There’s a magic phone in my childhood bedroom. I can use it to call my husband in the past. (My husband who isn’t my husband yet. My husband who maybe shouldn’t be my husband at all.) There’s a magic phone in my childhood bedroom. I unplugged it this morning and hid it in the closet.
Maybe all the phones in the house are magic.
Or maybe I’m magic. Temporarily magic. (Ha! Time travel pun!) Does it count as time travel? If it’s just my voice traveling?
There’s a magic phone hidden in my closet. And I think it’s connected to the past. And I think I’m supposed to fix something. I think I’m supposed to make something right.
When Georgie got back to the writers’ room, Seth looked like he was at the end of his rope. He’d unbuttoned his shirt an extra button, and his hair was sticking up around his ears and at the back of his neck.
She stood at the whiteboard and took charge of the outline.
It wasn’t that hard—they’d been talking about these characters for years. They just needed to get their ideas into writing. Wrestle them into a few workable scripts. Georgie could do this in her sleep. Sometimes she did do it in her sleep. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and hang off the side of her bed, scrounging around for a piece of paper. (She never remembered to put a notebook by the bed when she was lucid.) Neal would stir in his sleep and reach for her hips, pulling her back onto the bed. “What’re you looking for?”
“Paper,” she’d say, leaning off the bed again. “I have an idea I don’t want to forget.”
She’d feel his mouth at the base of her spine. “Tell me. I’ll remember.”
“You’re asleep, too.”
He’d bite her. “Tell me.”
“It’s a dance,” she’d say. “There’s a dance. And Chloe, the main character, will end up with one of her mom’s old prom dresses. And she’ll try to fix it to make it cool, like in Pretty in Pink, but it won’t be cool; it’ll be awful. And something embarrassing will happen at the dance to ‘Try a Little Tenderness.’”
“Got it.” Then Neal would pull her back into bed, into him, holding her in place. “Dance. Dress. ‘Try a Little Tenderness.’ Now go back to sleep.”
And then he’d push up Georgie’s pajama shirt, biting her back until neither of them could go back to sleep.
And then, eventually, she’d drift off with his hand on her hip and his forehead pressed into her shoulder.
She’d get out of the shower the next morning, and it would be written in the steam on the mirror: Dance. Dress. Try a little tenderness.
Georgie shook her head and looked up at the whiteboard and tried to remember where she’d left off.
The night that Neal told her about his girlfriend (fucking of course he had a girlfriend), Seth took Georgie home, then went back to the Halloween party. Georgie stayed up listening to her mom’s Carole King albums and wrote a really angsty monologue for one of her theater classes.
That was back when she still thought about performing someday. Before she’d decided that she had a better face and brain for the writers’ room. “Why would you want to act, anyway?” was Seth’s take on the subject. “Stand there and say other people’s words, let everybody else tell you what to do . . . Actors are just beautiful puppets.”
“If that’s true,” Georgie’d said, “you sure date a lot of puppets.”
Georgie didn’t really want to act—she wanted to do stand-up. But she hated bars, that was a problem. Also, she wanted to get married and have a family.
Seth said nothing beat writing for TV. “It’s comedy with health insurance,” he said. And big houses and cars. And sunshine.
The morning after the Halloween party, Georgie picked up bagels on the way to Seth’s frat house. She passed last night’s girl—the lovely Breanna again—in the hallway. Breanna looked surprised to see Georgie; Georgie just nodded, as if they were coworkers.
When she got to Seth’s room, his hair was wet, and he was changing his sheets.
“Gross,” she said.
“What’s gross?”
“This.”
“You’d rather I didn’t change my sheets?”
“I’d rather you got all this—girl, sheets, shower—taken care of before I showed up, so that I don’t have to think about you having sex.”
Seth paused, holding the sheet in the air with both hands, and grinned. “Is that what you’re thinking about?”
Georgie sat down at his desk, ignoring him. He was a senior, so he didn’t have a roommate. She turned on his computer and watched him make his bed.
He really was gorgeous. Intentionally so.
Most guys just walked around with nothing but raw material. Pretty eyes, bad hair, ill-fitting clothes. Most guys didn’t even know what they had to offer. But Seth was like a girl—he was a better girl than Georgie—he knew what his strengths were. He let his coppery brown hair grow long enough to shine and curl. He wore pale colors that made his skin look tan. He presented himself to you. To everyone. Here I am. Look at me.
Georgie looked. She watched. And nothing stirred in her stomach. She didn’t take any special thrill in being here, being the one Seth wanted to see when he was done with the lovely whomever.
Neal had cured her of Seth.
Now what would cure her of Neal?
And why was she only attracted to guys who were sleeping with somebody else? If Georgie were a wild animal, she’d be a genetic dead end.
Seth fell onto the bed and turned on the TV. Animaniacs. Georgie threw him his bagel.
“So,” he said, unwrapping it, “feeling any better this morning?”
She put her feet up on his desk and watched the show. “I’m fine.”
When the episode was over, Georgie turned to the computer and opened a file. Aside from their column, and Georgie’s horoscopes, and their duties as managing editors—they also wrote a regular movie-review parody for The Spoon, “Your Mom Reviews . . .” It ran with a photo of Seth’s mom. This week, they were doing Trainspotting.
Seth was still watching cartoons.
“He has a girlfriend,” Georgie said.
Seth’s face jerked toward her; his eyebrows lowered. “This whole time?”
“Apparently.”
He turned off the TV and was up off the bed, pulling another chair next to Georgie and sitting on it backwards. “Fuck him,” he said, elbowing her. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t meant to be.”
“Since when do you believe in ‘meant to be’?”
“Since fucking ever, Georgie, pay attention. I’m a romantic.”
“Just ask the parade of Saturday-morning girls.”
“Parades are romantic. Who doesn’t love a parade?”
They worked on the movie review until it was time for Seth to go to work (to his other job, at the J.Crew factory store). He tried extra hard to make Georgie laugh; and when he leaned on her shoulder while she typed, she mostly let him.
By the time she walked out of the frat house, she felt better about Neal and his inevitable girlfriend. . . .
No, that wasn’t true.
She still felt terrible about that—but she felt better about life. At least Georgie was probably going to be one of those cool single women, one with an interesting job and a dashing best friend and good hair. She could probably have halfway decent one-night stands if she loosened up her standards.
She felt utterly terrible again as soon as she saw Neal sitting at the bus stop across the street. A bus pulled up. When it drove away, Neal was still sitting there, staring right at her.
He held up his hand and motioned for her to come over.
Georgie folded her arms and frowned.
Neal stood up.
She should just ignore him. Walk straight to her car. Leave him hanging. What was he doing here, anyway?
Neal beckoned her again.
Georgie frowned, looked both ways, then half ran across the street.
She slowed down when she got close to him. “Fancy meeting you here,” she said stupidly.
“Not really,” he said. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You have?”
“Yeah.”
Georgie narrowed her eyes. Neal looked tired. And intent. And surprisingly pink in the daylight.
“I’m trying to figure out if that’s weird,” she said.
“I don’t really care if it is.” He took a step toward her. “I knew you’d be here, and I needed to tell you something.”
“You could have called,” she said.
“Right.” Neal tore off the first page of his notebook and handed it to her. There was a sketch of the cypress tree in front of Seth’s frat house. Also a skunk driving an AMC Gremlin. And then, Neal’s name—Neal G.—and a phone number.
Georgie took the piece of paper with both hands.