Chapter Three
A metal scouring pad couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Now that George has arrived, everything is perfect.
I down two flutes of crémant in short order and feel my body unwind. I’m filled with relief.
George has my three-year-old niece, Birdie, in his lap.
They’re working on a page in her coloring book together.
Darwin and his wife, Anh, look grateful for the reprieve.
My mom is plying George with questions about the climate change conference while my dad listens.
He’s a man of few words and infinite compassion.
George has already loosened his tie. He’ll undo the top button any moment now.
He walked in looking respectable, but he can’t stay tidy for long.
He can’t sit still, either. Unless he’s deep in thought, George is in motion.
Sometimes I think he shifts around so much because his body needs to burn off what’s happening in his head.
When his eyes meet mine during dessert, I hold up a hand, fingers spread.
Five minutes? I mouth. Outside?
He nods.
· · ·
I get pulled onto the dance floor with Nate.
He’s asked the pianist to switch to jazzy pop covers.
We’ve been taking dancing lessons in the lead-up to the wedding, although I already knew the waltz, the tango, and the foxtrot.
Mimi taught me and George ballroom dancing when we were kids.
As a guardian, she wasn’t strict, but as a former ballerina, Mimi was adamant George learn to lead a partner around a dance floor. For years, that partner was me.
George was a natural; I was always trying to lead. Mimi made me dance with my eyes closed so I had no choice but to follow.
Forward, side, together.
Francesca, you have the grace of a rhinoceros.
One, two, three.
Mimi and Nate are the only people who call me Francesca. I’ve never corrected Mimi because she’s a little scary, and Nate gets an exemption because he says I’m too beautiful to be called Frankie.
My fiancé is not a natural dancer, and despite the lessons, we haven’t found our rhythm. He steps on my toes five times while we dance, but I don’t care. When I glance at George, he’s sporting a smug grin.
Rhinoceros. He mouths the word to me, and I laugh so hard tears fall from my eyes.
Five more minutes? I mouth, and he nods.
· · ·
I lose track of time. My cheeks hurt from smiling.
Everyone is on the dance floor—even Birdie, who is almost asleep in George’s arms. The pianist finishes his set, and Moby anoints himself Bluetooth DJ.
This is when parents and grandparents begin to excuse themselves.
Anh takes Birdie to bed, and Darwin procures large tumblers of scotch while Moby hands out edibles.
Aurora and Betty are lining up tequila shots.
I’m slightly concerned we’re peaking two nights too soon, but then Nate gives me a sloppy kiss with a sloppy grin.
“I love you,” he says. “You make me so happy.”
I kick off my heels.
· · ·
I manage to steal Aurora from her girlfriend, and we dance like eighth graders, shuffling with my hands on her shoulders and hers on my waist.
We’ve been friends for five years, since the night I popped into her tattoo parlor on a whim and she told me to come back when I had an appointment.
The next morning, I scrolled through her Instagram feed, awed by the level of detail in her work.
She can do anything, but she’s known for hyperrealistic flowers and animals.
Her hummingbirds are astounding. I read an interview she gave about being a Black artist and how she’s devoted to educating others about the proper techniques for tattooing darker skin tones.
The way she spoke about her work—with so much dedication—reminded me of George.
I booked an appointment for my second tattoo and walked out with a beautiful labyrinth inked on my shoulder and a new friend.
“I love seeing you like this,” she says.
“Like what?”
“You’re brighter. As soon as George showed up, you came to life.”
I shrug. “He’s my best friend.”
Moments later, the man in question cuts in, tapping Aurora on the shoulder.
“I’m going to steal her from you for a minute,” George says.
She gives him a look that seems like an encouragement and a threat all at once. She knows about the fight.
George tips his chin in acknowledgment, and Aurora leaves us to join Betty and the circle of dancers.
Facing me, George lifts his left palm.
“It’s been a long time,” I say, putting my hand in his and raising my other arm, the starting position of a waltz.
“Don’t worry. I’ve still got it.” He sets his hand below my shoulder blade.
And just like that, George is leading me around the room. And yeah, he’s still got it.
“Show-offs,” Moby shouts.
I smile up at George, but he looks at me strangely, his eyes darting across my face.
“Do I have something in my teeth?”
“No.” He clears his throat. “You look different.”
Aurora did my makeup. She’s managed to bring out the violet in my eyes and make my big mouth look sexy, not clownish.
“I’ve been contoured,” I tell him.
“I don’t know what that is.”
“Count yourself lucky.”
“The dress is…” George seems to struggle to say something nice. It’s a simple slip dress with a low neckline.
“Just say I look good,” I instruct.
“You do,” he says, holding my eyes. “You look beautiful, Frankie.”
I laugh at the strain in his voice. He’s never been good at complimenting my appearance.
“And you look happy,” he adds.
“I am,” I tell him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy.”
I step on his toes. George presses his hand gently into my back, a reminder that I’ve been forgetting to let him lead.
So for the rest of the song, I dance with my eyes closed, the way Mimi taught me.
Everything narrows to the music and the movement, the pressure of George’s touch.
It’s the only time I hand over control to someone else, and the feeling is one of complete liberation.
It’s a sensation I haven’t found elsewhere, and haven’t felt in years, not since George and I danced at Darwin’s wedding.
· · ·
When the music changes, I open my eyes. “I missed that,” I say.
“Me too.” His voice is hoarse.
Sometimes I can still see the lost boy I met so long ago, but there’s no trace of him right now.
George’s cherub face has been replaced by hard angles and a dark shadow.
He’s sure of himself. Nate has a capable park ranger sort of energy.
But George’s confidence is somehow both quieter and totally undeniable.
I’ll never forget him at eight, with those soft pink cheeks and blue eyes staring at me through the cedar hedge. I didn’t know George’s story then, but somehow I knew he needed me. Just like I know something’s wrong now.
“What’s going on?” I ask, our hands still clasped as we move around the room.
His mouth quirks wryly. “Nothing. Although, the gummy was probably unwise.”
“Amateur move. Ingesting anything from Moby’s pocket is a bad idea.”
“He told me it was mild.”
“This is the same person who convinced you to smoke an entire joint the first time you got high.”
We were fourteen. I took one hit, but I think George wanted to impress Moby.
Minutes later, he was flying. Moby thought it was hilarious, but I was the one who had to sneak George past Mimi and up to his bedroom, where he alternated between fits of giggles and earnest speeches about our friendship.
It would have been sweet, except it lasted for hours.
A smile curves a corner of his mouth. “You’re right. I should know better.”
We look around the room. Moby is roping Nate into a breakdancing competition, and my fiancé is dusting off his shoulders with a grin. Nate will make a fool of himself, and he will not care. I love this about him. He’s a serious person, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
“How’s Chiara?” I ask, turning back to George.
His current girlfriend (a strong word given how quickly he moves through them) is an interpreter he met in S?o Paulo.
“Lara,” he corrects.
I wince. “Sorry.”
George doesn’t talk much about the women he’s sleeping with, and there’s no trace of them on his social media. It’s all panoramic fjords, rare tropical plants, and adorable marsupials. And if you scroll back far enough, walls of fire and forests turned to ash.
But I lived with him for four years and know he gets around.
George is always up-front about what he’s looking for and what he can offer.
He travels so much, that’s often only a night or two.
But there are some women he sees whenever he’s in a certain city.
The human rights lawyer in London. The pilot in Vancouver.
“Girlfriends”—partnerships where there’s exclusivity—are rare. So I should remember Lara. He brought her to a dinner party I threw at Nate’s house. But I was too focused on George—it was his second time meeting Nate.
“How is Lara?” I ask.
“Her piece on the endangered spotted rhinoceros of Namibia just won a huge award.”
Lara’s a journalist? Shit. I really wasn’t paying attention. “Wow,” I say. “Tell her congratulations for me.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Frankie, Lara is an interpreter.”
I shove his shoulder. “I knew it!”
“And there’s no such thing as a spotted rhinoceros.”
“You’re an ass.”
“And Lara and I stopped seeing each other.”
“Oh. You didn’t tell me,” I say, trying not to sound hurt. “How’d she take it?” George is always the heartbreaker, never the broken. It’s understandable why he’s the first to jump ship: his childhood left him with a deeply rooted fear of abandonment. Not that I’m one to talk.
He studies me for a moment. “Not well. But it was a couple of months ago. I’m sure she’s moved on.”
I doubt it.
“I hear Avery Harper-Klyne is single,” I say, and George laughs softly. We went to grade school with Avery, and she’s a running joke in our friendship. Poor woman.
“The entire northern hemisphere has heard that Avery’s single,” he says. She wrote about her divorce in a nineteen-paragraph treatise she shared across multiple platforms.
I smile, and George smiles back at me, and it feels like listening to a familiar melody. But then his grin falters.
“Something is wrong. Tell me.”
“You’re getting married,” he says.
I frown. “And you’re just realizing this?”
“I think it’s only sinking in now.”
I squeeze his hand, and his steps slow.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” he murmurs. “It doesn’t feel like that long ago that we were hiding in the cupboard in the library, arguing about what to put at the center of our labyrinth.”
“A fountain,” I say.
“A secret garden,” he replies.
The debate is canon.
George studies me closely. “You’re happy, Frankie? Really, truly happy?”
My heart catches, and I grin at him.
“I am, George. I promise.”
He gives me the slightest nod, and I can tell he trusts my answer. Promises are important to us. “A promise for a promise?” I ask. It’s a game we used to play. I’ve given him one, and I want one in return.
“Sure,” he says.
“Promise me you’re happy, too?” He’s worried about me, but I’m also worried about him.
It’s at that point when Nate cuts in. I look at George, waiting for him to reply.
“I promise,” he tells me, and then he steps away.
I watch him find my brothers, and I lasso my arms around my fiancé’s neck.
“I love you,” I tell him.
Nate gives me a goofy grin. “I love you, Francesca Gardiner.” Then he tips his head back and shouts, “We’re getting married!”
The room erupts in cheers.
It’s the best night of my life.
Eight hours later, everything falls apart.