“You’re shivering.”
“M’not cold.”
He held her tighter anyway.
“It just falls like this?” she asked.
“Mm-hmm.”
“Even when no one’s watching?”
“I think so, but I guess I can’t prove it.”
“I can’t believe I almost missed this.”
“But you didn’t miss it,” he said.
“I almost did. . . .”
“Don’t. We’ve already been through it.”
“We haven’t,” she said. “Not really.”
“We’ve been through it enough.”
“But, Neal I—I just really missed you.”
“Okay, but you can stop now. I’m right here. Stop missing me.”
“Okay.”
The snow kept falling. In slow motion.
“I missed you, too,” Neal said. “I missed you telling me.”
“Telling you what?”
“Everything. What you’re thinking. What you’re worried about. What you want for dinner.”
“You missed me saying that I feel like Thimpu chicken again?”
“I didn’t miss you saying that—I just missed you saying, you know?”
“Maybe,” she said.
“Tell me something now, Georgie.”
“What?”
“Tell me what I missed,” he said, then squeezed her: “Are you sure you’re not cold?”
“No.”
“You’re still shivering.”
“I . . .” She turned her head, so she could see his face. “Petunia had her puppies.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah, my mom wasn’t home, so I helped deliver them.”
“Jesus, really?”
“Yeah. And . . . my sister’s gay.”
“Heather?”
“I only have one sister. Maybe she’s not gay, but she definitely has a girlfriend.”
“Huh . . .” Neal narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.
“What?”
“I . . . for a second, just—nothing, déjà vu or something.”
Georgie turned completely in his arms, and took his face in her hands. There were snowflakes on his cheeks and nose and eyelashes. She wiped them away. “Neal . . .”
He wrapped his arms tight around her waist again. “Don’t, Georgie. We’ve been through it. Enough. For now.”
“It’s just—one more thing.”
“Okay, one more thing.”
“I’m going to be better.”
“We both are.”
“I’m going to try harder.”
“I believe you.”
She held his face still and sank her eyes into his as deeply as she could. She tried to pour fire into them. “From this day forward, Neal.”
Neal lowered his eyebrows, tenderly, like he was untangling something that might fall apart in his hands.
He opened his mouth to speak, but Georgie leaned in and stopped him. She couldn’t help herself, his lips were right there. Neal’s lips were always right there—that’s one reason it was so frustrating when she felt like she wasn’t allowed to kiss him.
She kissed him now. He spread his fingers out against her ribs and let her push his head back.
When Georgie jerked away, he made a noise like it hurt. “Come on, Georgie. No more ‘one more thing’s.’”
“No, I just remembered—I have to call my mom.”
“You do?”
Georgie pushed away from him, but he didn’t let go.
“I have to call her. I never told her I was leaving—I just left, I disappeared.”
“So call her. Where’s your phone?”
“It’s dead. For good.” Georgie reached her hands under Neal’s coat, looking for his pockets. “Where’s your phone?”
He squirmed and dropped his arms. “Inside. Dead. I was letting Alice play Tetris—sorry.”
Georgie turned to go inside, stomping the snow off her borrowed Ugg boots. “It’s okay. I’ll just use the landline.”
“Just borrow my mom’s phone,” he said. “She got rid of the landline.”
Georgie stopped and looked back at him. “She did?”
“Yeah. Years ago. After my dad died.”
“Oh . . .”
Neal pulled his jacket tighter around her. “Come on, let’s go inside. You’re shivering.”
“I’m fine, Neal.”
“Good, let’s go be fine where it’s warm.”
“I just . . .” She reached up and touched his face again. “I almost . . .”
He whispered: “Enough, Georgie. You’re here now. Be here now.”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
If I had a magic phone that called into the past, the first person I’d call would be my dear friend Sue Moon. . . .
And I’d tell her everything I didn’t know I needed to tell her until she was gone.
I’d say thank you, mostly. For helping me break out of myself—and for showing me that there’s no true solace in fear. Every time I finish a book, I remember that Sue promised I would.
Thank you to the many people who help me write books:
My editor, Sara Goodman, who always knows what I’m trying to say. And who understands the power of “Leather and Lace.”
And the team at St. Martin’s Press, especially Olga Grlic, Jessica Preeg, Stephanie Davis, and Eileen Rothschild—who are so smart and sharp and compassionate that I kind of wish there was a legal way to make sure they never leave me.
Nicola Barr, who writes the best “I just finished your book” letters.
Lynn Safranek, Bethany Gronberg, Lance Koenig and Margaret Willison, my safe houses.
Christopher Schelling, who knows when to demand some sort of pug emergency.
And Rosey and Laddie, whom I love so much it hurts. Literally.