Chapter Twenty-One
Derek holds my hand up to his eye to check for a ring as he helps me aboard.
Dressed in warm clothes, George and I take spots on the bench at the back of the boat.
As we cruise around inlets and islands, I watch him in my periphery, wondering what he was about to tell me.
He looked almost relieved by the interruption.
Derek and George embrace when we say goodbye, and we watch as the Nautical but Nice pulls away.
“Good day?” George asks.
I look up at him. His hair has curled more tightly in the coastal damp.
“Great day.”
A strange day, too. I’ve never felt so entranced by George or so envious of the women he’s dated.
I’ve never noticed how perfect his mouth is, or how enchanting his eyes are.
He’s George, my lifelong friend. But he’s also another George—a man who has risked his life for his work and won awards for his reporting.
He’s an adult who wants a partner and has dreams I’m only now learning about. This George isn’t mine anymore.
“I don’t think I’ll ever forget it,” I tell him.
George looks down at me. “Who could forget their first sex cult initiation?”
“Or their maiden voyage on the Nautical but Nice?”
“I believe they’re one and the same.”
I laugh. “I mean it, though. That was incredible. I feel like I could hike up one of those mountains, but if I closed my eyes, I’d probably sleep for twelve hours.”
“What about your appetite?”
“Gargantuan.”
“Good.”
We drive back to the resort, and I shower and get dressed for dinner.
I put on jeans, a pretty pale blue tank top, and white sandals.
I go through the effort of detangling and blow-drying my hair.
Two months of not caring about my appearance enough to use a hot tool has left it shiny and healthy.
I don’t bother with much makeup. Just the usual: a bit of mascara, blush, and a tinted lip balm.
While I wait for George to get ready, I pull out my phone. I haven’t responded to Brie’s text from earlier today, not that it necessarily warrants a reply.
I hear Tofino has a great food scene! Have fun! Get inspired!!!
I frown at the screen. Why is it bothering me so much? It’s such an innocuous message.
“Everything okay?”
I peer up to find George in dark jeans and a lighter denim shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is still damp. He looks fantastic. “Canadian tuxedo?”
He shrugs. “Seemed like the vibe.”
“I’m into it. It says, ‘I can ride a horse and prepare an excellent oat milk latte.’ ”
He looks down at himself. “That’s unfortunate, because I can do neither of those things.”
I stand, and George eyes my outfit. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear something like that before.”
The tank top has a flouncy ruffled hem. I was only half teasing George this morning when I reminded him that I’m a woman—sometimes I really do think he forgets.
In his defense, I never used to wear such feminine clothes. I wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs until I was ten. In high school, I dressed in jeans and tees I found at Value Village. It wasn’t until I had disposable income and more fashion-conscious friends that I branched out.
It’s my turn to shrug. “Seemed like the vibe.”
“Why were you looking at your phone like you were about to fight it?”
I hand it over. “Does this seem weird to you?”
He reads Brie’s message. “Five exclamation points seems excessive, but otherwise, no. Why?”
“It’s bugging me.”
George studies it again. “Is it because she’s talking about inspiration as if it’s something you can buy in a grocery store?” He looks at me. “Like, can you pick up a carton of inspiration on your way home?”
I laugh, because that did bother me.
“Do you feel like she’s suggesting you need inspiration? Because I can see how that might irk you.”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant. She isn’t passive-aggressive.”
“Then maybe,” George says, “it’s not about Brie. Maybe it’s more about your stuff.”
“I don’t have any stuff,” I say, and now George is smiling. His eyes laugh.
“Frankie, we’ve all got plenty of stuff.”
“Takes one to know one.”
A chuckle rumbles in his chest. It’s a good sound. “Exactly,” he says. “I’m the king of stuff.”
The restaurant is in Ucluelet, the closest town to Tofino and about thirty minutes away.
Pluvio is a small spot with an open kitchen and a nineties R exuberant in its creativity. It’s a far cry from slow-cooker macaroni.
By the end of the evening, I’m so full and tired—and so whiny about how full and tired I am—that George gives me a piggyback ride from the restaurant to the car, and then again from the parking lot at the resort back to our villa, like he used to when we were coming home from the bar.
“I might fall asleep right here,” I say into his neck as he opens the door and steps inside.
He sets me down. “I don’t think that would work for either of us,” he says.
But then he scoops me into his arms and carries me, bride-over-the-threshold style, up to the second floor.
The room has been turned down for the evening.
The fireplace is on, there’s twinkling music coming from speakers, and the bed is covered with a fresh sprinkling of rose petals. George sets me among them.
I’m a little tipsy from the cocktail, and I grab his hand, tugging him down to the mattress. I lie on my back, my feet still planted on the floor, but he doesn’t flop beside me. He sits on the end of the bed, watching me.
“Remember when I first started cooking?”
“Sure,” he says. “You were obsessed with onions. All the ways they could be sliced, diced, chopped, and grated. Whether a dish was better if you sweated them out first or browned them. How long they took to caramelize.”
“Always longer than what a recipe says,” I add. “I was so excited back then. I used to be so…I don’t know…hungry?”
His smile is wistful. “You were utterly desperate for an adventure.”
I can’t help but laugh. “Yes. For adventure and fun and food and…life. I think that’s why Brie’s text bothered me. I’ve lost that feeling. Two months ago, I was so fucking smug. I thought I had it all figured out. Now look at me.”
George lies back and we stare at each other.
“I’m looking.”
He holds my gaze for a moment, but then his eyes roam my face. “Do you want to know what I see?”
I nod.
“I see someone with so much talent and creativity and passion. I see the person who got me through some of the darkest times of my life. I see the strongest, most stubborn, most frustrating woman I know.”
I feel my cheeks heat.
“You’ll be hungry again one day, Frankie. Give yourself some slack.”
Not my forte.
“Don’t sleep on the couch,” I say. “It’s too small for you. I’d rather you were here with me.”
He looks at me for a moment. “I’ll probably set an alarm to run. I don’t want to wake you.”
I wave my hand. “I’m used to that. Nate’s went off at five every morning so he could go to the gym.” I despised the sound.
“I won’t be up that early, but I’ll sleep downstairs so it doesn’t bother you.”
“George,” I say. “Please. I don’t like waking up alone.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. It’s no big deal. It’s just me.”
George gets to his feet. “Okay, I’ll sleep here.”
“Good.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” George crosses the room to the desk and opens one of the drawers. “You said you wanted to see the rest of my research.” He pulls out a stuffed file folder and hands it to me.
“Thank you for doing all of this. I appreciate it. I appreciate you.”
“How strong was that cocktail?”
“It’s not the cocktail.”
George smiles. “I’m going to change and then go downstairs and read for a bit.”
I avert my eyes as he undresses in the corner and heads to the bathroom in only a pair of sweatpants. When he returns to the room, I lift my gaze, swallowing at the sight of the faint scar. My eyes drift to his tattoo.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask. I’ve met more than a few men who didn’t love finding George’s name on my body.
He looks down at my name written in cursive on his rib cage and smiles. “Not once. You?”
“No, me neither.” Not ever.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says, and heads downstairs.
I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas and settle in bed with George’s papers. As I flip through the pages, I realize the interview transcript is missing.
I’m dozing off to the white noise of waves crashing against rock when the mattress dips with George’s weight. The bed warms quickly, and soon his breathing falls into the steady cadence of sleep. I follow shortly after, and soon I’m dreaming of a familiar arm, holding me close.