“I feel like we have to go back further than that,” Georgie said.

“No.”

“Why not?”

Neal was whispering. “I don’t want to go back any further. I don’t want to miss any of the rest.”

“Okay,” she said, wiping her eyes.

This was crazy. This was weird and crazy. It wasn’t real. But it was still happening. If Georgie hung up, would it stop?

Or should she keep crazy on the line, so she could trace the call?

“Okay,” she said again.

“Okay,” Neal said. “So . . . you called to see if I got in all right. I did. It was a long drive, and I only had three CDs, so I listened to this radio show in the middle of the night—it was called Coast to Coast—and now I think I believe in aliens.”

Georgie decided to play along. She must be having this hallucination for a reason. Maybe if she played along, she’d figure out what it needed, and it would move on. (Or did that just work for ghosts?)

“You’ve always believed in aliens,” she said.

“I have not,” Neal said. “I’m a skeptic—I was a skeptic. Now I believe in aliens.”

“Did you see some?”

“No. But I saw a double rainbow in Colorado.”

She laughed. “John Denver wept.”

“It was pretty amazing.”

“Did you drive straight through, without stopping?”

“Yeah,” he said, “I did it in twenty-seven hours.”

“That was stupid.”

“I know. But I had a lot to think about—I figured the thinking would keep me awake.”

“I’m glad you got home okay.”

For a hallucination, this conversation was progressing very rationally. (Which made sense; Georgie had always been good at writing dialogue.)

She’d guessed right: She was obviously talking to Neal—or imagining that she was talking to Neal—just after their big Christmas fight, in college.

But they hadn’t talked after that fight.

Neal didn’t call Georgie after he left for Omaha, so Georgie didn’t call him either. He’d just shown up at the end of the week, on Christmas morning, with an engagement ring. . . .

“You still sound pretty upset,” Neal said. Not-Neal said. Hallucinatory, aural-mirage Neal said.

“I’ve had a weird day,” Georgie replied. “Also—I think you might have broken up with me a few days ago.”

“No,” he said quickly.

She shook her head. It still reeled. “No? Are you sure?”

“No. I mean . . . I got angry, I said some terrible things—and I meant all of them—but I didn’t break up with you.”

“We’re not broken up?” Her voice broke on “broken.”

“No,” Neal insisted.

“But I always thought you broke up with me.”

“Always?”

“Always . . . since we fought.”

“I don’t want to break up with you, Georgie.”

“But you said you couldn’t do this anymore.”

“I know,” he said.

“And you meant it,” she said.

“I did.”

“But we’re not broken up?”

He growled, but she could tell that it wasn’t at her. Usually when Neal growled, he was growling at himself. “I can’t do this anymore,” he said. “But I’m hoping this can change because . . . I don’t think I can live without you either.”

“Sure you can.” Georgie wasn’t joking.

Neal laughed anyway. (Well, he didn’t laugh—Neal rarely laughed. But he had a sort of huffy, roof-of-the-mouth breathy thing that counted as a laugh.) “You really think I can live without you? Because I haven’t had any luck with that so far.”

“Not true,” Georgie said. She might as well say it; this conversation wasn’t real, it didn’t cost her anything. In fact, maybe that’s what she was supposed to be doing here—saying everything she could never say to the real Neal. Just getting it out of her chest. “You had twenty years of luck before we met.”

“That doesn’t count,” he said, like he was playing along. (No, I’m the one playing along, Georgie thought. You, sir, are a hallucination.) “I didn’t know what I was missing before I met you.”

“Frustration,” she said. “Irritation. Douchebag industry parties.”

“Not just that.”

“Late nights,” she continued. “Missed dinners. That voice I use when I’m trying to impress people . . .” Neal hated that voice.

“Georgie.”

“. . . Seth.”

Neal made another huffy noise. This one wasn’t anything like a laugh. “Why are you trying so hard to push me away?”

“Because,” she pushed. “Because of what you said before you left. About how it wasn’t working and you weren’t happy, and how you didn’t think you could go on like this. I keep thinking about what you said—I haven’t stopped thinking about it—and I can’t think of any way to argue. You were right, Neal. I’m not going to change. I’m all caught up in a world that you hate, and I’m just going to pin you here. Maybe you should get out while you still can.”

“You think I should break up with you?” he said. “You want that?”

“Those are two different questions.”

“You think I’d be better off without you?”

“Probably.” Say it, she told herself. Just say it. “I mean—yes. Look at everything you said after that party. Look at the evidence.”

“A lot has happened since I said that.”

“You saw a double rainbow,” she said, “and now you believe in aliens.”

“No. You called three times to tell me that you love me.”

Georgie caught her breath and held it. She’d called Neal so many more times than that.

He sounded like he was holding the phone even closer to his mouth now: “Do you love me, Georgie?”

“More than anything,” she said. Because she was still telling the truth, damn the torpedoes. “More than everything.”

Neal huffed, maybe in relief.

“But,” she kept pushing, “you said that might not be enough.”

“It might not be.”

“So . . .”

“So I don’t know,” Neal said. “But I’m not breaking up with you. I can’t right now. Are you breaking up with me?”

“No.”

“Let’s start over,” he said softly.

“How far back?”

“Just to the beginning of this conversation.”

Georgie took a deep breath. “How was your trip?”

“Good,” he said. “I did it in twenty-seven hours.”

“Idiot.”

“And I saw a double rainbow.”

“Miraculous.”

“And when I got here, my mom had made all my favorite Christmas cookies.”

“Lucky.”

“I wish you were here, Georgie—it snowed for you.”

This wasn’t happening. This was a hallucination. Or a schizophrenic episode. Or . . . a dream.

Georgie slumped back against her headboard and brought the tightly coiled telephone cord up to her mouth, biting on the rubbery plastic.

She closed her eyes and kept playing along.

CHAPTER 12

“I can’t believe you drove straight through.”

“It wasn’t so bad.”

“You drove for twenty-seven hours. I think that’s illegal.”

“For truckers.”

“For a reason.”

“It wasn’t so bad. I started dropping off a bit in Utah, but I stopped the car and walked around.”

“You could have died. Right there. In Utah.”

“You make it sound like that’s worse than regular dying.”

“Promise me you’ll never do that again.”

“I promise never to almost die in Utah. I’ll be extra careful from now on around Mormons.”

“Tell me more about the aliens.”

“Tell me more about the drive.”

“Tell me more about your parents.”

“Tell me more about Omaha.”

Georgie just wanted to hear his voice, she didn’t want it to stop. She didn’t want Neal to stop.

There were moments when it started to rise up on her, what was happening. What she had access to, real or not. Neal. 1998. The immensity of it—the improbability—kept creeping up the back of Georgie’s skull like dizziness, and she kept shaking it off.

It was like getting him back. Her Neal. (Her old Neal.)

He was right there, and she could ask him anything that she wanted.

“Tell me more about the mountains,” Georgie said, because she wasn’t really sure what to ask. Because “tell me where I went wrong” might break the spell.

And because what she wanted more than anything else was just to keep listening.

“I went to see Saving Private Ryan without you.”

“Good.”

“And my dad and I are going to see Life Is Beautiful.”

“Good. You should also rent Schindler’s List without me.”

“We’ve been through this,” he said. “You need to watch Schindler’s List. Every human being needs to watch Schindler’s List.”

Georgie still hadn’t. “You know I can’t do anything with Nazis.”

“But you like Hogan’s Heroes. . . .”

“That’s where I draw the line.”

“The Nazi line?”

“Yes.”

“At Colonel Klink.”

“Obviously.”

She wasn’t crying anymore. Neal wasn’t growling.

She was burrowed under the comforter, holding the phone lightly against her ear.

He was still there. . . .

“So Christmas with the Pool Man, huh?”

“God,” Georgie said. “I forgot I called him that.”

“How could you forget? You’ve been calling him that for six months.”

“Kendrick’s not so bad.”

“He doesn’t seem bad—he seems nice. Do you really think they’ll get married soon?”

“Yeah. Probably.” Imminently.

“When did you get so Zen about this?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time we talked about it, you went on a whole rant about how weird it is. About how you and your mom are now drawing from the same dating pool.”

Oh. Right. Georgie laughed. “And you said, ‘No, your mom’s dating pool is literally a pool.’ . . . God. I remember that.”

Neal kept going: “And then you said that if your mom proceeds at her current pattern and rate, your next stepdad must currently be in the sixth grade. That was funny.”

“You thought that was funny?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“You didn’t laugh.”

“You know I don’t laugh, sunshine.”

Georgie rolled over and switched the phone to the other side of her head, curling up again under the comforter. “I still can’t believe my mom was checking out twenty-something guys at forty. That she was looking at college guys and thinking, ‘Yep. Fair game. Totally doable.’ I don’t think I ever appreciated how disturbing that was until just now.” That would be like Georgie hooking up with Scotty. Or with one of Heather’s friends—her pizza boy. “Guys in their early twenties are babies,” she said. “They don’t even have all their facial hair yet. They’re literally not done with puberty.”

“Hey, now.”

“Oh. Sorry. Not you.”

“Right. Not me. Unlike many of my peers, I’m plenty mature enough to date your mom.”

“Stop! Neal! Don’t even joke.”

“I knew you weren’t suddenly Zen about this.”

“God. My mom’s a pervert. She’s a libertine.”

“Maybe she’s just in love.”

“I’m sorry about the party,” she said.

“I don’t want to talk about it, Georgie.”

“I’m still sorry.”

“That it existed? That you were a huge hit?”

“That I made you go.”

“You didn’t make me go,” he said. “You can’t make me do anything—I’m an adult. And I’m much stronger than you.”

“Upper body strength isn’t everything; I have wiles.”

“Not really.”

“Yes, I do. I’m a woman. Women have wiles.”

“Some women. It’s not like every woman is born wily.”

“If I don’t have wiles,” she said, “how come I can get you to do almost anything I want?”

“You don’t get me to do anything. I just do things. Because I love you.”

“Oh.”

“Christ, Georgie, don’t sound so disappointed.”

“Neal . . . I really am sorry. About the party.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay.”

“And it’s not just my upper body,” he said. “My entire body is stronger than yours. I can pin you in like thirty-five seconds.”

“Only because I let you,” she said. “Because I love you.”

“Oh, okay.”

“Don’t sound so disappointed, Neal.”