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
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.”