“You know what I mean.”
“Thanks.” Neal’s legs were bent in front of him, and he was picking at loose threads on his thighs.
He seemed uncomfortable. Georgie had that feeling again, that she was the only one keeping the conversation alive. Maybe she should shut up and see if Neal would say anything. No. No more games. “Would it be easier to talk to me if you were holding a pen?”
Neal lowered his eyebrows, and his head bounced. “Huh. I guess so. Too bad I don’t smoke.”
“What?”
“Oh, you know—something to do with my hands.”
“Oh,” Georgie said. And then, because she wanted to, she reached out and took his hand. Laid her palm on the back of his hand. Curled her fingers behind his thumb. Neal looked down at their hands, then slowly turned his palm up, bending his fingers around hers. Georgie squeezed.
Neal’s magic hand. (This was the left one, so maybe it was slightly less magic.)
Neal’s wide, square palm. Neal’s short, straight fingers—softer than Georgie expected, smoother than her own.
Neal, Neal, Neal.
“Before I knew you were you . . .” He shook his head. “There is no ‘before I knew you were you.’”
Georgie pushed her shoulder into his, and Neal pushed back, still looking at their hands.
“I saw you the first time I came down to The Spoon,” he said. “You were sitting on the couch. And Seth was there, and you kept shoving him away. You were wearing that skirt you have, the blue and green plaid one, you know? And your hair was a mess.”
She jabbed him with her shoulder, and he smiled a one-sided, one-dimpled smile for a second before he shook it away.
“It looked like spun gold—that’s what I remember thinking. That your hair wasn’t a real-person color. You’re not blond, you know? Your hair isn’t yellow. It isn’t yellow mixed with white or brown or orange or gray. It defies four-color CMYK processing. It’s metallic.”
Neal kept shaking his head. “Whit told me your name, and I didn’t believe him—Georgie McCool—but I started reading everything you wrote in The Spoon, and every time I came downstairs, there you were, on the couch or at your desk, always surrounded by half a dozen guys or just . . . him. I thought . . .” He shook his head some more. “When you came back to introduce yourself—Georgie, you didn’t have to introduce yourself. I always knew you were you.”
She pulled Neal’s hand into her lap and turned to face him. And then, because never in her life had Georgie been able to wait for someone to kiss her first, she pressed her mouth into his cheek. Neal clenched his teeth, and she felt the pressure on her lips.
“Georgie,” he whispered. He closed his eyes and tilted his head toward her.
She kissed his cheekbone from nose to temple, then rubbed her lips in his cheek again, wishing he’d smile.
He was holding her hand tight. “Georgie . . . ,” he whispered again.
“Neal . . .” She kissed his jaw from ear to chin.
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?