Georgie, All Along (13)
Hell.
“Wait,” I call through the door. “You’ve got my—”
Hank barks happily from inside the house, as if this is some new fun game, and the woman yells back, “I’m getting pants!”
All of a sudden, the full weight of my day settles over me. The extra-early morning I’d needed in order to pack up the last of my shit for the next couple of weeks, the hustle and nerves of getting Hank to the one daycare place within thirty miles that’d take his breed. The messy morning hours I’d spent in waders over at Barbara Hubbard’s place, her reminding me every twenty minutes, with narrow-eyed skepticism, that I did things “real different” from Carlos. The rushed stop at Nickel’s for groceries that I’d only had time to drop off here before heading out again to deal with a permit snafu that’s probably going to stall payment on a job for the next month. The long drive back to pick up Hank, and the petty but brutal annoyance of getting stuck behind a tractor on a two-lane road for six miles of a commute I don’t usually have to make.
I scrape the hand that was covering my eyes down my face, over my beard. At this point, all I want is for the woman to crack the door and let Hank back out. I need to sleep off the remaining hours of this day, and if I have to do it outside of my own house but inside of my own truck, fine. It wouldn’t be the worst place I’ve ever spent a night.
Except . . . shit. Paul isn’t just doing me a favor by giving me a place to stay for a couple of weeks; I’m meant to be reciprocating by keeping an eye on things while he and Shyla are tooling around the country in an old RV that is, as near as I can figure, held together with zip ties and duct tape. Even before I had to vacate my house this morning, I’d been coming here every couple of days, picking up mail and checking on the plants and tidying up some of what Paul and Shyla seemed to have forgotten to put away before they’d gone. I can’t leave off now without finding out who this woman is and what she’s doing here, and whether she’s got their permission to be in the house.
Fuck.
I raise my eyes back to the door as she comes back into view, pulling back the faded sheer curtain to peer out of the glass. Her face is framed in one of the panes, and I get my first clear look at her—the riot of reddish-brown waves that falls past her shoulders, the dark brows over her narrowed brown eyes, the spray of freckles across her nose and flushed cheeks. She’s got her lips pursed and pulled slightly to one side, the expression so determinedly suspicious that I know for sure she’s let go of any illusions that I’m Evan, who I doubt has ever been on the receiving end of this sort of look in his life.
“I’m Levi,” I say through the glass, hoping she can hear me well enough. “Evan’s my younger brother.”
I’ve seen it before, what happens next. The recognition, then the slight recoil that tells me she’s from around here. She’s probably got a dozen memories of the Harris County rumor mill running through her mind as she looks at me. Mostly I stopped being bothered by it a long time ago.
Seeing it on her face, though, after I’d bailed her out earlier today? For some reason, it has me shifting on my feet in embarrassment.
“I just need my dog,” I say. And even though, so far as I can tell, she’s the intruder here, I add a placating, “I’ll call Paul from my truck, let him know what’s happened.”
She waits a few seconds, making some kind of calculation in her head. Probably weighing my gallant gesture from this morning against all the shit she’s heard about Levi Fanning, local troublemaker.
Then she unlocks and opens the door.
“I’m Georgie,” she says, still cautious. Hank stays inside, wagging his whole body beside her, as though he’s the one facilitating this introduction.
Oh Christ. Paul and Shyla’s daughter; I should’ve realized. I probably would have realized, back at Nickel’s, if I hadn’t had AirPods shoved in my ears and a podcast playing right up until I’d gone to check out. I’ve never met her, though I know she’s a few years younger than me, which would’ve kept us from crossing paths much, but I’d say about fifty percent of what Paul talks about is related to her.
Our girl lives out in California, sees the ocean right outside the window of her house every day!
Quite a success story, my Georgie. Working in a restaurant one day and rubbing elbows with the beautiful people the next!
Georgie got herself an Oscar last night! Well, she didn’t get one, but I gotta tell ya, my Georgie makes things happen in that town!
I don’t suppose I ever thought too much about the stuff Paul said about his daughter, since he’s got a real penchant for exaggeration. Once he told me that he met the ghost of Woody Guthrie in a fire circle after taking mushrooms he bought from Don Talbott, which could be true, but it seems awful unlikely. But now that Georgie’s actually in front of me, it’s clear how Paul’s stories had formed an inaccurate picture in my head about her—I would’ve guessed blond and tan, what with the bit about her living by the ocean, though that doesn’t make any more sense than meeting Ghost Woody Guthrie in a fire circle. And with all Paul’s talk of her Hollywood job, I would’ve figured a bit more polish about her—makeup on her face, fancy clothes, whatever.
But this girl. She looks like a country girl. Earlier today, when I stepped up to the counter at Nickel’s, I was mostly trying to keep my head down and that harpy music teacher from my high school out of her business, the only kind of public service I’m qualified for, since most people give me a wide berth unless I’m doing work for them. But I’d noticed that she’d had on a pair of wrinkled overalls that’d seen better days, and I’d noticed that cloud of wavy hair, her wide and embarrassed eyes. She didn’t have any kind of polish about her then, patting those pockets and pleading with Ernie, and she’s got even less now. She’s kept on whatever that robe is, bright as a peacock tail, and pulled the sides of it closed over her top, even though she’s got pants on now—soft and slouchy ones, and also bright pink, which truly look bonkers with the robe. I’m pretty sure she’s got food on her face, too. Peanut butter, if I had to guess. Dang, she looks a mess.