now, right? I’m here, and we’re working?”
“There’s something green on your face,” Seth said, touching her chin. “It’s sticky.” Georgie jerked away, finding her seat at the long conference table.
Scotty went back to his lunch. “Is this what happens when Neal’s out of town? No wonder he keeps you on such a short leash.”
“I’m not on a leash,” Georgie said. “I’m married .”
Seth shoved a foam container in front of her. Georgie opened it. Soggy Korean tacos. She waited a second to figure out whether she was more sick or more hungry. . . . More hungry.
Seth handed her a fork. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just show me what you have so far.”
Not fine. Completely not fine.
“I should have told you? I did tell you. I said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I said ‘I love you, but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it will ever be enough.’ I said, ‘I don’t want to live like this, Georgie’—remember?”
It made sense, really. If Georgie was going to have a delusional, paranoid nervous breakdown about her husband leaving her, it made sense that she’d flash back to the one time Neal actually had left her.
Sort of left her.
Before they were married.
It was Christmas break, their senior year. And they’d gone to some party, some TV party that seemed really important at the time. Seth was already working on a Fox sitcom, and he wanted Georgie to meet all the other writers on the show—the star was even supposed to be there. It was just a party in somebody’s backyard, with a pool and beer and Christmas lights threaded through the lemon trees.
Neal spent the whole night standing next to the fence and refusing to talk to anybody. Refusing on principle. As if making small talk—as if being polite —would be too much of a concession. (A concession to Seth. To California. To the fact that Georgie was going to get a job like this with these sorts of people, and Neal would be along for the ride.)
So he stood by the fence with the cheapest beer available and dead-bolted his jaw into place.
Georgie was so infuriated by this little sit-in, she made sure she and Neal were some of the last people to leave. She met and talked to all of Seth’s new work friends. She played her part in the Seth-and-Georgie show. (It was a good part; Georgie got most of the punch lines.) She made everyone there love her.
And then she got into Neal’s worn-out Saturn, and he drove her to her mom’s house. And he told her he was done.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.
“I love you,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”
He said, “I don’t want to live like this, Georgie.”
And the next morning, he’d left for Omaha without her.
Georgie didn’t hear from Neal that whole week. She thought they were over.
She thought that maybe he was right, that they should be over.
And then, on Christmas morning, in 1998, Neal was there at her front door—down on one knee on the green indoor-outdoor carpeting, holding his great aunt’s wedding ring.
He asked Georgie to marry him.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than I hate everything else.”
And Georgie had laughed because only Neal would think that was a romantic thing to say.
Then she said yes.
Georgie plugged her cell phone into her laptop and made sure the ringer volume was turned all the way up.
“What are you doing?” Seth asked. “No cell phones in the writers’ room, remember? That’s your rule.”
“We’re not even officially here,” Georgie said.
“You’re not even un officially here,” he snapped back at her.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Right. Me, too. Four scripts, remember?”
She rubbed her eyes. It was just a dream. Last night. Even though it hadn’t felt like a dream—that’s all it could have been. An episode.
That was something people had. Normal people. Episodes. And then they laid cool cloths over
“There’s something green on your face,” Seth said, touching her chin. “It’s sticky.” Georgie jerked away, finding her seat at the long conference table.
Scotty went back to his lunch. “Is this what happens when Neal’s out of town? No wonder he keeps you on such a short leash.”
“I’m not on a leash,” Georgie said. “I’m married .”
Seth shoved a foam container in front of her. Georgie opened it. Soggy Korean tacos. She waited a second to figure out whether she was more sick or more hungry. . . . More hungry.
Seth handed her a fork. “You okay?”
“Fine. Just show me what you have so far.”
Not fine. Completely not fine.
“I should have told you? I did tell you. I said, ‘I can’t do this anymore.’ I said ‘I love you, but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it will ever be enough.’ I said, ‘I don’t want to live like this, Georgie’—remember?”
It made sense, really. If Georgie was going to have a delusional, paranoid nervous breakdown about her husband leaving her, it made sense that she’d flash back to the one time Neal actually had left her.
Sort of left her.
Before they were married.
It was Christmas break, their senior year. And they’d gone to some party, some TV party that seemed really important at the time. Seth was already working on a Fox sitcom, and he wanted Georgie to meet all the other writers on the show—the star was even supposed to be there. It was just a party in somebody’s backyard, with a pool and beer and Christmas lights threaded through the lemon trees.
Neal spent the whole night standing next to the fence and refusing to talk to anybody. Refusing on principle. As if making small talk—as if being polite —would be too much of a concession. (A concession to Seth. To California. To the fact that Georgie was going to get a job like this with these sorts of people, and Neal would be along for the ride.)
So he stood by the fence with the cheapest beer available and dead-bolted his jaw into place.
Georgie was so infuriated by this little sit-in, she made sure she and Neal were some of the last people to leave. She met and talked to all of Seth’s new work friends. She played her part in the Seth-and-Georgie show. (It was a good part; Georgie got most of the punch lines.) She made everyone there love her.
And then she got into Neal’s worn-out Saturn, and he drove her to her mom’s house. And he told her he was done.
“I can’t do this anymore,” he said.
“I love you,” he said, “but I’m not sure it’s enough, I’m not sure it’ll ever be enough.”
He said, “I don’t want to live like this, Georgie.”
And the next morning, he’d left for Omaha without her.
Georgie didn’t hear from Neal that whole week. She thought they were over.
She thought that maybe he was right, that they should be over.
And then, on Christmas morning, in 1998, Neal was there at her front door—down on one knee on the green indoor-outdoor carpeting, holding his great aunt’s wedding ring.
He asked Georgie to marry him.
“I love you,” he said. “I love you more than I hate everything else.”
And Georgie had laughed because only Neal would think that was a romantic thing to say.
Then she said yes.
Georgie plugged her cell phone into her laptop and made sure the ringer volume was turned all the way up.
“What are you doing?” Seth asked. “No cell phones in the writers’ room, remember? That’s your rule.”
“We’re not even officially here,” Georgie said.
“You’re not even un officially here,” he snapped back at her.
“I’m sorry. I have a lot on my mind.”
“Right. Me, too. Four scripts, remember?”
She rubbed her eyes. It was just a dream. Last night. Even though it hadn’t felt like a dream—that’s all it could have been. An episode.
That was something people had. Normal people. Episodes. And then they laid cool cloths over
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