Georgie was bad at all shopping, but bra shopping was the worst. You couldn’t do it online, and you couldn’t have somebody else do it for you.
Bra shopping had always been the worst—even when her br**sts were still young and lovely. (If only Georgie could figure out how to call herself in the past, she’d tell herself how young and lovely she was. “This is the ghost of bra-shopping future: Everybody’s a little lopsided, roll with it.”)
She closed the washing machine lid, set the dial to GENTLE, then sank down on the floor in front of the dryer and leaned against it. It was warm and humming, and Georgie felt like one of those rhesus monkeys who preferred the cloth mother.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this.
Everything had seemed so good when Georgie fell asleep last night. Better than good. Maybe better than ever . . .
Which was weird. When she was talking to Neal in the past, they got along better than they did in their shared past or their shared present. Maybe these were the versions of themselves that were meant to be together—mature Georgie and mostly unjaded Neal. Too bad they couldn’t go on this way.
How long could this go on?
It was December 23rd.
Georgie knew what happened back in 1998: Neal ended up on her doorstep on Christmas Day. That meant that Neal—landline Neal—would have to leave Omaha tomorrow morning, in the past, to propose to her.
Would that still happen . . . Would Neal still propose? Or had Georgie screwed that up an hour ago, in one fell swoop of Seth?
Maybe she’d screwed it up the very first time she called Neal in the past.
Yesterday, Georgie had wondered if she was supposed to talk Neal out of loving her—if that was the point of this magic, to save him from her. But what if she’d talked him out of it just by opening her mouth?
She was thinking in hot, helpless circles when Heather walked down the back steps into the laundry room. She was carrying one of those Campbell’s soups that you can heat up in the microwave, then drink out of the can. Chicken & Stars.
“Do you ever feed yourself?” Heather asked. “Or does Neal just set out a dish for you every morning?”
“Sometimes I order things,” Georgie said.
“What do you feed the girls?”
“Neal feeds the girls.”
“What if Neal isn’t home?”
“Yogurt.”
Heather handed Georgie the soup, a peace offering, then sat down next to her, against the washer.
“Thanks,” Georgie said.
Heather still looked wary of Georgie. She took a deep breath and let it out through her teeth. “I know something’s going on, so you may as well tell me—are you sleeping with Seth?”
Georgie took a sip of soup and burned her mouth. “No.”
“Do you have a boyfriend who sort of sounds like your husband, but isn’t your husband, but is also named Neal?”
“No.”
“Is something really weird going on?”
Georgie turned her head toward Heather and tipped it against the dryer. “Yeah . . .”
Heather mirrored her, laying her head against the washer. “I can’t even remember you without Neal,” she said.
Georgie nodded slowly, then took another, more careful, drink of soup. “You were in our wedding, you know. Do you remember?”
“I think so,” Heather said, “but I might just be remembering the photos.”
Heather was supposed to be the flower girl, but none of Georgie’s friends had been able to afford the trip to Nebraska, so Heather became her only bridesmaid—besides Seth, who just assumed he’d be standing up for Georgie.
Georgie wasn’t even sure she should invite Seth (because the wedding was in Omaha, and because Neal), but Seth started calling himself Georgie’s best man, and she wasn’t sure how to argue. . . .
He wore a brown three-piece suit and a pale green tie to the wedding. Heather wore lavender shantung and a green cardigan. Seth carried her down the aisle.
And he insisted that Heather come along for Georgie’s bachelorette party—a “bridal-party only” dinner at some thousand-year-old Italian restaurant near Neal’s house. They ate spaghetti with sugar-sweet tomato sauce, and Seth talked nonstop about the sitcom he was working on, the one he’d just convinced to hire Georgie. Georgie drank too much Paisano, and Heather fell asleep at the table. “Good thing I’m the designated driver,” Seth said.
There was a photo from the next day, at the ceremony, of Seth signing the marriage certificate as Georgie’s witness. Heather was standing on tiptoe to watch. Seth in his brown waistcoat. Georgie in her white dress. Neal beaming.
Georgie took another gulp of soup. “You were adorable,” she told Heather. “I think you thought it was your wedding—Neal danced with you, and you blushed the whole time.”
“I remember that,” Heather said. “I mean, I’ve seen the pictures. I looked just like Noomi.”
Georgie and Neal hadn’t had a traditional church wedding—or much of a reception. They got married in Neal’s backyard. The lilacs were in bloom, and Georgie carried a handful of branches that his mom had gathered into a bouquet.
Everything was on the cheap. She and Neal had both just graduated, and Georgie didn’t start on the sitcom until they got back from their honeymoon. (Five days in rural Nebraska, in a cabin somebody owned on a muddy river.) (The five best days.)
They’d tried to pay for the whole wedding themselves; her mom and Kendrick were already digging deep to buy plane tickets, and Georgie didn’t want to ask Neal’s parents for help.
Georgie was the one who suggested they get married in Omaha. She knew Neal would like it. Their breakup, their almost breakup, was still fresh in her memory, and Georgie wanted Neal to look back on their wedding day and feel happy—about all of it. She wanted him to be happy that day, to be completely in his element.
Neal’s family ended up helping out anyway. His parents bought the cake, and his aunts made cream cheese mints and sandwiches. The pastor who’d baptized and confirmed Neal was there to marry them. And after the ceremony, Neal’s dad moved his stereo out onto the patio and played deejay.
The only song Georgie insisted on was “Leather and Lace.”
That had started out as a joke.
“Leather and Lace” was playing in a restaurant on one of their first dates, and Georgie cracked herself up telling Neal that it was “our song.” Then they both tried—and failed—to think of a more ridiculous “our song.” (Neal suggested “Gypsies, Tramps & Thieves”; Georgie pushed for the theme from Taxi.)