Landline

CHAPTER 8

Four missed calls—all from Seth.

It was already noon, and Georgie was just leaving for work. Her phone rang as soon as she plugged it into the car lighter.

“Sorry,” she said, answering it. “I overslept.”

“Jesus, Georgie,” Seth said, “I was ready to call the police.”

“You were not.”

“Maybe I was. I was just about to drive all the way out to Calabasas looking for you. What the fuck?”

“I stayed at my mom’s again. I’m sorry. I forgot to set the alarm.”

That was a vast, vast oversimplification. Georgie had woken up on her mom’s couch a half hour ago, with one of the pugs licking her face. Then she’d puked for twenty minutes. Then she’d spent another ten trying to find clothes in Heather’s room—nothing fit—before ending up in her mom’s closet, settling for a pair of velour sweatpants and a low-cut T-shirt with rhinestones. Georgie hadn’t even brushed her teeth. (Didn’t see the point; her whole body already smelled like mint.) “I’m coming,” she told Seth. “I’ll bring lunch.”

“We already have lunch here. And half a script—it’s fucking terrible, hurry up.”

“I’m coming.” She ended the call and got on the 101.

Four missed calls, all from Seth. None from Neal.

Georgie rubbed her thumb over the phone’s touchscreen. She wasn’t thinking about last night. Last night was something Georgie was not going to think about right now.

It was a new morning. She’d call Neal and start over from here. She held the phone up over the steering wheel and thumbed through her recent calls, pressing AN EMERGENCY CONTACT.

It rang. . . .

“Good day, sunshine.”

“Hey, Alice. It’s Mommy.”

“I know, I heard your song. Also, there’s a picture of you when you call—from Halloween. You’re dressed like the Tin Man.”

Neal had been the Cowardly Lion. Alice was Dorothy. Noomi was Toto the cat.

“I need to talk to Daddy,” Georgie said.

“Are you in the car?”

“I’m on my way to work.”

“You promised not to talk on the phone in the car—I’m telling Daddy.”

“I promised to wait until I was done merging. Where is Daddy?”

“I don’t know.”

“He’s not there?”

“No.”

“Where’s Grandma?”

“I don’t know.”

“Alice.”

“Yeah?”

“Please find Grandma.”

“But we’re watching The Rescuers.”

“Pause it.”

“Grandma doesn’t have pause!”

“You’re only going to miss a few minutes. I’ll tell you what happens.”

“Mommy, I don’t want you to spoil it for me.”

“Alice. Listen to my voice. Do I sound like I’m in the mood to debate this?”

“No . . .” Alice sounded hurt. “You’re using your mean voice.”

“Go get Grandma.”

The phone fell. A second later someone picked it up.

“Don’t use your mean voice, Mommy.” It was Noomi. Crying. Undoubtedly fake crying. Noomi almost never truly cried; she’d start fake crying long before she arrived at actual tears.

“I’m not using my mean voice, Noomi. How are you?”

“I’m just so sad.”

“Don’t be sad.”

“But you’re using your mean voice, and I don’t like it.”

“Noomi,” Georgie said, in what probably was her mean voice. “I wasn’t even talking to you. Calm down, for Christ’s sake.”

“Georgie?”

“Margaret!”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Georgie said. “I just . . . Is Neal around? I really, really need to talk to Neal.”

“He went to do some last-minute shopping for the girls.”

“Oh,” Georgie said. “I guess he didn’t take his phone.”

“I guess not—are you sure everything’s okay?”

“Yeah. I just miss him. Them. Everybody.” She closed her eyes, then quickly opened them. “You and . . . Paul.”

Her mother-in-law was quiet.

Georgie decided to keep going. She wasn’t sure what she was fishing for. “I’m sorry the girls didn’t get to know him like I did.”

Margaret took a breath. “Thank you, Georgie. And thank you for letting Neal bring them to Omaha. Since we lost Paul, well, this is the hardest time of year to be alone.”

“Of course,” Georgie said, wiping her eyes with the heel of her thumb. “Just tell Neal I called.”

She pressed END and dropped the phone on the passenger seat.

That sealed it.

Georgie had lost her mind.

“Jesus Christ,” Seth said when she walked into the room. His jaw dropped, probably just for effect. “Jesus H. Christ on a thousand bicycles.”

Scotty shot Diet Coke through his nose. “Oh fuck,” he said. “Oh God, it burns.”

“Can we just—” Georgie tried.

“What happened to you?” Seth was out of his chair and circling her. “You look like Britney Spears, back when she was dating backup dancers and walking around gas stations barefoot.”

“I borrowed some of my mom’s clothes. I didn’t think you’d want me to waste another hour going home to change.”

“Or shower,” Seth said, looking at her hair.

“Those are your mom’s clothes?” Scotty asked.

“She’s a free spirit,” Georgie said. “We’re working now, right? I’m here, and we’re working?”

“There’s something green on your face,” Seth said, touching her chin. “It’s sticky.” Georgie jerked away, finding her seat at the long conference table.

Scotty went back to his lunch. “Is this what happens when Neal’s out of town? No wonder he keeps you on such a short leash.”

“I’m not on a leash,” Georgie said. “I’m married.”

Seth shoved a foam container in front of her. Georgie opened it. Soggy Korean tacos. She waited a second to figure out whether she was more sick or more hungry. . . . More hungry.

Seth handed her a fork. “You okay?”

“Fine. Just show me what you have so far.”

Not fine. Completely not fine.

“I should have told you? I did tell you. I said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I said ‘I love you, but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it will ever be enough.’ I said, ‘I don’t want to live like this, Georgie’—remember?”

It made sense, really. If Georgie was going to have a delusional, paranoid nervous breakdown about her husband leaving her, it made sense that she’d flash back to the one time Neal actually had left her.

Sort of left her.

Before they were married.

It was Christmas break, their senior year. And they’d gone to some party, some TV party that seemed really important at the time. Seth was already working on a Fox sitcom, and he wanted Georgie to meet all the other writers on the show—the star was even supposed to be there. It was just a party in somebody’s backyard, with a pool and beer and Christmas lights threaded through the lemon trees.

Neal spent the whole night standing next to the fence and refusing to talk to anybody. Refusing on principle. As if making small talk—as if being polite—would be too much of a concession. (A concession to Seth. To California. To the fact that Georgie was going to get a job like this with these sorts of people, and Neal would be along for the ride.)

So he stood by the fence with the cheapest beer available and dead-bolted his jaw into place.

Georgie was so infuriated by this little sit-in, she made sure she and Neal were some of the last people to leave. She met and talked to all of Seth’s new work friends. She played her part in the Seth-and-Georgie show. (It was a good part; Georgie got most of the punch lines.) She made everyone there love her.

And then she got into Neal’s worn-out Saturn, and he drove her to her mom’s house. And he told her he was done.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.

“I love you,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”

He said, “I don’t want to live like this, Georgie.”

And the next morning, he’d left for Omaha without her.

Georgie didn’t hear from Neal that whole week. She thought they were over.

She thought that maybe he was right, that they should be over.

And then, on Christmas morning, in 1998, Neal was there at her front door—down on one knee on the green indoor-outdoor carpeting, holding his great aunt’s wedding ring.

He asked Georgie to marry him.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than I hate everything else.”

And Georgie had laughed because only Neal would think that was a romantic thing to say.

Then she said yes.

Georgie plugged her cell phone into her laptop and made sure the ringer volume was turned all the way up.

“What are you doing?” Seth asked. “No cell phones in the writers’ room, remember? That’s your rule.”

“We’re not even officially here,” Georgie said.

“You’re not even unofficially here,” he snapped back at her.

“I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”

“Right. Me, too. Four scripts, remember?”

She rubbed her eyes. It was just a dream. Last night. Even though it hadn’t felt like a dream—that’s all it could have been. An episode.

That was something people had. Normal people. Episodes. And then they laid cool cloths over their eyes and made plans to spend time near the sea.

Neal had been on her mind, Neal’s dad had been on her mind—and her brain had done the rest. That’s what Georgie’s brain was good at. Episodic storytelling.

“Probably the most important week of our career,” Seth was mumbling, “and you decide to check out.”

“I haven’t checked out,” Scotty said.

“I’m not talking about you,” Seth said to him. “I’m never talking about you.”

Scotty folded his arms. “You know, I don’t like being the butt of all your mean jokes when no one else is around. I’m not the Cliff Clavin here.”

“Oh my God”—Seth pointed at him—“you’re totally the Cliff Clavin. I’ll never stop seeing you like that now. Did you ever watch Family Ties? You’re kind of our Skippy, too.”

“I’m too young for Family Ties,” Scotty said.

“You’re too young for Cheers.”

“I watched it on Netflix.”

“You even look like Skippy—Georgie, is Scotty our Skippy? Or our Cliff?”

Georgie’d never had an episode before.

Though it felt like she might be having another one now. She stuck her glasses in her hair and pinched the top of her nose

“Georgie.” Seth poked her arm with the eraser end of his pencil. “Are you listening? Scotty—Skippy or Cliff?”

She put her glasses back on. “He’s our Radar O’Reilly.”

“Aw, Georgie.” Scotty grinned. “Stop, you’ll make me cry.”

“You’re too young for M*A*S*H,” Seth grumbled.

Scotty shrugged. “So are you.”

They worked on their show.

It was easier when they were working. Easier for Georgie to pretend that nothing was wrong.

Nothing was wrong. She’d just talked to Alice and Noomi, just a few hours ago—they were fine. And Neal was just out Christmas shopping.

So he wasn’t in any hurry to talk to her—that wasn’t unusual. What did they need to talk about? Georgie and Neal had talked every day since they’d met. (Nearly.) It’s not like they needed to catch up.

Georgie worked on her show. Their show. She and Seth got in a groove and wrote dialogue for an hour, batting the conversation back and forth between them like a Ping-Pong ball. (This was how they usually got things done. Competitive collaboration.)

Seth blinked first. Georgie caught him with an especially silly “your mom” joke, and he fell back in his chair, giggling.

“I can’t believe you guys have been doing this for twenty years,” Scotty said, sincerely, when he was done applauding.

“It hasn’t been quite that long,” Georgie said.

Seth lifted his head. “Nineteen.”

She looked at him. “Really?”

“You graduated from high school in ’94, right?”

“Yeah.”

“It’s 2013. That’s nineteen years.”

“God.”

God. Had it really been that long?

It had.

Nineteen years since Georgie stumbled across Seth in The Spoon offices.

Seventeen years since she first noticed Neal.

Fourteen since she married him, standing beside a row of lilac trees in his parents’ backyard.

Georgie never thought she’d be old enough to talk about life in big decade-long chunks like this.

It’s not that she’d thought she was going to die before now—she just never imagined it would feel this way. The heaviness of the proportions. Twenty years with the same dream. Seventeen with the same man.

Pretty soon she’d have been with Neal longer than she’d been without him. She’d know herself as his wife better than she’d ever known herself as anyone else.

It felt like too much. Not too much to have, just too much to contemplate. Commitments like boulders that were too heavy to carry.

Fourteen years since their wedding.

Fifteen years since Neal tried to drive away from her. Fifteen since he drove back.

Seventeen since she first saw him, saw something in him that she couldn’t look away from.

Seth was still watching Georgie, one eyebrow raised.

What would he say if she tried to tell him about the last thirty-six hours?

“Jesus, Georgie, you can go crazy next week. Everything can happen next week. Sleep. Christmas. Nervous breakdowns. This week we’re making our dreams come true.”

“I’m gonna make some coffee,” Georgie said.

CHAPTER 9

The three of them kept working through dinner. They started moving even faster, making even more progress. . . .

And then they all realized they were moving so fast because they were turning their script into an episode of Jeff’d Up.

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” Seth said. “We’re corrupted. We’re completely corrupted.”

“This suuuuuuucks,” Scotty said.

Seth started erasing the whiteboard with both forearms—he’d regret that later when he saw the state of his checked shirt.

They decided to watch a few episodes of Barney Miller to wash out their brains. Seth kept the complete series on VHS in their office. They had a VCR in there, too, crammed into the corner with an old TV.

“We could just watch this online,” Scotty said, climbing into the IKEA hammock.

Seth knelt in front of the VCR and popped in a tape. “Not the same. The voodoo won’t work.”

Georgie brought her laptop with her, with her phone plugged into the side, and tried calling Neal from the doorway. (No answer.)

Seth sighed as soon as the Barney Miller bass line started. He flashed Georgie a wide white smile. “We’re going to get past this,” he said.

She smiled back—she couldn’t help it—and sat next to him on the floor.

This was how Georgie had spent her first two years of college. Whenever she wasn’t working with Seth at The Spoon, she was hanging out at his frat house, watching Barney Miller and Taxi and M*A*S*H. His room was lined and carpeted with VHS tapes.

“What are you doing in a fraternity?” she’d asked. “Comedy writers don’t join fraternities.”

“Don’t pigeonhole me, Georgie. I’m infinite.”

“Yeah, but why?”

“The usual reasons. Backup friends, navy blue jackets—plus someday I might run for office.”

They’d written the first draft of the Passing Time pilot in Seth’s room. And written the second draft down at The Spoon, Georgie doing all the typing.

How had she missed Neal until junior year? He’d started working at The Spoon as a freshman, same as her. Georgie must have seen him, without really seeing him, dozens of times. Was she that sucked in by Seth? Seth was extra sucky—pushy and loud, always demanding Georgie’s attention. . . .

But once Georgie noticed Neal, she saw him around the office constantly. She’d try not to stare when he walked past her desk on his way to the production room. Sometimes, if she was lucky, he’d look her way and nod.

“I just don’t understand the attraction,” Seth said after a month of this.

“What attraction?”

They were sitting at their shared desk, and Seth was eating Georgie’s princess chicken. Stabbing at it with one chopstick. “Yours. To that fat little cartoon man.”

Georgie didn’t quite understand it either—why Neal was suddenly the only thing on her radar. “We’re just friends,” she said.

“Really,” Seth said.

“Friendly acquaintances.”

“Yeah, but that’s the thing, Georgie—he isn’t friendly. He growls at people, literally, if they get too close.”

“He doesn’t growl at me,” she said.

“Well, he wouldn’t.”

“Why wouldn’t he?”

“Because you’re a pretty girl. You’re probably the only pretty girl who’s ever talked to him. He’s too stunned to growl.”

Georgie tried not to watch for Neal. She tried to play it cool when she saw him. But she usually found an excuse to walk back to the production room a few minutes after he got there. Sometimes she’d pretend she had to talk to one of the other artists. Sometimes, she’d walk right up to Neal’s drafting table and lean against the wall, waiting for him to acknowledge her.

Seth was an idiot: Neal wasn’t fat. Just sort of soft-looking. Small and strong, without any corners.

“You’re lurking,” Neal said that night. The princess-chicken night.

Georgie had meandered back to the production room and was leaning idly against a pillar near his table. “I’m not lurking,” she said. “I just didn’t want to startle you.”

“Do you think you’re startling?”

This week’s comic strip was more complicated than usual. One panel with lots of characters. Neal had started inking at one corner.

She craned her head over the table. “I wouldn’t want you to jump and spill ink all over your drawing.”

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t.”

“You might,” she said.

“I don’t jump.”

“Nerves of steel, huh?”

Neal shrugged.

“So,” she said, “I could sneak up behind you and, I don’t know, scream, and you wouldn’t even flinch.”

“Probably not.”

Georgie pulled a wheeled stool over and sat across from him. “But I could be an ax murderer.”

“You couldn’t.”

“I could.”

“Georgie McCool, ax murderer . . .” He cocked his head, like he was considering it. “No. You couldn’t.”

“But you wouldn’t know it was me sneaking up on you,” she said.

“I’d know it was you.”

“How?”

He looked up at her for a second, then went back to his work. “You have a very distinct presence.”

“Distinct?”

“Palpable,” Neal said.

Georgie tried not to smile. “Is that a compliment?”

“I don’t know, do you want it to be?”

“Do I want people to know when I walk into a room?”

“Do you want me to know?”

“I . . .”

Neal glanced up over her shoulder, then looked back down. “Your boyfriend needs you.”

Georgie spun partway around. Seth was standing in the doorway, his smile falsely bright. “Hey. Georgie. Could I get you to look at something?”

She squinted at him, trying to suss out whether he really needed her help or whether he was just being obstructionist. “Um, sure,” she said, “just a minute.”

He waited in the doorway.

“Just. A minute,” she said again, pointedly raising her eyebrows at him.

Seth nodded, already pouting, and backed away.

Georgie stood up. “He’s not my boyfriend.”

“Ah,” Neal said, inking a smile onto a cartoon rabbit. “Conjoined twin?”

“Writing partner.” She reluctantly made for the door.

“Writing partner,” Neal murmured, going about his business.

Seth hadn’t really needed her help—of course he hadn’t. (And he’d eaten everything good out of her dinner.)

“I knew you were crying wolf,” she said, pushing the take-out container onto his side of the desk. “Next time I’m going to ignore you.”

“I wasn’t crying wolf.” He scooted his chair closer to hers. “I was crying hobbit.”

“What if I did this to you when you were on the make?”

“Oh God, Georgie, take it back. You can’t be on the make with the cartoon hobbit.”

“I never pass judgment on any of your girlfriends.”

“Because they’re all nice and gorgeous. Uniformly. God, they should wear uniforms, isn’t that a delicious idea?”

“The point is—I get to do this, Seth. I get to talk to guys. Do you want me to spend the rest of my life alone?”

“No. Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Then back off.”

He leaned forward, resting an elbow on her armrest. “Are you lonely, Georgie? Do you have needs?”

“I said back off.”

“Because you could tell me about your needs,” he said. “I think our friendship is ready for that.”

“I hate you.”

“Where ‘hate’ equals ‘love’ and also ‘can’t live without.’”

“I’m ignoring you now.”

“Wait, I really do need your help with this.” He turned his computer monitor toward her and pointed. “Is this funny? It’s a Snoopy/Snoop Dogg thing, and every time Charlie Brown tries to feed him, he’s like, ‘Thanks, Chizzuck.’ . . .”

The next time Seth tried to interrupt her while she was talking to Neal, Georgie really did ignore him. She sent him away with an “I’m sure it can wait.”

That made Neal look almost all the way up from his comic strip. He raised an eyebrow, and the side of his lips curved up into a closed-mouth smile.

Neal had nice lips.

Maybe everybody had nice lips, and you only really noticed it when you stared at their mouths all the time.

Georgie stared at Neal’s mouth all the time.

It was easy to stare at Neal because he was always looking down at his comic; there was no danger of getting caught. And it was easy to stare at Neal because Neal was easy to stare at.

Maybe not breathtaking. Not the way Seth could be when he was all dressed up and posing and he’d just run his fingers through his hair.

Neal didn’t take Georgie’s breath away. Maybe the opposite. But that was okay—that was really good, actually, to be near someone who filled your lungs with air.

Georgie just liked to look at Neal. She liked his dark-but-not-very-dark hair. She liked his pale skin. Neal was so pale, even on his cheeks and the backs of his short, broad hands. Georgie wasn’t sure how anyone could stay that pale, walking around campus all day. Maybe Neal carried a parasol. Anyway, it made his lips seem really pink, in comparison.

Neal’s lips were first-rate—small and neat and symmetrical. Horizontally symmetrical, the top lip almost exactly the same thickness as the bottom. There were even matching dents, one just above his top lip and one just below his bottom lip. A permanent, 20 percent pucker.

Of course Georgie thought about kissing him.

Probably everybody thought about kissing Neal, once they’d gotten a good look at him. That was probably why he was so loath to make eye contact with anyone—crowd control.

Neal was drawing something now in the margin of his comic strip. A girl. Glasses, heart-shaped face . . . hair coiling in every direction. Then he drew a thought bubble: “I can’t stay back here all day. Comedy needs me!”

Georgie worried she was blushing. “Am I bothering you?”

Neal shook his head. “This can’t be exciting for you.”

“It’s not exciting, it’s . . . mesmerizing. It’s like watching somebody do magic.”

“I’m drawing a hedgehog wearing a monocle.”

“It’s like you can make anything you want come out of your hands,” she said. “That’s magic.”

“Maybe if it were an actual hedgehog coming out of my hand.”

“I’m sorry.” She sat up in her chair. “I’ll let you work.”

“I can work with you here.” He didn’t look up.

“But—”

“I can even work if you talk.”

Georgie settled back in the chair, hesitantly. “Okay.”

Neal added another thought bubble to her caricature: “Now what am I supposed to say?!?!”

Then he drew a thought bubble coming out of the bottom of the page, pointing back at himself: “Anything you want, Georgie McCool.”

And then a smaller thought bubble: “If that is your real name . . .”

Georgie knew she was blushing. She watched his hand go back to the comic, then cleared her throat. “You’re not from around here, are you?”

That got a smile out of Neal, a real smile, with both sides of his mouth. “Nebraska,” he said.

“Is that like Kansas?”

“It’s more like Kansas than other things, I guess. Do you know a lot about Kansas?”

“I’ve watched The Wizard of Oz many, many times.”

“Well then,” he said, “Nebraska’s like Kansas. But in color.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Mesmerizing you.”

“You came to California to mesmerize me?”

“I should have,” he said. “That beats the real reason.”

“Which is . . .”

“I came to California to study oceanography.”

“That sounds like a perfectly good reason,” she said.

“Well”—he flicked his pen in short strokes around the hedgehog’s face—“as it turns out, I don’t actually like the ocean.”

Georgie laughed. Neal’s eyes were laughing with her. “I’d never seen it before I got here,” he said, glancing quickly up at her. “I thought it seemed cool.”

“It’s not cool?”

“It’s really wet,” he said. “And also outside.”

Georgie kept laughing. Neal kept inking.

“Sunburn . . . ,” he said, “seasick . . .”

“So now what are you studying?”

“I am definitely still studying oceanography,” he said, nodding at his drawing. “I am definitely here on an oceanography scholarship, still studying oceanography.”

“But that’s terrible. You can’t study oceanography if you don’t like the ocean.”

“I may as well.” He almost smiled again. “I don’t like anything else either.”

Georgie laughed.

Neal added another thought bubble to the bottom of the page: “Almost anything.”

“You can’t leave yet.” Seth stood in the doorway with his arms crossed.

“Seth, it’s seven o’clock.” Nine in Omaha. Or maybe 1998 in Omaha.

“Right,” he said, “and you didn’t get here until one, and you’ve been practically useless all day.”

“A, that isn’t true,” Georgie argued. “And B, if I’m being useless, I may as well go home.”

“No,” he pleaded, “stay. Maybe you’re about to come out of it.”

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “And possibly still hungover. And you know what? You’ve also been useless for the last three hours—what’s your excuse?”

“I’m useless when you’re useless, Georgie”—Seth swept one hand up helplessly—“that’s a long-established fact.”

She unplugged her phone. “Then maybe we’ll both be in better shape tomorrow.”

“You can talk to me about this,” he said, his voice low and losing all pretense. “Whatever’s going on with you today. This week.”

Georgie looked up at him. At his brown eyes and still-not-even-a-little-bit-gray hair. Never removed from the package.

He was her best friend.

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

CHAPTER 10

Georgie started to call Neal on the way home that night, her phone plugged into the lighter—then she stopped. Neal hadn’t picked up any of her calls, all day.

The last time she’d talked to him was still . . . the last time she’d talked to him.

Which Georgie still wasn’t dealing with.

Which she still couldn’t accept.

Georgie thought about her big, dark, empty house—her house that already felt haunted. . . .

And instead of heading back home, she got off the freeway in Reseda.

She didn’t have a key to her mom’s house, so she had to knock on the front door.

Heather opened it, looking significantly more kempt than usual. She was wearing lip gloss and at least three shades of eye shadow.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” She pulled on Georgie’s arm. “Come inside—hurry—and stay away from the windows.”

“Why? Is someone casing the house?”

“Just come in.”

Georgie came in. Her parents—her mom and Kendrick—were watching TV on the couch, cuddling one of the pugs, the lumpy pregnant one, between them, and petting her with all four hands. “Georgie!” her mom said. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

“I just didn’t feel like driving out to Calabasas. You’re so much closer to the studio.”

“Of course.” Her mom made a concerned face. Georgie couldn’t tell if it was for her or for the dog. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah, I—” The doorbell rang. Georgie reached back toward the door.

“No!” her mom snapped. The dog barked. Heather pushed Georgie away, motioning frantically for her to get back.

“It’s the pizza boy,” her mom whispered.

“That isn’t an explanation,” Georgie whispered back.

Heather peeked out the window, smoothed down her snug T-shirt, then opened the door and stepped onto the stoop, shutting it behind her.

“She has a crush,” her mom said, scratching the pug’s distended belly. “You remember what that was like,” she said to the dog in a baby voice, “don’t you? Don’t you, little mama?”

“I don’t think she remembers,” Georgie said. “You bred her with some dog in Tarzana she’d never met before.”

“Shhh,” her mom said, covering the dog’s eyes. “Only because her hubby shoots blanks.”

“Uhhhhghh.” Georgie shuddered.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” her mom said, still in the baby voice, still smiling at the dog.

“I am,” Georgie said. She was. Relatively. She wasn’t drunk or hungover. And she hadn’t talked to any dead people for almost twenty-four hours now, so that was a plus.

“Well, good,” her mom said. “There’s leftover Swiss steak in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“And pizza,” Heather offered, walking back into the living room. Aglow. She closed the front door and leaned against it, holding the pizza box against her stomach.

Georgie looked down at the box. “Oh, no. That’s very special pizza. I wouldn’t dare. Anyway, I ate at work—I think I might just lie down.”

She started walking through the living room toward the hall. “Actually . . .” She turned back to her mom. “Could I use your cell phone?”

“Sure, it’s in my purse.” Her mom pushed the dog onto Kendrick’s lap and got off the sofa. “I washed your jeans for you,” she said, finding her purse, rifling through it, “but you look so good in those pants. You should wear more loungewear.” She handed Georgie her phone, a bejeweled Android something-or-another with a pug screen saver.

Georgie dialed Neal’s number and hung up when it went to voice mail. Then she dialed his mom’s house, holding her breath. Busy.

“Thanks,” she said, handing the phone back. “Kendrick? Could I use your phone?” Georgie felt like she was testing something, but she wasn’t sure what.

Kendrick’s phone was plain and black and splattered with drywall mud. Voice mail again. Then busy on the landline. “Thanks,” Georgie said, handing it back.

Her mom looked down at her phone, probably checking to see whom Georgie had called. “Oh, honey, do you really think Neal’s screening his calls?”

“I don’t know,” Georgie said, honestly. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay.”

Her mom put an arm around Georgie’s shoulder and kissed the side of her head. Georgie slumped into the half hug for a minute, then headed to her room.

It felt so much like coming home from school after a really bad day. Her mom had folded her jeans and Neal’s T-shirt, and set them on the pillow as if she’d known Georgie would come back. (As if Neal had left Georgie and also kicked her out of the house.) There were even new sheets on Georgie’s old bed.

She thought about taking a shower, then climbed onto the bed and pulled the phone into her lap. There wasn’t any reason to call Neal again. She’d just tried; he hadn’t picked up.

Was he actually avoiding her calls?

It sure seemed that way. The only time someone answered Neal’s phone was when he wasn’t there . . . supposedly. Maybe his mom was running interference for him. Maybe she knew something that Georgie didn’t.

Margaret wouldn’t want this to happen. She liked Georgie, and she’d never want this for the girls. (This, Georgie thought, not wanting to find better words for her worst-case scenario.)

Margaret wouldn’t wish for it or want it. . . .

But Neal was Margaret’s son. And she knew he was unhappy.

That was just a fact.

That wasn’t Georgie being melodramatic or paranoid or delusional. That was Georgie being honest.

Neal wasn’t happy. Neal hadn’t been happy for a long time.

He didn’t complain about it. He didn’t say, “I’m unhappy.” (God—in a way, that would be a relief.) He just wore it, breathed it. Held it between them. Rolled away from it in his sleep.

Neal wasn’t happy, and Georgie was why.

And not because of anything she’d ever done or said. Just because of who she was.

Georgie was Neal’s anchor. (And not the good kind. Not the happy anchor that keeps you safe and grounded, the one you get tattooed across your chest.) Georgie was . . . dead weight.

Okay. Now she was being melodramatic.

This was why she never let herself think about this. Because her brain would dive and dive and never touch bottom. She didn’t let herself think about it. But she still knew it. Everyone around them knew it—Margaret must. That Neal wasn’t happy. That he hated California, that he felt alternately lost and thwarted here. Trapped.

And everyone knew that Georgie needed Neal far more than he needed her. That the girls needed Neal far more than they needed her.

Of course Neal would get custody. Neal already had custody. Neal and Alice and Noomi—they were a closed system, an independent organism.

Neal took them to school, Neal took them to the park, Neal gave them baths.

Georgie came home for dinner.

Most nights.

When Georgie drove Alice to swim lessons, Alice worried that Georgie would get lost on the way there. “I guess we can call Dad if you can’t find it.”

On Saturday mornings when Neal left to run errands, the girls wouldn’t ask for breakfast until he came home. When they fell and hurt themselves, they screamed “Daddy!”

Georgie was extra. She was the fourth wheel. (On something that only needed three wheels. The fourth wheel on a tricycle.)

She’d be nothing without them. Nothing. But without her? They’d be exactly the same. And Neal . . . maybe Neal would be happier.

She felt sick again.

She picked up the yellow receiver but kept one finger on the phone’s plunger, not ready to hear the dial tone. There wasn’t any reason to call Neal now—she’d just tried.

Georgie should pick up a wall charger for her cell phone tomorrow on the way to work.

Or just get your battery fixed, her brain yelled at her. Or just go home, where you have wall chargers stashed all over the house!

I’m not going home again until Neal is there, Georgie yelled back, realizing for the first time that it was true.

She let the plunger go and listened to the phone hum.

It isn’t going to happen again, she told herself. After all, nothing strange had happened all day. Neal was avoiding her, but that wasn’t strange; it was just horrible.

It wasn’t going to happen again. Georgie’s head was clear. She felt firmly rooted in reality. Miserably rooted. She tapped the receiver against her forehead to prove that it hurt. Then she ran her index finger along the phone’s plastic face and started dialing Neal’s mom’s landline.

Because . . .

She wanted to.

Because she’d gotten through landline-to-landline twice so far, never mind what had happened after.

One, she dialed, four, oh, two . . .

These rotary dials were like meditation. They forced you to slow down and concentrate. If you pulled the next number too soon, you had to start over from the top.

Four, five, three . . .

It wasn’t going to happen again. The weirdness. The delirium. Neal probably wouldn’t even pick up.

Four, three, three, one . . .

CHAPTER 11

“Hello?”

Georgie exhaled when she heard Neal’s voice, then resisted the urge to ask him who the president was. “Hey,” she said.

“Georgie.” He sounded relieved. (He sounded like Neal, like heaven.) “You called.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry I was such a jerk last night,” he said quickly.

Last night. She felt a wave of panic. Last night, last night, last night. Neal shouldn’t remember last night, because last night hadn’t happened outside of Georgie’s crazy head.

“Georgie? Are you there?”

“I’m here.”

“Look, I’m sorry about the way I acted.” He sounded determined. “I’ve been thinking about it all day.”

“I’m sorry, too,” Georgie choked out.

“You just caught me by surprise,” he said. “Hey—are you crying again?”

“I . . .” Was she crying? Or hyperventilating? Maybe a little of both.

Neal’s voice dropped. “Hey. Don’t cry, sunshine, I’m sorry. Don’t cry.”

“I’m not crying,” Georgie said. “I mean, I won’t. I’m sorry, I just . . .”

“Let’s start over, okay?”

Georgie sobbed half a hiccuppy, hopeless laugh. “Start over? Can we do that?”

“This conversation,” he said. “Let’s start this conversation over. And last night’s, too. Let’s go back to last night, okay?”

“I feel like we have to go back further than that,” Georgie said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Neal was whispering. “I don’t want to go back any further. I don’t want to miss any of the rest.”

“Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes.

This was crazy. This was weird and crazy. It wasn’t real. But it was still happening. If Georgie hung up, would it stop?

Or should she keep crazy on the line, so she could trace the call?

“Okay,” she said again.

“Okay,” Neal said. “So . . . you called to see if I got in all right. I did. It was a long drive, and I only had three CDs, so I listened to this radio show in the middle of the night—it was called Coast to Coast—and now I think I believe in aliens.”

Georgie decided to play along. She must be having this hallucination for a reason. Maybe if she played along, she’d figure out what it needed, and it would move on. (Or did that just work for ghosts?)

“You’ve always believed in aliens,” she said.

“I have not,” Neal said. “I’m a skeptic—I was a skeptic. Now I believe in aliens.”

“Did you see some?”

“No. But I saw a double rainbow in Colorado.”

She laughed. “John Denver wept.”

“It was pretty amazing.”

“Did you drive straight through, without stopping?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I did it in twenty-seven hours.”

“That was stupid.”

“I know. But I had a lot to think about—I figured the thinking would keep me awake.”

“I’m glad you got home okay.”

For a hallucination, this conversation was progressing very rationally. (Which made sense; Georgie had always been good at writing dialogue.)

She’d guessed right: She was obviously talking to Neal—or imagining that she was talking to Neal—just after their big Christmas fight, in college.

But they hadn’t talked after that fight.

Neal didn’t call Georgie after he left for Omaha, so Georgie didn’t call him either. He’d just shown up at the end of the week, on Christmas morning, with an engagement ring. . . .

“You still sound pretty upset,” Neal said. Not-Neal said. Hallucinatory, aural-mirage Neal said.

“I’ve had a weird day,” Georgie replied. “Also—I think you might have broken up with me a few days ago.”

“No,” he said quickly.

She shook her head. It still reeled. “No? Are you sure?”

“No. I mean . . . I got angry, I said some terrible things—and I meant all of them—but I didn’t break up with you.”

“We’re not broken up?” Her voice broke on “broken.”

“No,” Neal insisted.

“But I always thought you broke up with me.”

“Always?”

“Always . . . since we fought.”

“I don’t want to break up with you, Georgie.”

“But you said you couldn’t do this anymore.”

“I know,” he said.

“And you meant it,” she said.

“I did.”

“But we’re not broken up?”

He growled, but she could tell that it wasn’t at her. Usually when Neal growled, he was growling at himself. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “But I’m hoping this can change because . . . I don’t think I can live without you either.”

“Sure you can.” Georgie wasn’t joking.

Neal laughed anyway. (Well, he didn’t laugh—Neal rarely laughed. But he had a sort of huffy, roof-of-the-mouth breathy thing that counted as a laugh.) “You really think I can live without you? Because I haven’t had any luck with that so far.”

“Not true,” Georgie said. She might as well say it; this conversation wasn’t real, it didn’t cost her anything. In fact, maybe that’s what she was supposed to be doing here—saying everything she could never say to the real Neal. Just getting it out of her chest. “You had twenty years of luck before we met.”

“That doesn’t count,” he said, like he was playing along. (No, I’m the one playing along, Georgie thought. You, sir, are a hallucination.) “I didn’t know what I was missing before I met you.”

“Frustration,” she said. “Irritation. Douchebag industry parties.”

“Not just that.”

“Late nights,” she continued. “Missed dinners. That voice I use when I’m trying to impress people . . .” Neal hated that voice.

“Georgie.”

“. . . Seth.”

Neal made another huffy noise. This one wasn’t anything like a laugh. “Why are you trying so hard to push me away?”

“Because,” she pushed. “Because of what you said before you left. About how it wasn’t working and you weren’t happy, and how you didn’t think you could go on like this. I keep thinking about what you said—I haven’t stopped thinking about it—and I can’t think of any way to argue. You were right, Neal. I’m not going to change. I’m all caught up in a world that you hate, and I’m just going to pin you here. Maybe you should get out while you still can.”

“You think I should break up with you?” he said. “You want that?”

“Those are two different questions.”

“You think I’d be better off without you?”

“Probably.” Say it, she told herself. Just say it. “I mean—yes. Look at everything you said after that party. Look at the evidence.”

“A lot has happened since I said that.”

“You saw a double rainbow,” she said, “and now you believe in aliens.”

“No. You called three times to tell me that you love me.”

Georgie caught her breath and held it. She’d called Neal so many more times than that.

He sounded like he was holding the phone even closer to his mouth now: “Do you love me, Georgie?”

“More than anything,” she said. Because she was still telling the truth, damn the torpedoes. “More than everything.”

Neal huffed, maybe in relief.

“But,” she kept pushing, “you said that might not be enough.”

“It might not be.”

“So . . .”

“So I don’t know,” Neal said. “But I’m not breaking up with you. I can’t right now. Are you breaking up with me?”

“No.”

“Let’s start over,” he said softly.

“How far back?”

“Just to the beginning of this conversation.”

Georgie took a deep breath. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” he said. “I did it in twenty-seven hours.”

“Idiot.”

“And I saw a double rainbow.”

“Miraculous.”

“And when I got here, my mom had made all my favorite Christmas cookies.”

“Lucky.”

“I wish you were here, Georgie—it snowed for you.”

This wasn’t happening. This was a hallucination. Or a schizophrenic episode. Or . . . a dream.

Georgie slumped back against her headboard and brought the tightly coiled telephone cord up to her mouth, biting on the rubbery plastic.

She closed her eyes and kept playing along.

CHAPTER 12

“I can’t believe you drove straight through.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“You drove for twenty-seven hours. I think that’s illegal.”

“For truckers.”

“For a reason.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I started dropping off a bit in Utah, but I stopped the car and walked around.”

“You could have died. Right there. In Utah.”

“You make it sound like that’s worse than regular dying.”

“Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“I promise never to almost die in Utah. I’ll be extra careful from now on around Mormons.”

“Tell me more about the aliens.”

“Tell me more about the drive.”

“Tell me more about your parents.”

“Tell me more about Omaha.”

Georgie just wanted to hear his voice, she didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t want Neal to stop.

There were moments when it started to rise up on her, what was happening. What she had access to, real or not. Neal. 1998. The immensity of it—the improbability—kept creeping up the back of Georgie’s skull like dizziness, and she kept shaking it off.

It was like getting him back. Her Neal. (Her old Neal.)

He was right there, and she could ask him anything that she wanted.

“Tell me more about the mountains,” Georgie said, because she wasn’t really sure what to ask. Because “tell me where I went wrong” might break the spell.

And because what she wanted more than anything else was just to keep listening.

“I went to see Saving Private Ryan without you.”

“Good.”

“And my dad and I are going to see Life Is Beautiful.”

“Good. You should also rent Schindler’s List without me.”

“We’ve been through this,” he said. “You need to watch Schindler’s List. Every human being needs to watch Schindler’s List.”

Georgie still hadn’t. “You know I can’t do anything with Nazis.”

“But you like Hogan’s Heroes. . . .”

“That’s where I draw the line.”

“The Nazi line?”

“Yes.”

“At Colonel Klink.”

“Obviously.”

She wasn’t crying anymore. Neal wasn’t growling.

She was burrowed under the comforter, holding the phone lightly against her ear.

He was still there. . . .

“So Christmas with the Pool Man, huh?”

“God,” Georgie said. “I forgot I called him that.”

“How could you forget? You’ve been calling him that for six months.”

“Kendrick’s not so bad.”

“He doesn’t seem bad—he seems nice. Do you really think they’ll get married soon?”

“Yeah. Probably.” Imminently.

“When did you get so Zen about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time we talked about it, you went on a whole rant about how weird it is. About how you and your mom are now drawing from the same dating pool.”

Oh. Right. Georgie laughed. “And you said, ‘No, your mom’s dating pool is literally a pool.’ . . . God. I remember that.”

Neal kept going: “And then you said that if your mom proceeds at her current pattern and rate, your next stepdad must currently be in the sixth grade. That was funny.”

“You thought that was funny?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You didn’t laugh.”

“You know I don’t laugh, sunshine.”

Georgie rolled over and switched the phone to the other side of her head, curling up again under the comforter. “I still can’t believe my mom was checking out twenty-something guys at forty. That she was looking at college guys and thinking, ‘Yep. Fair game. Totally doable.’ I don’t think I ever appreciated how disturbing that was until just now.” That would be like Georgie hooking up with Scotty. Or with one of Heather’s friends—her pizza boy. “Guys in their early twenties are babies,” she said. “They don’t even have all their facial hair yet. They’re literally not done with puberty.”

“Hey, now.”

“Oh. Sorry. Not you.”

“Right. Not me. Unlike many of my peers, I’m plenty mature enough to date your mom.”

“Stop! Neal! Don’t even joke.”

“I knew you weren’t suddenly Zen about this.”

“God. My mom’s a pervert. She’s a libertine.”

“Maybe she’s just in love.”

“I’m sorry about the party,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Georgie.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“That it existed? That you were a huge hit?”

“That I made you go.”

“You didn’t make me go,” he said. “You can’t make me do anything—I’m an adult. And I’m much stronger than you.”

“Upper body strength isn’t everything; I have wiles.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I do. I’m a woman. Women have wiles.”

“Some women. It’s not like every woman is born wily.”

“If I don’t have wiles,” she said, “how come I can get you to do almost anything I want?”

“You don’t get me to do anything. I just do things. Because I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Christ, Georgie, don’t sound so disappointed.”

“Neal . . . I really am sorry. About the party.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s not just my upper body,” he said. “My entire body is stronger than yours. I can pin you in like thirty-five seconds.”

“Only because I let you,” she said. “Because I love you.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Neal.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t sound disappointed at all.”

Georgie sank deeper into her pillow. She pulled her comforter up to her chin. She closed her eyes.

If this was just a dream, she wished she could have it every night—Neal not-quite-whispering sweet somethings into her ear.

“My parents were disappointed that you didn’t come home with me.”

“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.”