Page 92 of Weather Girl

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.”

“Ah.” Shyly, Russell buries his hands in his pockets. Up-close Russell Barringer in formal wear might be too much for my brain to handle.

“What my dearest dad is trying to say is that he’s glad you’re here,” she says, giving him the least subtle eyebrow raise in the history of eyebrow raises. “And I think he’s a shoo-in for best speech. Oh—that’s my song!” Elodie makes a show of holding a hand to her ear. “I’ll just leave you two.”

As she flounces away to dance with her friends, Russell shakes his head. “She set us up,” he says, not quite making eye contact with me. “I can’t believe it.”

“Like father, like daughter?”

“Guess so. You’d think we’d have had enough of people meddling in relationships.”

“Matchmaking is an ancient tradition. A Jewish tradition, even.” As if I need it to hold me up, I grasp the edge of the red curtain draped behind me, fiddling with the fabric. “If you don’t want me here, I completely understand. I can leave if—”

“No,” he says, his voice gentle, his gaze finally catching mine. It warms me all the way down to my toes. “Stay. I want you to stay.”

I try to fight the smile threatening to spread across my face. “Okay. I will.”

“You didn’t have to get her anything, by the way.”

“I wanted to.” I tell him about the charms I found on Etsy that made perfect earrings: one that says STAGE RIGHT and another that says STAGE LEFT.

“She’s going to love that. Thank you,” he says. “And—thank you for coming. I’m not sure I said that yet?” The room has very much turned into a party for preteens, the adults self-consciously bobbing their heads to music most of them don’t recognize. “Maybe we could talk somewhere that isn’t blasting ‘My Shot’?”

“Is that not the ideal background music for all serious conversations?”

This gets a soft laugh out of him, which lifts my heart higher in my chest. We have a chance. I just hope I can be brave enough to tell him everything that’s been swirling in my head for the past few weeks.

After Russell checks in with Liv, we slip out into the hall, away from the music, past the coat check and outside. It’s dusk, and out in Lake Washington, boaters are taking advantage of a rare April day that felt a little like summer, with a high near seventy degrees. I didn’t even groan about it when I delivered my forecasts this week. Now that the sun has set, though, I regret leaving my sweater in the car.

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