Landline by Rainbow Rowell Page B

her mom said, covering the dog’s eyes. “Only because her hubby shoots blanks.”
    “Uhhhhghh.” Georgie shuddered.
    “You look like you’re feeling better,” her mom said, still in the baby voice, still smiling at the dog.
    “I am,” Georgie said. She was. Relatively. She wasn’t drunk or hungover. And she hadn’t talked to any dead people for almost twenty-four hours now, so that was a plus.
    “Well, good,” her mom said. “There’s leftover Swiss steak in the fridge if you’re hungry.”
    “And pizza,” Heather offered, walking back into the living room. Aglow. She closed the front door and leaned against it, holding the pizza box against her stomach.
    Georgie looked down at the box. “Oh, no. That’s very special pizza. I wouldn’t dare. Anyway, I ate at work—I think I might just lie down.”
    She started walking through the living room toward the hall. “Actually . . .” She turned back to her mom. “Could I use your cell phone?”
    “Sure, it’s in my purse.” Her mom pushed the dog onto Kendrick’s lap and got off the sofa. “I washed your jeans for you,” she said, finding her purse, rifling through it, “but you look so good in those pants. You should wear more loungewear.” She handed Georgie her phone, a bejeweled Android something-or-another with a pug screen saver.
    Georgie dialed Neal’s number and hung up when it went to voice mail. Then she dialed his mom’s house, holding her breath. Busy.
    “Thanks,” she said, handing the phone back. “Kendrick? Could I use your phone?” Georgie felt like she was testing something, but she wasn’t sure what.
    Kendrick’s phone was plain and black and splattered with drywall mud. Voice mail again. Then busy on the landline. “Thanks,” Georgie said, handing it back.
    Her mom looked down at her phone, probably checking to see whom Georgie had called. “Oh, honey, do you really think Neal’s screening his calls?”
    “I don’t know,” Georgie said, honestly. “Thanks. And thanks for letting me stay.”
    Her mom put an arm around Georgie’s shoulder and kissed the side of her head. Georgie slumped into the half hug for a minute, then headed to her room.
    It felt so much like coming home from school after a really bad day. Her mom had folded her jeans and Neal’s T-shirt, and set them on the pillow as if she’d known Georgie would come back. (As if Neal had left Georgie and also kicked her out of the house.) There were even new sheets on Georgie’s old bed.
    She thought about taking a shower, then climbed onto the bed and pulled the phone into her lap. There wasn’t any reason to call Neal again. She’d just tried; he hadn’t picked up.
    Was he actually avoiding her calls?
    It sure seemed that way. The only time someone answered Neal’s phone was when he wasn’t there . . . supposedly. Maybe his mom was running interference for him. Maybe she knew something that Georgie didn’t.
    Margaret wouldn’t want this to happen. She liked Georgie, and she’d never want this for the girls. ( This , Georgie thought, not wanting to find better words for her worst-case scenario.)
    Margaret wouldn’t wish for it or want it. . . .
    But Neal was Margaret’s son. And she knew he was unhappy.
    That was just a fact.
    That wasn’t Georgie being melodramatic or paranoid or delusional. That was Georgie being honest.
    Neal wasn’t happy. Neal hadn’t been happy for a long time.
    He didn’t complain about it. He didn’t say, “I’m unhappy.” (God—in a way, that would be a relief.) He just wore it, breathed it. Held it between them. Rolled away from it in his sleep.
    Neal wasn’t happy, and Georgie was why.
    And not because of anything she’d ever done or said. Just because of who she was.
    Georgie was Neal’s anchor. (And not the good kind. Not the happy anchor that keeps you safe and grounded, the one you get tattooed across your chest.) Georgie was . . . dead weight.
    Okay. Now she was being melodramatic.
    This was why she