Georgie, All Along (36)

“Anyway,” she continues, “I found the list, then figured I’d do the list, or at least some of it, you know? Sort of an exercise. I wanted these things once, and maybe they’ll help me understand something about myself now.”

I think about the notebook I’ve seen her with the last couple of days. It didn’t look much like a list to me, but maybe Georgie’s lists are similar to her meal preparation.

“Is it working?”

She huffs—a messy, inelegant sound, and all I can think is: I want to have that sound up close. I’d get her to laugh, somehow, and she’d do it, a noisy puff of her breath against me.

It’d feel so good, I think.

“Not yet,” she says, her face falling. “Today was my first one. I went to Sott’s Mill, which was always a big deal when I was a teenager.”

I get up to Sott’s Mill sometimes for jobs, but I know what she means, about what it was like when we were younger. Kind of a destination spot. My mom and dad used to take us there every couple of months for shopping, at least back when it didn’t embarrass them to take me places.

“It wasn’t what you expected?”

She frowns, shifts again in her seat. “Well, there were more antiques.”

Then she looks down at her plate, her expression thoughtful, a little sad. I’ve got a mind to wrap my hand around the arm of that rickety old chair and yank it up against mine. I know I’ve entirely lost sight of friendly, and it’s all on account of how fragile she looks right now.

“It was maybe a silly idea,” she adds. “I’m not sure if I should keep going with it.”

I think of Micah calling her flaky. But the thing is, she doesn’t seem flaky to me. She seems . . . she seems expansive, to use her word. Full to bursting. The kind of person who’d have a hard time with any sort of list, but somehow, in the best possible way.

“Doesn’t seem silly to me,” I say.

“It doesn’t?”

I shake my head. “Sounds like a nice opportunity to . . . to go back, in a way. See if that sets you on a different path.”

“Yes!” she says, straightening in her chair, her eyes wide.

“That’s exactly it!”

I thought her excitement about my pizza was nice, but this is better. I don’t want to lose that feeling yet.

“What’s on the list?”

The excitement in her eyes turns to trepidation.

“Oh. Well, silly stuff mostly. The kind of thing I did today. Probably I should’ve put study for my SATs on there.”

“That wouldn’t do you much good now, though. Don’t think they let anyone as old as you take it.”

She laughs, and I think of that breath I wanted on my skin. I’m so restless with the wanting of it—you did it, you got her to laugh—that I stand, moving toward the door to let Hank back out now that he’s done eating. He nudges at my leg in speedy gratitude and then bolts out into the yard to see that rusted-out rooster he’s gotten fond of, and I sit back down. For a few minutes, Georgie and I eat quietly, until I remember the last thing I said is something about her being old.

“If it makes you feel better,” I say, “I never would’ve thought to make a list like that when I was that age.”

She eyes me cautiously, and I get it. It’s close to where things went wrong the other night, but it’s different now—there’s fresh air, the sound of Shyla’s wind chimes tinkling, fireflies starting to light out in the tree line. No trap doors, or if there are, I’m opening them myself.

“Yeah?”

I nod, and I can see her swallow, see the wariness in her gaze. I can sense what she wants to ask.

What would have been on it, if you had?

But she doesn’t ask, and I should be relieved, because I don’t have an answer. I should let it go, change the subject. I could probably get into something about guinea fowl. Not the noise they make, but the other stuff.

Instead, I clear my throat, stack some of the dirty plates, and say, “Seemed I only ever could think about the day I was on. Everything else was pretty much a blank.”

At first I think she must not have heard me, that my plate stacking drowned out the low, guarded way I spoke. But when I steal a glance up at her, I see that she’s watching me closely, intensely, all caution in her gaze gone.

“How do you mean?” she says quietly. “How do you mean, a blank?”

I resist the urge to slam the trap door shut again. I’m the one who started this, and anyway, I don’t think I could look away from her now. I can see the flicker-flame of the not-meant-to-be-romantic candle in the bright pools of her eyes, and they look full of the kind of hope I’m not used to having directed at me unless it’s about repairing pilings.

“Couldn’t see where I fit. Couldn’t see what everyone else seemed to see for themselves, that’s for sure. College, or a career.” The family business. The family at all.

She blinks, but it doesn’t clear any of that hopefulness. She looks strung tight like a bow; for once, the opposite of expansive.

“But now you do? See where you fit?”

I swallow, blink down, and resume my plate stacking. “I see some things,” I say, which isn’t a lie. I see the jobs I have lined up; I see the plans I have for my house. I see the things I have to do to take care of Hank every day. I see more than I ever did when I was young, and that’s a good thing. Healthy and stable and better than anyone ever expected of me.