“Oh, right. Time zones.”

Georgie unwrapped a slice of cheese and started eating it. “Thank you. Now go.”

“You’re supposed to wrap the cheese around the apple; it’s like a caramel apple.”

“That doesn’t sound anything like a caramel apple.”

“Call him now,” Heather said. “I want to say hi.”

“No.”

Georgie’s mom, miraculously, hadn’t spoiled anything with Neal, but there was no way Georgie was letting Heather near the phone.

“Why not?” Heather asked.

“You know why not,” Georgie said.

“No, I don’t.”

“Because. We have private . . . stuff to talk about.”

“Like divorce stuff?”

“No.”

“Like phone sex?”

Georgie grimaced. “No.”

“Because you can’t have phone sex wearing Mom’s lingerie.”

“I just want to talk to my husband, okay? Privately?”

“Sure. Right after I say hi.”

Georgie tried to open the Coke bottle. “Do you have a bottle opener?”

“Yeah, Georgie, I carry one in my jammies. Here.” Heather took the bottle and started to twist the cap in the side of her mouth.

“Stop,” Georgie said, reaching for the bottle. “You’ll ruin your teeth.”

Heather sighed dramatically, and handed Georgie the bottle. Georgie set it delicately in her own mouth and bit down as gingerly as possible.

The phone rang.

Before Georgie could even think about getting to it, Heather grabbed the receiver and shouted, “Hi, Neal!”

Georgie dropped the bottle and launched herself on her sister, digging under Heather’s head for the phone.

“It’s Heather. . . . Yes, Heather.”

“Heather,” Georgie whispered. “I’m going to kill you. Let go.”

Heather was curled into a defensive ball on the bed, still pushing Georgie (in the face) with one hand, and holding the phone to her head with the other. Her expression went from bratty and victorious to confused. She let go of the phone, abruptly, and Georgie pushed her off the bed.

Georgie grabbed the phone. “Neal?”

“Yeah?” He sounded confused.

“Just a minute.”

Heather was standing in the middle of the room, bug-eyed, arms folded. “That’s not Neal,” she whispered. At least she was whispering.

“It is,” Georgie argued.

“Then why didn’t he know who I was?”

“He was probably wondering why you were yelling at him.”

“That didn’t sound like Neal.”

“Heather, I swear . . .”

“You’re having an affair. Oh my God, you’re having an affair. Is that why Neal left you?”

Georgie rushed forward and covered Heather’s mouth with her hand. Heather’s eyes were huge. And tearful. Oh God.

“Heather, I swear that I am not having an affair. I promise you.”

Heather pulled her head away. “On your life.”

“On my life.”

“On Alice and Noomi’s lives,” Heather said.

“Don’t say that, that’s terrible.”

“It’s only terrible if you’re lying.”

“Fine. Yes. I swear.”

Heather pursed her lips. “I know that’s not Neal, Georgie. I know something’s wrong here. It’s women’s intuition.”

“You’re not a woman yet.”

“That’s bullshit, I’m old enough to get drafted.”

“Please, please, go away,” Georgie begged. “I have to talk to Neal. We can talk about this tomorrow morning.”

“Fine . . .”

Georgie pushed Heather out the door and closed it. Her heart was thudding. (She really needed to get back to yoga. Or whatever it was people did now. Spin. Georgie hadn’t been to the gym since Alice was born.) She wished her bedroom door had a lock. It didn’t even latch—her mom said the dogs liked to come in here and sleep on the bed.

Georgie walked back to the phone and picked up the receiver. She held it up to her ear, cautiously. “Neal?”

“Georgie?”

“Yeah.”

“Who was that?”

“That was . . . Heather. My cousin Heather.”

“Your mom named Heather ‘Heather’ even though you have a cousin named Heather?”

“Yeah. Sort of. After Heather, my cousin.”

“Is she staying with you for Christmas?”

“Yeah.”

“Do you have other family there?”

“No. Just Heather.”

“I didn’t know you had cousins,” he said.

“Everybody has cousins.”

“But you don’t have aunts and uncles.”

Georgie sat back down on the floor. “Are you practicing for Railroad Detectives?”

“It doesn’t seem like you like your cousin.”

“I just don’t want to waste precious you time, talking about Heather.”

“Precious me time,” Neal said softly.

“Yeah.”

“I miss you, Georgie.”

“I miss you, too.”

“Sorry. I got tired of waiting for you to call.”

“It’s okay,” she said.

“Are you in bed?”

“No, I’m sitting on the floor, eating prewrapped cheese.”

“Really,” he said. It came out a laugh. “What are you wearing?”

Georgie took a bite of cheese. This was ridiculous. This was all ridiculous. “You don’t want to know.”

“It’s snowing here.”

Georgie felt a pull in her stomach. She’d still never seen snow.

It never snowed when she was in Omaha, even in December—Margaret said Georgie brought the sun with her.

But it was snowing now for Alice and Noomi.

And it was snowing in 1998 for Neal.

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah.” Neal sounded soft and warm. He sounded tucked in. “Just started.”

Georgie climbed up into her bed and clapped softly to turn off the light. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t,” he said. “You don’t have any frame of reference.”

“I’ve seen snow on TV.”

“That’s usually fake.”

“How is real snow different?”

“It’s less like powder. It’s sticky. It doesn’t scatter when you walk through it, not usually. What’s it like in your head?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. It’s like snow.”

“Think about it.”

“Well . . . it looks like crystal—snowflakes do—but I know it’s soft. I guess I imagined that it would feel almost ceramic? But instead of shattering, it would crumble in your hands.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“Is that right?” she asked.

“Almost not at all.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s ice,” he said.

“I know it’s ice.”

“You’re partly right—it’s soft. Have you ever had shaved ice? Did you have one of those Snoopy Sno-Cone Machines?”

“Of course not, my mom never bought me anything good.”

“But you’ve had shaved ice.”

“Yeah.”

“So you know how that’s soft. How it’s solid, but soft. How it compresses when you push your tongue into the roof of your mouth.”

“Yeah . . . ,” she said.

“Well, it’s like that. Like ice. But soft. And light. And almost whipped with air. And sometimes, like tonight, it’s thick—and it sticks together in clumps, like cotton candy and wet feathers.”

Georgie laughed.

“I wish you were here,” he said. “To see it. If you were here, you’d be sleeping in the basement—there’s a foldout couch.”

She knew about the couch. “I don’t like basements.”

“You’d like this one. It’s got lots of windows. And a foosball table.”

Georgie climbed under the covers. “Oh, well, foosball.”

“And a whole wall of board games.”

“I like board games.”

“I know. . . . You’re in bed now, aren’t you?”

“Hmm-mmm.”

“I can tell. Your voice has given up.”

“Given up what?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Being upright. And on-the-ball. Clever. All the things you have to be all day long.”

“Are you saying I’m done being clever?”

“I’m saying,” he said, “I like you when you’ve given everything up for the day.”

“I like you on the phone,” Georgie said. “I’ve always liked you on the phone.”

“Always?”

“Mmm.”

“If you were here,” Neal said, “you’d be sleeping in the basement. And I’d notice it was snowing, and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I’d come downstairs. . . .”

“Don’t, you’ll traumatize Margaret if you get caught sneaking into my room.”

“Pfft. I’m stealthy. I’d come down and wake you up. And I’d let you borrow a pair of my boots and an old coat.”

“Make it your letterman’s jacket.”

“It’s not warm enough,” he argued.

“This is hypothetical snow, Neal. Make it your letterman’s jacket.”

“I don’t get it—you think wrestling is gross, but you like my letterman’s jacket.”

“You didn’t wrestle in the jacket,” she said.

“It could be real, you know. This scenario. Next Christmas.”

“Mmm.”

“So I’d take you outside in borrowed boots and my letterman’s jacket, out to the backyard—I’ve told you how there are no streetlights, right? You can see the stars. . . .”

Georgie had stood in that backyard with Neal, his backyard that felt like the edge of a forest, a dozen times over the years. There hadn’t ever been snow, but there were stars.

“And I’d watch you meet the snow,” he said.

“Meet it?”

“Feel it. Taste it. I’d watch it catch in your hair and eyelashes.”

She rubbed her cheek into her pillow. “Like in The Sound of Music.”

“And when you got too cold, I’d hold you close. And everywhere I touched you, the snow would melt between us.”

“We should talk on the phone more at home.”

He laughed. “Really.”

“Yeah. Just call each other from the next room.”

“We could get cell phones,” he said.

“Brilliant idea,” she agreed. “But you have to promise to answer yours.”

“Why wouldn’t I answer?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then,” he said, “when you got too cold for me to keep you warm—which would be too soon, because you’re spoiled by the sun—I’d take you back inside. And we’d shake off the snow and leave our wet boots in the mudroom.”

“Why’s it called a mudroom?”

“Because it’s the room where you take off your muddy things.”

“I love that your house plans for you to get muddy. Like it’s in the architecture.”

“And then I’d follow you back downstairs. . . . And you’d still be so cold. And your pajama pants would be wet. Your face would be flushed, your cheeks would be numb.”

“That sounds dangerous,” she said.

“It’s not dangerous. It’s normal. It’s nice.”

“Hmm.”

“And I wouldn’t be able to stop touching you,” Neal said, “because I’ve never touched you cold.”

“You’re hung up on the cold.”

His voice dipped into a rumble. “I’m hung up on you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Georgie whispered.

“Like what?”

“That voice.”

“What voice?” he rumbled.

“You know what voice. Your Would you like me to seduce you? voice.”

“I have a Mrs. Robinson voice?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re a minx.”

“Why can’t I seduce you, Georgie? You’re my girlfriend.”

She swallowed. “Yeah, but I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom.”

“Georgie. I’ve had my way with you in that childhood bedroom. Just last week, in fact.”

“Yeah, but you’re in your childhood bedroom.” And you’re actually, practically your childhood self. Georgie couldn’t talk dirty with this Neal. It would be like cheating on her Neal—wouldn’t it?

“Have you blacked out all of last summer?” he asked.

She smiled and looked away, even though he couldn’t see her. “The Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex,” she said. Of course she remembered the Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex.

“Exactly,” he said. “The Summer of Conjugal Long Distance.”

Georgie had forgotten that nickname. It made her laugh. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I can’t have spectacular phone sex with you.” I haven’t had phone sex for fifteen years. “I’m wearing my mother’s lingerie.”