Chapter Fifteen
For the rest of the evening, George is a bit bossy.
He says I have to get all of my wallowing out and rest up for Day Two.
He sends me to the hot tub to “feel my feelings” while he unpacks.
I briefly consider telling him to leave my underwear alone, but considering we used to fold each other’s laundry when we lived together, I decide to chill the hell out, wrap myself in a plush white robe, and enjoy the hot tub.
I melt into the near-scalding bubbles with a groan, letting the jets pound against my shoulders and lower back.
I could spend all seven days out on this deck, surrounded by fog and forest, toggling between the hot tub and the chairs, watching surfers bob in the water, waiting for one of the waves before it breaks and crashes against the sand.
When George is done with our things, he brings me a glass of the sparkling rosé.
“Get your suit on,” I tell him. “It’s White Lotus–level luxe out here.”
“You’re supposed to be focusing on yourself and your feelings, not me.”
“I am! I feel that I’d prefer if you were with me.”
It almost lures out his smile.
“We have the whole week together. Take some time to sit with your emotions, Frankie.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not sure about this mindfulness app version of you.”
“You’ll get used to it.” He modulates his voice so it’s soapstone smooth. “Now close your eyes and bring your awareness to your breath. Inhale. Exhale. Let the thoughts come and go without judgment.”
“Gah.”
He laughs and heads back inside.
And I sit there. Everything is perfect: the wine, the rugged landscape, the scent of salt and pine.
I should feel gratitude or tranquility. Through the window, I watch George reading a stack of papers, glasses on the tip of his nose, hair crashing in waves like the ocean, pen tapping on the page. I get out of the tub.
“That was ten minutes,” he says, not looking up when I slip inside in my robe.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I tell him. “A week isn’t all that long. I want to be with you.”
His pen stills. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine. I know he’s thinking, because he’s got that line between his brows. I stand there a little awkwardly, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Sorry if that’s too sappy,” I tell him. “But that’s how I feel. I’ve spent two months thinking about almost nothing but myself and my emotions. I’m sick of me. I want to hang with you.”
We’ve spent countless nights talking until the sun rises, but when it comes to expressing our feelings, we’re both a bit hopeless. We’ve always been better when we have time to consider our words and write them down.
“Okay,” he says softly. “You win.”
George orders room service while I shower in the display case upstairs.
I take time to comb the tangles out of my hair.
I can’t believe how long it’s gotten—it falls past my chest when it’s wet.
By the time I’ve changed into the T-shirt and shorts I brought for pj’s, George has our food laid out on the dining table.
He didn’t ask me what I wanted, but he’s got it exactly right.
“So?” he asks as I survey the burgers, my mouth watering.
“Your psychic ability to predict what I want to eat is an extremely niche, somewhat disturbing talent.” One he cultivated when we were roommates, and he’d order takeout for when I came home from a shift.
A smile tickles his mouth. “It’s been a while. Glad to know I’ve still got it.”
“What’s yours made with?” George is a pescatarian, so he doesn’t eat meat, and he’s particular about fish.
“Mushrooms.”
We devour our burgers and truffle fries in a companionable silence that’s occasionally punctuated by hums of satisfaction.
It’s a damn good burger. I polish mine off first. George is a constant snacker, but I’ve always been the faster eater.
I’m sucking salt crystals off my fingers and George stares at me, bun halfway to his mouth, looking very pleased with himself.
“Must be the sea air,” I say.
“Must be.” Without taking a bite, George sets down his food. He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, assessing me.
“What?”
He gives his head a little shake. “Nothing.”
“George and his secrets.”
“It’s just nice to see you eating like that.”
“Like a barnyard animal?”
“Yeah. You were so proper at that dinner party.” The one I threw at Nate’s house, he means.
Sometimes I wonder if George wishes I’d stayed preserved the way I was when we met. A child with grass-stained knees and dirt under her fingernails. Or a restless teenager with no interest in makeup. One of the guys.
“I was starving,” I tell him. “It might come as a surprise, but I don’t typically wolf down my food to the disgust of my dinner companions anymore.”
When I was a kid, I had to eat quickly so my brothers wouldn’t steal from my plate.
It’s a hard habit to break, but I’m not the wildling I was when George moved into the Big House.
I’m not the woman I was in my twenties, either, giving myself over to my ambition, regardless of the toll.
I think back at how confident I was, how sure of myself, and I can’t relate to being so foolhardy.
The truth is, I’m lost, even though I know exactly how I got here.
My mom tried to talk me out of culinary school. She warned me how intense the life of a chef was, how I’d be working when my friends were having fun, but I didn’t listen. If anything, I dug in harder, wanting to prove her wrong. Who was she to give career advice?
But Mom was right. I started out determined to demonstrate my mettle, to show I wasn’t “good for a female,” as my first boss had put it, but that I was just plain good.
I told myself I was thriving, but I burned out every shift.
Sometimes I burned myself literally. Eventually, nothing made up for the fact that I spent six days a week in a high-pressure hellfire.
I’d been vigilant not to lose myself to another person, but my job had swallowed me whole. I needed out.
I was looking for a safe place to land, and both my job with Brie and my relationship with Nate provided one.
He was established—both as a tenured professor and as a homeowner.
He needed nothing from me except my companionship.
It was uncomplicated. There was never any risk of being consumed by him.
The same is true of work. Finally, I have control of my time.
I don’t work weekends anymore, or wake sweating from a dream in which I can never keep up with the orders pouring into the kitchen.
And while I enjoy the experimentation that comes with recipe development, I miss the buzz of creating a truly special dish and the heart of what matters most: the people eating it.
Brie’s recipes are influenced by algorithms and TikTok trends.
I’m encouraged to come up with the next Marry Me Chicken or The Stew.
I respect Brie’s desire to win the internet, but it’s not what fuels me.
Lately there’s a voice in the back of my mind saying, This is not it.
“What’s wrong?” George asks. He’s always been perceptive, although he seems especially attuned today. I haven’t so much as sighed.
We’ve had such a good day, and I don’t want to spoil it. Being together is like slipping on that Parks Canada T-shirt. Familiar. Comfortable. It doesn’t quite fit like it used to, but I’m hoping this week will change that.
“Absolutely nothing,” I say. And it’s mostly true.