Georgie came out to the living room to say good-bye to Heather, then took a shower and put her mom’s clothes back on. She couldn’t believe she’d specifically gone to a lingerie store without buying new underwear.
She thought about going out to the laundry room and digging Neal’s T-shirt out of the trash. . . .
The first time she’d stolen that shirt had been the first weekend she’d stayed at his apartment. Georgie had been wearing the same clothes for two days, and she smelled like sweat and salsa—but she hadn’t wanted to go home to change. Neither of them wanted the weekend to end. So she took a shower at Neal’s apartment, and he gave her a pair of track pants that were too small for her hips, and the Metallica T-shirt, and a pair of striped boxers.
She’d laughed at him. “You want me to wear your underwear?”
“I don’t know.” Neal blushed. “I didn’t know what you’d want.”
It was a Sunday afternoon; Neal’s roommates were at work. Georgie came back from the shower, wearing his T-shirt and the boxers—those were too small, too—and Neal pretended not to notice.
Then he’d laughed and pinned her to his mattress.
It was so rare to make Neal laugh. . . .
Georgie used to tease him about being a waste of dimples. “Your face is like an O. Henry story. The world’s sweetest dimples and the boy who never laughs.”
“I laugh.”
“When? When you’re alone?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Every night when I’m sure everyone is asleep, I sit on my bed and laugh maniacally.”
“You never laugh at me.”
“You want me to laugh at you?”
“Yes,” she said. “I’m a comedy writer. I want everyone to laugh at me.”
“I guess I’m not much of a laugher.”
“Or maybe you just don’t think I’m funny.”
“You’re very funny, Georgie. Ask anybody.”
She pinched his ribs. “Not funny enough to make you laugh.”
“I never feel like laughing when things are funny,” he said. “I just think to myself, ‘Now, that’s funny.’”
“My life is like an O. Henry story,” Georgie said, “the funniest girl in the world and the boy who never laughs.”
“‘The funniest girl in the world,’ huh? I’m laughing on the inside right now.”
Neal’s dimples dimpled even when he was just thinking about smiling. And his blue eyes shone.
They’d kept having this conversation over the years, but it had gotten a lot less playful.
“I know you don’t watch our show,” Georgie would say.
“You wouldn’t watch your show if it wasn’t your show,” Neal would answer. While he was folding laundry. Or slicing avocados.
“Yeah, but it is my show. And you’re my husband.”
“The last time I watched it, you said I was being smug.”
“You were being smug. You were acting like it was beneath you.”
“Because it is beneath me. Christ, Georgie, it’s beneath you.”
It didn’t matter that he was right. . . .
Anyway.
The first time she’d borrowed that T-shirt, Neal had laughed and pinned her to his bed.
Because he didn’t laugh when he thought something was funny—he laughed when he was happy.