Chapter Fourteen
All I see are bloodred rose petals—it’s like a florist shop exploded.
They’re carefully arranged in a candle-lined pathway leading to the king-sized bed and scattered over its snapped-tight white linens.
They’re also floating in the mammoth, steaming bathtub that sits in front of a wall of glass overlooking the unworldly landscape of surf and forest. I eye the bed.
“I know,” Kevin says, misreading my apprehension for awe. “Spectacular, isn’t it?”
“There are so many petals,” I say.
“And candles,” George adds.
Surely it’s hazardous.
I can’t look at George. We were sixteen the last time we stood in a bedroom among flickering candles. I can feel the flush of humiliation on my cheeks.
I’ve never stayed anywhere this swanky, and it didn’t cross my mind to call ahead and let the staff know this isn’t a honeymoon. Someone has gone out of their way to make our room look like the set of a nineties rom-com proposal scene.
A reedy spa soundscape comes from the flat-screen, tuned to a slideshow of resort amenities. There’s a second fireplace, a leather love seat, a writing desk, and enough floor space to hire a DJ and charge a cover fee. A glass door leads to a small patio, which is outfitted with two lounge chairs.
“I had a bath drawn when you arrived,” Kevin tells George. “I know the drive here can be hard on the nerves. I thought you might enjoy a good soak.”
Kevin shows George the fireplace settings, and I take myself on a tour of the en suite bathroom.
And I do mean tour—it’s as big as a studio apartment.
There are twin sinks and a glass-sided shower that has a clear view to the bedroom (and vice versa).
A small basket sits on the counter with a tag on the handle that reads Romance Kit.
Inside demure white packages are condoms, lubricant, “intimate wipes,” and a tiny vibrator.
Inexplicably, my first reaction is to throw a hand towel over it.
But the idea of George uncovering the basket is even more embarrassing, so I fold up the towel.
It’s no big deal. We’re both mature, sexually active adults. Or at least I used to be. I haven’t reached for my personal romance kit in months. Knowing George, he’s getting enough for the both of us.
“I can also call the spa,” Kevin is telling him when I return to the room. “They may still have availability for a couple’s massage—they can bring the tables right up here.”
George’s cheeks have turned almost as red as the rose petals. Serves him right. He looks to me to save him.
“I’d love a massage,” I say, grinning at George.
What the hell? he mouths from behind Kevin.
“Wouldn’t you, honey?” I add sweetly.
“Actually, I think I’d rather be alone.” George arches a brow. “With my wife.”
The word erupts like a firework, filling the room with shimmering electricity. My skin heats. No doubt my blush is as deep as his.
George smirks. “I think that’s everything we need for now.”
He pulls a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and slips it into Kevin’s hand so smoothly it’s jarring.
It’s the tiniest detail, but it says so much about the life George has lived without me.
People I don’t know. Places I’ve never seen.
Good hotels and discreet tipping. He’s more comfortable spending money than he used to be.
Kevin bows. “Of course,” he says. “I’ll escort myself out, and you let me know if there’s anything you need to make your stay more comfortable. Anything at all.”
George thanks him, and Kevin vanishes, as quick and quiet as a ghost.
“He offered to show us the hot tub settings while you were checking out the bathroom, but I told him you were tired,” George says.
“I think Kevin would show you the settings on the shiny little vibrator they’ve left for us in the bathroom if you asked.”
“There’s a vibrator?” His voice sounds dry.
“There’s a tiny sex shop in there,” I say, taking his glasses off his face. They’re completely smudged—I don’t know how he stands it. George doesn’t protest. He watches me clean them on the hem of my shirt, like he’s fascinated, and waits for me to finish.
“So,” I say, putting his glasses back on the bridge of his nose, “would you like to explain why we’re pretending to be married? We don’t even have rings.”
He’s staring at my shirt—his old shirt—and it takes him a moment to respond. “Did you see what kind of service we’re getting? Newlyweds are treated like royalty.”
“I think Kevin would be delighted to service you whether we’re a couple or not. Me, not so much.”
George nods. “You lost him over the whales.”
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” People are so persnickety about whales.
“Enjoy the perks of married life, Frankie,” George says. “Everyone assumes we’re together anyway.”
It’s true. It doesn’t matter that George and I aren’t physically affectionate.
It’s the other stuff that has strangers telling us what a cute couple we make.
The conversation we can share with a glance.
The way we bicker. The way I clean his glasses.
But that’s because there are so few examples of platonic relationships between men and women.
A very long time ago, I made the mistake of trying to cross that line, and George quickly set me straight.
I take in the room once more. It’s when I notice that the candles aren’t real.
“I already asked Kevin about switching rooms to one with two beds,” George says. “I told him you like to spread out, but they’re fully booked. I’ll sleep on the couch downstairs.”
“You’re not spending a week on a couch. You’re too big.”
“I don’t mind.”
“Why are you being weird? There’s a ton of room.
” And then it hits me: George hasn’t mentioned a girlfriend, but separate sleeping arrangements make sense if he’s finally in a serious relationship.
Even the most tolerant person would object to their boyfriend sharing a bed with his female bestie, let alone a bed festooned in rose petals. “What’s her name? What does she do?”
“I’m not seeing anyone.”
I eye him with suspicion. I’ll drag it out of him.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says.
“Like what?”
“Like you want to interrogate me under a harsh light. I’m not hiding anything.”
“Hmm.”
“You’re being paranoid.”
“Well, you can be a bit secretive.” Although he has a hard time getting anything by me—or Mimi.
“I’m telling you the truth. There’s nobody else.”
I blink. “Nobody else! So there is a somebody.”
“It was a slip of the tongue,” George replies, but he’s staring out the window as he says it.