“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.”

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.

“When I was a kid,” Heather said, “I always thought Neal was your Prince Charming.”

Georgie’s weirdly happy feelings were rapidly fading. “Why?”

“Because I could remember your wedding. . . . That big white dress you wore and all the flowers, and Neal was so handsome—he totally had Prince Charming hair, he still does, like Snow White’s Prince Charming—and he called you ‘sunshine.’ Does he still call you ‘sunshine’?”

“Sometimes,” Georgie said, glancing over at the phone.

“I thought he was so romantic. . . .”

“Do me a favor.”

Heather looked suspicious. “What?”

“Call the house phone.”

“What?”

“The landline,” Georgie said. “Call the landline.”

Heather frowned, but picked up her cell phone and dialed.

Georgie held her breath and watched the yellow rotary phone. It rang. She exhaled and reached for it. “Hello?” Georgie said, looking at Heather, knowing she must look disturbed.

“Hi,” Heather said, “do you feel like waffles?”

“No,” Georgie said. “Love you, bye.”

Heather smiled. “Love you, bye.”

Georgie took a shower in her mom’s bathroom. Her mom’s shampoo smelled even worse than Heather’s. Like marzipan.

She put her jeans back on, and Neal’s black T-shirt. Her bra had seen better days, but it was still wearable. She decided her underwear had gone too many days to be mentionable; she shoved them to the bottom of the trash and went without.

Maybe you should get a change of underwear when you go home to get your wall charger, her brain said.

Maybe you should shut up, Georgie thought back at it.

After she was dressed, she sat on her bed and looked at the rotary phone.

Time to deal with this.

She picked up the receiver and steadily dialed Neal’s parents’ house.

His mom picked up after the third ring.

“Hello?”

“Hi . . . Mrs. Grafton,” Georgie said.

“Yes?”

“It’s Georgie.”

“Oh, hi, Georgie. Neal’s still asleep. He must have been up pretty late. Do you want him to call you back?”

“No. I mean, just tell him I’ll call later. Actually, I already told him I’d call later. But—I was going to ask him something.” She couldn’t ask about the president; that would seem mental. . . . “Do you happen to know who the Speaker of the House is?”

Neal’s mom hummed. “It’s Newt Gingrich, isn’t it? Did it change?”

“No,” Georgie said. “I think that’s right. His name was at the tip of my tongue.” She leaned closer to the base of the phone. “Thanks. Um, bye. Thanks.” She dropped the receiver onto the hook and stood up suddenly, taking a few steps away.

Then she dropped to her knees and crawled under the bed, reaching for the telephone outlet and unclicking the plug. She pulled the cord away, then backed out from the bed and crawled to the opposite wall, staring at the nightstand.

She had to deal with this.

It was still happening.

She had to deal with it.

Possibilities:

1. Persistent hallucination.

2. Really long dream. (Or maybe normal-length dream, perceived as really long from the inside?)

3. Schizophrenic episode.

4. Unprovoked Somewhere in Time scenario.

5. Am already dead? Like on Lost?

6. Drug use. Unrecalled.

7. Miracle.

8. Interdimensional portal.

9. It’s a Wonderful Life? (Minus angel. Minus suicide. Minus quasirational explanation.)

10. Magic f**king phone.

She had to deal with this.

She sat in the car and plugged in her iPhone. No missed calls from Neal. From thirty-seven-year-old, real Neal. (Why wasn’t he calling her? Was he really this pissed? Neal, Neal, Neal!)

She dialed his cell phone and didn’t even flinch when his mom answered.

“Georgie?”

“Margaret.”

“I knew it was you this time,” his mom said, “because I saw your photo on the phone. Who are you supposed to be? A robot?”

“The Tin Man. Hey, Margaret, who’s the Speaker of the House?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Isn’t it that Republican with the piercing eyes?”

“I don’t know,” Georgie said, realizing that she really didn’t. Who came after Nancy Pelosi? “It’s not Newt Gingrich, though, right?”

“Oh, no,” Margaret said. “Didn’t he just run for president? Are you doing a crossword?”

That would have been an excellent cover; she should have told the other Margaret she was doing a crossword. “Yes,” Georgie said, “hey, can I talk to Neal?”

“He just stepped out.”

Of course he did.

“Didn’t he call you yesterday?” Margaret asked. “I told him you called.”

“I must have missed him,” Georgie said.

“Here’s Alice, do you want to talk to Alice? Alice, come say hi to your mom. . . .”

“Hello?” Alice sounded far away.

“Alice?”

“Talk louder, Mommy, I can’t hear you.” She sounded like she was sitting across the room from the phone.

“Alice!” Georgie tipped her own phone away from her ear and shouted. “Pick up the phone!”

“I am!” Alice shouted. “But Dawn says you shouldn’t put cell phones on your head, or you’ll get cancer!”

“That’s not true.”

“What?”

“That’s not true!” Georgie yelled.

“Dawn said! Dawn’s a nurse!”

“Meow!”

“Is that Noomi? Let me talk to Noomi!”

“I don’t want Noomi to get cancer.”

“Put me on speaker phone, Alice.”

“I don’t know how.”

“It’s the button that says ‘speaker’!”

“Oh . . . like this?”

Georgie put the phone back to her ear. “Can you hear me?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Alice, you’re not going to get cancer from the cell phone. Especially not from a few minutes on the cell phone.”

“Meow.”

Alice sighed. “It’s not that I don’t trust you, Mommy, but you’re not a nurse. Or a doctor. Or a scientist.”