Georgie, All Along (45)

Her car’s not in its usual spot, but I don’t worry too much over it; I might even see it as an advantage. Time for a shower, time to get something prepped. Hell, I’ll set up two candles this time, get more of that glowing light that played over her skin while she ate, more of that flame dancing in her eyes while she looked at me.

At the back door, I fumble with my keys, caught off guard by this nervous anticipation. Part of me thinks it’s Hedi’s influence—she’s a one-woman idea generator, always coming up with some new hypothesis, some new experiment to test it out.

But this anticipation, this excitement . . . I doubt it’s the same as coming up with a new idea. I search for a memory of the last time I felt this way, and can’t come up with one easily. When Carlos offered me a job? When I signed the papers for the business, or for my house?

No, it’s not like any of that, either.

This is something fiercer, more absorbing. Maybe something I’ve never experienced at all.

Georgie’s been here; I see her dishes in the sink and one of her hair ties on the counter. In front of the couch, a pair of her shoes lie haphazardly on the floor, as if she toed them off right there. I picture her bare feet and bare legs, curled up while she maybe took a nap there.

Come home, I think, with all that fierce anticipation stirring in me.

I’m headed toward the shower when my phone chirps in my pocket, and automatically, instinctively, anticipation shrinks into disappointment. I slide it from my back pocket, and Hank sniffs at my hand, as though he’s got that sense about things, too.

I’m going to stay at my friend Bel’s tonight. I can be back early tomorrow, though, if you need me to watch Hank! Hope you had a good day.

I stare down at the phone, feeling like my hands have slipped off a trapeze bar, but I shake it off quick, reach down to pat Hank’s flank, make my body physically unbothered even as I wrestle down the disappointment.

No need, I type, once I’ve got myself under control again. Thanks for checking.

I put my phone on silent and toss it onto the couch.

And when I head to the shower, I try to tell myself that this isn’t disappointment, after all.

I try to tell myself it’s relief.





Chapter 11


Georgie


“Now that I’m thinking about this . . .”

“Harry,” I say, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice, “Do not say it.”

He goes quiet for a half second, then clears his throat. I don’t look over at him.

“It’s only that—”

“Honey,” Bel interrupts him. “Why don’t you go wait in the car?”

He doesn’t answer, but actually maybe he does; he and Bel are probably doing the kind of silent married-people communication that makes this moment all the worse. It’s pretty much the same kind of communication they did when I showed up unexpectedly after my shift at The Shoreline, desperate not to go home yet. Desperate enough to have dealt with these sorts of looks all evening, especially when—after insisting on working on the junk room—I asked if I could stay over.

Because I am a coward. An embarrassed, still-guilt-ridden coward.

When I finally glance their way, I can see Harry’s still wrestling with himself. It’s eight o’clock on a Saturday morning and he is wearing an unwrinkled blue linen button-up, which is why I am definitely going to pull the trigger on donating all those old T-shirts. I guess except for the one I’m wearing, which I borrowed this morning. I enjoy the way it makes me appear as a person who runs long distances for pleasure.

“Agree,” I say gently. “Wait in the car.”

He sighs, giving one more long, suspicious look at the water surrounding the Buzzard’s Neck dock, but I ignore him. I may have been a coward last night, but I am not going to be one this morning.

At least not about the fic.

“Fine, but I’m going to be watching.” He turns to Bel. “You’re not going in, right?”

“Definitely not!” she says, patting her belly. When he walks away she makes an annoyed face but also a dreamy, in-love face. “He’s so protective.”

With Harry gone, I breathe easier. I love the guy, but I don’t think he understands the notebook, which is fair enough but also a little lowering, especially since he’s tried, ever since Bel and I told him about it last night, to be supportive. When I’d announced that next on my list was Buzzard’s Neck, he’d said, “I’ll drive you two.” I hadn’t wanted to turn him down, especially since I’d known already that for Bel, Buzzard’s Neck would be a spectator event. At least this way, she wouldn’t be left totally behind.

I slip off my old Birkenstocks.

“The thing is,” Bel says, “Harry might have a point.”

“Not you too,” I groan.

“I mean! Now that we’re here, I’m kind of wondering! Maybe this is one of those things that would only be fun for a teenager?”

I gust out a sigh and rub at my tired eyes, taking in my surroundings. Buzzard’s Neck looks a lot worse for wear than when we were kids, unless my memory is faulty. Back then, it had an air of mystery about it, a plot of land where there was nothing much besides an abandoned farmhouse and this dock. What made it appealing was that it had a pretty much perfect cove of water, clear and protected, a wishing well for your body. The farmhouse might not be all that different looking—still dilapidated—but the water’s lost its crystalline quality. I wouldn’t say it’s murky, exactly, but I wouldn’t say it’d make your dreams come true, either.