Landline (11 page)

“You think I should break up with you?” he said. “You want that?”

“Those are two different questions.”

“You think I’d be better off without you?”

“Probably.”
Say it
, she told herself.
Just say it.
“I mean—
yes
. Look at everything you said after that party. Look at the evidence.”

“A lot has happened since I said that.”

“You saw a double rainbow,” she said, “and now you believe in aliens.”

“No. You called three times to tell me that you love me.”

Georgie caught her breath and held it. She’d called Neal so many more times than that.

He sounded like he was holding the phone even closer to his mouth now: “
Do
you love me, Georgie?”

“More than anything,” she said. Because she was still telling the truth, damn the torpedoes. “More than everything.”

Neal huffed, maybe in relief.

“But,” she kept pushing, “you said that might not be enough.”

“It might not be.”

“So . . .”

“So I don’t know,” Neal said. “But I’m not breaking up with you. I can’t right now. Are you breaking up with me?”

“No.”

“Let’s start over,” he said softly.

“How far back?”

“Just to the beginning of this conversation.”

Georgie took a deep breath. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” he said. “I did it in twenty-seven hours.”

“Idiot.”

“And I saw a double rainbow.”

“Miraculous.”

“And when I got here, my mom had made all my favorite Christmas cookies.”

“Lucky.”

“I wish you were here, Georgie—it snowed for you.”

This wasn’t happening. This was a hallucination. Or a schizophrenic episode. Or . . . a dream.

Georgie slumped back against her headboard and brought the tightly coiled telephone cord up to her mouth, biting on the rubbery plastic.

She closed her eyes and kept playing along.

“I
can’t believe you drove straight through.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“You drove for twenty-seven hours. I think that’s illegal.”

“For truckers.”

“For a reason.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I started dropping off a bit in Utah, but I stopped the car and walked around.”

“You could have died. Right there. In Utah.”

“You make it sound like that’s worse than regular dying.”

“Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“I promise never to almost die in Utah. I’ll be extra careful from now on around Mormons.”

“Tell me more about the aliens.”

“Tell me more about the drive.”

“Tell me more about your parents.”

“Tell me more about Omaha.”

Georgie just wanted to hear his voice, she didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t want Neal to stop.

There were moments when it started to rise up on her, what was happening. What she had access to, real or not.
Neal
.
1998
. The immensity of it—the improbability—kept creeping up the back of Georgie’s skull like dizziness, and she kept shaking it off.

It was like getting him back. Her Neal. (Her old Neal.)

He was right there, and she could ask him anything that she wanted.

“Tell me more about the mountains,” Georgie said, because she wasn’t really sure what to ask. Because
“tell me where I went wrong”
might break the spell.

And because what she wanted more than anything else was just to keep listening.

“I went to see
Saving Private Ryan
without you.”

“Good.”

“And my dad and I are going to see
Life Is Beautiful.
”

“Good. You should also rent
Schindler’s List
without me.”

“We’ve been through this,” he said. “You need to watch
Schindler’s List.
Every human being needs to watch
Schindler’s List.
”

Georgie still hadn’t. “You know I can’t do anything with Nazis.”

“But you like
Hogan’s Heroes.
. . .”

“That’s where I draw the line.”

“The Nazi line?”

“Yes.”

“At Colonel Klink.”

“Obviously.”

She wasn’t crying anymore. Neal wasn’t growling.

She was burrowed under the comforter, holding the phone lightly against her ear.

He was still there. . . .

“So Christmas with the Pool Man, huh?”

“God,” Georgie said. “I forgot I called him that.”

“How could you forget? You’ve been calling him that for six months.”

“Kendrick’s not so bad.”

“He doesn’t seem bad—he seems nice. Do you really think they’ll get married soon?”

“Yeah. Probably.”
Imminently
.

“When did you get so Zen about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time we talked about it, you went on a whole rant about how weird it is. About how you and your mom are now drawing from the same dating pool.”

Oh. Right.
Georgie laughed. “And you said, ‘No, your mom’s dating pool is literally a pool.’ . . . God. I remember that.”

Neal kept going: “And then you said that if your mom proceeds at her current pattern and rate, your next stepdad must currently be in the sixth grade. That was funny.”

“You thought that was funny?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You didn’t laugh.”

“You know I don’t laugh, sunshine.”

Georgie rolled over and switched the phone to the other side of her head, curling up again under the comforter. “I still can’t believe my mom was checking out twenty-something guys at
forty
. That she was looking at college guys and thinking, ‘Yep. Fair game. Totally doable.’ I don’t think I ever appreciated how disturbing that was until
just now
.” That would be like Georgie hooking up with Scotty. Or with one of Heather’s friends—her pizza boy. “Guys in their early twenties are
babies
,” she said. “They don’t even have all their facial hair yet. They’re literally not done with puberty.”

“Hey, now.”

“Oh. Sorry. Not you.”

“Right. Not me. Unlike many of my peers, I’m plenty mature enough to date your mom.”

“Stop! Neal! Don’t even joke.”

“I knew you weren’t suddenly Zen about this.”

“God. My mom’s a pervert. She’s a libertine.”

“Maybe she’s just in love.”

“I’m sorry about the party,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Georgie.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“That it existed? That you were a huge hit?”

“That I made you go.”

“You didn’t make me go,” he said. “You can’t
make
me do anything—I’m an adult. And I’m much stronger than you.”

“Upper body strength isn’t everything; I have wiles.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I do. I’m a woman. Women have wiles.”

“Some women. It’s not like every woman is born wily.”

“If I don’t have wiles,” she said, “how come I can get you to do almost anything I want?”

“You don’t
get
me to do anything. I just do things. Because I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Christ, Georgie, don’t sound so disappointed.”

“Neal . . . I really am sorry. About the party.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s not just my upper body,” he said. “My entire body is stronger than yours. I can pin you in like thirty-five seconds.”

“Only because I
let
you,” she said. “Because I love you.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Neal.”

“I’m pretty sure I don’t sound disappointed at all.”

Georgie sank deeper into her pillow. She pulled her comforter up to her chin. She closed her eyes.

If this was just a dream, she wished she could have it every night—Neal not-quite-whispering sweet somethings into her ear.

“My parents were disappointed that you didn’t come home with me.”

“I’ll bet your mom was happy to have you to herself.”

“My mom likes you.”

She didn’t. Not in 1998.

“I think that’s an exaggeration,” Georgie said. “She intentionally frowns whenever I try to be funny—it’s like
not laughing
at me isn’t a strong enough negative reaction.”

“She doesn’t know what to do with you—but she likes you.”

“She thinks I want to write jokes for a living.”

“You do.”

“
Knock-knock
jokes.”

“My mom likes you,” he said. “She likes that you make me happy.”

“Now you’re putting words in her mouth.”

“I am not. She told me so herself, the last time they came to see me in L.A., after we all went to that tamale place.”

“She did?”

“She said she hadn’t seen me smile so much since I was a kid.”

“When were you smiling? No one in your family smiles. You’re a dynasty of wasted dimples.”

“My dad smiles.”

“Yeah . . .”

“They like you, Georgie.”

“Did you tell them why I didn’t come?”

“I told them your mom wanted you to stay home for Christmas.”

“I guess that’s true,” she said.

“Yeah.”

It was one in the morning. Three in the morning in Omaha. Or wherever Neal was.

The hand that was holding the phone to her ear had gone numb, but Georgie didn’t roll over.

She should let him go. He was yawning. He might even be falling asleep—she’d had to repeat her last question.

But Georgie didn’t want to.

Because . . .

Well, because she couldn’t expect this to go on. Whatever this was. This thing that she’d started, just in the last few hours, to think of as a gift.

And because . . . she wasn’t sure when she’d hear Neal’s voice again.

“Neal. Are you asleep?”

“Hmmm,” he answered. “Almost. I’m sorry.”

“S’okay. Just—why didn’t you want to talk about everything tonight?”

“
Everything
. You mean, why didn’t I want to fight?”

“Yeah.”

“I—” He sounded like he was moving, maybe sitting up. “—I felt so bad when I left California, and I felt so bad when I yelled at you on the phone last night, and—I don’t know, Georgie, maybe it’s never going to work with us. When I think about coming back to L.A., all my anger starts to come back. I feel trapped, and frustrated, and I just want to drive as far as I can away from there. Away from you, honestly.”

“God, Neal . . .”

“Wait, I’m not done. I feel that way. Until I hear your voice. And then . . . I don’t want to break up with you. Not right now. Definitely not tonight. Tonight, I just wanted to pretend that all that other stuff wasn’t there. Tonight, I just wanted to be in love with you.”

She pressed the phone into her ear. “What about tomorrow?”

“You mean today?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“We’ll figure it out when we get there.”

“Do you want me to call you later? Today?”

Neal yawned. “Yeah.”

“Okay. I’ll let you go to sleep now.”

“Thanks,” he said. “Sorry I’m so tired.”

“It’s okay. Time zones.”

“Tell me again.”

“What?”

“Why you called.”

Georgie squeezed the phone. “To make sure you’re okay. To tell you that I love you.”

“I love you, too. Never doubt it.”

A tear slipped over the bridge of her nose, into the eye below. “I never do,” she said. “Never.”

“Good night,” Neal said.

“Good night,” Georgie answered.

“Call me.”

“I will.”

G
eorgie stretched and rolled into someone.

Neal?

Maybe this was it. Maybe she was waking up from whatever this was, and Neal would be here . . . and Uncle Henry and Auntie Em.

She was scared to open her eyes.

A phone rang next to her head. Some Beyoncé ringtone.

Georgie rolled over and looked at Heather, who was sitting on top of the comforter, answering her phone.

“Mom,” Heather said, “I’m in the same house—this is lazy, even for you. . . . Fine. Be patient, I said I’d ask her.” She looked at Georgie. “Do you want waffles?”

Georgie shook her head.

“No,” Heather said. “She says no. . . . I don’t know, she just woke up. Do you have to work today?” She poked Georgie. “
Hey
. Do you have to work today?”

Georgie nodded and looked at the clock. Not quite nine. Seth wouldn’t be calling the police yet.

“Okay,” Heather said into the phone, then sighed. “I love you, too. . . . No, Mom, it’s not that I mind saying it, but you’re right down the hall. . . . Fine. I love you. Good-bye.”

She ended the call and flopped down next to Georgie. “Good morning, sleepyhead.”

“Good morning.”

“How are you?”

Delusional. Possibly certifiable. Weirdly happy.
“Fine,” Georgie said.

“Really?”

“What do you mean, ‘really’?”

“I mean,” Heather said, “I know you have to tell
Mom
that you’re fine, no matter what, but if you were
really
fine, you wouldn’t be here.”

“I’m fine, I just don’t feel like going home to an empty house.”

“Did Neal actually leave you?”

“No,” Georgie said, then groaned. “I mean, I don’t think so.” She reached for her glasses. They were balanced on the headboard. “He was mad when he left, but—I think he’d tell me if he was leaving me. Don’t you think he’d tell me?” She was asking it seriously.

Heather made a face. “God, Georgie, I don’t know. Neal’s not much of a talker. I didn’t even know you guys were having problems.”

Georgie rubbed her eyes. “We’re always having problems.”

“Well, it doesn’t ever look like it. Every time I talk to you, Neal is bringing you breakfast in bed, or making you a pop-up birthday card.”