“No, thank you, sir; you’re very charming, but you’ve no more stability than a weathercock.”
—Little Women
When I got to the barn for rehearsal the following afternoon, I made sure to leave an empty seat beside me for Hudson. Two seconds later, Amy dropped into the chair.
“Waiting for Professor Bhae?” she sang in my ear.
I held my hand in front of her face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s soooo obvious. Number one, he’s from New York. Number two, he’s not as hot as Laurie. Number three, he looks kind of judgy. Hello, Professor Bhae—like Bhaer plus bae. Get it? The one Book Jo marries?”
“I’m familiar with the plot.”
“Then you do know what I’m talking about.”
“Nope.” That was my blanket response to all attempts to shoehorn my real life into a Little Women parallel, but I also wanted to shut down this particular conversation before Hudson walked into the barn.
“I don’t know, Jo. There are some similarities.” Mom sat down at the other end of the table. “The New York thing, the worldly older man—”
“Hudson is like a year older, not two decades,” I reminded her.
“Oh, Hudson,” Amy moaned, writhing like she needed an exorcism, “please scold me. Tell me what I’m doing wrong with my life. Be my big German daddy-o.”
Naturally, the door opened at that moment.
Andrea sized the scene up in a flash. “Are we talking about l’affaire Bhaer?” she asked, slinging her bag onto the rough floor. “Alcott really stuck it to her readers with that one, didn’t she?”
“I never thought of it like that.” Mom’s expression was polite, but I recognized her tone as one that meant Someday you’ll realize how wrong you are.
“You don’t think she was giving the finger to all the Jo-and-Laurie shippers?”
Hudson caught my eye, mouthing, Shippers? He gave a full-body cringe, and I had to look down to avoid giving away the game.
“Personally,” Andrea continued, “I suspect she was playing out her daddy issues. The professor was clearly a stand-in for her feckless father. Noble ideals but no life skills.”
“I think Professor Bhaer gives Jo good advice,” Mom said as Andrea settled beside her. “It leads her to write something honest and true—a work of lasting importance, not just disposable entertainment.”
“Debatable,” I coughed, covering my mouth with my fist.
“He’s the wo-orst,” Amy groaned at the same time. We glared at each other, annoyed to find ourselves on the same side of an argument. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Alcott was robbed. She should be just as famous for her hot gothics. That’s the real tragedy of Little Women, if you ask me.”
“You know people die in that book, right?”
Amy shook her head, like I was the unreasonable one.
“You assume she wanted to write those lurid stories,” Mom put in. “With all the murder and poison and chases.”
Andrea leaned forward. “You disagree?”
“I think she was twisting herself into the shape she thought the world wanted. Pretending to be sophisticated and racy. That wasn’t the real Louisa May.”
“Interesting.” Andrea propped her chin in her hand. “What makes you say that?”
“Because Little Women is her best work. And when you discover your own authentic voice, you start to make real art. Whether it’s fashionable or not.”
How convenient for my mother if it was all meant to be and, instead of being oppressed, Jo was actually liberated by the demands of her family.
“But doesn’t it feel like something is lost? That restless spirit and wild, passionate imagination? She could have been so much more.” Andrea didn’t look at me, but I felt the words land on my skin like drops of rain.
Amy tossed her hair so forcefully I had to duck to avoid losing an eye. Of course she assumed Andrea was describing her.
“You can’t have it all,” Mom said, like that settled the argument. Her smile was vaguely patronizing, as if she’d been humoring Andrea by letting her spout nonsense. It was a look I knew well.
But didn’t Andrea have it all? Her family was right there, doing something on his phone. I glanced at my mother, taking in the long, unstyled hair and plain T-shirt. Between the two of them, she definitely looked more like a “mom.” On the other hand, her “work” was an inescapable part of our lives. Which made me wonder: Did Mom think she’d chosen the career or the family?
The door flew open. Laurie posed on the threshold, backlit. When no one made a huge fuss over his arrival, his brow furrowed. “Why so serious, people?”
“We’re talking about how Jo ends up with someone old and crusty.” Amy patted the table, inviting Laurie to sit next to her.
“That is sad,” he agreed, settling his massive water bottle in front of him. Hydration was the foundation of Laurie’s fitness regimen, a fact he’d shared with me so many times I’d threatened to have T-shirts made.
“But it’s also for the best,” my sister continued, “since Amy and Laurie are couple goals.” She smiled at Laurie, but his attention was diverted by the arrival of New Beth.
“Bethie Beth,” Laurie rumbled, holding out his hand for a fist bump.
“What up, LB?” She knocked knuckles with him hard enough to make Laurie shake off the impact.
“Damn, girl.”
“What is this?” Amy demanded, waving a finger between them.
“Turns out we have a lot in common.” Laurie beamed at Amy, expecting her to be equally thrilled. “Not being actual members of the fam and all.”
“Maybe you should have yourself emancipated,” I suggested, fake smiling at Amy. “Then you can be a free agent too.”
Mom cleared her throat. “Welcome to our newest Beth. We’re so glad you’re here.”
Amy raised her hand, waiting until our mother acknowledged her like we were in kindergarten. “We’re all here.”
“Except Meg,” I pointed out.
“And I was here before anyone.” Amy thumped herself in the chest, continuing her one-woman argument.
Mom glanced at her clipboard. “Laurie and Jo, why don’t we start with the proposal scene? I want to pair it with Meg’s wedding, like a one-two punch.”
“I’m ready.” Laurie clapped his hands. “Let’s do this.”
My stomach turned over. Doing a serious scene in front of Hudson and Andrea felt like a lose-lose proposition. Try to give a “good” performance and I’d look like a huge dork. If I half-assed it, they would assume I sucked. “Maybe we should warm up with something less . . . emotional?”
“Let’s be spontaneous.” Mom pointed me to the front of the room. “No need to overthink.”
“Jo has a tendency to get robotic,” Amy translated for the benefit of our guests.
Laurie leaped into position, posing like that sculpture The Thinker: hunched forward, chin propped on one hand. I could tell he’d thought about how his shoulder and back muscles would appear from that angle.
I approached him warily. This wasn’t our usual blocking. When I got within a few steps, Laurie shot up from his chair, spinning to wrap his arms around me. It felt more like a football tackle than a romantic embrace.
“Let go,” I gritted out.
“Nice,” Mom narrated. “I like the edge of panic. For years you’ve been dreading this moment, trying to run, trying to hide, but there’s no escaping now.”
“I don’t want to let go of you, Jo.” Laurie smoldered down at me. I cut my eyes at Mom, waiting for her to steer us back toward historical accuracy, but she flicked her fingers, signaling me to continue.
“Jo,” said Laurie, cupping a hand around the back of my head and smashing my face into his chest. He spoke the next words into my hair. “My sweet little JoJo.” My protest was swallowed by his shirt. “Jo,” he said again, shoving me back far enough to stare into my eyes. “You know how I feel about you.”
I twisted my torso to one side, but his arms barely budged. It turned out those biceps weren’t just for show. “You feel a close bond of platonic friendship?” I suggested. “Almost like a sibling? Since we practically grew up together.”
“No.” He released one hand to rake it through his hair before quickly grabbing hold of me again. “It’s more than that. A lot more. Jo”—he paused to bat his lashes—“I think I love you.”
“You think?” I maneuvered my fingers so I could pinch his side.
He bit off a yelp. “I mean, I know. I definitely love you. You’re the only girl for me.”
“For now,” Amy said darkly, reminding all of us that Laurie would eventually ditch Book Jo to marry her annoying little sister. I tuned her out.
“Here’s the thing, Laurie. We’re just too similar. Both of us are passionate. Boyish. Dark-haired.”
“But Jo,” he said, shaking me. “I love you.”
“You mentioned that.”
He threw his head back. “Don’t you care?”
“I do care,” I snapped, feeling a spark of genuine anger. Not from the manhandling, which was more like being jumped on by a Labradoodle, but because I was sick of being treated like the un-fun one, who spoiled everything by not playing along. I took a deep breath.
“You know, I wouldn’t mind being rich.”
Laurie’s brows drew together. “You . . . what?”
Andrea’s huff of amusement briefly distracted me, but I rallied, staring wistfully into the distance. “You have that big house and the fancy clothes. Books and art and gardens. Spare pianos. You don’t have to spend your evenings knitting or darning or dusting. Plus I’ve always wanted to travel. Preferably to Europe, with first-class accommodations.”
“Then—you will marry me?” Laurie shot a nervous look at my mother.
“Hmmm.” I tapped my chin with one finger. “Would it be worth it?”
“I like that,” Mom called. “Draw out the suspense. Will she or won’t she?”
With a guttural growl, Laurie fell to his knees, gripping the front of his T-shirt with both fists. The sound of tearing fabric made me jump.
Silence descended as we absorbed the fact that Laurie had ripped his shirt in half. This was followed by another quiet moment during which everyone admired his abs.
Beth cupped her hands around her mouth. “Do you even lift, bro?”
Laurie winked at her.
I sank down beside him, one hand fanned across his chest.
“Enjoy it while you can,” Amy catcalled.
“Do it for feminism,” Andrea chimed in.
He tried to yank me against him, so I let my fingernails press ever so slightly into his pec. “Don’t make me knee you in the crotch,” I whispered. Patting his chest one more time, I drew back. “I’m too much of a sourpuss for you, Laurie. I’d make you unhappy.”
“Hold up.” Making a T with his hands, Laurie turned to my mother. “Can she say that in front of children?”
“It means I’m grumpy,” I told him.
“Shocker,” Amy muttered.
Laurie closed his eyes, lips moving in some kind of centering exercise. “Come here, you bitter kitty,” he growled, throwing himself back into the scene.
He made a grab for me, but I scooted out of reach, crawling under one of the tables. When I emerged on the other side, Laurie had gone into full vein-popping werewolf mode, howling at the ceiling.
“Jooooooooo! Joooooooo!”
He collapsed forward, palms on the floor. Amy gave him a standing ovation, while everyone but Andrea (who was taking notes) and Hudson (who was taking pictures) chimed in with less frenzied applause.
Andrea clicked the end of her pen before turning to Mom. “Was he doing Brando in Streetcar?”
Laurie sat up, beaming at her. “Yes! We watched the movie in class.” He brushed a piece of sawdust off his abdomen. “I get a lot of inspiration from other artists.”
“The only thing missing was the monsoon,” Andrea deadpanned.
Amy grabbed Mom’s sleeve. “Can we get a rain machine? That would be epic.”
Our mother squeezed her hand, a patented nonanswer. “Maybe we can stage the proposal on the bridge. That would be romantic.”
“There is no bridge,” I reminded her. And if my mother thought I was going to stand in the mucky stock pond and grapple with Laurie, she needed to let go of that dream right now.
“You have to have vision, Jo.” Mom glanced around the barn, and I was tempted to ask if she had a vision of her oldest daughter showing up for rehearsal anytime soon, but she was already turning to Andrea. “Shall we take a brief intermission? Laurie probably wants to find a new shirt.”
“I have one in my gym bag,” he confirmed.
“Wonderful. In the meantime,” she asked Andrea, “is there anything you’d like to see?”
Andrea threaded her fingers together, resting them on her knee. “Dazzle me.”
Mom’s lips pursed as she thought it over. “Well, we do have a new line of paper dolls.”
Hudson wagged his brows at me. I looked down, not sure what—or who—we were supposed to be laughing at.