Chapter Eighteen
Day Two: Indulge
George is gone. Without looking, I can tell he’s not in bed beside me.
I keep my eyes closed against the sun, listening to the hush of crashing surf.
I’m tempted to let myself doze off again, but I know the week is going to slip away quickly.
In six days, George and I will drive back to the airport and go our separate ways.
Me, back to my childhood bedroom; him, to the mangroves of Mexico. I don’t want to waste any time.
When I pry open my eyelids, the first thing I see is the sparkling Pacific beyond the forest. It’s a clearer day than yesterday, the sun already high.
Only a faint brushstroke of fog lingers over the bay.
When I make my way downstairs, I find the villa empty, but there’s a text from George waiting for me.
I scoff. It’s just after eleven.
There’s also a message from Brie that I respond to after helping myself to a jar of apricot French yogurt.
Brie: I hope you arrived safely xo
Me: We’re here. It’s almost rude how stunning it is.
Brie: I hear Tofino has a great food scene! Have fun! Get inspired!!!
I stare at the text. The lavish number of exclamation marks.
Her directive to get inspired. It irks me in a way I can’t put a finger on, and not only because telling someone to get inspired is about as helpful as telling them to be happy or calm down.
It’s as if Brie suspects that I’ve been feeling blah.
Then again, if she thought there was a problem with my work, she’d let me know.
It’s one of the things I first liked about her when we were students: she cuts to the point.
Still, there’s something about her message that doesn’t sit right with me.
As I head toward the deck with a fresh cup of coffee, my eye catches on a corner of paper sticking out from beneath the sofa.
I bend down to retrieve it and see that it’s among a thick stack of printouts and notes.
I pull them out, unsure of whether George meant for them to be hidden or not.
I smile, thinking of the locked wooden chest he used to keep beneath his bed.
As I thumb through the documents, it’s clear there’s nothing illicit here. It’s George’s breakup research.
There are advice columns, magazine pieces, and peer-reviewed articles. There’s an entire Reddit thread that spans a dozen pages. In an article by a psychiatrist, George has underlined a passage about therapy. I wonder how long it will take for him to suggest it.
I doubt there’s anything here that can help me make sense of what happened.
I’ve been tearing apart the carcass of my failed relationship for two months, trying to find a morsel of truth to explain it.
Nate seemed so sure about us—the thought of him having an epic case of cold feet doesn’t track.
If our fight scared him off, why did he wait so long to say something?
It feels like a piece of the puzzle is missing.
I flip the page, and some of the papers slide out of the stack and fall to the floor. I get to my hands and knees to scoop them up and see an interview transcript dated July 18, a few days ago.
Okay, I’m recording now. Thanks again for taking the time, Dr. Nasseri.
This isn’t for an article? Am I getting that right?
No, as I said in my email, I’m trying to support a friend through a brutal breakup, and there’s a bit of a time crunch. I was hoping to ask you a few questions and run some ideas by you. I’m happy to pay for your time as a client since this won’t be published anywhere.
No need. Your note sparked my curiosity. So Frankie is a good friend of yours?
My best friend.
And if I’m reading between the lines of your email correctly, you have feelings for her?
I don’t…That’s not…[Inaudible]
Oh. Did I get that wrong?
We’re just friends.
My apologies. Tell me about Frankie’s situation.
“What are you doing down there?”
I freeze, still on my hands and knees. When I look up, I find George across the room in running shoes and black shorts, his hair damp and his cheeks bright from exertion. His chest is bare, bronzed, and slicked with sweat, and my mouth goes dry at the sight of him.
“Frankie?”
“I was going through your research,” I say, getting to my feet with the stack of papers. George is nearsighted and isn’t wearing his glasses, which I hope means he missed me checking him out. He crosses the room, still out of breath from his run.
“Can I see those for a second?”
“You said I could read them.”
“You can,” he says. “After I’m done with them.”
He smells like spruce and sunshine, and when a bead of sweat melts down his temple, I find myself tracking its path. What’s wrong with me? I pass the papers to George.
“I’ll sort through it all later,” George says. “And give you what’s relevant.”
He goes to the kitchen and pours a large glass of water that he gulps down all at once, his head tipped back. I listen to the sound of his swallows, watch the water run down his chin and onto his chest, and stare as he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.
George casts me a questioning glance.
“Long run, huh?” I say.
He shrugs. “Ten K.”
“For someone who doesn’t run, that seems pretty long.”
“I’ve been running for about three years now.”
“After the fires?” The months George spent covering the wildfires left a mark.
How could they not have? He saw so much devastation.
He almost lost his life. He wouldn’t talk much about it after he returned, but two years ago, when we were both home at Thanksgiving, we went for a long walk beside the creek and he told me how he sometimes could still smell the smoke when he closed his eyes.
“Mmm.”
“You never mentioned it.”
“That’s because exercise makes for a boring topic of conversation.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m pretty sure that’s a dig at Nate, who spoke at length to George about his triathlon training.
“It’s not boring to me,” I say. “I want to know—no, I demand to know about your cardiovascular fitness.”
“Oh really?” George looks amused as he leans against the counter.
“Yes,” I say, adamant. “As your best friend, it’s also my right to be consulted when you’re thinking about switching up your glasses.
I want to know if you’ve started running and lifting and drinking protein shakes so I’m not shocked by all of this.
” I push his stomach gently, and wow. His chin drops as he follows the movement, a curl falling over his forehead.
Slowly, his eyes lift to mine and I pull my hand away.
“What else?” he asks.
“I know you’re busy rescuing polar bear cubs and jumping out of helicopters, but…”
“I’ve done neither of those things,” he says, fighting a grin.
“I used to know pretty much everything about you,” I say. “All the little things that make you you. I knew what you were reading and listening to, or whether you were going through a James Dean phase.”
His mouth curves. “That leather jacket did look amazing.”
“It was pleather.”
“And the slicked hair? The cigarette pack rolled in my T-shirt sleeve? Great look for a fifteen-year-old. Very authentic.”
I let out a laugh.
“You know who was into it?” George says, arching a brow.
“Avery Harper-Klyne.”
“Avery Harper-Klyne,” he agrees.
I take a banana from the fruit basket, peel it, and pass it to him before continuing. “I feel like I’m missing the important stuff, too. I never know how long you’ll be gone or when you’re coming back. You hardly talk about your relationships.”
George could point out my hypocrisy—I hadn’t exactly looped him in on my engagement—but instead, he takes a bite. “There hasn’t been much to tell,” he says, his mouth still full.
“You’re missing the point.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“I guess I’m worried that our friendship only works in close proximity. When we’re not together, maybe you forget how much you like me.”
“Frankie, that would be impossible. Believe me.”
I chew on my lip.
“This alleged plan of yours,” I say.
“This very real plan,” he corrects.
“It’s all about me.”
“It is.”
“I think it should be about us, too.”
George pauses mid-chew, staring at me with an inscrutable expression. “How so?”
“I want us to be us again. I want it to be like the way it was.”
He hums and breaks off the final bite of banana and gives it to me.
“I want to be a better friend.” I don’t say what I really want, which is to feel close to him again.
“You are a good friend, Frankie.”
“Then why do you keep pulling away from me?” The question flies out of my mouth, surprising us both. I pop the banana in my mouth and look anywhere but into George’s eyes.
But he steps closer, ducking down so I’m forced to meet his stare. “Is that what you think?”
“I think you feel a sense of duty to me because of our history. I think that’s why you’re here now.”
“It’s incredible.” He cups my cheeks.
I blink because George never touches me like this. “What is?”
“Just how wrong you are.”
He laughs, then lets go of me. “I’m going to shower and then we’ll leave.”
“Where are we going?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“I hate surprises.”
“I’ll give you a hint.” He looks at me over his shoulder. “This is your day to indulge.”