project is more than a little bit inspired by you and the advice you gave Keegan. Do you remember when you told him he should try new things, even and especially the things that scared him? Maybe you don’t remember saying that, because it’s probably second nature to you. But it isn’t to me, and I couldn’t stop thinking about it. So now . . . I’m doing it.
Tonight I attended a Jazzercise class with my boss. Are you familiar with the phenomenon of Jazzercise? I spent the last hour wearing pizza-print leggings (I borrowed them from my roommate and they barely fit) while dancing to a playlist largely dedicated to the Jonas Brothers. I regret to report that I now feel great. I guess endorphins are real, and also I might like the Jonas Brothers now. There are a lot of changes happening in my life, and frankly, I’m scared.
But even though I’m scared of my newfound love for athletic wear and the JoBros (that’s what I call them now that I’m a fan), I’m still glad I went. Because here’s the thing: I was pretty miserable when my boyfriend dumped me. And although I’m feeling better every day, sometimes I still feel like everyone I encounter can see the word REJECT stamped on my forehead, like they can tell I’m damaged goods before I even open my mouth. But it’s hard to be sad when I’m scared, and it’s hard to be sad or scared when one of the Jonas Brothers is crooning about how he’s a sucker for me.
I’m sorry. I know that’s a lot for an email, especially because I sort of know you and you have no idea who I am. But it’s late and I’m tired, emotional, and drunk on Jazzercise.
Thank you again for writing back to me. I know you must be busy, what with your show and all.
Yours till Niagara Falls,
Theodora
PS: I don’t recommend a breakup bob. Have you ever been dumped? Because if so, you should consider literally any other haircut. It looks terrible and I hate it, but that’s the problem with rash hair decisions. You have to accept your mistakes and live with them for months.
PPS: I just googled it, and it turns out flute players are sometimes called flautists. Who knew? Flautists, presumably.
It took Teddy hours to compose her email to Everett, but only one and a half minutes to regret it. When the enormity of what she’d told Everett finally sank in, Teddy actually, literally smacked herself on the forehead. Imagine telling a beautiful, sensitive man that you’re damaged goods. Or that your hair looked bad. She was never going to Jazzercise again; clearly it had adverse effects on her mental function.
But it was too late. The email was out there, floating through . . . cyberspace? Teddy didn’t really know what happened with emails, but she knew one thing: she had said what she was feeling to a man for the first time in forever, and now he was never going to email her again.
17
“Everett.”
Everett looked up from his laptop, startled, to see Astrid and Jeremy staring at him. Astrid looked annoyed, while Jeremy looked curious.
“Why do I keep finding you smiling at your laptop?” Astrid asked, walking over to look at his screen. “This is uncomfortable. What are you doing?”
“Are you watching game shows on there?” Jeremy asked. “They always make me laugh. Family Feud, man.”
“Which host?” Everett asked. “We talkin’ current Steve Harvey run? Or are you going back to Richard Karn?”
Jeremy shook his head. “Steve Harvey’s the GOAT, but don’t sleep on Louie Anderson.”
Everett nodded, impressed. “Good picks.”
Astrid snapped her fingers, but Everett knew her well enough to know that she was holding back a smile.
“Let’s focus on Everett and whatever strange thing he’s got going on. Oh, no,” Astrid said, finally looking at his screen. “Is this another email? You’re smiling like this over email?”
Jeremy peered over his shoulder. “Well, well, well,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Looks like our pal Everett has a lady friend.”
“More like lady acquaintance,” Everett clarified. “Lady associate?”
“That sounds like an escort,” Jeremy said. “Is she an escort?”
Astrid narrowed her eyes. “Do escorts typically write lengthy emails? Serious question. I wouldn’t know.”
“She’s my pen pal,” Everett said. “I guess. This is only her second email to me.”
“Nice,” Jeremy said, nodding. “That’s how I met my wife. We started messaging on Myspace, and look at us now.”
“Still on Myspace?” Astrid asked, an eyebrow raised.
“No. Married for seven