“Fine . . .”
Georgie pushed Heather out the door and closed it. Her heart was thudding. (She really needed to get back to yoga. Or whatever it was people did now. Spin. Georgie hadn’t been to the gym since Alice was born.) She wished her bedroom door had a lock. It didn’t even latch—her mom said the dogs liked to come in here and sleep on the bed.
Georgie walked back to the phone and picked up the receiver. She held it up to her ear, cautiously. “Neal?”
“Georgie?”
“Yeah.”
“Who was that?”
“That was . . . Heather. My cousin Heather.”
“Your mom named Heather ‘Heather’ even though you have a cousin named Heather?”
“Yeah. Sort of. After Heather, my cousin.”
“Is she staying with you for Christmas?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you have other family there?”
“No. Just Heather.”
“I didn’t know you had cousins,” he said.
“Everybody has cousins.”
“But you don’t have aunts and uncles.”
Georgie sat back down on the floor. “Are you practicing for Railroad Detectives?”
“It doesn’t seem like you like your cousin.”
“I just don’t want to waste precious you time, talking about Heather.”
“Precious me time,” Neal said softly.
“Yeah.”
“I miss you, Georgie.”
“I miss you, too.”
“Sorry. I got tired of waiting for you to call.”
“It’s okay,” she said.
“Are you in bed?”
“No, I’m sitting on the floor, eating prewrapped cheese.”
“Really,” he said. It came out a laugh. “What are you wearing?”
Georgie took a bite of cheese. This was ridiculous. This was all ridiculous. “You don’t want to know.”
“It’s snowing here.”
Georgie felt a pull in her stomach. She’d still never seen snow.
It never snowed when she was in Omaha, even in December—Margaret said Georgie brought the sun with her.
But it was snowing now for Alice and Noomi.
And it was snowing in 1998 for Neal.
“Really?” she said.
“Yeah.” Neal sounded soft and warm. He sounded tucked in. “Just started.”
Georgie climbed up into her bed and clapped softly to turn off the light. “Tell me about it.”
“I can’t,” he said. “You don’t have any frame of reference.”
“I’ve seen snow on TV.”
“That’s usually fake.”
“How is real snow different?”
“It’s less like powder. It’s sticky. It doesn’t scatter when you walk through it, not usually. What’s it like in your head?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. It’s like snow.”
“Think about it.”
“Well . . . it looks like crystal—snowflakes do—but I know it’s soft. I guess I imagined that it would feel almost ceramic? But instead of shattering, it would crumble in your hands.”
“Hmmm . . .”
“Is that right?” she asked.
“Almost not at all.”
“Tell me.”
“Well, it’s ice,” he said.
“I know it’s ice.”
“You’re partly right—it’s soft. Have you ever had shaved ice? Did you have one of those Snoopy Sno-Cone Machines?”
“Of course not, my mom never bought me anything good.”
“But you’ve had shaved ice.”
“Yeah.”
“So you know how that’s soft. How it’s solid, but soft. How it compresses when you push your tongue into the roof of your mouth.”
“Yeah . . . ,” she said.
“Well, it’s like that. Like ice. But soft. And light. And almost whipped with air. And sometimes, like tonight, it’s thick—and it sticks together in clumps, like cotton candy and wet feathers.”
Georgie laughed.
“I wish you were here,” he said. “To see it. If you were here, you’d be sleeping in the basement—there’s a foldout couch.”
She knew about the couch. “I don’t like basements.”
“You’d like this one. It’s got lots of windows. And a foosball table.”
Georgie climbed under the covers. “Oh, well, foosball.”
“And a whole wall of board games.”
“I like board games.”
“I know. . . . You’re in bed now, aren’t you?”
“Hmm-mmm.”
“I can tell. Your voice has given up.”
“Given up what?” she asked.
“I don’t know. Being upright. And on-the-ball. Clever. All the things you have to be all day long.”
“Are you saying I’m done being clever?”
“I’m saying,” he said, “I like you when you’ve given everything up for the day.”
“I like you on the phone,” Georgie said. “I’ve always liked you on the phone.”
“Always?”
“Mmm.”
“If you were here,” Neal said, “you’d be sleeping in the basement. And I’d notice it was snowing, and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I’d come downstairs. . . .”
“Don’t, you’ll traumatize Margaret if you get caught sneaking into my room.”
“Pfft. I’m stealthy. I’d come down and wake you up. And I’d let you borrow a pair of my boots and an old coat.”
“Make it your letterman’s jacket.”
“It’s not warm enough,” he argued.
“This is hypothetical snow, Neal. Make it your letterman’s jacket.”
“I don’t get it—you think wrestling is gross, but you like my letterman’s jacket.”
“You didn’t wrestle in the jacket,” she said.
“It could be real, you know. This scenario. Next Christmas.”
“Mmm.”
“So I’d take you outside in borrowed boots and my letterman’s jacket, out to the backyard—I’ve told you how there are no streetlights, right? You can see the stars. . . .”
Georgie had stood in that backyard with Neal, his backyard that felt like the edge of a forest, a dozen times over the years. There hadn’t ever been snow, but there were stars.
“And I’d watch you meet the snow,” he said.
“Meet it?”
“Feel it. Taste it. I’d watch it catch in your hair and eyelashes.”
She rubbed her cheek into her pillow. “Like in The Sound of Music.”
“And when you got too cold, I’d hold you close. And everywhere I touched you, the snow would melt between us.”
“We should talk on the phone more at home.”
He laughed. “Really.”
“Yeah. Just call each other from the next room.”
“We could get cell phones,” he said.
“Brilliant idea,” she agreed. “But you have to promise to answer yours.”
“Why wouldn’t I answer?”
“I don’t know.”
“And then,” he said, “when you got too cold for me to keep you warm—which would be too soon, because you’re spoiled by the sun—I’d take you back inside. And we’d shake off the snow and leave our wet boots in the mudroom.”
“Why’s it called a mudroom?”
“Because it’s the room where you take off your muddy things.”
“I love that your house plans for you to get muddy. Like it’s in the architecture.”
“And then I’d follow you back downstairs. . . . And you’d still be so cold. And your pajama pants would be wet. Your face would be flushed, your cheeks would be numb.”
“That sounds dangerous,” she said.
“It’s not dangerous. It’s normal. It’s nice.”
“Hmm.”
“And I wouldn’t be able to stop touching you,” Neal said, “because I’ve never touched you cold.”
&
nbsp; “You’re hung up on the cold.”
His voice dipped into a rumble. “I’m hung up on you.”
“Don’t talk like that,” Georgie whispered.
“Like what?”
“That voice.”
“What voice?” he rumbled.
“You know what voice. Your Would you like me to seduce you? voice.”
“I have a Mrs. Robinson voice?”
“Yes,” she said. “You’re a minx.”
“Why can’t I seduce you, Georgie? You’re my girlfriend.”
She swallowed. “Yeah, but I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom.”
“Georgie. I’ve had my way with you in that childhood bedroom. Just last week, in fact.”
“Yeah, but you’re in your childhood bedroom.” And you’re actually, practically your childhood self. Georgie couldn’t talk dirty with this Neal. It would be like cheating on her Neal—wouldn’t it?
“Have you blacked out all of last summer?” he asked.
She smiled and looked away, even though he couldn’t see her. “The Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex,” she said. Of course she remembered the Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex.
“Exactly,” he said. “The Summer of Conjugal Long Distance.”
Georgie had forgotten that nickname. It made her laugh. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Is something wrong?”
“I can’t have spectacular phone sex with you.” I haven’t had phone sex for fifteen years. “I’m wearing my mother’s lingerie.”
Neal laughed. Genuinely. Out loud, which almost never happened. “If you’re trying to turn me on, I have to tell you, sweets, it’s not working.” “I’m actually wearing my mother’s lingerie,” Georgie said. “It’s a long story. I didn’t have anything else to wear.”
She could hear him smiling, even before he started talking. “Well, Christ, Georgie—take it off.”
Neal.
Neal, Neal, Neal.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“No,” she said, “just stay.”
“I’m falling asleep.” He breathed a laugh. It sounded muffled. She could picture his face in the pillow, the phone resting on his ear—she was imagining a cell phone. Wrong.
“That’s okay,” she said.
“I might be asleep already,” he murmured.
“I don’t mind. It’s nice. I’ll fall asleep, too. Just set the phone close, so I can hear you wake up.”
“And then I’ll explain to my dad that I was on a long distance call for ten hours because sleeping on the phone seemed romantic at the time.”
God. Long distance. Georgie had forgotten about long distance—did that still exist? “It would be romantic, though,” she said. “Like waking up in each other’s heads.”
“I’ll call you when I wake up.”
“Don’t call me,” she said. “I’ll call you.”
He snorted a little.
“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “But seriously: Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”
“Okay, you call me, sunshine. Call me as soon as you wake up.”
“I love you,” Georgie said. “I love you like this.”
“Asleep?”
“Unlocked,” she said. And then, “Neal?”
“Call me before you get dressed,” he said.
She laughed. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” His voice was a slur.
“I miss you,” she said.
He didn’t answer.
Georgie felt her own eyes closing. The receiver slid along her cheek—she clutched it, lifting it back up. “Neal?”
“Mmm.”
“I miss you.”
“Just a few more days,” he mumbled.
“Good night, Neal.”
“Good night, sweetheart.”
Georgie waited for him to hang up, then set the receiver on its hooks and slid partway off the mattress to put the phone back on the nightstand.
MONDAY
DECEMBER 23, 2013
CHAPTER 19
The first time Georgie woke up, it was just after dawn, and it was because she wasn’t wearing pants. Which was alarming at first. And then funny. And then she pulled the covers up over her head and tried to go back to sleep. Because it felt like she’d been dreaming, dreaming something good, and like maybe she’d be able to get back to it if she didn’t completely open her eyes.
She fell asleep thinking that she couldn’t remember the last time she felt so warm—and that maybe “warm” was the same as “in love”—and obviously she was in love with Neal, she’d always been in love with Neal, but when was the last time she’d talked to him for six hours, just talked to him? Just him, just her. Maybe this was the last time, she thought. And then she fell back to sleep.
The second time Georgie woke up, it was because somebody was shouting. Two somebodies were shouting. And banging on her bedroom door.
“Georgie! I’m coming in!” Was that Seth?
“Georgie, he’s not coming in!” And Heather . . .
Georgie opened her eyes. The door opened and immediately slammed shut.
“Fuck, Heather,” Seth whined. “That was my finger.”
Georgie sat up. She was wearing her mom’s skimpy tank top. Clothes, she needed clothes. She spotted Neal’s T-shirt on the floor and made a desperate grab for it, yanking it over her head.
“I can’t just let you waltz into my sister’s bedroom!” Heather shouted.
“Are you protecting her honor? Because that ship has sailed.”
“It hasn’t sailed. He’s just visiting his mom.”
“What?” Seth sounded winded. The door opened, and he spotted Georgie before it slammed shut again. “Georgie!”
The door flew back open, and Seth and Heather fell in, practically on top of each other.
“Oh my God,” Georgie said. “Get off my sister.”
Heather was pulling at the neck of Seth’s sweater.
“Tell her to get off me,” he said.
“Get off!” Georgie shouted. “This is like a nightmare I haven’t even had yet.”
Heather let go and stood up, folding her arms. She looked as suspicious of Georgie as she did of Seth. “I answered the front door, and he ran past me.”
Seth straightened his cuffs furiously, glaring at Georgie. “I knew you were here.”
“Brilliant deduction,” Georgie said. “My car’s parked outside. What are you doing here?”
“What am I doing here?” He gave up on his cuffs. “Are you kidding me? I mean, are you kidding me? What are you doing here! What are you doing, Georgie?”
Georgie rubbed her face in Neal’s T-shirt and glanced over at the phone—which was sitting next to her old alarm clock, which said noon. “Jesus,” she groaned. “Is it really almost noon?”
“Yes,” Seth said. “Noon. And you’re not at work, and you’re not answering your phone, and you’re still wearing those ridiculous clothes.”
“My battery’s dead.”
“What?”
She pulled the comforter tight around her waist. “I’m not answering my phone, because my battery’s dead.”
“Oh, good,” he said, “that explains why you’re at your mom’s house, having an epic lie-in.”
The doorbell rang. Heather looked at Georgie. “Are you okay?”
Seth threw his hands in the air. “Seriously! Heather! I think you can trust me to be alone with your sister, who has been my best friend longer than you have been alive.”
Heather pointed at him, threatening. “She’s fragile right now!”
The doorbell rang again.
“I’m fine,” Georgie said. “Get the door.”
Heather stomped out into the hall.
Seth ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Okay. Let’s not panic, we’ve still got time—and I’ve got coffee. There are still twelve workable hours left today, right? And then at least that many tomorrow. And maybe five or six on Christmas?”
“Seth . . .”
“What did she mean by ‘fragile’?”
“Look, Seth, I’m sorry. Just let me get dressed.”
“You’ve got your special Metallica T-shirt on,” he said. “Looks like you’re already dressed.”
“Just let me change, then. And brush my teeth and wake up. I’m sorry. I know we need to work on the scripts.”
“Jesus, Georgie”—he sat down hard on the bed, facing her—“do you think I care about the scripts?”
She folded her legs up under the comforter. “Yes.”
Seth’s head fell into his hands. “You’re right. I do. I care a lot about the scripts.” He looked up, despondently. “But finally getting our dream show won’t be that rewarding if you move back in with your mom and start sleeping eighteen hours a day.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He rucked both hands through his hair. “Stop. Saying that. Just . . . tell me what’s going on with you.”
She glanced over at the yellow phone. “I can’t.”
“I already know.”
“You do?” No, he couldn’t.
“I know it’s Neal. I’m not blind.”
“I never thought you were blind,” Georgie said. “Just self-absorbed.”
“You can talk to me about this.”
“I really can’t,” she said.
“The universe won’t unravel, Georgie.”
“Something else might.”
Seth sighed. “Just . . . did he leave you?”
“No.”
“But you guys aren’t talking.”
No, she thought, not since Wednesday. Then—yes, all night long.
“What makes you say that?” she asked.
Seth looked up, almost like he was embarrassed for her. “The way you’ve been taking your laptop with you to the bathroom, just in case your phone rings.”
“I have to leave it plugged in,” she said.
“Get a new phone.”
“I’m going to. I’ve been busy.”
Seth drew his lovely auburn eyebrows together. He looked like a concerned junior senator. Like the actor who’d get cast to play a concerned junior senator. Like the star of a lighthearted procedural on the USA Network. “Can’t you just tell him this is all my fault? Throw me under the bus.”
“That doesn’t actually work,” Georgie said, fisting her hands in the comforter in her lap. “Making you seem like an asshole just makes me seem like a person with asshole loyalties.”