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  He started to turn his body toward her, slightly, and she reached for his shoulder to make it happen faster, to make him come closer. He caught her hand by the wrist, but still let her pull him in.

  Georgie thought they’d kiss then. She tried to find his mouth.

  But Neal kept rubbing his cheek into hers, and it felt so nice—all the soft and hard parts of their faces catching on each other. Cheekbone on brow. Jawbone on chin. Neal’s skin was flushed and warm. His hands were holding firm. He smelled like bar soap and beer and fabric paint. God . . .

  This was better than kissing.

  This was . . .

  Georgie arched her neck and felt Neal’s chin, then nose, then forehead push down to her collarbone. She dropped her face into his short hair—and closed her eyes.

  When Georgie was a kid, this was what she’d pictured whenever she’d heard the word “necking”—two people rubbing their faces and necks together, kissing like giraffes. She’d had a crush on her babysitter’s son, and this was what she’d fantasized about doing with him, rubbing her neck into his, burying her face into his Simon Le Bon hair. (She was nine, and he was fifteen, and this fortunately never happened.)

  She lifted her chin again, and Neal dragged his face back up to hers, humming almost helplessly in her ear.

  Whatever this was—non-kissing, hard-core nuzzling—it felt so good that the next time Neal’s lips were over hers, Georgie ghosted right past them, pulling his mouth open with her cheek instead.

  Neal hummed again.

  Georgie smiled.

  The bedroom door opened.

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” somebody said. “Can’t you people read?”

  The music from the living room banged back into the bedroom. “You Oughta Know” by Alanis Morissette. Georgie looked up at the doorway—it was Whit from The Spoon. Whit who lived here and wrote beseeching notes. Neal let go of Georgie’s arm, but she caught his hand. She held both his hands now. Fast.

  “Oh,” Whit said, looking a little dumbfounded. “Neal . . . and Georgie. Sorry, I thought some asshole was using your room. Uh, carry on, I guess.”

  Whit closed the door—and Georgie started giggling.

  “This is your room?”

  Neal’s head dropped. “Yeah.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  He shrugged. “I don’t know. ‘Why don’t you come back to my room?’—it sounds sleazy.”

  “It sounds better than ‘Let’s go make out in this stranger’s room.’” She spread her fingers and pushed them through his, squeezing his hands tight again. Then she leaned toward him, mouth-first. Yes, the non-kissing was good. But there were Neal’s perfectly formed lips right there—a testament to symmetry and cell division—and surely kissing would be even better.

  “Georgie,” he said, turning his head away.

  She kissed his cheek again. His ear. Neal’s ears were perfect, too, even if they did stick out at the top like pot handles. She opened her mouth over his ear, and Neal gripped her hands, using them to push her away.

  “Georgie,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “You can,” she said. “You are.”

  “No.” He let go of her hands and took hold of her shoulders, holding her back. “I want to, but I can’t.”

  “You want to?”

  Neal locked his jaw and closed his eyes, then growled. “I can’t. Georgie, I . . . I have a girlfriend.”

  Georgie jerked away from him. Like he was on fire. (Like he was on fire, and it wasn’t her job to put him out.) His hands fell from her shoulders.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “It’s not—” He seemed so angry. Probably angry with himself. He licked his lips. “I mean . . .”

  “It’s okay,” she said, putting her hands on the floor and pushing herself to her feet. Of course it wasn’t okay. Nothing was okay. “I’ll just . . .”

  Neal was scrambling up, too. “Georgie, let me explain.”

  “No.” It was her turn to shake her head. “No, it’s okay. I’ll just . . .” She reached for the doorknob.

  “It’s not what you think,” he said.

  Georgie laughed. “No. No, it’s not.” She stumbled through the door and closed it behind her. God, it was loud out here. It was . . .

  God.

  Neal.

  Of course he had a girlfriend. Because he liked her and wanted to kiss her, and every time they talked, it felt like her brain was fizzing out her ears, so it only stood to reason that he had a girlfriend.

  How could Neal have a girlfriend? Where was he keeping her?

  Somewhere other than The Spoon offices, clearly. God, God, God—it’s not like he’d led Georgie on. He’d never sought her out. It was always Georgie hanging off his drafting table, making eighth-grade eyes at him. Neal hardly even looked at her. (Spun gold. CMYK. A half a dozen guys.)

  Seth was going to love this.

  Georgie wasn’t going to tell Seth.

  She wasn’t going to tell anybody.

  God, she’d thought that Neal liked her. Better than he liked anyone else, anyway. (He even said that he liked her. He said he wanted to kiss her. . . . ) (Though apparently not enough to actually do it.)

  She should never have tried to kiss him first.

  She should never kiss anyone first. . . .

  Georgie always kissed first.

  She always fell for the guy in the room who seemed the least interested in her. The guy who was toxically arrogant or cripplingly shy. Or both. The guy at the party who looked like he’d rather be any where else.

  “You should try dating nice guys,” her friend Ludy used to say in high school. “They’re nice. I think you’d like them.”

  “Boring,” Georgie’d said. “Pointless.”

  “Not pointless—nice.”

  They’d had this conversation in the cafeteria. They were waiting by the door so that Georgie could casually get in line behind Jay Anselmo, who was two years older than they were, really into No Doubt and competitive car stereos, and who would undoubtedly ignore her. “What’s the point of making a nice guy like me?” Georgie said. “Nice guys like everybody.”

  “You shouldn’t have to make anybody like you, Georgie. You should want to be with somebody who can’t help but like you.”

  “Nothing good is easy.”

  “Not true,” Ludy said. “Sleep. TV. Jell-O Instant Pudding.” (Ludy was a riot. Georgie missed her.)

  “I don’t want to go out with Jell-O Instant Pudding,” Georgie said.

  “I would marry Jell-O Instant Pudding.”

  Georgie rolled her eyes. “I want to go out with Mikey.”

  “I thought you wanted to go out with Jay Anselmo.”

  “Jay Anselmo is Mikey,” Georgie explained. “He’s the guy in the Life cereal commercial who hates everything. If Mikey likes you, you know you’re good. If Mikey likes you, it means something.”

  Georgie’d ended up kissing Jay Anselmo one night after a football game, at a party in Ludy’s backyard. He’d let her kiss him all through her sophomore year. And then he’d gone off to college, and Georgie’d found a few other guys to kiss.

  She’d never really thought of kissing-first as a problem; Georgie tended to hook up with guys who appreciated the clarity.

  But tonight, in Neal’s room, it was a problem.

  She’d read Neal all wrong: She’d thought he was a Mikey. She’d thought he was the grumpiest hobbit in the Shire. But really, he just had a girlfriend.

  Georgie was done kissing first. The next person she kissed was going to have to do all the work. Assuming she ever found anybody who thought she was worth it.

  Georgie wanted to go home.

  She wanted to cry all the way there, thinking about Neal’s sideways symmetrical mouth and the way he could freehand a perfectly straight line.

  She wanted to find Seth.

  CHAPTER 16

  Georgie’s cell phone chimed. She picked it up.

  “Earth to Georgie.”r />
  She looked up from the text message to Seth, who was sitting across from her at the writers’ table.

  He met her eyes, then looked down at his phone and typed something.

  Chime. She looked at her phone.

  “We’re running out of time.”

  Georgie thought for a second, then thumbed in a reply—

  “I know, I’m sorry.”

  When Seth looked back up at her, his eyebrows were crowded together over his brown eyes.

  She felt herself tearing up.

  He tilted his head, then scrunched his nose unhappily. Seth hated it when Georgie cried. He went back to the phone again, typing rapidly.

  “Talk to me.”

  “I can’t. I wouldn’t know where to start.”

  “I don’t care where you start.”

  She wiped her eyes on her shoulder.

  Seth sighed.

  “Georgie, whatever it is—we’ll get through it.”

  She stared down at her phone. After a few seconds, AN EMERGENCY CONTACT popped up on the screen, and it started to ring. It was just the standard ring—Marimba—Georgie never had time to figure out special ringtones.

  She grabbed her laptop and stood up, answering the call and walking toward the door, careful not to close the computer or unplug the phone. “Hello?”

  “Meow!”

  Georgie felt a cold surge of disappointment. Then felt guilty about it. You’re not supposed to feel a cold surge of disappointment at the sound of your four-year-old daughter’s voice.

  “Meow,” Georgie said, leaning against the wall outside the writers’ room.

  “Grandma said I could call you,” Noomi said.

  “You can always call me. How are you, sweetie? Did you make me some cookies?”

  “No.”

  “Oh. That’s okay.”

  “Maybe Grandma did. I made some for Santa and some for me.”

  “That was smart. I’ll bet they’re delicious.”

  “Meow,” Noomi said. “I’m a green kitty.”

  “I know.” Georgie tried to focus. “You’re the best green kitty in the world. I love you so much, Noomi.”

  “You’re the best mommy in the world, and I love you more than milk and fishbones and . . . what else do kitties like?”

  “Yarn,” Georgie said.

  “Yarn,” Noomi giggled. “That’s crazy.”

  Georgie took a calming breath. “Noomi, is Daddy there?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Can I talk to him?”

  “No.”

  Georgie knocked her head back against the wall. “Why not?”

  “He’s sleeping. He said we can’t even go upstairs to pee.”

  Georgie should tell Noomi to do it anyway. Neal was her husband. And she hadn’t talked to him for three days. (Or thirteen hours.) (Or fifteen years.)

  Georgie sighed. “Okay. Can I talk to Alice?”

  “Alice is playing Monopoly with Grandma.”

  “Right.”

  “I have to go. My hot chocolate is cold now.”

  “Meow,” Georgie said. “Meow-meow, love you, green kitty.”

  “Meow-meow, Mommy, I love you even more than yarn.”

  Noomi hung up.

  There’s a magic phone in my childhood bedroom. I can use it to call my husband in the past. (My husband who isn’t my husband yet. My husband who maybe shouldn’t be my husband at all.)

  There’s a magic phone in my childhood bedroom. I unplugged it this morning and hid it in the closet.

  Maybe all the phones in the house are magic.

  Or maybe I’m magic. Temporarily magic. (Ha! Time travel pun!)

  Does it count as time travel? If it’s just my voice traveling?

  There’s a magic phone hidden in my closet. And I think it’s connected to the past. And I think I’m supposed to fix something. I think I’m supposed to make something right.

  When Georgie got back to the writers’ room, Seth looked like he was at the end of his rope. He’d unbuttoned his shirt an extra button, and his hair was sticking up around his ears and at the back of his neck.

  She stood at the whiteboard and took charge of the outline.

  It wasn’t that hard—they’d been talking about these characters for years. They just needed to get their ideas into writing. Wrestle them into a few workable scripts. Georgie could do this in her sleep. Sometimes she did do it in her sleep. She’d wake up in the middle of the night and hang off the side of her bed, scrounging around for a piece of paper. (She never remembered to put a notebook by the bed when she was lucid.)

  Neal would stir in his sleep and reach for her hips, pulling her back onto the bed. “What’re you looking for?”

  “Paper,” she’d say, leaning off the bed again. “I have an idea I don’t want to forget.”

  She’d feel his mouth at the base of her spine. “Tell me. I’ll remember.”

  “You’re asleep, too.”

  He’d bite her. “Tell me.”

  “It’s a dance,” she’d say. “There’s a dance. And Chloe, the main character, will end up with one of her mom’s old prom dresses. And she’ll try to fix it to make it cool, like in Pretty in Pink, but it won’t be cool; it’ll be awful. And something embarrassing will happen at the dance to ‘Try a Little Tenderness.’”

  “Got it.” Then Neal would pull her back into bed, into him, holding her in place. “Dance. Dress. ‘Try a Little Tenderness.’ Now go back to sleep.”

  And then he’d push up Georgie’s pajama shirt, biting her back until neither of them could go back to sleep.

  And then, eventually, she’d drift off with his hand on her hip and his forehead pressed into her shoulder.

  She’d get out of the shower the next morning, and it would be written in the steam on the mirror:

  Dance. Dress. Try a little tenderness.

  Georgie shook her head and looked up at the whiteboard and tried to remember where she’d left off.

  The night that Neal told her about his girlfriend (fucking of course he had a girlfriend), Seth took Georgie home, then went back to the Halloween party. Georgie stayed up listening to her mom’s Carole King albums and wrote a really angsty monologue for one of her theater classes.

  That was back when she still thought about performing someday. Before she’d decided that she had a better face and brain for the writers’ room. “Why would you want to act, anyway?” was Seth’s take on the subject. “Stand there and say other people’s words, let everybody else tell you what to do . . . Actors are just beautiful puppets.”

  “If that’s true,” Georgie’d said, “you sure date a lot of puppets.”

  Georgie didn’t really want to act—she wanted to do stand-up. But she hated bars, that was a problem. Also, she wanted to get married and have a family.

  Seth said nothing beat writing for TV. “It’s comedy with health insurance,” he said. And big houses and cars. And sunshine.

  The morning after the Halloween party, Georgie picked up bagels on the way to Seth’s frat house. She passed last night’s girl—the lovely Breanna again—in the hallway. Breanna looked surprised to see Georgie; Georgie just nodded, as if they were coworkers.

  When she got to Seth’s room, his hair was wet, and he was changing his sheets.

  “Gross,” she said.

  “What’s gross?”

  “This.”

  “You’d rather I didn’t change my sheets?”

  “I’d rather you got all this—girl, sheets, shower—taken care of before I showed up, so that I don’t have to think about you having sex.”

  Seth paused, holding the sheet in the air with both hands, and grinned. “Is that what you’re thinking about?”

  Georgie sat down at his desk, ignoring him. He was a senior, so he didn’t have a roommate. She turned on his computer and watched him make his bed.

  He really was gorgeous. Intentionally so.

  Most guys just walked around with nothing but raw material. Pretty eyes, bad ha
ir, ill-fitting clothes. Most guys didn’t even know what they had to offer. But Seth was like a girl—he was a better girl than Georgie—he knew what his strengths were. He let his coppery brown hair grow long enough to shine and curl. He wore pale colors that made his skin look tan. He presented himself to you. To everyone. Here I am. Look at me.

  Georgie looked. She watched. And nothing stirred in her stomach. She didn’t take any special thrill in being here, being the one Seth wanted to see when he was done with the lovely whomever.

  Neal had cured her of Seth.

  Now what would cure her of Neal?

  And why was she only attracted to guys who were sleeping with somebody else? If Georgie were a wild animal, she’d be a genetic dead end.

  Seth fell onto the bed and turned on the TV. Animaniacs. Georgie threw him his bagel.

  “So,” he said, unwrapping it, “feeling any better this morning?”

  She put her feet up on his desk and watched the show. “I’m fine.”

  When the episode was over, Georgie turned to the computer and opened a file. Aside from their column, and Georgie’s horoscopes, and their duties as managing editors—they also wrote a regular movie-review parody for The Spoon, “Your Mom Reviews . . .” It ran with a photo of Seth’s mom. This week, they were doing Trainspotting.

  Seth was still watching cartoons.

  “He has a girlfriend,” Georgie said.

  Seth’s face jerked toward her; his eyebrows lowered. “This whole time?”

  “Apparently.”

  He turned off the TV and was up off the bed, pulling another chair next to Georgie and sitting on it backwards. “Fuck him,” he said, elbowing her. “I’m telling you, it wasn’t meant to be.”

  “Since when do you believe in ‘meant to be’?”

  “Since fucking ever, Georgie, pay attention. I’m a romantic.”

  “Just ask the parade of Saturday-morning girls.”

  “Parades are romantic. Who doesn’t love a parade?”

  They worked on the movie review until it was time for Seth to go to work (to his other job, at the J.Crew factory store). He tried extra hard to make Georgie laugh; and when he leaned on her shoulder while she typed, she mostly let him.

  By the time she walked out of the frat house, she felt better about Neal and his inevitable girlfriend. . . .