Georgie and Neal had never spent this much time apart, not since they got married. She was going crazy not talking to him every day, not checking in with him. In the present. In real life.
Was that what was going on here? Was Georgie hallucinating these phone calls because she missed Neal? Because she needed him?
She needed him.
Neal was home. He was base.
Neal was where Georgie plugged in, and synced up, and started fresh every day. He was the only one who knew her exactly as she was. She should tell him about this magic phone insanity. Right now.
She could tell him, she could always tell Neal anything. Georgie and Neal were bad at a lot of things, but they were good at being on each other’s side. Neal was especially good at being on Georgie’s side, at being there when she needed him.
She thought of all the times he’d stayed up late to help her with a script. The way he’d lived at her right hand after Alice was born (when Georgie was depressed and in pain and terrible at breastfeeding). The way he never made her feel crazy, even when she was acting crazy, and never made her feel like a failure, even when she was failing.
If there was anyone she could tell about this, it was Neal.
“Georgie? Did I lose you?”
“No,” she said. Jesus. She could not tell Neal. “I’m here.”
“Tell me about your day.”
Well, first I unplugged my magic phone, then I got into my electric car. . . .
“I worked with Seth on Passing Time,” Georgie said—because it was the only true thing that seemed safe to say.
She immediately wished she could take it back. Mentioning Seth was like flipping Neal’s off switch; that was as true back then as it was now. (All right, so maybe she couldn’t talk to Neal about everything.)
“Ah,” he said, his voice noticeably cooler.
“What about you?” she asked.
“I . . .” He cleared his throat. She could hear him consciously letting the annoyance go. Neal still did that, too. The irritation would freeze on his face, he’d gather it up, then shake it off. “I helped my mom bake more cookies,” he said. “She set some aside for you.”
“Thanks.”
“Then I ate them.”
“Bastard.”
He laughed a breath. “And then . . . I met that guy my dad wanted me to meet, the guy with the railroad police.”
It took a second for that to click. Neal’s dad’s friend, railroad police. Right. There was a job Neal had thought about—never seriously—back in Omaha. “I still think you’re making that up,” she said.
“I’m not making it up.”
“Railroad detectives. It sounds like an hour-long drama on CBS.”
“It sounds really interesting,” Neal said. “Like all the best parts of police work, the thinking and the problem-solving, but not having to walk a beat or answer 9-1-1 calls.”
“This week on Railroad Detectives,” Georgie teased, “the team discovers a cache of sleepy hoboes. . . .”
“Something like that.”
“Is the railroad looking for oceanographers?”
“No. Thank God. Mike—my dad’s friend—said it didn’t matter what my degree was in, that any background in the sciences would help.”
“Oh,” Georgie said. “That’s great.” She tried really hard to mean it.
“It was good,” he said. “Then I came home, ran into Dawn, and ended up getting ice cream with her.”
Jesus, Neal’s whole day had been a life-without-Georgie dress rehearsal. “Dawn,” she said. “That’s . . . great. I bet Dawn thinks you should become a railroad detective.”
“And you don’t?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“What are you saying?” He sounded cool again.
“Nothing. I’m sorry. Just . . . Dawn.”
“Are you jealous of Dawn?”
“We’ve talked about this,” Georgie said.
“No, we haven’t,” Neal disagreed.
He was right; in 1998, they hadn’t.
“You’re not actually jealous of Dawn,” he said.
“Of course I am. She was your fiancée.”
“Only sort of. And I broke up with her for you.”
“You can’t have a sort-of fiancée, Neal.”
“You know I never even meant to propose to her. . . .”
“That makes it worse.”
“Georgie. You cannot be jealous of Dawn—that’s like the sun being jealous of a lightbulb.”
She smiled. But kept arguing. “I can be jealous of anyone who got to you first. If I went down to the malt shop and shared a milk shake with my ex-boyfriend-slash-sort-of fiancé, you’d be jealous.”
“Right,” Neal snorted. “But I’m not supposed to be jealous when you spend every day with Seth.”
“Seth isn’t my ex-boyfriend.”
“God, no, he’s worse.”
Rules, Georgie wanted to shout. Rules, rules, rules! Weren’t all their rules already unspoken by 1998? “You can’t compare Seth to Dawn,” she said. “I was never sleeping with Seth.”
There was a loud click, someone picking up another phone. Georgie filled with panic, like she was in junior high and on the phone past curfew—she almost hung up.
“Georgie?” Her mom sounded tentative. Who knows when she’d last picked up the landline.
“Yes, Mom? Did you need to use the phone?”
“No . . . I was just wondering if you wanted some puppy chow.”
“Thanks. Still no.”
“Is that Neal?”
“It is,” Neal said. “Hi, Liz.”
Georgie winced. Her mom used to insist that Neal call her “Liz.” And then, after he and Georgie got engaged, she’d insisted on “Mom”—which initially made him really uncomfortable.
“I feel like I’m cheating on my own mom,” he’d said.
“Just try not calling her anything at all,” Georgie advised him. “I got mad at her once, when I was fourteen, and I didn’t call her ‘Mom’ for a year.”
“Oh, honey,” Georgie’s mom cooed into the phone. “It’s still ‘Mom.’ We’re still family. Georgie was supposed to tell you that. None of this affects our feelings for you.”
Georgie could tell that Neal was speechless.
“Okay, Mom,” Georgie said, “thanks. I’ll talk to you later.”