CHAPTER 7
Georgie’s mother had spectacular cleavage. Tan, freckled, ten miles deep.
“Genetics,” her mom said when she caught Georgie looking.
Heather shoved a bowl of green beans into Georgie’s arm. “Were you just staring at Mom’s breasts?”
“I think so,” Georgie said. “I’m really tired—and she’s kinda begging for it in that shirt.”
“Oh, sure,” Heather said. “Blame the victim.”
“Not in front of Kendrick,” their mom said. “You’re making him blush.”
Kendrick smiled down at his spaghetti and shook his head.
Her mom had caught Georgie on her cell phone that afternoon while she was waiting for Neal to call. “Let me make you dinner. I’m worried about you.”
“Don’t,” Georgie had said. “Don’t worry.” But she’d still agreed to come by after work.
Her mom made spaghetti with homemade meatballs, and pineapple upside-down cake for dessert. And they’d all waited for Georgie to get there before they started eating, so she didn’t feel like she could excuse herself right away to call Neal. (It was almost seven thirty already, nine thirty in Omaha.) Georgie had tried Neal’s cell phone twice on the way here. Her calls went straight to voice mail again—which didn’t necessarily mean he was still hanging out with Dawn, but also didn’t prove that he wasn’t.
(It was stupid to worry about Dawn. Neal was a teenager when he was with Dawn.) (But weren’t people constantly leaving their spouses the moment their prom dates friended them on Facebook?) (Plus Dawn never got old. In any sense of the word. It was always good to see her, and she always looked good. The last time Georgie’d seen Dawn, at Neal’s dad’s funeral, she looked like she’d never been removed from the package.) “Did you talk to the girls today?” her mom asked.
“I talked to them yesterday.”
“How are they taking everything?”
“Fine.” Georgie choked down half a meatball. “There’s not actually anything to take, you know.”
“Kids are perceptive, Georgie. They’re like dogs”—she offered a meatball from her own fork to the pug heaped in her lap—“they know when their people are unhappy.”
“I think you may just have reverse-anthropomorphized your own grandchildren.”
Her mom waved her empty fork dismissively. “You know what I mean.”
Heather leaned into Georgie and sighed. “Sometimes I feel like her daughter. And sometimes I feel like the dog with the least ribbons.”
Heather was eating spaghetti, too, but out of a restaurant to-go box. Georgie decided not to ask. She glanced up at the clock—seven forty-five.
“You know, I promised I’d call Neal before it gets too late.” She’d promised his voice mail, anyway. “I’m just going to use the phone in my room, if that’s okay.”
“But you haven’t finished eating,” her mom protested.
Georgie was already halfway down the hall. “I’ll be back!”
Her heart was beating hard when she got to her room. Was she that out of shape? Or just that nervous?
She curled her fingers behind the hooks of the yellow phone and sat on the bed, pulling it into her lap and waiting to catch her breath.
Please answer, she thought, picturing Neal’s somber blue eyes and his stern jaw. Picturing his strong pale face. Please. I just really need to hear your voice right now.
She started dialing his cell, then hung up and tried the landline—maybe Margaret was a better bet to pick up; their parents’ generation still felt morally obligated to answer phones.
Georgie listened to it ring, trying to hold down the butterflies in her stomach. Trying to crush them, actually, into butterfly bits and pieces.
“Hello?”
Neal. Finally.
Neal, Neal, Neal.
The butterflies burst back to life and started fluttering up Georgie’s throat. She swallowed. “Hey.”
“Georgie.” He said it like he was confirming something. Gently confirming.
“Hey,” she repeated.
“I didn’t think you’d call again.”
“I told your mom I would. I told you the last time we talked—why wouldn’t I?”
“I don’t know, I didn’t think you’d call then either.”
“I love you,” she blurted out.
“What?”
“The last time we—you hung up before I could tell you that I love you.”
“So you called to say you love me?”
“I . . .” Georgie felt so confused. “I called to make sure you got in okay. To see how you are. To see how the girls are.”
Neal laughed. Not in a good way. It was the sound effect his defenses made when they snapped into place. “The girls,” he said. “The girls are fine. Are you talking about Dawn? Because I haven’t seen her.”
“What? Your mom said you were over there today.”
“When did you talk to my mom?”
“Today. She said Dawn was showing you her cockatiel. Amadeus.”
“Dawn’s cockatiel is named Falco.”
Georgie tucked in her chin, defensively. “Sorry. I’m not an expert on Dawn’s cockatiels.”
“Neither am I.”
She shook her head and took her glasses off, holding her palm against her eye. “Neal. Look. I’m sorry. This isn’t why I called.”
“Right. You called to tell me that you love me.”
“Yeah. Actually. Yes, I did. I love you.”
“Well, I love you, too. That isn’t the problem, Georgie.” His voice was almost a whisper.
Georgie whispered, too: “Neal. I didn’t know you were this upset. You should have told me you were this upset before you left. I wouldn’t have let you go—I would have come with.”
He laughed again, and this time it was even worse. “I should have told you?” he hissed. “I did tell you. I said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I said ‘I love you, but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it will ever be enough.’ I said, ‘I don’t want to live like this, Georgie’—remember?”
Georgie was speechless. She did remember. But . . .
“Just a second,” Neal said quietly. “I don’t want to have this conversation in front of my parents. . . .” What he said next was muffled: “Dad, can you hang this up when I get upstairs?”
“Sure, tell your Georgie girl I said hi.”
“You can tell her yourself. She’s right there.”
“Georgie?” someone said into the phone. Someone who was not Neal’s dad. Who couldn’t be.
“Mr. Grafton?”
“We’re sorry you couldn’t come for Christmas this year. We made it snow for you and everything.”