Landline

She told herself she was just tired. But it didn’t feel like tired—it felt like scared. Which didn’t make any sense. Nothing was wrong, nothing was coming. She just . . .

She hadn’t talked to Neal for two and a half days.

And they’d never gone this long without talking. Not since they’d met. Well, practically not since they’d met.

It’s not that things were always . . . (What word was she looking for? Hunky-dory? Smooth? Happy?) It’s not that things were always . . . easy between Georgie and Neal.

Sometimes, even when they were talking, they weren’t really talking. Sometimes they were just negotiating each other. Keeping each other posted.

But it had never been like this before. Radio silence.

There’d always been his voice.

Georgie would feel better if she could hear Neal’s voice.

When Seth ran out to get lunch, she holed up in their office to try Neal again. She dialed his cell number and waited, tapping her fingers on her desk.

“Hello?” someone said doubtfully—like the person wasn’t actually sure that this was a phone and that she was indeed answering it. Neal’s mom.

“Margaret? Hey, it’s Georgie.”

“Georgie, hi there. I wasn’t sure if the phone was ringing or if this was an iPod. I thought I might be answering an iPod.”

“I’m glad you risked it. How are you?”

“You know, Naomi was watching TV on this thing earlier. In the same room as a perfectly good television. We’re living in the future, I guess. It’s not even really shaped like a phone, is it? More like a deck of cards . . .”

Margaret was the only person who called Noomi by her given name. It always made Georgie wince—even though Georgie was the one who’d named her.

“I guess you’re right,” Georgie said. “I’ve never thought about it. How are you, Margaret? Sorry I called so late the other night.”

“Georgie, can you hear me?”

“I can hear you fine.”

“Because I don’t know where the microphone is—this phone is so small.”

“It is small, you’re right.”

“Do I hold it up to my ear or my mouth?”

“Um”—Georgie had to think about that, even though she was talking on the same style of phone—“your ear. I guess.”

“My cell phone flips open. It seems more like a real phone.”

“I think your mother has Asperger’s,” Georgie had said to Neal.

“They didn’t get Asperger’s in the ’50s.”

“I’m just saying maybe she’s on the spectrum.”

“She’s just a math teacher.”

“Margaret”—Georgie forced herself to smile, hoping it would make her sound less impatient—“is Neal around?”

“He is. Did you want to talk to him?”

“That would be great. Yes. Thank you.”

“He just took the girls over to Dawn’s. She’s got a cockatiel, you know, and she thought the girls might like to see it.”

“Dawn,” Georgie said.

Dawn, the girl next door. The literal girl next door. Dawn, Neal’s ex-almost-fiancée. (It shouldn’t count if there was never a ring, right? If it was just a summer-vacation verbal agreement?)

God. And country. And f**k.

Why couldn’t Neal have a string of ex-girlfriends? Girls that he’d talked to, girls that he’d dated. Girls he’d used for sex, then felt bad about later . . . Why did he just have to have Dawn?

Dawn always came by Neal’s mom’s house to say hi when Georgie and Neal were in town; she lived next door and took care of her parents.

Dawn had pretty brown eyes and smooth brown hair. She was a nurse. She was divorced. She brought the kids stuffed animals that made it back to California and lived on their beds.

Georgie’s head hurt. Her hair smelled like poisonous cupcakes.

“Amadeus!” Margaret said, like she was remembering something.

“Sorry?” Georgie asked, clearing her throat.

“Amadeus. That’s Dawn’s cockatiel. He’s quite a bird.”

“Maybe you could just tell him that I called.”

Margaret was quiet for a few seconds and then—“Oh, you mean Neal.”

“I do. Yeah.”

“Sure, of course, Georgie. I’ll tell him.”

“Thanks, Margaret. Tell him to call me back anytime.”

“Sure. Oh, wait, before you go—Merry Christmas, Georgie! I hope your new show gets picked up.”

Georgie paused. And remembered that she really did like Neal’s mom. “Thanks, Margaret. Merry Christmas. Hug those girls for me.”

“Georgie, wait, how do I hang up on you?”

“I’ll hang up on you. That’ll take care of it.”

“Okay, thanks.”

“I’m hanging up now, Margaret. Merry Christmas.”

“That’s funny, right?” Seth asked, then repeated a joke for the fourth time. “Is it funny? Or is it just weird?”

Georgie wasn’t sure. She was having a hard time staying focused.

“I need a break,” Scotty said. “I can’t even see straight.”

“Push through it,” Seth ordered. “This is where the magic happens.”

“This is where I go get frozen yogurt.”

“All you do is eat. You eat, then you start thinking about the next thing you’re going to eat.”

“Eating is the only thing that breaks the monotony,” Scotty said.

Seth’s eyebrows shot up. “This isn’t monotony. This is the f**king dream.”

“It will be,” Scotty said. “When I have some yogurt.”

“Georgie. Tell him. No frozen yogurt until he says something funny.”

Georgie was slouched down in her chair with her feet up on the table and her eyes closed. “Can’t talk. Too much magic happening.”

“Do you want frozen yogurt, Georgie?” Scotty asked from the door.

“No, thanks.”

She heard the door close. Then felt a pen bounce off her shoulder.

“You should take a nap,” Seth said.

“Hmmm.”

“We need a napping couch. Passing Time is going to have a napping couch. Remember the couch at The Spoon? That was a first-rate napping couch.”

Georgie remembered. It was gray velvet and worn smooth on the cushions. If Georgie was sitting on it, Seth would sit down right beside her, even if there was plenty of room. Even if there was no room at all. He liked to rest his head in her lap or on her shoulder. If he didn’t have a girlfriend, she’d let him. (He almost always had a girlfriend.)