Landline(30)

“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.