Georgie, All Along (75)

I concentrate on slicing a zucchini, wishing I’d picked a freezer meal that would’ve required less chopping.

And less self-doubt.

She shakes out the cheese grater, sighing heavily as she transfers the pile of parmesan to a bowl. “Fine,” she grumbles, grudgingly accepting that I want to change the subject. “Have you heard from Nadia again?”

Oddly enough, that particular question does remind me of my progress—a few weeks ago, the mention of Nadia’s name would’ve either had me at best twitching to check my phone or at worst slipping into the sense of emptiness I used to feel without her telling me what to do. Now, though, I’m simply pleasantly surprised that she’s still into donkeys and cacti, and the desert in general.

I nod. “We texted a bit last week. She sent me pictures of a blanket she’s crocheting.”

I’d sent her back some pictures of my own: the spray-painted rock, no explanation. Hank asleep on the dock, a tiny blep of pink tongue peeking out. A view from the restaurant’s patio on an impossibly clear day, the water and sky arguing over who was the more beautiful blue. The mobile for Bel and Harry’s baby that I assembled, hanging above the waiting crib. The pile of tissue paper flowers my mom and I finally finished, which she says she might turn into a wall art installation.

Nadia had replied with so many red hearts that I’d had to scroll to reach the end of her text bubble.

“Crocheting!” Bel says. “She is done working, huh?”

“I think so.” I’ve finished with the zucchini, and according to Levi’s fancy book, there are still approximately one hundred more vegetables to chop. Following recipes is terrible.

“And you? It’s . . . you’re still liking your work, at the inn?”

“Sure,” I say, noncommittal. Across the island, that tight, insistent energy is coming off of Bel, and I recognize it as the same fixation she’d had on work, only now it’s redirected. She’s taking the first day of this maternity leave hard, so I’ll handle the questions if that’s what she needs from me.

“I’ve never minded waitressing, and adding in the spa shifts has been nice—Olivia’s got a good thing going there, though she’s understaffed, too.”

“Maybe you can take over! Be the manager or something?”

I huff a laugh, amused by Bel’s stalwart commitment to giving this situation a Hallmark-movie ending: The Shoreline as the proverbial cupcake shop, my professional future tidily settled.

Across from me, she’s quiet for a few seconds, and my shoulders relax slightly—my strained mood matched with my efforts at recipe-following are enough stress without the interrogation. But then she says, “Can we go out tonight?”

I blink up at her. “Out?”

She shifts awkwardly on her stool. “You haven’t done The Bend yet, right? From the fic?”

“No, but—”

“I can do that one with you. My hip is good, honestly, and my doctor says moving around regularly is the best thing for it. My blood pressure is fine, too.”

“Bel,” I say, and as soon as I do, I hear it: that subtle note of caution that I’ve heard in Harry’s voice a dozen times since the night we spent at the hospital. I know I’ve made a mistake.

Bel’s eyes flash in frustration.

“I want to go,” she says, her voice firm in the same way she uses during her work calls. “This is one I can actually do with you, and I want to.”

“I want you to. It’s only—”

She holds up a parmesan-dusted hand, stopping me. “It’s only nothing, Georgie. You’ve been so good to me, doing everything around here and”—she waves a hand at all my accumulated chopping—“finding all these ways to help me, but now without work I . . .”

She closes her eyes and takes a shaky breath, and I set down my knife and reach for her hand, not caring that we’re probably going to melt a glaze of parmesan between our warm palms.

“Babe,” I say.

“I know I’m not useless, because . . . hello, I’m growing a baby? But also, I feel useless. I feel . . . not like myself. I want to go somewhere that’s not this house or the doctor’s office, and I want to be the me I was before I got pregnant.”

“I get it.” Obviously I’ve never grown a baby, but still, I relate at least on some level. I know all about feeling useless, about wanting to go back, and if that’s what I need to do to help Bel now, I will, even if I’m about to get a howler from Harry. It’ll probably be like, Georgie, I don’t think this is a good idea, but that’s the same as Harry being mad.

“Also, I want to meet Levi. Actually meet him. I’ll text Harry; you text Levi, and we’ll all go out.”

I drop her hand and set my own on my hip, narrowing my eyes at her. I like this plan because it doesn’t cut out Harry, but I don’t like that Bel is probably still going to be in the sort of mood that makes her ask Levi whether we’re getting married.

She reads my mind. “I promise, I won’t ask after his intentions,” she says, accentuating that drawl I hear more in her voice lately.

“He might not want to go. He . . .” I trail off, never having explained to Bel about Levi liking to keep his head down, his nose clean. “The Bend probably isn’t his scene.”