Seth always had to force Georgie to go to parties. Once she was there, she was fine. Once she was there, she was usually great—if not the life of the party, certainly one of its most valuable players. People (new people, strangers) made Georgie nervous. And nervous Georgie was much more extroverted than regular Georgie. Nervous Georgie was practically manic.
“It’s like you turn into Robin Williams in nineteen-eighty-two,” Seth told her.
“Oh God, don’t say that, that’s mortifying.”
“What? Nineteen eighty-two Robin Williams was hilarious. Everybody loved nineteen-eighty-two Robin Williams.”
“I don’t want to be Mork at parties.”
“I do,” Seth said. “Mork kills.”
“Cute guys don’t want to go home with Mork,” Georgie groaned.
“I think you’re wrong,” he said, “but I take your point.”
(It hadn’t gotten better over the years; Georgie still got nervous at parties and pitches and big meetings. Seth said their careers would be over if Georgie ever realized she was awesome and stopped freaking out about it.) Not long after Georgie gave up on Neal, Seth talked her into going to the Spoon Halloween party. Seth was dressed like Steve Martin. He had a white suit, and he’d spray-painted his hair gray, and there was a gag arrow on his head.
Georgie was going as Hot Lips Houlihan from M*A*S*H. Which just meant fatigues, an olive green T-shirt, and dog tags. Plus, she’d blown out her hair. She figured she must look okay because Seth seemed distracted by her breasts.
As soon as they were inside the party, he was distracted by somebody else’s breasts. There were a lot of girls here for a Spoon party; there must be some cross-pollination—maybe somebody’s roommate was a business major.
Georgie grabbed a Zima, then poured it into a cup so she wouldn’t look like she was drinking Zima.
She’d already started nervously chattering at some guy dressed like Maggie Simpson when she saw Neal on the other side of the room. He was leaning against a wall between two clusters of people—watching her.
When Georgie didn’t look away, he raised his bottle of beer not quite to his chest and nodded his head. She squeezed her cup until it dented, then tried to nod back. It was more of a spasm.
Georgie returned her attention to the guy dressed as Maggie Simpson. (Why would a guy dress like Maggie Simpson?) He was trying to guess who she was. “That chick from Tomb Raider?” Georgie looked back at Neal. His head was tilted to the side. Still watching her.
She felt herself blushing and peered down at her drink.
Maybe he’d come over. Maybe Neal would finally walk fifteen steps out of his way to say hello to her. Georgie glanced back at him, just as he was glancing up again from his beer—he wouldn’t even lift his entire head to look at her.
Fuck it.
“Sorry, would you . . . excuse me? I just saw my, um, I’m just—my friend’s over there. Excuse me.” Georgie backed away from Maggie Simpson and squeezed through an extremely pathetic dance circle to get to Neal’s wall. There wasn’t much room between him and the people next to him; he slid over to make room for her.
“Hey,” she said, leaning in sideways.
Neal had his back to the wall, and he was holding his beer with both hands. He didn’t look up. “Hey, Hot Lips.”
Georgie grinned and rolled her eyes. “How’d you know who I was?”
His lips twitched just enough to give him dimples. “I know about your weird preoccupation with ’70s sitcoms.” He took a drink of beer. “I’m surprised you didn’t come as Detective Wojciehowicz.”
“Couldn’t find the right tie,” Georgie said.
Neal nearly smiled.
She glanced down at his clothes. He was dressed like normal—jeans, a black T-shirt—but there was a silvery white pattern creeping up from his sleeves and down from his collar. He must have painted it himself. It looked almost crystalline.
“Give up?” he asked.
She nodded.
“The first frost.” He took another drink.
“It’s lovely,” Georgie said. Someone had just cranked up the music, so she said it again, louder. “It’s lovely.”
Neal shrugged his eyebrows.
“I have to admit I’m surprised to see you here,” she said.
“You shouldn’t be.”
“You don’t seem like Party Guy.”
“I hate parties,” Neal said.
“Me, too,” she agreed.
He quirked an eyebrow at her. “Really.”
“Really.”
“I could tell by the way you walked in, and everybody shouted, ‘Georgie!’ and you blew a thousand air kisses, and the stereo started playing ‘Gettin’ Jiggy wit It’ . . .”
“A, you’re exaggerating, and B, just because I’m good at parties doesn’t mean I like them.”
“You prefer things you’re not good at?”
Georgie took a frustrated gulp of Zima and thought about walking away. “Obviously.”
Then there was a whoop of laughter behind her, and somebody fell against Georgie’s back, pushing her into Neal’s shoulder. She held her cup against her chest, so it wouldn’t spill on him. Neal quickly turned toward her, making more room on the wall and steadying her for a second, his hand on her arm.
“Sorry,” the guy behind her said.
“No worries,” Georgie told him. She and Neal were standing closer now, their shoulders almost touching on the wall.
They really were almost the same height. Georgie was five-five; Neal might be five-six. Maybe. It was nice—having a guy’s eyes right there where she could reach them. If he’d just look at her . . .
“So,” Neal said, “you came with your not-boyfriend, right?”
“He’s not my boyfriend.”
“Right. I think I saw him come in. He’s dressed like The Jerk.”
Georgie closed her eyes for a second. When she started talking, her voice was so quiet, she wasn’t sure Neal would even be able to hear her: “Sometimes I think the only reason you ever talked to me at all was because you knew it pissed off Seth.”
His reply came cold and quick: “Sometimes I think that’s the only reason you ever talked to me.”
She opened her eyes. “What?”
“Everybody knows.” Neal’s chin was practically touching his chest—that’s how not he was looking at her. “Everybody at The Spoon says you’re crazy about him.”
“Not everybody,” Georgie said. “I’ve never said that.”
Neal shrugged harshly and went to take a drink of his beer, but the bottle was empty.
Georgie pushed away from the wall and took a step backwards. She needed to get out of here before she started crying, but first—“You know what? This is why you’re standing alone at a party. Because you’re a jerk. You’re a jerk to people who actually, inexplicably like you.” She took another step backwards. Into some other guy.
“Hey, Georgie!” the guy shouted. “Are you Private Benjamin?”
“Hey,” she said, trying to get past him.
“Georgie, wait,” she heard Neal say. She felt a hand on her wrist. Firm, but not tight—she could still pull away. Neal kept talking, but the music buried it. (God, she hated parties.) He stepped in closer. Close. They were standing in a crowd of people who were all trying to decide whether they wanted to dance. Neal’s head dipped toward hers. “I’m sorry!” he shouted in her ear. And then something else.
“What?” Georgie yelled.
He seemed frustrated. They looked in each other’s eyes for a few seconds—a few overwhelming (to Georgie) seconds—then he started pulling her back toward the wall.
Georgie followed. Neal tightened his grip on her wrist.
He cut through the crowd and led her down a short hallway, stopping in front of the only closed door. There was a piece of caution tape stretched over it and a sign that said:
STAY OUT!!
IF ANYONE GOES IN HERE,
MY ROOMMATE WILL END ME.
HAVE MERCY.
—Whit