Chapter Forty-Five We Were Twenty-One
Chapter Forty-five
We Were Twenty-One
We were covered in flour. It was dusted on George’s nose, sprinkled on his hair like icing sugar, and all down his front. My arms were white with it. It was Monday night, and we were making pasta from scratch.
According to my boss, I was both the most promising and the sloppiest cook in the Greater Toronto Area. He was exaggerating but only mildly. George didn’t mind. Cleaning gave him something to do while I cooked. He’d never been content to just watch.
He was in his fourth and final year of his journalism program.
I’d graduated two years earlier and was now working on the line at the wildly popular Ronda.
In my circle, I was a rising star. And so was George.
He was editor in chief of the student paper and praised by his peers and instructors alike for his determined reporting and beautiful writing—apparently the two didn’t always go hand in hand.
On the rare occasion that I had a night off when George was out with his friends, I watched them orbit him, jostling for his attention.
It was jarring—not that George was the clear leader, but how rich his life was outside our bubble.
I was busy, too, and it had become difficult to spend time together. Thursday and Friday evenings used to be ours, but now I worked six days a week. Mondays were my day off, and we spent those nights in the kitchen together. A nonnegotiable.
We were making linguine that Monday. I discovered a knack for handmade pasta in school, and it was one of my favorite things to make with George—not only because it’s helpful to have an extra set of hands when you’re working with long sheets of dough.
Pasta takes a lot of time from start to finish, which gave us hours to catch up.
I fed a wide ribbon of dough into the machine. It came out in a thinner sheet on the other end, which George captured, laying it over his wrists and then setting it down gently on the floured countertop.
“I have some news,” he said.
Something about the tone of his voice made the back of my neck prick. “Okay.”
“I got an internship.”
I let out a whoop and threw my arms around him, squeezing his rigid body. “I’m so proud of you,” I said, pulling back with a laugh. I’d doused him in even more flour. “The Toronto Star? The Globe and Mail? The CBC?”
He shook his head. “The Edmonton Journal.”
It was a knock to the gut. “You’re moving to Alberta?” I knew we couldn’t live together forever, but that future seemed so far away. We didn’t spend enough time together as it was. Edmonton was far. Really far. Panic rose in my throat like bile.
“For six months, but the hiring editor said they try to find a way to keep the best interns around.” He smiled, but I could tell he was nervous. “I’ve always wanted to see more of the country. Travel.”
And with that one word, I knew exactly what I’d do. “I’ll go with you.”
We’d spend six months in Edmonton, exploring Alberta together. We could see Banff. Lake Louise. Learn to ski. Visit Calgary during the Stampede. It would be a whole new era of our friendship—nothing would have to change, not really. It was perfect. A new adventure.
George let out a surprised laugh. “What?”
I started listing all the things we could do together, all the places I’d only read about that we could visit. It took me a minute to see that George wasn’t smiling.
“Frankie, what about your job? What about your life?”
That stopped me short.
“Right.” I tried to smile, but I was shaken. “Give me one second—I need the bathroom.”
As I ran my hands under the cold water, I felt like I might be sick.
George was leaving, chasing his dream, and my first reaction was to throw away everything to be with him.
This is how it happens, I thought. This is how you lose yourself.
George was the one person I’d do anything for. The person who could sweep me away if I wasn’t careful. I lifted my shirt and stared at his name written on my rib cage. I traced a finger over the G, startled by how much I liked the sight of it. He needed to go, and I couldn’t go with him.
I washed the flour off my face and returned to the living room.
“Hey,” I said, sitting beside him on the couch. “Sorry I tried to crash your internship. I got overexcited. Tell me everything about it. When do you leave?” I forced cheer into my voice, but it felt like my heart was crumpling in my chest.
“Right after graduation.”
That was three weeks away. I tried to stay calm. “Wow.”
“I know. I’m kind of freaking out.”
For a second, he looked just like he did when we met. I knew what I had to do. I swallowed back the lump in my throat. “It’s going to be amazing,” I told him. “You’ll be amazing.”
“Promise we’ll stay in touch.”
“George, I’ll stay in touch so much, you’ll be sick of me.”
Three weeks later, we took a cab to the airport in silence. I stared out the window, blinking back tears. George was leaving, and he was never coming back—I was sure of it. He was going to meet new people and see new places, and he’d do it all without me.
I walked George to the security gate, then wrapped my arms around him. And unlike the other times I’d hugged him, he wasn’t stiff. George pulled me into his chest, folding himself around me, and we stayed like that for a full minute.
“Promise you won’t forget me,” I said.
“I promise,” he whispered. “I promise. I promise. I promise.”
Then I watched George walk toward the gate. He paused for a moment, but he didn’t turn around. Then he disappeared.
OCTOBER 2, 2019
To: Frankie Gardiner
From: George Saint James
Subject: Vancouver
Frankie,
I have news but we keep missing each other.
I’ve accepted a job at the Sun in Vancouver reporting on climate and the environment.
I’m moving next month. I can’t believe I’ve been at the Journal for a year and a half—I’m ready to move on.
See the mountains. Live near the ocean. Get closer to the forefront of sustainability.
I already have a long list of sources I want to meet with, and tons of ideas for stories.
So, yeah, I’m excited. I wish I wasn’t going to be even farther away from you, but I know you’re having a blast.
Not sure when I’ll be back next, but I’m hoping to take a week off this summer. Maybe I can crash with you for a couple of nights, and we can go home together?
George
OCTOBER 3, 2019
To: George Saint James
From: Frankie Gardiner
Subject: Re: Vancouver
GEORGE!!!! Holy shit! I can’t believe it. I’m so happy for you. This is huge, right? It’s what you’ve been working toward. And of course you can crash with me. My couch is yours whenever you want it.
I have some news, too. One of the cooks here has been hired by one of the big restaurant groups as executive chef for their next place, and he’s asked me to come with him.
It’s going to be longer hours, but it’s a huge opportunity.
I’d be there from the ground up to see how a restaurant comes together.
I’ve never worked anywhere but Ronda, and the thought of leaving is terrifying. I’m not sure if I can do it.
Frankie
OCTOBER 3, 2019
To: Frankie Gardiner
From: George Saint James
Subject: Re: Vancouver
Of course you can. You’re Frankie Gardiner. You can do anything.