Chapter Twelve
Day One: Wallow
“I’m ninety-nine percent positive I’m going to die on this road, but I’m not mad about it,” I say, gawking at a mist-draped valley.
George and I are snaking our way to Tofino on Vancouver Island’s Pacific Rim Highway.
The stretch between Port Alberni and the coast is notoriously winding, and now I see why.
The scenery is stunning—crystal clear water, tremendous cedars, rocky riverbeds, and imposing mountains—but the road is giving major imminent-death vibes.
I’ve never taken this many sharp twists and turns, especially not around a cliff, and the light drizzle and wet pavement aren’t reassuring. “Is that weird?”
George laughs. “We didn’t travel all the way to British Columbia to die,” he says. “But yeah, there are worse places to perish.”
“Right? I thought it was green where we grew up, but this is…” I search for the right word. George is a master of distilling people and places to their essential adjective, but I’m at a loss. “It’s on another level,” I finish.
We left home at three thirty this morning to make it to the airport in Toronto for our flight.
My parents set their alarm to see us off and practically shoved me out the door when George pulled up.
We were on the plane for more than five hours, and we’ve been in this roller skate of a hatchback for over two.
I’m not sure if George has bulked up or if he seems wider because of how cramped we are.
He hands me the last bite of his power bar—he always saves me the last bite. I take it from him and set the plastic baggie of my homemade trail mix within his reach.
“Salted? With cashews?” he asks.
“What am I, new?” There are even dried currants in it—he’s going to flip.
He takes a handful and moans extravagantly as he chews.
George has a kind of pent-up intensity to him—I can see it in the hyper-focus of his eyes and his constant movement.
When he’s still, I’m ready for him to spring into action at any moment, like a jack-in-the-box.
He doesn’t like to be confined. So before we left, I filled a large tote bag with his favorite snacks.
Keeping him fed means he won’t get hangry while he’s trapped in a car for hours on end.
“The currants are so good. And the yogurt-covered blueberries.”
There’s nothing better than the sound of someone enjoying food I’ve prepared.
I crack the window to take a hit of fresh air, and George’s eyes dart toward me as we approach another corner.
“Don’t look at me!” I cling to the grab handle as we swoop around another bend. “Look at the road!”
George chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you yelp like that. It’s kind of adorable.”
I stick out my tongue, feeling giddy despite the long day. George’s eyes laugh at me, and he sticks out his tongue in reply. We both crack up.
Everything simmers beneath the surface with George, but he’s radiating joy today.
He starts humming—a French lullaby he remembers his mom singing.
George almost never talks about her, but he always hums that same song when he’s happy.
It wasn’t until we were ten that he told me how she died—struck by a car when she was riding her bike in Montreal.
I know her name was Lily. I know she was an architect, like George’s dad—they met at school.
And I know her death was too much for his father to cope with—it’s why George moved from Montreal into the Big House.
He’s been humming Lily’s lullaby a lot today; I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
The next curve is at the bottom of a steep hill. There’s a rock face on George’s side of the car and a sharp drop-off on mine. The guardrail is a preposterously flimsy barrier. I hold my hand to my belly as nausea sets in.
George winces, and when the road straightens, he touches the dashboard screen a few times, changing the music. “You need a distraction.”
I know the song by its first note. Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” came out around the time George and I became friends. It resonated with me deeply, and it’s still my go-to karaoke jam.
George shoots me a sassy grin, then starts singing.
That’s the thing about George. Most people only see the brainy, determined journalist—the part that swings between deep thought and bursts of physical energy.
As a reporter, he has a reputation for being relentless, but he also has a playful side I’m not sure he lets anyone else see.
“Don’t make me do this alone,” he says between lyrics.
“I would never.”
We sing “Since U Been Gone” at the top of our lungs three times. I forget about my car sickness, and tears of mirth stream down my face by the time we let the playlist shuffle forward. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that—but then, no one makes me laugh the way George does.
His smile glows like moonlight, and my heart fills. We’re good when we’re together. It’s being apart we never figured out.
“Promise me we’ll make it to Tofino in one piece,” I say as we take yet another sharp corner.
His mouth curves. “Promise for a promise?”
“I don’t think guaranteeing my safety should count,” I say. Seconds later, rain batters the windshield like we’re in a car wash. I swear, and George chuckles as he turns the wipers to full speed.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Ugh. Fine. Promise for a promise.”
“I promise you’ll make it to Tofino in one piece,” he says.
“You can figure out what I owe you when we get there.”
“My sweet, innocent friend.” George’s eyes swing to mine. He’s practically vibrating. Something is bubbling beneath his skin. “You should have known I already had something in mind.”
· · ·
We’re an hour away from the resort when George clears his throat.
“So I spoke to Aurora,” he says.
“Yes, she told me you were in cahoots.”
“I wouldn’t say we were cahooting. But when she told me your honeymoon was partially paid for, it seemed like a good opportunity.”
“For what, exactly?” I’m certain he’s reached the same conclusion as me—that this is a chance to find our footing again.
“For getting you over this breakup.”
“Oh.” That. “I’m actually doing okay. But thanks.”
“Frankie.” George’s voice is low. “I saw you that morning. I know how much he hurt you.”
A hazy memory of George bundling me in his arms flickers in my mind.
I’ve got you. It’s going to be okay.
I open my mouth to apologize, but he speaks first. “For someone so small, you weigh a fucking ton.”
I huff. “I’m five-nine.”
“Pipsqueak,” George says. “Now about my plan.”
“George,” I say. “Are you serious? I’m fine.”
“The people who love you say otherwise.”
I narrow my eyes. “Who else are you in cahoots with?”
He shrugs. “Everyone.”
“Oh my god. You talked to my mother.”
“I did.”
“George!”
“You know I talk to her. You should try it sometime.”
George calls home to my mom almost as often as he calls home to Mimi. I bet they’ve both been giving him reports on me.
“All right. Let’s hear about this plan of yours.” There may be a touch of skepticism in my tone. George has many skills—most of the skills, to my annoyance—but organization isn’t one of them. He’s a man of action.
“We have seven days in Tofino,” he says.
“If we make it there.”
“Which means,” he continues, “we have seven days to heal your broken heart. Because despite what you may say, you—my brilliant, resilient, feisty friend—are, by all accounts, a shit show.”
“Rude,” I say, but I’m grinning.
“In seven days’ time, you’ll be sleeping better. Your self-esteem will return to its previous overinflated state. You’ll be eating like the glutton you are.”
I laugh as George goes on.
“This week will soothe your soul and set your spirits soaring. Your face will hurt from smiling, and your heart…” He places a hand on his chest like he’s taking an oath. “Your heart will be ready to love again.”
“I’ll sign up for the smiling and soaring,” I say. “But what makes you think my sleep, self-esteem, and appetite need your assistance?”
“Obviously, your body is your own,” he says, serious now. “I’m not going to tell you what to do with it. But do you feel like none of those areas need improvement?”
I shrug.
“I think enjoying good food, being surrounded by nature, and spending time away could help,” George says. “I just want you to feel like your old self again.”
My chest twinges. I wonder if George misses how things used to be, too.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s do it. I accept your plan. Eating, relaxing, fresh air. It sounds easy enough.”
George’s smile is devilish and all too familiar. It’s the one he offers before issuing a dare. “Yes, but that’s not The Plan. The Plan is much more intensive. The Plan is the reason why in one week, you will leave Vancouver Island a changed woman.”
“The Plan is a sex cult, isn’t it?”
He nods. “The sexiest. But also the cultiest.”
“So when you say I’m leaving Vancouver Island a changed woman, you mean…”
“You’re leaving it in a body bag. I’m sorry.”
I snap my fingers. “There’s always a catch.”
We grin at each other, and it feels like heaven.
“So there’s no plan,” I say.
“Fuck off. There’s a plan. I’ve got notes. I’ve done research. I have an itinerary.”
“An itinerary?” This is very hard to believe.
“And,” George says proudly, “each day has a theme.”
“Now you’re shitting me.” My smile is bananas.
“I’m struggling not to be offended by the look on your face,” he says, but he’s just as bright. “I’m serious—I have it all figured out.”
“All right, genius. Let’s hear it.”
“There’s a process to getting over a breakup,” he says, crunching on a pretzel. “You’ve lost someone important—and that’s hard. But there are steps you can take to process what’s happened and, with any luck, move forward.”
I stare at his profile, the peony pink kissing his cheeks. “You really mean this, don’t you? You have an actual plan.”
“I do.”
George is horribly smart. He’s one of those people who can get by without putting in much effort.
In high school, he half listened in class while he doodled and passed me notes.
He didn’t study for a single test but had good grades, which meant I had to double my efforts to best him.
George has never coasted in his work, though—he’s a hustler.
He went freelance and has succeeded in an industry that becomes more demanding even as it dwindles.
George’s passion for reporting is one of the things I admire about him, even when it’s pulled him far from home.
When he digs into a story, he’s both tenacious and stubborn.
I’m fairly certain he’s decided to make me his next assignment, but I have other priorities.
“I really am okay.” I take a moment to stare at the glass-like surface of a massive lake that reflects the gentle mountains rising above its shores.
“I was a disaster after everything happened, and there are still days when I feel like a supreme failure. It sucks living at home and starting over, but it’s not all bad.
The stuff I need to figure out isn’t about him. ”
George looks at me from the corner of his eye. “When you say you were a disaster after everything happened, what exactly are you referring to?”
I gawk at him. “You know what.”
“Yes, but remind me: What happened?” His tone is even, not sharp but not indulgent, either.
“You know what happened,” I say, getting annoyed.
“For the sake of argument, pretend I don’t.”
“George,” I bark. “What the fuck?”
“Frankie,” he says. “If you can’t say Nate’s name, if you can’t talk about what you’ve been through, you haven’t moved on.”
“So you need me to say it?” I ask, raising my voice.
He glances at me and says gently, “Can you?”
My fiancé dumped me the day before our wedding in a note he’d hastily written on hotel stationery.
George waits for me to speak, but the words sit heavily on my tongue. It’s too degrading to say them out loud. Ugh. I hate it when he’s right.
“Don’t worry—you’ll get there,” George says. “Here’s how it works: Each day of our trip, we’ll focus on one of the steps to recovery. I’m not going to tell you what they are or what I have planned because I want you to be surprised.”
“I hate surprises.”
“You’ll survive,” he says.
I narrow my eyes. “You’re just worried I’m going to argue with you about your itinerary.”
“Absolutely,” he says.
I know you, I think.
“And what do you get out of all of this?” I ask.
“Aside from spending the week with you?” He looks at me like I’m being willfully obtuse. “I get my best friend back.”
Maybe our priorities aren’t so different after all.
George’s gaze holds mine, a gulp of deep blue sea. I hear my mom’s voice. Sailors could get lost in those eyes.
“And how did you come up with these steps?”
“I did a lot of research. I pulled information from psychology websites and some well-reported articles. Then I interviewed a psychiatrist to make sure I was on the right track. I made some decisions based on who you are and the amount of time we have, and I came up with The Plan.”
I stare at him.
“I printed out a bunch of the material if you want to take a read,” he says.
“I can’t believe you did all that.”
He shrugs. “You’d do the same.”
We share a look, and in it lies a startling truth.
There’s nothing we wouldn’t do for each other.
I’ll go along with George’s plan. Not just because he’s put so much effort into it, and because it could actually help me, but because it might bring us back to the George and Frankie we used to be.
When there was only honesty between us. When we knew each other better than we knew ourselves.
“So when do we begin?”
“We’ve already started,” he says. “It’s Day One.”
“Which means?”
“This, my dear Frankie, is your day to wallow.”
“I’ve done plenty of wallowing.”
“Exactly,” George says. “You’re already on the right track. There seems to be a consensus that feeling your feelings, even the negative ones, is important during this phase.”
I sputter out a laugh. “Wow. You sound so emotionally mature.”
“That doesn’t sound like a compliment.”
“You’re speaking like a therapist, that’s all. So how do you suggest I do this?”
“It’s not too complicated. If you feel shitty, then you need to say to yourself, Hey, I feel shitty. Respect the shittiness. Honor the shittiness.”
“So there really is no sex cult?” I say.
“Afraid not.”
I stare out the window at the slope of a mountain. Its peak is so high, it disappears into the clouds. It’s almost terrible in its majesty—this is terrain designed for confronting life’s greatest mysteries.
“I feel lucky I get to do this with you,” I say.
“Same.” He hesitates, then adds, “And I feel a bit guilty.”
“Why’s that?”
“I’m here because you got hurt.”
“You can’t feel bad about that. It wasn’t your fault. Besides, you tried to warn me.”
His reply is quiet but forceful. “I should have tried harder.”