Georgie, All Along (50)
“Yeah?”
I’m the one bracing now. What if he tells me that it’s going to be a hotel for him after all? What if he tells me that I did betray him, but he can’t even explain why, since he won’t tell me anything about the family he never speaks to, and that seems to never speak of him?
“I could do some of your list with you,” he says.
I could not be more shocked.
“What?”
“The stuff your friend can’t do. I could do some of it with you. If you wanted.”
“Really?”
He lifts one shoulder. “It’s like I said. Might be all right, to go back on some things.”
I’m blinking through my surprise, watching him watch the water. I don’t know for sure why Levi’s offering—if he’s worried I’ll fall off a hundred more docks before this thing is over, or if he’s got a secret store of whimsy that he’s showing only to me. But I realize it doesn’t much matter. What matters is how I want to experience the fic, and for some reason, I really, really like the idea of experiencing some of it with Levi.
“Okay,” I say.
He nods, but he doesn’t look at me when he adds, “I’d go back to the other night, for example. When you kissed me.”
“You would?” I say, which he might not even hear, because I’m pretty sure I basically . . . breathe it. I’ve never wished for a time machine to a Thursday night more in my life. I’m flushed all over, practically vibrating against this uncomfortable seat.
He looks at me now—mouth, eyes, mouth again, his gaze warm and focused.
“I would,” he says, his voice gruff. “We’re on a boat with my dog between us and you’re cold and soaked through, and I’ve got overtime work at two build sites today. But maybe sometime after that, you’d let me go back.”
“Uh,” I say, because this man sure knows how to make a sexy time machine type of offer. “I would.”
His lips curve up, and I’m pretty sure that’s because I must be beaming at him, waterlogged and stinking and smiling.
I may not have gotten to make my wish, but I have the sense one came true anyway.
“Pick something from your list for us,” he says. “And then we’ll go back together.”
Chapter 12
Levi
It’s days before we get to go back.
By Wednesday night, I’m starting to wonder whether my Saturday morning sighting of Georgie was a mirage, same as I thought it was when I first spotted her out on the rickety edge of Buzzard’s Neck dock—wearing those ragged cut-off shorts and an old T-shirt, bathed in perfect morning light. After all, I’d gone out on the water to try to clear my head, having spent the whole night before thinking about her—tossing and turning with the knowledge that she wasn’t asleep in the next room, that I might’ve missed my chance.
I’ve been tossing and turning pretty much every night since, waiting for that chance to come around again.
Worrying over it coming around again.
When I dropped Georgie off at home on Saturday and headed out to my first job site of the day, I figured I’d be seeing her again soon—that night even—and I think she’d figured the same. It’d been why we’d both seemed to silently agree to not start anything until we could do it right—when one of us didn’t have to get to work and another one of us didn’t have a fair bit of soggy plant life tangled in her hair.
But neither of us counted on the call Georgie got later that day—her friend from the dock was having contractions, too-soon type of contractions, and Georgie had spent the night at the regional medical center about forty-five minutes outside of town. By Sunday morning, things were settled enough for Annabel to be discharged, the problem mostly being Braxton-Hicks, but also an elevated blood pressure that needed to be watched. Georgie had come home only long enough to do some quick, frantic packing. The plan was for her to stay at her friend’s place for the next few nights, since the husband was headed out of town on business, and Annabel had insisted he not cancel his trip.
Since I’m not an asshole, I’m not resenting anyone for a medical problem, or for being the kind of friend Georgie is, stepping in where she’s needed. And Georgie’s been texting me every day, checking on how I’m doing with Hank, whose staples will be coming out any day now. Sometimes she texts me with other things, too—funny updates about setting up her bedridden friend’s videoconferences; pictures of high school memorabilia findings from some storage room she’s sorting through; a long, multi-text story about trying to get Ernie Nickel’s strawberry milkshake recipe over the phone. It’s more text messages from one person than I’ve ever gotten in my life, and I can’t say as I mind them, even if half the time I’ve got no idea how to respond.
But they’re not the same as seeing her, as hearing her. They’re not the same as having her close.
And the time on my own hasn’t done me any favors.
“Come on, pal,” I call to Hank, who’s been working on chewing at an antler in the living room while I’ve been cleaning up the kitchen. Every night we’ve been here alone, Hank and I have taken to going back out into the yard after dinner, where he gets some face time with that rooster and I get to work on distracting myself with stuff Paul Mulcahy’s not been tending to. Tonight I’ve got a mind to get after one of those rotted planter boxes, and once Hank settles in front of his gigantic bird friend, I start in on pulling rusty nails, wishing my mind was as simple as my dog’s.