For a hallucination, this conversation was progressing very rationally. (Which made sense; Georgie had always been good at writing dialogue.) She’d guessed right: She was obviously talking to Neal—or imagining that she was talking to Neal—just after their big Christmas fight, in college.
But they hadn’t talked after that fight.
Neal didn’t call Georgie after he left for Omaha, so Georgie didn’t call him either. He’d just shown up at the end of the week, on Christmas morning, with an engagement ring. . . .
“You still sound pretty upset,” Neal said. Not-Neal said. Hallucinatory, aural-mirage Neal said.
“I’ve had a weird day,” Georgie replied. “Also—I think you might have broken up with me a few days ago.”
“No,” he said quickly.
She shook her head. It still reeled. “No? Are you sure?”
“No. I mean . . . I got angry, I said some terrible things—and I meant all of them—but I didn’t break up with you.”
“We’re not broken up?” Her voice broke on “broken.”
“No,” Neal insisted.
“But I always thought you broke up with me.”
“Always?”
“Always . . . since we fought.”
“I don’t want to break up with you, Georgie.”
“But you said you couldn’t do this anymore.”
“I know,” he said.
“And you meant it,” she said.
“I did.”
“But we’re not broken up?”
He growled, but she could tell that it wasn’t at her. Usually when Neal growled, he was growling at himself. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “But I’m hoping this can change because . . . I don’t think I can live without you either.”
“Sure you can.” Georgie wasn’t joking.
Neal laughed anyway. (Well, he didn’t laugh—Neal rarely laughed. But he had a sort of huffy, roof-of-the-mouth breathy thing that counted as a laugh.) “You really think I can live without you? Because I haven’t had any luck with that so far.”
“Not true,” Georgie said. She might as well say it; this conversation wasn’t real, it didn’t cost her anything. In fact, maybe that’s what she was supposed to be doing here—saying everything she could never say to the real Neal. Just getting it out of her chest. “You had twenty years of luck before we met.”
“That doesn’t count,” he said, like he was playing along. (No, I’m the one playing along, Georgie thought. You, sir, are a hallucination.) “I didn’t know what I was missing before I met you.”
“Frustration,” she said. “Irritation. Douchebag industry parties.”
“Not just that.”
“Late nights,” she continued. “Missed dinners. That voice I use when I’m trying to impress people . . .” Neal hated that voice.
“Georgie.”
“. . . Seth.”
Neal made another huffy noise. This one wasn’t anything like a laugh. “Why are you trying so hard to push me away?”
“Because,” she pushed. “Because of what you said before you left. About how it wasn’t working and you weren’t happy, and how you didn’t think you could go on like this. I keep thinking about what you said—I haven’t stopped thinking about it—and I can’t think of any way to argue. You were right, Neal. I’m not going to change. I’m all caught up in a world that you hate, and I’m just going to pin you here. Maybe you should get out while you still can.”
“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.