Georgie, All Along (89)

“Who’s texting you there, boss?” says Laz, who definitely uses the term boss how Micah uses tree hugger. Laz is fifty-eight years old and has been building docks as long as I’ve been alive, but he freely admits he’s got no interest in the business side of things. He can handle himself in a pair of waders like no one I’ve ever seen, though, moving his body through water as if he was born to it.

“That’s gotta be his girlfriend,” Micah says, before I can answer. He tsks at whatever face I must make at him. “Don’t be out here pretending you don’t have a girlfriend. I’ve worked with you a long time, brother.”

I tuck my phone away, sip at my coffee to keep my face under control. I’m pretty sure Micah’s talking about the fact that more than once lately he’s caught me humming along to his music when he’s playing it. Last week I asked after those guinea fowl, unprompted, and that’s real unlike me.

“’Bout time,” says Laz. “I better call Carlos later, fill him in.”

I snort, but the truth is, this morning I don’t mind too much that Laz—who’s been good friends with Carlos for decades, and who saw me down and out way back when—still files these sorts of reports with Carlos. They’re never about the business, since Carlos has only ever talked to me about that. Instead they’re about me—my mood, my life. It used to make me madder than a wet hen, that watching-over shit, but I find I like the idea of Laz calling up Carlos now.

Telling him I’ve got someone special.

I get a pang in my chest, thinking about Georgie in my bed this morning, warm and sleeping, murmuring when I bent to kiss her goodbye. Love you, I think she said, but I figure it doesn’t count, not when she once rolled over in her sleep and told me she “fixed the cat’s cassette tapes.”

Still, after everything last night, I’m living with a kind of anticipation in my blood, and Georgie’s text only adds to it. It’s going to be a good day: work on this site, a trip out to see Hedi with some samples, and home to Georgie, where I hope she’ll tell me about the new baby, and where I hope she’ll say it to me for real.

I felt it in the way she kissed me, the way she held me.

It’s a heck of a thing, to have hope over someone’s feelings for me—as new as something just born, something just planted. Sure, I know these guys have my back; I know Carlos would do—has done—almost anything for me. I know Hedi wants me happy; I even know there’s more people around this town than I ever would have thought who want to see me do well. And maybe some of that’s love, but if it is, it’s not the sort I might get from Georgie.

What I might get from Georgie—I know that’d be like nothing I’ve ever had in my life.

“Tell him whatever you want,” I say, setting my coffee down on the truck bed, and this time, I don’t bother hiding my smile. “After we get shit done out here.”

I spend a few hours with them, squaring up the site and starting demo of the old structure. Every time my phone pings, I try not to look restless until I can check it, but I doubt I succeed. By early afternoon, when I’m getting in my truck to go see Hedi, I’m up to date on everything from Harry’s arrival (he threw up TWICE!) to the doctor on call (drs last name is BOX!!! is that funny or am I stressed) to the status of Annabel’s cervix (7 cm!!!!!!!!!! btw the health classes at our school were very inadequate about childbirth!!!!). I try to call her, but it goes to voice mail, and two minutes later, she messages to let me know there’s BIG HAPPENINGS, CALL U BACK <3 <3.

I don’t think I’ve ever rushed through a meeting with Hedi so fast in all the time I’ve known her, and I also don’t think I’ve ever been so good-natured about the shit she gives me over it. She says things like, “You must be too busy for science today, young Levi!” and “You don’t have time for your old professor, huh?” and “Oh, sure, rush out of here; it’s only the future of the planet!”

She also tells me I have one month to bring Georgie to meet her, and I get the sense she wants to give me a hug before I go. Instead she pats my shoulder and tells me I did a good job with the samples I brought her.

Halfway home, I finally get another text, and I pull over to look: it’s the picture I was waiting on, that brand-new baby’s red and wrinkled and grumpy face, its head covered in a pale yellow knit cap, and its tiny left hand curled into a tight fist pressed against its cheek. Georgie’s sent a row of heart emojis. NAME TBA, she adds. I’M IN LOVE.

And then, less than a minute later: with this baby but also with you. be home soon.<3

Before, I might’ve thought seeing it in a text would be disappointing—seeing it when I can’t hold her or kiss her or ask her to say it again, say it a bunch of different ways so I can pick my favorite. But now that it’s in front of me on the screen, I realize I’m relieved to be alone for this first one. I couldn’t explain even to Georgie why this moment is so private to me, why I press the button on the side of my phone to make the screen go dark, why I close my eyes and tip my head back against the headrest of my seat, overwhelmed with relief. I know it’s not everything, Georgie loving me back, and I know we’ve got a lot to sort out between us.

But right now—after what I told her last night—it’s pretty much everything to me.

When I get home, I’m still riding high, glad no one but Hank is there to witness the way I’m smiling to myself. I make a bigger fuss over him than usual, getting him real excited and encouraging him when he bolts out the door and runs in tight, joyful circles—a body restless with Dad’s home celebration. It’s good to watch him; it’s a kind of lesson. Hank’s always been good at reminding me how happiness looks. Once we’re back inside, he follows at my heels, hopping and panting, and I tell him about how I’m going to get cleaned up, how I’m going to make a big dinner. I stop myself from saying your mom’s coming home, but only barely.