Georgie put her hand on Scotty’s shoulder. “He’ll find love, Scotty. I’ll write him a dreamy boyfriend.”
“You’d do that for me, Georgie?”
“I’ll do it for Rahul.”
“That episode better be f**king hilarious,” Seth said.
Scotty stood up and shoved his laptop in his backpack. “Rahul stays,” he told Seth. “I just made some Indian kid a star.”
Scotty walked out, head high.
Seth was still frowning. “Does this mean we have to go back and write Rahul into the pilot?”
“He can start in the third episode,” Georgie said. “You were just saying we needed a couple g*y characters. You said our 1995 was showing.”
“I know.”
Georgie closed her laptop. “I know we said we’d take home scripts, but I don’t know how much I’m going to get done tonight. . . .”
“Stay,” Seth said. “We’ll get dinner and work on it together.”
“I can’t. I have to call Neal.” It was already eight o’clock in Omaha. Georgie wanted to call him by ten.
Seth studied her for a minute. Like the one thing she wasn’t telling him was the only thing he didn’t know about her.
What would happen if she called Seth tonight from the yellow phone? Would she get the Sig Ep house in 1998? Would one of his Saturday-morning girls answer?
Seth never talked about the Saturday-morning girls now, but Georgie assumed the parade marched on.
“Thanks,” he said. “For pushing through today. I know that something is seriously f**ked up with you.”
Georgie unplugged her phone.
“And it’s killing me that you won’t talk about it,” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want you to be sorry, Georgie—I want you to be funny.”
CHAPTER 17
By the time Georgie pulled into her mom’s driveway, she was 100 percent sure that if she called Neal tonight from the yellow rotary phone, he’d pick it up in the past.
Or that it would seem that way—that the grand illusion was going to hold.
And she was 1,000 percent sure she was going to call him. Even though that might be dangerous. (If it were real.) (Georgie needed to pick a side—real or not real—and stick with it.)
She had to call. You can’t just ignore a phone that calls into the past. You can’t know it’s there and not call.
Georgie couldn’t, anyway.
Whatever was happening, this was the role she’d been given. Neal wasn’t the one with a magic phone that could call into the future.
(God, maybe she should test that theory, she could ask him to call her back . . . No. No way. What if her mom answered and started talking about Alice and Noomi and divorce? What if Georgie herself answered the phone back in 1998 and said something horrible and immature, and ruined everything? Nineteen-ninety-eight Georgie clearly couldn’t be trusted.)
Heather opened the door to the house before Georgie could knock.
“Is there a pizza coming?” Georgie asked.
“No.”
Georgie stayed out on the stoop.
“Baked ziti,” Heather said, rolling her eyes. “Just come in.”
Georgie did. Her mom and Kendrick were eating dinner in the kitchen.
“You’re home early,” her mom said. “I made a Caesar salad, if you’re hungry, and there’s puppy chow for dessert.”
The pugs started barking under the table.
“Not for you, little mama,” Georgie’s mom said, leaning over to make eye contact with the pregnant one. “This puppy chow is for big mamas and daddies. Little mamas can’t have chocolate—I swear, Kenny, they understand everything we say.”
Heather was standing to the side of the front door, pulling out the curtain, so she could peek out at an angle.
They were all completely over the fact that Georgie was here. Even the dogs had stopped tracking her every movement with their little whiteless eyes.
Georgie could probably move back home without ever having to talk to her mom about it. Her mom would just start thawing out one more pork chop for dinner and complaining when Georgie left her bag on the table—maybe her mom thought she’d already moved back home.
“Thanks,” Georgie said, heading for her room. “I’m not very hungry.”
“Are you coming out later?” her mom called after her.
“No,” Georgie shouted back, “I’m calling Neal!”
“Tell him we said hello! And that we all still love him! Tell him he’ll always be part of this family!”
“I’m not telling him any of that.”
“Why not?”
Georgie was halfway down the hall. “Because he’ll think I’m crazy!”
She opened her bedroom door, then quickly closed it behind her—then thought about pushing a dresser against it. Instead she rushed over to the closet and started emptying things out into her room. She’d buried the phone at the very bottom, under an old sleeping bag, a few rolls of gift wrap, her Rollerblades from grade school . . .
There it was. There.
Georgie fell back on her heels and stared at the phone, not sure if she should touch it, not sure if she should rub it three times and make a wish.
She picked up the receiver and held it to her head. No dial tone.
Well, of course, no dial tone—it’s not plugged in. It’s not plugged in to the space/time portal in the wall behind my bed. (Cue maniacal laughter.)
She crawled over to her bed and shimmied underneath to plug the phone in, half expecting the outlet to zap and spark. Then she pushed out again, untangled her hair from the bedsprings, and leaned against the bed with the phone in her lap.
Right. Here we are. Time to call Neal.
Neal . . .
Georgie held her breath while she dialed his number, then choked when he picked up on the first ring.
“Hello?”
“Neal?”
“Hey,” he said. She could hear the quarter-smile in his voice. The one that just barely dented his cheek. “I thought it might be you.”
“It is,” she said. “It’s me.”
“How are you?”
“I’m . . .” Georgie closed her eyes and realized she still hadn’t properly exhaled. She did it now, bringing up her knees and setting the phone on the floor beside her. This was Neal, he was still there. He was still taking her calls. “Better now,” she said, rubbing her eyes into the back of her wrist.
“Me, too,” he said, and God, that was good to hear. God, he was good to hear.