Authors: Rainbow Rowell
“It’s not enough for you to ruin my marriage
now
,” she seethed, “is it? You have to ruin it everywhere at once.”
Seth eyebrows jumped up—he looked like she
had
hit him with the phone. He looked like he wanted to shout,
“Rules, rules, rules!”
“Ruin your marriage . . . ,” he said.
Georgie let out a breath and shook her head. “I shouldn’t have said that.” She kept shaking her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just . . . Why did you open your mouth?”
“You think I’m ruining your marriage?”
“No. Seth. I don’t. I think
I’m
ruining my marriage. You’re just an accessory.”
“I’m not an accessory—I’m your best friend.”
“I know.”
“I’m
always
going to be your best friend.”
“I
know
.”
“Even if this—”
“Don’t,”
she said.
He fell back against the closet, kicking it gently, then resting his foot against it like he was modeling orange chinos. (He was wearing orange chinos.) Then he folded his arms. “What does that even mean,” Seth asked, “‘everywhere at once’?”
“It doesn’t mean anything. I’m just tired.”
“And scared,” he said quietly.
She looked down at the comforter. “And scared.”
“And talking to me about it is clearly a
catastrophic
idea. . . .”
She pulled her lips into her mouth and bit them, nodding.
“So let’s not talk about it, Georgie. Let’s just write.”
Georgie looked up at him. Seth was being as sincere as he knew how—his face was so open, she practically didn’t recognize it.
“It’s the only thing I can fix for you,” he said.
Her eyes dropped to the phone. “I have to call Neal back.”
“Fine. You call Neal back. Then get dressed. I’ll track down our coffee and find a place to set up. . . . And then you’ll come out when you’re ready—and I won’t mention that you sleep pantsless, but I’ll always know from now on, Georgie,
always
—and we will write ourselves a script. We’ll go Amy Sherman-Palladino on its ass.”
“I love Amy Sherman-Palladino.”
“I know,” he said, crunching his eyebrows at her meaningfully. “I’m your
best friend
.”
“I know.”
“I’m going out to the kitchen now.”
“Seth . . .”
“And you’ll be out in a minute.”
“Seth, I can’t right now. I have to call Neal back.”
His head fell back against the closet. “I can wait.”
“I don’t want you to wait.”
“Georgie.”
“
Seth.
I have to fix what I can.”
“What am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Go to work,” she said. “Write.”
“And you’ll come in to the office later?”
“Probably.”
“But you’ll definitely come in tomorrow.”
“Yes.”
He bounced his head gently against the fiberboard. “Fine. Just . . . fine.” He kicked off the door.
“Four days,”
he groaned. “We have four days to make this happen.”
“I know.”
“All right . . . but if it turns out you can’t actively pick up the pieces of your marriage today, you may as well come write with me.”
“Stop talking about my marriage. For all time.”
Seth stopped at the door and grinned back at her. “Well, come on—you’re gonna see me to the door, right?”
Georgie folded her arms in the comforter. “Let Heather kick you out. It’ll cheer her up.”
“I always thought Heather liked me,” he muttered, letting the door swing closed behind him.
Georgie didn’t wait for Seth to leave the house, she didn’t wait for her head or eyes to clear—she didn’t stop to process the fact that
Neal
had called
her
, twice now, which meant her magic phone worked both ways, which might mean . . .
Who knows what that might mean? It’s a magic phone. It’s not like it has rules.
She dialed Neal’s number so fast, she hit a wrong number and had to start all over.
His dad answered. Just to flip Georgie the fuck out again.
“Hi, Paul—Mr. Grafton, it’s Georgie. Is, um, is Neal there?”
“You can call me Paul,” he said.
“Paul,” Georgie said, and she felt like crying again.
“You caught us just in time,” he said. “Here’s Neal.”
A shuffling noise then—“Hello?”
“Hi,” Georgie said.
“Hi,” Neal said. Coolly. But maybe not angrily. It was always so hard to tell with him. “Seth give you a break?”
“He left.”
“Oh.”
“Are you leaving?” she asked. “Your dad said—”
“Yeah. We’re going to see my grandma’s sister. She’s in a nursing home.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“It really isn’t. She’s in a nursing home, and she’ll be alone on Christmas. It’s pretty much the very least we can do.”
“Oh,” Georgie said.
“Sorry. I just . . . hate nursing homes. My great aunt doesn’t have kids of her own, so we—”
“I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry.” Neal huffed. “I thought you were
sleeping
.”
“When?”
“When I called.”
“I
was
sleeping,” she said.
“You were with Seth.”
“He’d just woken me up.”
“You were supposed to call
me
when you woke up.”
“I was
going
to call you.”
“Eventually,” he said.
“Neal. You promised you’d never be jealous of Seth.”
“I’m not jealous of Seth. I’m angry with you.”
“Oh.”
“I have to go,” he said. “I’ll call you when I get back.”
Don’t call me
, Georgie almost answered. “Okay. I’ll be here.”
“Okay.”
She wasn’t going to say “I love you” now just to see if he’d say it back. “I’ll be here,” she said again.
“Okay.” He hung up.
N
eal hung up.
Because it was that easy for him.
For a second, Georgie wished he knew—who she really was,
when
she really was, everything. Neal wouldn’t just hang up on her like that if he knew he was hanging up on the future. You don’t hang up a magic phone.
Georgie wandered out to the kitchen, hungry.
Heather was standing at the front door, talking to someone. Georgie spotted the pizza delivery car through the picture window and wondered if it would be rude to interrupt and take the pizza from them, or if, without the pizza, their little flirtation would collapse in on itself.
She started the coffeemaker and rooted through the fridge, not finding anything.
After a few more minutes, Heather walked into the kitchen, smiling.
“Where’s the pizza?” Georgie asked. “I’m starving.”
“Oh. I didn’t order a pizza.”
“But the pizza boy was here.”
Heather stepped past Georgie and leaned into the fridge. “It was a wrong pizza.”
“There’s no such thing as a wrong pizza,” Georgie said. “All pizzas are right from conception.”
“It was the wrong address,” Heather said. “Probably just a mix-up because we order from them so often.”
“Heather, I’m serious, there’s no such thing as a wrong pizza. That boy wanted to talk to you.”
Heather just shook her head and opened the vegetable drawer.
“How long has this been going on?” Georgie asked.
“Nothing’s going on.”
“How long have you been ordering pizzas for sport, not sustenance?”
“How long has Seth been your wake-up service?”
Georgie pushed the fridge door closed—Heather had to jerk back to get out of the way. “Out of line,” Georgie said.
Heather looked like she wanted to say something else, something worse, but pressed her lips closed and folded her arms.
Georgie decided to walk away. She stopped at the edge of the kitchen. “I’m going to take a shower. Come get me if Neal calls.”
Heather ignored her.
“Please?”
Georgie said.
“Fine,” Heather agreed, not even bothering to turn her head.
Georgie checked the yellow phone before she got into the shower, just to make sure there was a dial tone and that the ringer was turned up. (As if somebody might have snuck in and messed with it.)
Once, in junior high, she’d been so worried about missing a call from a boy, she’d dragged the phone into the bathroom with her every time she had to go. (He never did call.) (Which didn’t discourage Georgie even a little bit.)
She stood under the shower until the water ran cold, then stole some more of her mom’s yoga pants and a sweatshirt with a pug on it, and walked out to the laundry room.
When Georgie was growing up, the washing machine and dryer sat out against the garage with a little plastic canopy over them. But Kendrick had built her mom a laundry room onto the back of the house, with a tile floor and a sorting table. Georgie’d still be able to hear the kitchen phone out here, if it rang.
She opened the washing machine and dropped in her jeans and T-shirt and bra. . . .
It was a very depressing bra.
It’d been pink once, sometime between Alice and Noomi, but now it was a grayish beige, and one of the underwires kept sneaking out through a rip between Georgie’s breasts. Sometimes the wire crept almost all the way out and sprung like a hook from the neck of her shirt; sometimes it bent the other way and poked her. You’d think that would prompt Georgie to buy some new bras, but instead she just pushed the wire back as soon as no one was looking, then forgot about it until the next time that bra came up in her rotation.
Georgie was bad at all shopping, but bra shopping was the worst. You couldn’t do it online, and you couldn’t have somebody else do it for you.
Bra shopping had always been the worst—even when her breasts were still young and lovely. (If only Georgie could figure out how to call
herself
in the past, she’d tell herself how young and lovely she was.
“This is the ghost of bra-shopping future: Everybody’s a little lopsided, roll with it.”
)
She closed the washing machine lid, set the dial to
GENTLE
, then sank down on the floor in front of the dryer and leaned against it. It was warm and humming, and Georgie felt like one of those rhesus monkeys who preferred the cloth mother.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Everything had seemed so good when Georgie fell asleep last night. Better than good. Maybe better
than ever
. . .
Which was weird. When she was talking to Neal in the past, they got along better than they did in their shared past
or
their shared present. Maybe these were the versions of themselves that were meant to be together—mature Georgie and mostly unjaded Neal. Too bad they couldn’t go on this way.
How long
could
this go on?
It was December 23rd.
Georgie knew what happened back in 1998: Neal ended up on her doorstep on Christmas Day. That meant that Neal—landline Neal—would have to leave Omaha tomorrow morning, in the past, to propose to her.
Would that still happen . . . Would Neal still propose? Or had Georgie screwed that up an hour ago, in one fell swoop of Seth?
Maybe she’d screwed it up the very first time she called Neal in the past.
Yesterday, Georgie had wondered if she was supposed to talk Neal out of loving her—if that was the point of this magic, to save him from her. But what if she’d talked him out of it just by opening her mouth?
She was thinking in hot, helpless circles when Heather walked down the back steps into the laundry room. She was carrying one of those Campbell’s soups that you can heat up in the microwave, then drink out of the can. Chicken & Stars.
“Do you ever feed yourself?” Heather asked. “Or does Neal just set out a dish for you every morning?”
“Sometimes I order things,” Georgie said.
“What do you feed the girls?”
“Neal feeds the girls.”
“What if Neal isn’t home?”
“Yogurt.”
Heather handed Georgie the soup, a peace offering, then sat down next to her, against the washer.
“Thanks,” Georgie said.
Heather still looked wary of Georgie. She took a deep breath and let it out through her teeth. “I know something’s going on, so you may as well tell me—are you sleeping with Seth?”
Georgie took a sip of soup and burned her mouth.
“No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend who sort of sounds like your husband, but isn’t your husband, but is also named Neal?”
“No.”
“Is something really weird going on?”
Georgie turned her head toward Heather and tipped it against the dryer. “Yeah . . .”
Heather mirrored her, laying her head against the washer. “I can’t even remember you without Neal,” she said.
Georgie nodded slowly, then took another, more careful, drink of soup. “You were in our wedding, you know. Do you remember?”
“I think so,” Heather said, “but I might just be remembering the photos.”
Heather was supposed to be the flower girl, but none of Georgie’s friends had been able to afford the trip to Nebraska, so Heather became her only bridesmaid—besides Seth, who just assumed he’d be standing up for Georgie.
Georgie wasn’t even sure she should invite Seth (because the wedding was in Omaha, and because
Neal
), but Seth started calling himself Georgie’s best man, and she wasn’t sure how to argue. . . .
He wore a brown three-piece suit and a pale green tie to the wedding. Heather wore lavender shantung and a green cardigan. Seth carried her down the aisle.
And he insisted that Heather come along for Georgie’s bachelorette party—a “bridal-party only” dinner at some thousand-year-old Italian restaurant near Neal’s house. They ate spaghetti with sugar-sweet tomato sauce, and Seth talked nonstop about the sitcom he was working on, the one he’d just convinced to hire Georgie. Georgie drank too much Paisano, and Heather fell asleep at the table. “Good thing I’m the designated driver,” Seth said.
There was a photo from the next day, at the ceremony, of Seth signing the marriage certificate as Georgie’s witness. Heather was standing on tiptoe to watch. Seth in his brown waistcoat. Georgie in her white dress. Neal beaming.