Two Georgia
Two
Georgia
I’m not a nervous driver. I’m a careful one.
Clearly this is not a concept New York City drivers understand. By the time I arrive on Eden’s block in Tribeca, I have been:
screamed at by a hot pretzel vendor, flipped off by a mother jogging with a double-wide stroller, honked at by three taxis
plus one produce delivery truck, and nearly run down by a bicyclist with a pizza. My hands are shaking, my heart is pumping,
and sweat has gathered in places I really don’t enjoy sweat gathering.
But somehow, I’m alive? No thanks to Dave Carmichael. I cannot believe he convinced my mom to let me make this drive alone. How dare he point out that I’m a careful driver who
could be trusted in the city.
Still, there’s pride mixed with the relief that washes over me when I finally spot the seventeen-year-old girl with messy
honey-brown bangs and gap teeth practically skipping down the sidewalk toward me, waving her arms.
I roll down the window. “Eden!”
“Georgia!” She comes over to the driver’s-side window and plants a huge smooch on my cheek. “Thank god you’re here. We have so much to do!”
“Where do I . . .”
She swings open my door. “Scooch over. I’ll drive this into a parking garage. You don’t want to leave it on the street. There’s
a guy who’s been shitting on people’s bumpers.”
“Seriously?” I climb over the gearshift to the passenger seat so Eden can take mine.
“Welcome to the city!” she says by way of an answer, and then she’s squealing away from the curb and rumbling us over cobblestoned
side streets toward a parking garage that’s so well-hidden I’m convinced she’s about to drive us straight into the wall of
a fancy furniture store.
We drive down into a cement dungeon of sorts and hand my keys over to the valet, leaving with only a flimsy paper ticket promising
I’ll see my car again. Not to mention the entire summer’s worth of clothes and swimsuits I packed, plus the big box of books
in the trunk. I have so much to do before college starts.
Daisy was totally right: I left too late, and the sun has already set—but in New York it never gets totally dark, and as I
follow Eden to her family’s loft a few blocks away, I feel like I’m entering a dreamland where time isn’t real. A feeling
of lightness fills me. This is the Eden Effect. I always feel like anything’s possible when we get together.
Although I guess it could also be the halo effect of realizing I’m here, and not dead on the side of the road.
We say hello to Eden’s doorman and ride the elevator to her floor.
The whole time, Eden’s going on about our itinerary for the night, involving dinner with her “lame” parents and meeting up with some of her friends at an escape room.
Then, before we go into her apartment, she interrupts her own stream of chatter— “Oh, by the way,” she says, pausing with her key in the doorknob, “don’t tell my mom I helped you park just now! ”
“Wait, why?” I ask, trying to read the guilty look on her face.
She shrugs. “Failed the driver’s test. Again. She’ll kill me.”
“Eden, you don’t have your license?” I hiss, but it’s too late. She’s opened the door and now I have to mask my shock and act chill—as in, the opposite of my
true personality—as her family gathers to greet me with hugs.
Luckily, I’m instantly distracted. Nyla Chu and John Holliday are not lame, they’re two of the best people on the planet and I’m obsessed with them. But I always get this tiny jolt when I first
see Uncle John because he looks so much like Dad. Different builds—Dad was a professional baseball player, tall and muscular,
fit even in retirement, while John is an entertainment lawyer and got the scrawnier, lanky genes in the family. Still, my
uncle’s hazel eyes and light hair, wide smile and tall forehead are so familiar, it takes my breath away for a second, leaving
a small ache in my chest.
I hug him fiercely, and Aunt Nyla too. They both ask about Mom and Daisy, and then they drag Eden’s younger brother, Jesse, out of his bedroom, where he’s apparently been working on “a new set of beats” with headphones so soundproof he’d probably miss it if the microwave he’s allowed to have in his room exploded.
The kid is a serious hermit; between making music and maintaining his YouTube channel, he rarely sees the sun.
Unsurprisingly, Jesse puts up a serious fight about going out to dinner with the rest of the family. When he finally concedes,
we pack into the elevator like sardines, then walk to their favorite French place—where, they tell me, it’s impossible to get seats and a miracle they’re squeezing all five of us in, so long as I don’t mind squishing into a “four-top.”
I nod along happily, truly unsure what the difference is from every other dining experience I’ve had with them. Everything
in New York seems to involve cramming as many people as possible into tiny, ambient-lit, absolutely un-fire-safe venues that
they swear are the best place to be ever, but which definitely have rats in the basement and would look like someone’s unkempt storage closet if you turned the lights
up.
After we’re seated, my aunt and uncle tell me all the things I just have to order and have to try because no one makes them better. I try to remember everything to list in my planner later, but my French is terrible.
Then, as plate after plate arrives at our table, they pepper me with questions about my mom and Dave. I know they’re just
excited and everybody loves a little gossip, but the questions make me kind of uncomfortable.
Yes, I say. Dave seems kind, Dave seems lovely, Mom seems happy.
But then, she never dated anyone before my dad, because they met in high school. So what does she even know about dating? It’s a crazy, predatory world out there and we should really all be encouraging her to go slow.
That launches Aunt Nyla into a story about how her dad, who’s in his seventies, got scammed by a Russian model on Facebook who somehow got him to hand over his bank account
information, address, and Social Security number.
“See?” I say, nodding. “That’s exactly my point!”
Though Uncle John points out that it seems quite unlikely that Dave is secretly a Russian model. “What does he do again?”
“He’s a professor of water science, I guess,” I tell them. “Or as Daisy likes to call him, an aquatic expert.”
Eden laughs and proclaims that this isn’t a real job. Which only proves my point that you really never know the truth about
people.
The food is all as delicious as promised, but at one point Eden literally slaps a piece of bread right out of my hand. “Don’t fill up too much!
You’ll get sleepy, and we need to go out!”
Frankly, I would be just as happy to curl up with Aunt Nyla and Uncle John to watch Netflix, but instead I dutifully put the
bread back into the basket. When it’s time for dessert, Eden insists we both order espressos. I grimace, unable to drink more
than one sip, but she downs hers. Before her parents have even finished paying the bill, she grabs my hand and practically
shouts, “We’re going to meet friends at You’ll Never Get Out of Here Alive!”
I experience brief alarm before remembering that’s the name of the escape room.
“Home by eleven” is all her dad says, and we’re off.
My aunt and uncle trust Eden—when she’s with me. They know I’ll do my best to keep her in line, even for a whole summer at
the lake. She’s been a little . . . wild these days. They say the country air will be good for her. But I’m pretty sure they’re also expecting me to keep an eye on
her.
And of course I will. Because I love spending time with Eden.
And also because I never—and I mean never—disappoint people.
“Oh no!” I say when we pop up out of the subway nineteen minutes later. We were only accosted once, by a man peddling pamphlets
about salvation, which Eden informs me is a reasonable amount of being accosted. I’m still awkwardly carrying around the pamphlet,
which features a lot of rainbows and sunlight through clouds, because I am too polite to say no. “I need to call Rhys!”
Eden barely slows. “Now? Why? We’re already late!”
I feel a wave of guilt. “I was supposed to tell him when I arrived safely, but I totally forgot.”
“What is he, your mom?” Eden asks, turning to face me and crossing her arms. “You guys are long distance anyway. What’s another
few hours of not talking? He’s not your keeper, Georgia.”
But it’s sweet that Rhys worries about me and asks me to check in.
He’s not being controlling—he doesn’t care what I do.
He just cares that I’m okay, because he loves me.
A concept that Eden obviously cannot wrap her head around.
I may be young to have a serious boyfriend, but it’s really not that unusual. My parents met when they were our age!
Rhys Kingsley and I actually met three years ago—at Laurel Lake, the summer before Dad died. We were both taking lessons at
the tennis club. We’re in the same grade in school, but he was several leagues better at tennis—and he still wanted to practice
together. I found out he lives in Connecticut but not that far from the Rhode Island border, only a half-hour drive from Sage
Port. It was all very innocent—by the end of the summer, we finally had our first kiss, but that was enough. We started calling
each other every day and seeing each other on weekends when we got the chance. I brought him with me to my high school homecoming
dance that fall, and everyone was amazed (including me) that I had this handsome out-of-town boyfriend.
Then that horrible day in October happened, just a few weeks later. The morning I will never forget. Dad was built like an
oak tree, the healthiest guy, full of energy and optimism. He spent most of his time coaching the high school baseball team,
doing the occasional brand sponsorship, and being the best dad ever. Needless to say, practically everyone in Sage Port was
devastated when he got up one morning, went for his typical three-mile jog, and never came home. He was found on the path
by the water. By the time they got him to the hospital, he was gone. Heart attack. I was in second-period World History when
I got called to the office. My mom was so hysterical over the phone that I couldn’t understand what she was saying.
I still can’t think about that day without crying.
After that, I’ll admit my relationship with Rhys moved quickly.
Tragedy has a way of either splitting couples apart or knitting them together tightly, and the latter is what happened for us.
He was constantly there for me on the worst days, holding me when I cried and taking me on weekend ski trips with his family.
It was what I really needed. Someone on the other end of the phone, someone who had known my dad—well, had met him a handful of times, anyway.
Someone solid and reliable, and as driven and ambitious as me.
When we first started dating, I don’t think either of us had any idea how compatible and similar we were, but maybe that was the hand of fate, steering me in the right direction when I needed it most.
As much as I want to hear Rhys’s voice right now and tell him about my adventures in solo highway driving, I don’t want to
be rude. Plus, there’s our curfew—I don’t want to get us in trouble with Eden’s parents.
“Fine,” I say. “I’ll just text him.”
Eden gives me one of her big, gap-toothed smiles. “Great!”
I shoot off a quick text—Made it to NYC!—and take a selfie in front of the escape room door. Then I make sure my location is synced on Find My Friends.
Before I’ve even put my phone back into my pocket, it starts to ring. Rhys.
I’m tempted to answer, but Eden rolls her eyes at the ticket counter, where she’s already holding both our passes.
“Come on! Call him back later!”
So I silence the ringer, pasting a sociable smile on my face as we allow ourselves to be locked into a room with nine of Eden’s best friends, none of whom I’ve ever met.
I figure, soon I’ll be up in Laurel Lake, where I’ll have all summer to be with Rhys.
Not to mention our entire future.
One evening offline won’t hurt.