“Seven,” Georgie repeated.
“Sacs . . . ,” the girl said, “chewing . . . Oh, she’s supposed to chew the umbilical cord, too.”
“Great.”
“And placentas—there’s a placenta for each puppy. That’s important. You need to look for the placentas.”
“What do the placentas look like?”
“Do you want me to Google that?”
“No,” Georgie said, “keep reading.”
Petunia was still working on the wriggly thing with her teeth. “Good girl,” Georgie said. “Probably.”
She patted blindly around Petunia and recoiled when she felt something else soft and warm.
“What?” Heather asked, still half in a panic.
“I don’t know,” Georgie said, reaching back in. She found it again, warm and wet. Was it a puppy? Georgie held up what looked like a bag of blood, then dropped it. “Placenta.”
“That’s one,” the girl said enthusiastically.
“Aren’t you supposed to be reading?” Georgie reached back in.
“There’s nothing else. Make the dog comfortable. Make sure she helps the puppies get free. Count the placentas. Make sure they nurse . . . .”
Georgie felt something else wet under Petunia and grabbed it instinctively. “Jesus,” she said. “Another baby.” Still in its sac. It looked like a raw sausage. Georgie reached for one of Heather’s towels and started rubbing at the membrane. “Like this?”
Pizza girl looked up from her phone. “Harder, I think.”
Georgie scrubbed at the lump till the skin around it tore and she could see the grayish pink puppy inside.
“Is it alive?” Heather asked.
“I don’t know,” Georgie answered. The puppy was warm, but not warm as life. Georgie kept rubbing it clean, tears falling on her hand. Petunia whined, and Heather’s girl reached past Georgie into the dryer to pet her.
Heather knelt next to Georgie. “It is it alive?” She was crying, too.
“I don’t know.” The puppy twitched, and Georgie rubbed harder, massaging it with her hands.
“I think it’s breathing,” Heather said.
“It’s cold.” Georgie brought the puppy up to her chest and tucked it inside her sweatshirt, rubbing. The puppy shuddered and squeaked. “I think . . .”
Heather hugged Georgie. “Oh God.”
“Careful,” Georgie said.
Pizza girl sat back from the dryer cradling another puppy against her white shirt.
“Oh my God,” Heather said, and hugged her, too.
There were three puppies.
And three placentas.
Eventually Georgie thought to call her mom.
And then she called the vet, who talked them through cutting the last umbilical cord and making Petunia comfortable.
The puppies got a sponge bath. Georgie took charge of the one she was still holding inside her shirt. Then they all got tucked back into the dryer with clean towels. “It’s her little nest,” Heather said, patting the dryer like it had helped.
Georgie tried to put the Metallica shirt in the washer, but Heather grabbed onto it, making a disgusted face. “Georgie, no. This is an intervention.”
“Heather. That’s Neal’s shirt. From high school.”
“It gave its life for a good cause.”
Georgie let go. Heather handed the T-shirt to pizza girl, who was starting to clean up.
Pizza girl’s name was Alison, and Heather’s face followed her around the room like a sunflower chasing daylight.
“I still don’t like you,” Georgie said to Petunia, reaching in and stroking the dog’s slack stomach. “Look at you, nursing like a champ. Now who’s a notoriously bad mother?”
The puppies were clean, but Georgie and Heather and Alison were still sticky with blood and fetal juices—and pug vomit, Georgie was pretty sure.
Their mom looked horrified when she finally ran into the laundry room, kitten heels clicking on the stairs.
“It’s fine,” Georgie tried to assure her. “Everything is fine.”
“Where are my babies?” her mom asked, taking in the pile of bloody towels and the pile of bloody girls. Heather and Alison were sitting together in front of the dryer. Alison was cuddling Porky, who’d been stashed in the hall bathroom for most of the action. Her stained white T-shirt made her look like a butcher.
“They’re right here,” Heather said. “In the dryer.”
Georgie’s mom hurried over, and Alison quickly got up to make room. “My little mama,” Georgie’s mom said, “my little hero.”
Alison took a step back. “I guess . . . ,” she said, looking over at Heather.
Heather’s head was in the dryer.
“I guess I should go,” Alison said. After a few more seconds, she handed Porky to Georgie (who immediately handed him over to Kendrick), then wiped her hands on her jeans and started walking toward the door.
“Alison,” Georgie said, “thanks. You were a lifesaver. If I ever have another baby, I want you to deliver it.”
Alison waved her hand, like it was nothing, and kept walking.
“Who was that?” Kendrick asked as soon as she was out of sight.
“Pizza—,” Georgie said, but stopped when Heather’s head whipped up, her face full of dread. “Heather, can you help me with something in the kitchen?” Georgie leaned over and grabbed her sister’s sleeve, then pulled her up the steps and into the house, just as the front door was closing.
“What are you doing?” Georgie demanded.
“Nothing,” Heather said, jerking away. “What are you doing?”
“Making sure you don’t let that incredibly attractive, steady-handed girl walk away.”
“Georgie, I don’t want to talk about this.”
“Heather, that girl just helped us deliver babies.”
“Because she’s a nice person.”
“No. Because she’s willing to wade through blood and amniotic fluid just to impress you.”
Heather rolled her eyes.
“What is wrong with you?” Georgie asked. “You obviously want to kiss that girl. I kind of want to kiss that girl. So go do it. Or go, I don’t know, make progress in that general direction.”
“It’s not that easy, Georgie.”
“I think it might be.”
“I’m not you. I can’t just . . . take what I want. And Mom’s here, and she’ll figure out that I’m gay—”
“She’s gonna figure it out anyway. She won’t care.”
“Eventually she won’t care. I’ll tell her eventually. Just, not while I’m living here. I don’t want to, it’s not worth it—none of this is worth it. I mean, what? I humiliate myself? And freak out Mom, and probably get hurt . . . And just ruin everything for the chance that maybe I’m supposed to be with this girl I don’t even know?”
“Yes,” Georgie said. “That’s how it works. Exactly.”
Heather folded her arms. “Oh, you don’t know how it works—you told me so yourself. And that’s after spending your whole life trying to figure it out. It’s not worth it.”
Georgie couldn’t stop shaking her head. “Oh my God, Heather—forget what I said. Don’t listen to me. Why would you listen to me? Of course it’s worth it.”
“But it’s not even anything,” Heather said, glancing miserably at the door. “It’s just a chance.”
“The chance to be happy.”
“Or the chance to be heartbroken, like you?”
“The chance to be alive. To be . . . Heather, forget everything I said before. It’s worth it. Do you think I wouldn’t risk everything to bring Neal to that door right now? That’s how it works. You keep risking everything. And you keep hoping you can keep him from walking away.”
“Her.”
“Whoever. Jesus.”
The doorbell rang, and they both turned. After a second, the door opened, and Alison stepped carefully through, pushing her long bangs out of her eyes. “Sorry,” she said. “I thought e
verybody might still be out back—I think I left my keys on the dryer. . . .”
“I’ll get them,” Georgie said before either of the girls could say anything more. “I’ll be right back.” She squeezed Heather’s arm on the way to the laundry room, then sat down next her mom, pointing out which puppy was hers.
She left Alison’s keys sitting on top of the dryer.
CHAPTER 26
Georgie’s mom lent her another pair of velour pants. And a T-shirt that said PINK.
Heather lent Alison a DECA T-shirt that hung too wide around the other girl’s neck.
They made a new nest for the dogs next to the Christmas tree, and Georgie’s mom decided that she and Kendrick couldn’t go to San Diego for Christmas and leave the puppies alone. “I guess we’ll keep you company, Georgie.”
Everyone agreed that Alison couldn’t just go back to work, not after everything. She spent ten tense minutes on the phone, trying to explain the situation to Angelo.
“Did you get fired?” Heather asked when Alison walked back into the living room.
Alison shrugged. “I’m going back to Berkeley next week, anyway.”
On the bright side, she had three large pizzas in the back of her car, plus an order of lasagna, some very cold fried mushrooms, and a dozen parmesan bread twists.
“God bless us, every one,” Georgie said, cracking open one of the boxes.
Fortunately for Heather, their mom only had eyes for the puppies and didn’t even notice Heather and Alison on the couch, giggling at each other with cheeks full of pizza.
Georgie herself was three giant slices in when the phone rang in the kitchen. The landline.
Heather looked at Georgie, and Georgie dropped her pizza, practically stepping on Porky on her way to the phone.
She got there on the third ring. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Neal said. “It’s me.”
“Hey,” Georgie said.
Heather was standing behind her. She held out her hand. “Take it in your room,” she said. “I’ll hang it up.”
“Neal?” Georgie said into the phone.
“Yeah?”
“Just a minute, okay? Don’t go anywhere. Are you going anywhere?”
“No.”
Heather was still reaching for the phone; Georgie held the receiver against her chest. “Promise me you won’t talk to him,” she whispered.
Heather put her hand on the receiver and nodded.
“On Alice and Noomi’s lives,” Georgie said.
Heather nodded again.
Georgie let go of the phone and ran down the hall. Her hands were trembling when she picked up the yellow phone. (That never used to happen to her when she was upset; she was probably pre-diabetic.)
“Got it,” she said. She heard the kitchen phone click. “Neal?”
“Still here.”
Georgie sank onto the floor. “Me, too.”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Georgie said, “yeah. I’ve just had the weirdest day. Plus, I guess I . . . I didn’t think you were going to call back.”
“I said I would.”
“I know, but . . . you were angry.”
“I—” Neal stopped and started his sentence again. “We ended up staying with my aunt for a while. It was hard to leave. She was really happy to see us, so we stayed for dinner at the nursing home. And that was depressing and kind of gross, so we went to Bonanza on the way home.”
“What’s a Bonanza?”
“It’s like a cafeteria-buffet-steakhouse thing.”
“Is everything in Nebraska named after Westerns?”
“I guess so,” he said.
“I’ll bet your Italian restaurants are named after Sergio Leone movies.”
“What made your day so weird?”
Georgie started laughing. It sounded like a laugh played backwards.
“Georgie?”
“Sorry. It’s just . . .” What made her day so weird? “I delivered three puppies and found out that Heather is gay.”
“What? Oh—for a second, there, I thought you were talking about your sister. Your cousin is gay?”
“It doesn’t matter,” Georgie said.
“How did you deliver puppies? Whose puppies?”
“That doesn’t matter either. But I think we’re keeping one.”
“‘We’—you and your mom? Or ‘we,’ we?”
“We, we, we,” Georgie said. “All the way home.”
“Georgie?”
“Sorry.”
“You delivered puppies?”
“I don’t want to talk about it.”
“What do you want to talk about?”
“I don’t know. I need another second.” Georgie pulled the phone away from her ear and dropped it on the carpet. At some point, she’d started breathing like Heather during the pug emergency. Georgie smoothed her hair back and redid her ponytail, taking off her glasses and rubbing her eyes.
This is it, Georgie, get back in the game.
No, this wasn’t a game. It was her life. Her ridiculous life.
It doesn’t matter what you say now, she told herself. Neal’s going to propose on Christmas. He already did. He said, “We’ll make our own enough.” It’s fate.
Unless . . .
Unless it wasn’t. Maybe Neal had just said that “enough” thing because it was on his mind that day, not because of their phone calls. Had he given Georgie any other clues over the years that these conversations happened? (This would be easier to figure out if Neal were the sort of guy who ever gave away clues.)
This was Georgie’s last chance to talk to Neal before he left for California. Her last chance to make sure he left—what was she supposed to say?
She took a deep breath, in, then pushed it, out. Then picked up the phone.
“Neal?”
“Yeah. I’m here.”
“Do you believe in fate?”
“What? What kind?”
“Like, do you believe that everything is already decided? That we’re destined for it?”
“Are you asking if I’m a Calvinist?”
“Maybe.” Georgie tried again: “Do you think that everything is already decided? Already written. Is the future just sitting there waiting for us to get to it?”
“I don’t believe in destiny,” he said, “if that’s what you mean. Or predestination.”
“Why not?”
“There’s no accountability in it. I mean, if everything is already set in stone, why try? I prefer to think that we’re choosing in every moment what happens next. That we choose our own paths—Georgie, why is this important?”
“I don’t know.” She sounded far away from herself in the receiver.
“Hey . . . Georgie.”
“Yeah?”
“I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
“Just now?”
“No,” he said. “Today. All day.”
“Oh. It’s okay.”
Neal huffed. Frustrated. “I hate that you thought I wouldn’t call—I hate that everything is so tentative between us right now. When did everything get so tentative?”
“I think when you left for Omaha without me.”
“I just came home for Christmas.”
Georgie’s voice was barely there when she reached for it. “That’s not true.”
She could hear Neal clenching his jaw. “All right,” he said. “You’re right.”
Georgie was quiet.
Neal was quiet, too.
“I didn’t break up with you,” he said finally. “You know that, right?”
“I know,” she said. “But we’re still broken.”
Neal growled. “Then we’ll fix it.”
“How?”
“When did you get so hopeless, Georgie? The last time we talked, everything was fine.”
“No, the last time we talked you were pissed with me about Seth.” She rested her tongue between her teeth and thought about biting all the way through.
“Because y
ou were putting him first again.”
“I wasn’t,” she said. “He just showed up. He woke me up.”
“He just showed up in your bedroom.”
“Yes.”
Neal growled again. “I hate that. I hate that so much, Georgie.”
“I know, Neal.”
“That’s all you can offer me? You know?”
“I can tell you I’ll never invite him into my bedroom,” she said. “But sometimes he just shows up. You said you didn’t want me to choose between you.”
“And you said you would choose me.”
“I would,” she said. “I do.”
Neal huffed.
Georgie waited.
“Why are we fighting?” he asked. “Are you punishing me because I didn’t call you today?”
“No.”
“Then why are we fighting?”
Why were they fighting? They shouldn’t be fighting. Georgie was supposed to be wooing him, making him forgive her, making him love her—letting it all happen.
“Because,” she sputtered. “Because I want to!”
“What?”
“I just want to get everything out. I want every horrible thing on the table. I want to fight about it all now, so we never have to again!” She was shouting.
Neal was seething. “I don’t think that’s possible.”
“I can’t do it!” she said. “I can’t keep fighting with you about the same things over and over again. I can’t keep not fighting about the same things over and over again. I can’t go another day, pretending you’re not pissed with me, pretending everything’s fine, talking in that stupid cheerful voice I use when I know you’re just quietly hating me.”
“Georgie.” Neal sounded surprised. And hurt. “I never hate you.”
“You do. You will. You hate what I do to your life, and that’s the same as hating me—that’s just as bad. If you hate your own life because of me, that’s worse.”
“Jesus. I don’t hate my life.”
“You will.”
“Is that a threat?”
She forced down a sob. “No. It’s a promise.”
“What the—” Neal stopped. He never swore in front of her, she wasn’t sure if he ever swore, period. “—what’s wrong with you tonight?”
“I just want to get it over with.”
“What? Us?”
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