“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.”