Georgie, All Along (22)

Nothing from Levi yet.

“He’s a supporting character in there anyway,” I say, which is true even if the heart a’s make it hard to see at first. I tuck the phone away again. “Easy to cut out. It’s the other stuff that matters.”

I tell her about the ideas I pulled from the fic for the list. Buzzard’s Neck, Sott’s Mill. The Bend. The hard cider/horror movie lineup. The rock outside the high school. The stuff that I could tell, from the detailed way I wrote about them, had represented a rite of passage for me. Had represented some kind of feeling to me.

“It’s a bucket list,” she says. “Except you’re doing it to start something, not to end it. What’s the opposite of a bucket?”

I have no idea what the opposite of a bucket is. The only thing I can think of is the metal thing you strain pasta in, and a colander list doesn’t sound super engaging.

“Never mind, I’ll think of something,” she says, in project manager mode. “When do we start?”

“We?” I try not to give a pointed look at her hip. There’s no way Bel is jumping off Buzzard’s Neck in her condition.

“Yeah, we. Evan may have been a supporting character, but I wasn’t, right? I should do this stuff with you.” She gives me a narrow-eyed look. “If you say one word about me being pregnant.. . .”

“I didn’t! But also, you do have a job. And a husband.”

“I work from home now. Isn’t the point of all this that I can be more flexible?”

I have doubts. As much as I’m flexible, Bel is . . . not. Schedules are her lifeline.

“As for Harry, I’m his wife, not his babysitter. I don’t see what he has to do with it.”

“I’m not trying to rope you into my mess, Bel.”

“Georgie Mulcahy,” she says, poking me again, harder this time. “We’ve been inside the same rope since we were nine years old. I want to do this with you.”

The way she says it . . . it’s almost vehement, and I know she won’t accept me turning her down. If she wants to do this with me, then it’s like she said: We’re in the same rope, and have been for ages. And it’s too rare to have this opportunity, where we actually can stand right next to each other inside it, where the rope isn’t having to stretch across the whole country.

A new excitement sparks inside of me, and I smile at her.

“Okay, Belly Button,” I say. “Let’s, you know, Conquer High School.”

*

WHEN I LEAVE Bel’s this time, no one’s waving concernedly from the porch at me, and that feels pretty good. In fact, lots of things feel good. It’s a gorgeous day, sunny and low-humidity hot, a rarity around here, and the air is so clean that the river smells salty and fresh.

Better than that, though, is the sense that I’m on to something. A plan for how to keep my promise to myself, a plan for being done with the blankness.

With this in my head, other plans take shape easily: I should get groceries, should actually unpack, especially since the garbage bags are still, shamefully, in the back seat. I decide to go back to Nickel’s, even though I dread who I might run into this time. I don’t think Levi Fanning is expecting that eight bucks for the milkshakes, but Ernie is, and I don’t want him to think I flaked, nor do I want to explain that I slept one room away from Levi last night and could’ve left money for him on the kitchen counter.

When I pull into the lot, there’s more cars—sleek SUVs, a few with out-of-state license plates, a couple of minivans with car-top carriers on. Tourists, which suits me fine. I’m checking my purse to make sure I’ve got my wallet this time when my phone chimes with a new message.

MAYBE: LEVI FANNING, the screen reads, and my stomach swoops with anticipation. This does not seem much healthier than hoping my old boss will text, but whatever. One victory at a time, and all that.

I swipe my finger across to read the message.

Any chance you were able to talk to your friend?

I frown down at the screen. That’s a little short. Or maybe I’m still wrestling with my guilt about not even raising the issue with Bel. I stall, either because of his curtness or my misgivings, adding Levi to my Contacts before I type back.

I’m guessing you struck out on the hotel front?

Cowardly, answering a question with a question.

There’s no point to me sitting here in this car waiting for him to type back; I can read and reply inside of Nickel’s as easily as I can inside of here. But something keeps the phone in my hand, my head down as I watch the typing bubble appear, then disappear.

Several times.

Finally: No problem. Thanks for last night.

Then, right after: Letting me crash I mean.

I furrow my brow. He didn’t really answer, and also, what was all that typing and deleting about? I truly do not know why I care, since it’s not as if I want another hugely awkward evening during which a dog might end up wearing my panties. Plus, I’ve got enough on my plate now, what with my plan and all.

But I do care.

Did you find a place to stay or not?

There’s no typing bubble this time, nothing at all for a long minute. I look out my windshield and see a family come out of Nickel’s—two men in swim trunks and T-shirts weighed down with reusable totes and two kids, faces pink from the sun, mouths bright blue from the popsicles they’re holding. They go to one of the vans and I smile on Ernie’s behalf. Tourists, indeed.