzvahs that always makes me emotional is when the parents give their speeches. It’s rare they don’t cry, which makes me cry. Sure, I loved the party and the gifts and the dancing at my own bat mitzvah, but more than that, it was special to hear my mother talk about my love for weather. How she’d be shocked if I didn’t become the next Torrance Hale.
Once again, I’m struck by how my brain kept all those good memories from me when there were plenty to choose from.
Liv goes first, with a promise that she won’t embarrass Elodie too much, then immediately starts sobbing before launching into a story about a one-woman show Elodie performed for their extended family.
“It was hilarious and heartwarming and full of much more wisdom than I thought a nine-year-old was capable of,” she says. “That was when it hit me for the first time that Elodie was this whole, amazing person who is definitely going to be smarter than me one day. And maybe even already is.”
When it’s Russell’s turn to stand in front of the congregation, he pulls a crumpled piece of paper from his jacket pocket. “I wrote down some notes,” he says. “But I hope Elodie won’t mind if I go off-book. That’s a theater joke, just for her.”
Elodie groans, but she’s grinning, her eyes bright.
“This is going to make her groan even more, but El, being your father is the highlight of my life. I know you don’t love the baby book—yes, you better believe as many keepsakes as I can collect from today are going in there—and part of me is grateful you haven’t tossed it in the fireplace yet, but it’s been the most astounding thing, to see you grow up.” In one quick but shaky motion, he removes his glasses to run a hand over his face, and when he puts them back on, they’re a bit crooked. Then he swallows, as though trying to keep the emotion at bay, but if I know anything about Russell, it’s that he won’t be able to trap it inside for long.
“And even though you become a bat mitzvah today,” he says, voice thick, “that growing up doesn’t end. I cannot wait for everything you’re going to experience. I want you to sing on a stage bigger than you can imagine, to an audience full of people who adore you. And I want to be sitting in the front row, cheering the loudest.”
I dig into my bag for a pack of tissues.
Russell Barringer is a gentle, impossibly kind man, and I don’t know how I felt anything other than lucky to have him in my life.
Even if he remains past tense.
* * *
? ? ?
“MAZEL TOV!” I say, lassoing Elodie for a hug. “You were phenomenal. I haven’t had this much fun at a bar or bat mitzvah since . . . well, ever.”
“Perfect. Exactly what I wanted: to ruin all future bat mitzvahs.”
The party, which is at the JCC next to the synagogue, is Broadway themed: red curtains, a marquee spelling out MAZEL TOV, “cast photos” of Elodie and her friends hung around the room. There’s even a mock Tony Awards ballot near the buffet, where they can nominate the night’s best dressers, dancers, and singers.
Russell approaches from one end of the buffet, where he’s been chatting with some of Elodie’s friends’ parents.
This is it. I can do this.
“Hi.” I must suddenly forget how to act like a human being, because whatever awkward motion I’m doing with my hand is decidedly not a wave. Maybe I can’t do this. “Mazel tov!”
“Ari. I didn’t know you’d be here. I mean—it’s okay that you’re here, it’s just . . . a surprise.”
Elodie flutters her fingers, painted the same lavender as her dress. “I may have had something to do with that.”