Landline(56)

“Brilliant deduction,” Georgie said. “My car’s parked outside. What are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” He gave up on his cuffs. “Are you kidding me? I mean, are you kidding me? What are you doing here! What are you doing, Georgie?”

Georgie rubbed her face in Neal’s T-shirt and glanced over at the phone—which was sitting next to her old alarm clock, which said noon. “Jesus,” she groaned. “Is it really almost noon?”

“Yes,” Seth said. “Noon. And you’re not at work, and you’re not answering your phone, and you’re still wearing those ridiculous clothes.”

“My battery’s dead.”

“What?”

She pulled the comforter tight around her waist. “I’m not answering my phone, because my battery’s dead.”

“Oh, good,” he said, “that explains why you’re at your mom’s house, having an epic lie-in.”

The doorbell rang. Heather looked at Georgie. “Are you okay?”

Seth threw his hands in the air. “Seriously! Heather! I think you can trust me to be alone with your sister, who has been my best friend longer than you have been alive.”

Heather pointed at him, threatening. “She’s fragile right now!”

The doorbell rang again.

“I’m fine,” Georgie said. “Get the door.”

Heather stomped out into the hall.

Seth ran a hand through his hair and shook his head. “Okay. Let’s not panic, we’ve still got time—and I’ve got coffee. There are still twelve workable hours left today, right? And then at least that many tomorrow. And maybe five or six on Christmas?”

“Seth . . .”

“What did she mean by ‘fragile’?”

“Look, Seth, I’m sorry. Just let me get dressed.”

“You’ve got your special Metallica T-shirt on,” he said. “Looks like you’re already dressed.”

“Just let me change, then. And brush my teeth and wake up. I’m sorry. I know we need to work on the scripts.”

“Jesus, Georgie”—he sat down hard on the bed, facing her—“do you think I care about the scripts?”

She folded her legs up under the comforter. “Yes.”

Seth’s head fell into his hands. “You’re right. I do. I care a lot about the scripts.” He looked up, despondently. “But finally getting our dream show won’t be that rewarding if you move back in with your mom and start sleeping eighteen hours a day.”

“I’m sorry,” she said.

He rucked both hands through his hair. “Stop. Saying that. Just . . . tell me what’s going on with you.”

She glanced over at the yellow phone. “I can’t.”

“I already know.”

“You do?” No, he couldn’t.

“I know it’s Neal. I’m not blind.”

“I never thought you were blind,” Georgie said. “Just self-absorbed.”

“You can talk to me about this.”

“I really can’t,” she said.

“The universe won’t unravel, Georgie.”

“Something else might.”

Seth sighed. “Just . . . did he leave you?”

“No.”

“But you guys aren’t talking.”

No, she thought, not since Wednesday. Then—yes, all night long.

“What makes you say that?” she asked.

Seth looked up, almost like he was embarrassed for her. “The way you’ve been taking your laptop with you to the bathroom, just in case your phone rings.”

“I have to leave it plugged in,” she said.

“Get a new phone.”

“I’m going to. I’ve been busy.”

Seth drew his lovely auburn eyebrows together. He looked like a concerned junior senator. Like the actor who’d get cast to play a concerned junior senator. Like the star of a lighthearted procedural on the USA Network. “Can’t you just tell him this is all my fault? Throw me under the bus.”

“That doesn’t actually work,” Georgie said, fisting her hands in the comforter in her lap. “Making you seem like an * just makes me seem like a person with * loyalties.”

Seth rolled his eyes. “He thinks I’m an * no matter how you make me out.”

She sighed and looked at the ceiling. “God. Seth. This is why we can’t talk about this.”

“What? I’m not saying that he’s an *. I’m saying that I know he thinks I am.”

“Neal is not an *.”

“I know,” Seth said.

“And I hate that word.”

“I know.”

She wanted to rub her eyes, but she didn’t want to let go of the comforter.

“I mean, he is sort of an * . . . ,” Seth said.

“Seth.”

“What? That’s his shtick, isn’t it? You know that’s his shtick. He’s like a Samuel L. Jackson character.”

“I can’t stand Samuel L. Jackson.”

“I know, but you like that whole ‘You wanna mess with me, punk, huh? Do ya?’ thing. You love that.”