Landline

But it was snowing now for Alice and Noomi.

And it was snowing in 1998 for Neal.

“Really?” she said.

“Yeah.” Neal sounded soft and warm. He sounded tucked in. “Just started.”

Georgie climbed up into her bed and clapped softly to turn off the light. “Tell me about it.”

“I can’t,” he said. “You don’t have any frame of reference.”

“I’ve seen snow on TV.”

“That’s usually fake.”

“How is real snow different?”

“It’s less like powder. It’s sticky. It doesn’t scatter when you walk through it, not usually. What’s it like in your head?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought about it. It’s like snow.”

“Think about it.”

“Well . . . it looks like crystal—snowflakes do—but I know it’s soft. I guess I imagined that it would feel almost ceramic? But instead of shattering, it would crumble in your hands.”

“Hmmm . . .”

“Is that right?” she asked.

“Almost not at all.”

“Tell me.”

“Well, it’s ice,” he said.

“I know it’s ice.”

“You’re partly right—it’s soft. Have you ever had shaved ice? Did you have one of those Snoopy Sno-Cone Machines?”

“Of course not, my mom never bought me anything good.”

“But you’ve had shaved ice.”

“Yeah.”

“So you know how that’s soft. How it’s solid, but soft. How it compresses when you push your tongue into the roof of your mouth.”

“Yeah . . . ,” she said.

“Well, it’s like that. Like ice. But soft. And light. And almost whipped with air. And sometimes, like tonight, it’s thick—and it sticks together in clumps, like cotton candy and wet feathers.”

Georgie laughed.

“I wish you were here,” he said. “To see it. If you were here, you’d be sleeping in the basement—there’s a foldout couch.”

She knew about the couch. “I don’t like basements.”

“You’d like this one. It’s got lots of windows. And a foosball table.”

Georgie climbed under the covers. “Oh, well, foosball.”

“And a whole wall of board games.”

“I like board games.”

“I know. . . . You’re in bed now, aren’t you?”

“Hmm-mmm.”

“I can tell. Your voice has given up.”

“Given up what?” she asked.

“I don’t know. Being upright. And on-the-ball. Clever. All the things you have to be all day long.”

“Are you saying I’m done being clever?”

“I’m saying,” he said, “I like you when you’ve given everything up for the day.”

“I like you on the phone,” Georgie said. “I’ve always liked you on the phone.”

“Always?”

“Mmm.”

“If you were here,” Neal said, “you’d be sleeping in the basement. And I’d notice it was snowing, and I wouldn’t want you to miss it. I’d come downstairs. . . .”

“Don’t, you’ll traumatize Margaret if you get caught sneaking into my room.”

“Pfft. I’m stealthy. I’d come down and wake you up. And I’d let you borrow a pair of my boots and an old coat.”

“Make it your letterman’s jacket.”

“It’s not warm enough,” he argued.

“This is hypothetical snow, Neal. Make it your letterman’s jacket.”

“I don’t get it—you think wrestling is gross, but you like my letterman’s jacket.”

“You didn’t wrestle in the jacket,” she said.

“It could be real, you know. This scenario. Next Christmas.”

“Mmm.”

“So I’d take you outside in borrowed boots and my letterman’s jacket, out to the backyard—I’ve told you how there are no streetlights, right? You can see the stars. . . .”

Georgie had stood in that backyard with Neal, his backyard that felt like the edge of a forest, a dozen times over the years. There hadn’t ever been snow, but there were stars.

“And I’d watch you meet the snow,” he said.

“Meet it?”

“Feel it. Taste it. I’d watch it catch in your hair and eyelashes.”

She rubbed her cheek into her pillow. “Like in The Sound of Music.”

“And when you got too cold, I’d hold you close. And everywhere I touched you, the snow would melt between us.”

“We should talk on the phone more at home.”

He laughed. “Really.”

“Yeah. Just call each other from the next room.”

“We could get cell phones,” he said.

“Brilliant idea,” she agreed. “But you have to promise to answer yours.”

“Why wouldn’t I answer?”

“I don’t know.”

“And then,” he said, “when you got too cold for me to keep you warm—which would be too soon, because you’re spoiled by the sun—I’d take you back inside. And we’d shake off the snow and leave our wet boots in the mudroom.”

“Why’s it called a mudroom?”

“Because it’s the room where you take off your muddy things.”

“I love that your house plans for you to get muddy. Like it’s in the architecture.”

“And then I’d follow you back downstairs. . . . And you’d still be so cold. And your pajama pants would be wet. Your face would be flushed, your cheeks would be numb.”

“That sounds dangerous,” she said.

“It’s not dangerous. It’s normal. It’s nice.”

“Hmm.”

“And I wouldn’t be able to stop touching you,” Neal said, “because I’ve never touched you cold.”

“You’re hung up on the cold.”

His voice dipped into a rumble. “I’m hung up on you.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Georgie whispered.

“Like what?”

“That voice.”

“What voice?” he rumbled.

“You know what voice. Your Would you like me to seduce you? voice.”

“I have a Mrs. Robinson voice?”

“Yes,” she said. “You’re a minx.”

“Why can’t I seduce you, Georgie? You’re my girlfriend.”

She swallowed. “Yeah, but I’m sleeping in my childhood bedroom.”

“Georgie. I’ve had my way with you in that childhood bedroom. Just last week, in fact.”

“Yeah, but you’re in your childhood bedroom.” And you’re actually, practically your childhood self. Georgie couldn’t talk dirty with this Neal. It would be like cheating on her Neal—wouldn’t it?

“Have you blacked out all of last summer?” he asked.

She smiled and looked away, even though he couldn’t see her. “The Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex,” she said. Of course she remembered the Summer of Spectacular Phone Sex.

“Exactly,” he said. “The Summer of Conjugal Long Distance.”

Georgie had forgotten that nickname. It made her laugh. “No. I haven’t forgotten.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I can’t have spectacular phone sex with you.” I haven’t had phone sex for fifteen years. “I’m wearing my mother’s lingerie.”

Neal laughed. Genuinely. Out loud, which almost never happened. “If you’re trying to turn me on, I have to tell you, sweets, it’s not working.” “I’m actually wearing my mother’s lingerie,” Georgie said. “It’s a long story. I didn’t have anything else to wear.”

She could hear him smiling, even before he started talking. “Well, Christ, Georgie—take it off.”

Neal.

Neal, Neal, Neal.

“I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“No,” she said, “just stay.”

“I’m falling asleep.” He breathed a laugh. It sounded muffled. She could picture his face in the pillow, the phone resting on his ear—she was imagining a cell phone. Wrong.

“That’s okay,” she said.

“I might be asleep already,” he murmured.

“I don’t mind. It’s nice. I’ll fall asleep, too. Just set the phone close, so I can hear you wake up.”

“And then I’ll explain to my dad that I was on a long distance call for ten hours because sleeping on the phone seemed romantic at the time.”

God. Long distance. Georgie had forgotten about long distance—did that still exist? “It would be romantic, though,” she said. “Like waking up in each other’s heads.”

“I’ll call you when I wake up.”

“Don’t call me,” she said. “I’ll call you.”

He snorted a little.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she said. “But seriously: Don’t call me, I’ll call you.”

“Okay, you call me, sunshine. Call me as soon as you wake up.”

“I love you,” Georgie said. “I love you like this.”