“I’ll bet your mom was happy to have you to herself.”
“My mom likes you.”
She didn’t. Not in 1998.
“I think that’s an exaggeration,” Georgie said. “She intentionally frowns whenever I try to be funny—it’s like not laughing at me isn’t a strong enough negative reaction.”
“She doesn’t know what to do with you—but she likes you.”
“She thinks I want to write jokes for a living.”
“You do.”
“Knock-knock jokes.”
“My mom likes you,” he said. “She likes that you make me happy.”
“Now you’re putting words in her mouth.”
“I am not. She told me so herself, the last time they came to see me in L.A., after we all went to that tamale place.”
“She did?”
“She said she hadn’t seen me smile so much since I was a kid.”
“When were you smiling? No one in your family smiles. You’re a dynasty of wasted dimples.”
“My dad smiles.”
“Yeah . . .”
“They like you, Georgie.”
“Did you tell them why I didn’t come?”
“I told them your mom wanted you to stay home for Christmas.”
“I guess that’s true,” she said.
“Yeah.”
It was one in the morning. Three in the morning in Omaha. Or wherever Neal was.
The hand that was holding the phone to her ear had gone numb, but Georgie didn’t roll over.
She should let him go. He was yawning. He might even be falling asleep—she’d had to repeat her last question.
But Georgie didn’t want to.
Because . . .
Well, because she couldn’t expect this to go on. Whatever this was. This thing that she’d started, just in the last few hours, to think of as a gift.
And because . . . she wasn’t sure when she’d hear Neal’s voice again.
“Neal. Are you asleep?”
“Hmmm,” he answered. “Almost. I’m sorry.”
“S’okay. Just—why didn’t you want to talk about everything tonight?”
“Everything. You mean, why didn’t I want to fight?”
“Yeah.”
“I—” He sounded like he was moving, maybe sitting up. “—I felt so bad when I left California, and I felt so bad when I yelled at you on the phone last night, and—I don’t know, Georgie, maybe it’s never going to work with us. When I think about coming back to L.A., all my anger starts to come back. I feel trapped, and frustrated, and I just want to drive as far as I can away from there. Away from you, honestly.”
“God, Neal . . .”
“Wait, I’m not done. I feel that way. Until I hear your voice. And then . . . I don’t want to break up with you. Not right now. Definitely not tonight. Tonight, I just wanted to pretend that all that other stuff wasn’t there. Tonight, I just wanted to be in love with you.”
She pressed the phone into her ear. “What about tomorrow?”
“You mean today?”
“Yeah,” she said.
“We’ll figure it out when we get there.”
“Do you want me to call you later? Today?”
Neal yawned. “Yeah.”
“Okay. I’ll let you go to sleep now.”
“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry I’m so tired.”
“It’s okay. Time zones.”
“Tell me again.”
“What?”
“Why you called.”
Georgie squeezed the phone. “To make sure you’re okay. To tell you that I love you.”
“I love you, too. Never doubt it.”
A tear slipped over the bridge of her nose, into the eye below. “I never do,” she said. “Never.”
“Good night,” Neal said.
“Good night,” Georgie answered.
“Call me.”
“I will.”
SUNDAY
DECEMBER 22, 2013
CHAPTER 13
Georgie stretched and rolled into someone.
Neal?
Maybe this was it. Maybe she was waking up from whatever this was, and Neal would be here . . . and Uncle Henry and Auntie Em.
She was scared to open her eyes.
A phone rang next to her head. Some Beyoncé ringtone.
Georgie rolled over and looked at Heather, who was sitting on top of the comforter, answering her phone.
“Mom,” Heather said, “I’m in the same house—this is lazy, even for you. . . . Fine. Be patient, I said I’d ask her.” She looked at Georgie. “Do you want waffles?”
Georgie shook her head.
“No,” Heather said. “She says no. . . . I don’t know, she just woke up. Do you have to work today?” She poked Georgie. “Hey. Do you have to work today?”
Georgie nodded and looked at the clock. Not quite nine. Seth wouldn’t be calling the police yet.
“Okay,” Heather said into the phone, then sighed. “I love you, too. . . . No, Mom, it’s not that I mind saying it, but you’re right down the hall. . . . Fine. I love you. Good-bye.”
She ended the call and flopped down next to Georgie. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”
“Good morning.”
“How are you?”
Delusional. Possibly certifiable. Weirdly happy. “Fine,” Georgie said.
“Really?”
“What do you mean, ‘really’?”
“I mean,” Heather said, “I know you have to tell Mom that you’re fine, no matter what, but if you were really fine, you wouldn’t be here.”
“I’m fine, I just don’t feel like going home to an empty house.”
“Did Neal actually leave you?”
“No,” Georgie said, then groaned. “I mean, I don’t think so.” She reached for her glasses. They were balanced on the headboard. “He was mad when he left, but—I think he’d tell me if he was leaving me. Don’t you think he’d tell me?” She was asking it seriously.
Heather made a face. “God, Georgie, I don’t know. Neal’s not much of a talker. I didn’t even know you guys were having problems.”
Georgie rubbed her eyes. “We’re always having problems.”
“Well, it doesn’t ever look like it. Every time I talk to you, Neal is bringing you breakfast in bed, or making you a pop-up birthday card.”
“Yeah.” Georgie didn’t want to tell Heather that it wasn’t that simple. That Neal made her breakfast even when he was pissed; sometimes he did it because he was pissed. As a way to act like he was present in their relationship, even when he was chilled through and barely talking to her.