Whit worked at The Spoon.
“We can’t go in there,” Georgie said.
“It’s fine.” Neal opened the door and ducked under the tape.
Georgie followed.
He leaned over and turned on a floor lamp without letting go of her wrist. The door swung mostly closed behind them, and the roar of the music receded.
Neal turned back to her and set his jaw. “You’re right,” he said in his normal voice. His hand dropped, and he rubbed his palm on his jeans. “I’m sorry. I’m a jerk.”
“Seth would agree with you there.”
“I don’t want to talk about Seth anymore.”
“You’re the one who brought him up.”
“I know. I’m sorry.” Neal had a way of holding his chin down and looking out the top of his eyes, even when he wasn’t sitting at the drafting table. “Can we go back and start over?”
“How far back?” Georgie tried to fold her arms, but she was still holding that stupid Zima.
“Back to the wall,” he said. “Back to you walking across the living room toward me. To you saying, ‘I’m surprised to see you here.’”
“Are you saying you want to go back to the living room?”
“No. Just go ahead, say it again now.”
Georgie rolled her eyes, but she said it: “I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You shouldn’t be,” Neal said. He lifted his chin and looked directly in her eyes. For the second time in five minutes. For the second time ever. “I’m here because I knew you’d be here. Because I hoped you would be.”
Georgie felt like a snake was unwinding itself in the back of her neck and along her shoulders. She swayed a little, and her mouth clicked open. “Oh.”
Neal looked away, and Georgie took in three gallons of air.
He was shaking his head. “I’m . . . sorry,” he said. “I wanted to see you. But then I got angry. I didn’t know what to—you’ve been ignoring me.”
“I haven’t been ignoring you,” she said.
“You stopped coming back to talk to me.”
“I thought I was bothering you.”
“You weren’t bothering me,” he said, facing her again. “Why would you think that?”
“Because you never come talk to me.”
“I never had to come talk to you.” Neal looked bewildered. “You always came to me.”
“I . . .” Georgie finished her drink so she could put down the cup.
Neal took it from her. He set the cup and his bottle on a desk behind him.
“I thought I was bothering you,” she said. “I thought you were just humoring me.”
“I thought you got tired of me,” he said.
She brought her hands up to her forehead. “Maybe we should stop thinking.”
Neal huffed and nodded, smoothing down the hair at the back of his head. They were both quiet for a dozen awkward heartbeats; then Neal motioned toward the bed. “Do you want to sit down?”
“Oh,” Georgie said, looking at the bed. There was another sign there:
NO, SERIOUSLY. HE WILL END ME.
Get out of here, okay?
—Whit
“I don’t think we should,” she said.
“It’s fine.”
They should leave. They were violating someone’s privacy. But . . . Georgie looked up at Neal, with his black T-shirt and his pale skin. He was smoothing down his hair again—ridiculously, it couldn’t be even a quarter-inch long in back. His elbow was in the air, his triceps flexed.
Georgie slid against the bed, sitting on the floor.
Neal looked down at her and nodded. “Okay . . . ,” he murmured, sitting next to her.
After a few seconds, she nudged her shoulder against his. “So. What have I missed?”
“When?”
“Since I’ve been sitting at my own desk,” she said, “playing hard to get.”
Neal smiled a little and looked down; his eyelashes brushed the top of his cheeks. “Oh, you know. Ink. Talking rabbits. Singing turtles. A chipmunk who wishes he was a squirrel.”
“Your comic last week was one of my favorites.”
“Thanks.”
“I put it in my Save Box,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“It’s actually just a box. I, uh . . . I hate that feeling, you know, when you’re thinking about something you’ve read or heard, and you thought it was so smart at the time, but now you can’t remember it. I save things I don’t want to lose track of.”
“Must be a big box.”
“Not as big as you’d think,” she said. “I started putting your comic strips in there before I knew you were you.”
“Before you knew I was me?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Thanks.” Neal’s legs were bent in front of him, and he was picking at loose threads on his thighs.
He seemed uncomfortable. Georgie had that feeling again, that she was the only one keeping the conversation alive. Maybe she should shut up and see if Neal would say anything. No. No more games. “Would it be easier to talk to me if you were holding a pen?”
Neal lowered his eyebrows, and his head bounced. “Huh. I guess so. Too bad I don’t smoke.”
“What?”