Landline

“Seth, it’s seven o’clock.” Nine in Omaha. Or maybe 1998 in Omaha.

“Right,” he said, “and you didn’t get here until one, and you’ve been practically useless all day.”

“A, that isn’t true,” Georgie argued. “And B, if I’m being useless, I may as well go home.”

“No,” he pleaded, “stay. Maybe you’re about to come out of it.”

“I’m exhausted,” she said. “And possibly still hungover. And you know what? You’ve also been useless for the last three hours—what’s your excuse?”

“I’m useless when you’re useless, Georgie”—Seth swept one hand up helplessly—“that’s a long-established fact.”

She unplugged her phone. “Then maybe we’ll both be in better shape tomorrow.”

“You can talk to me about this,” he said, his voice low and losing all pretense. “Whatever’s going on with you today. This week.”

Georgie looked up at him. At his brown eyes and still-not-even-a-little-bit-gray hair. Never removed from the package.

He was her best friend.

“No,” she said. “I can’t.”

CHAPTER 10

Georgie started to call Neal on the way home that night, her phone plugged into the lighter—then she stopped. Neal hadn’t picked up any of her calls, all day.

The last time she’d talked to him was still . . . the last time she’d talked to him.

Which Georgie still wasn’t dealing with.

Which she still couldn’t accept.

Georgie thought about her big, dark, empty house—her house that already felt haunted. . . .

And instead of heading back home, she got off the freeway in Reseda.

She didn’t have a key to her mom’s house, so she had to knock on the front door.

Heather opened it, looking significantly more kempt than usual. She was wearing lip gloss and at least three shades of eye shadow.

“Oh,” she said. “It’s you.” She pulled on Georgie’s arm. “Come inside—hurry—and stay away from the windows.”

“Why? Is someone casing the house?”

“Just come in.”

Georgie came in. Her parents—her mom and Kendrick—were watching TV on the couch, cuddling one of the pugs, the lumpy pregnant one, between them, and petting her with all four hands. “Georgie!” her mom said. “We didn’t know you were coming.”

“I just didn’t feel like driving out to Calabasas. You’re so much closer to the studio.”

“Of course.” Her mom made a concerned face. Georgie couldn’t tell if it was for her or for the dog. “You feeling better?”

“Yeah, I—” The doorbell rang. Georgie reached back toward the door.

“No!” her mom snapped. The dog barked. Heather pushed Georgie away, motioning frantically for her to get back.

“It’s the pizza boy,” her mom whispered.

“That isn’t an explanation,” Georgie whispered back.

Heather peeked out the window, smoothed down her snug T-shirt, then opened the door and stepped onto the stoop, shutting it behind her.

“She has a crush,” her mom said, scratching the pug’s distended belly. “You remember what that was like,” she said to the dog in a baby voice, “don’t you? Don’t you, little mama?”

“I don’t think she remembers,” Georgie said. “You bred her with some dog in Tarzana she’d never met before.”

“Shhh,” her mom said, covering the dog’s eyes. “Only because her hubby shoots blanks.”

“Uhhhhghh.” Georgie shuddered.

“You look like you’re feeling better,” her mom said, still in the baby voice, still smiling at the dog.

“I am,” Georgie said. She was. Relatively. She wasn’t drunk or hungover. And she hadn’t talked to any dead people for almost twenty-four hours now, so that was a plus.

“Well, good,” her mom said. “There’s leftover Swiss steak in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

“And pizza,” Heather offered, walking back into the living room. Aglow. She closed the front door and leaned against it, holding the pizza box against her stomach.

Georgie looked down at the box. “Oh, no. That’s very special pizza. I wouldn’t dare. Anyway, I ate at work—I think I might just lie down.”

She started walking through the living room toward the hall. “Actually . . .” She turned back to her mom. “Could I use your cell phone?”

“Sure, it’s in my purse.” Her mom pushed the dog onto Kendrick’s lap and got off the sofa. “I washed your jeans for you,” she said, finding her purse, rifling through it, “but you look so good in those pants. You should wear more loungewear.” She handed Georgie her phone, a bejeweled Android something-or-another with a pug screen saver.

Georgie dialed Neal’s number and hung up when it went to voice mail. Then she dialed his mom’s house, holding her breath. Busy.

“Thanks,” she said, handing the phone back. “Kendrick? Could I use your phone?” Georgie felt like she was testing something, but she wasn’t sure what.

Kendrick’s phone was plain and black and splattered with drywall mud. Voice mail again. Then busy on the landline. “Thanks,” Georgie said, handing it back.

Her mom looked down at her phone, probably checking to see whom Georgie had called. “Oh, honey, do you really think Neal’s screening his calls?”

“I don’t know,” Georgie said, honestly. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay.”

Her mom put an arm around Georgie’s shoulder and kissed the side of her head. Georgie slumped into the half hug for a minute, then headed to her room.

It felt so much like coming home from school after a really bad day. Her mom had folded her jeans and Neal’s T-shirt, and set them on the pillow as if she’d known Georgie would come back. (As if Neal had left Georgie and also kicked her out of the house.) There were even new sheets on Georgie’s old bed.

She thought about taking a shower, then climbed onto the bed and pulled the phone into her lap. There wasn’t any reason to call Neal again. She’d just tried; he hadn’t picked up.

Was he actually avoiding her calls?

It sure seemed that way. The only time someone answered Neal’s phone was when he wasn’t there . . . supposedly. Maybe his mom was ru

Margaret wouldn’t want this to happen. She liked Georgie, and she’d never want this for the girls. (This, Georgie thought, not wanting to find better words for her worst-case scenario.)

Margaret wouldn’t wish for it or want it. . . .

But Neal was Margaret’s son. And she knew he was unhappy.

That was just a fact.

That wasn’t Georgie being melodramatic or paranoid or delusional. That was Georgie being honest.

Neal wasn’t happy. Neal hadn’t been happy for a long time.

He didn’t complain about it. He didn’t say, “I’m unhappy.” (God—in a way, that would be a relief.) He just wore it, breathed it. Held it between them. Rolled away from it in his sleep.

Neal wasn’t happy, and Georgie was why.

And not because of anything she’d ever done or said. Just because of who she was.

Georgie was Neal’s anchor. (And not the good kind. Not the happy anchor that keeps you safe and grounded, the one you get tattooed across your chest.) Georgie was . . . dead weight.

Okay. Now she was being melodramatic.

This was why she never let herself think about this. Because her brain would dive and dive and never touch bottom. She didn’t let herself think about it. But she still knew it. Everyone around them knew it—Margaret must. That Neal wasn’t happy. That he hated California, that he felt alternately lost and thwarted here. Trapped.

And everyone knew that Georgie needed Neal far more than he needed her. That the girls needed Neal far more than they needed her.

Of course Neal would get custody. Neal already had custody. Neal and Alice and Noomi—they were a closed system, an independent organism.

Neal took them to school, Neal took them to the park, Neal gave them baths.