Georgie, All Along (108)

By the time Georgie’s gig was up, she was clear on that not being the case, though. She’d cried big, messy tears when she saw Hank and me waiting for her in passenger pickup at the Richmond airport; she’d wrestled herself into the extra coat I brought her and made sure she was touching me for the whole drive home. She said she missed the house, missed our bed. Missed the river and Hank and her parents, missed Nickel’s Market and everyone she worked with at The Shoreline. Missed being only a three-hour drive from Bel and Harry and Sonya.

Missed me most of all.

She’d done more than missing things during that time she spent away, though, and since she’s been back she’s put all her efforts from her time in California to work here at home. Right now she’s mixing her shifts at The Shoreline with remote work for some of the contacts she has in LA, people she’s built trust with for all the years she worked as an assistant. She can do it easy now that I—well, I ought to give Evan most of the credit—got her set up with a better Wi-Fi signal in the house. She does the kind of admin stuff that doesn’t mean she needs to be in front of anyone—meal delivery orders, travel arrangements, online shopping for stuff like terrier-size sweaters and special edition skin care packages that she has to set an alarm on UK time for. On her busy days I don’t know how Georgie makes it without screaming at that phone pinging in her hand, but she always handles it. Then when her day is done she turns it to silent and tells me and Hank all about it, laughing and decompressing in the way she says she never knew how to do before.

“Leviiiiiiiiiiiiiii,” I hear her say now, her footsteps on the wood following her voice, my favorite sounds. I turn to her and catch her up in a hug, spinning her again like I did on prom night, and she laughs against my neck.

“Happy birthday,” she says, for probably the hundredth time today. When I set her down I realize she’s got carrot cake on her face, but maybe for a few seconds I’ll stay quiet about it. I love the way she looks, messy and happy and fun.

“Thanks,” I tell her, lifting her hand to my mouth and kissing her palm.

“Got to be too much in there for ya, huh?” she says, teasing.

“Crowded,” I tell her.

“Another reason to get started on that extra room, am I right?”

Since she’s been back, Georgie and I have been talking about making some more space in the house, an office for her work and mine, a place where we could have Bel and Harry and Sonya stay when they come down from DC to visit. A place for whatever the future might hold for me and Georgie, too. At night we look up ideas on the Internet, and Georgie still laughs every time I add one to my Pinterest.

“Anyway, I told my parents to start wrapping things up in there,” she says. “So, you know. Probably in another two hours they’ll get going on that.”

I laugh, pulling her toward me so I can kiss her. It’s quicker than what I want, but for now it’ll have to do. “Thanks for the party,” I tell her, and she beams at me again.

“You liked it?”

“I loved it.”

She shuffles her feet in excitement, in happiness. This party was for me, but it was for Georgie, too. It’s the sort of thing that makes her happiest. Makes her who she is.

“One more present, though,” she says, stepping back from me.

“You weren’t even supposed to get me anything.”

She rolls her eyes. “Like I’d listen to that. Anyway, that rooster is really for Hank.”

I fold my arms across my chest, making my expression mock stern. Georgie calls it my milkshake face.

“Close your eyes,” she says, and I narrow them at her instead. She narrows hers right back, because she knows I’ll end up doing what she says.

I close my eyes.

“Hand out,” she adds, and I huff a big sigh like Hank does.

“This better be good, Mulcahy.”

I bet she’s blushing to hear that name. She loves when I call her that.

I put my hand out and wait.

After a second I feel a warm, light weight of plastic in my hand, a familiar shape my fingers close around immediately. If I was capable of beaming, I’d probably be doing it right back at her when I open my eyes.

“Had it right here in my pocket the whole time,” she says, patting the front of her overalls.

I look down at the Sharpie, remembering the day we dove into this river together, the start of our going back and going forward, all at the same time.

“Better dock than Buzzard’s Neck,” she says, repeating my long-ago words back to me.

“What about the party?” I ask her, but the truth is, I don’t think I care about the answer. I’m making a wish and getting in that water with her, one way or the other.

Georgie shrugs. “We’ll keep our clothes on this time,” she says. “It’ll give people something to talk about.”

“Hmm.” As if I’m thinking about it. She knows I’m not.

She knows I’m always game for trouble, when it comes to her.

I uncap the Sharpie. I think about that day again, when I was the one handing over the marker, trying to get Georgie to forgive me. I think about the spirit of Buzzard’s Neck, the small wishes we were all supposed to write on our arms while we waited for a new school year to start.

I don’t have to be any kind of small, not anymore. Not even with my wishes.