Chapter Twenty-Two We Were Eighteen
Chapter Twenty-two
We Were Eighteen
“Are you having second thoughts?” George said, watching me write my name on a piece of paper. I still hadn’t gotten it quite right. “We don’t have to do this.”
We’d been living in Toronto for a few weeks, and already the city had left its impression on us. George had bought a new pair of black-framed glasses that were somehow both nerdy and hot, and I had gotten my hair chopped into a shoulder-length bob at House of Lords that I instantly regretted.
“Oh, we’re doing this,” I said. “Today is your eighteenth birthday. We’ve been planning this for a year.” My name inked on his ribs and his on mine. A promise for a promise.
George and I had moved together from the outback of the Kawarthas to the downtown core of the fourth-largest city in North America.
We were both desperate for our adult lives to sweep us up in new adventures.
But I was also overwhelmed by the change—by the noise and the lights and the number of people on the sidewalks. Our apartment became my life raft.
We were well suited as roommates. I made a mess of the kitchen when I cooked, and George, never one to stay put, tidied in my wake.
In so many ways, we anchored each other.
He filled our apartment with ever-growing towers of newspapers and magazines and messages written on Post-its or pages torn from one of his many notebooks.
I filled the fridge with braises and curries and pommes Anna.
George and I often spent Saturday mornings browsing the farm stands at the St. Lawrence Market.
I’d leave with ingredients for that night’s dinner along with jars of Kozlik’s mustard and pickled asparagus.
We didn’t have enough kitchen storage for all my spices, rices, and condiments, and our counters were bejeweled with bottles of olive oil and vinegar.
The collision of George’s stuff and mine made me feel safe.
“Okay, this is it,” I said, holding up the most beautifully penned Frankie I could muster.
“Perfect,” George said.
That night we walked into a tattoo parlor on Queen Street West and gave our friendship permanent marks. Then we got drunk at the Black Bull using the fake IDs George had scored.
I woke the next morning on the couch in my bra and a pair of pj shorts.
The last thing I remembered was singing “Since U Been Gone” while I rode George’s back down an alley and someone throwing a hot dog bun at us.
I had a vague memory of George trying to convince me to go to sleep, and me refusing to end the night.
I think he might have tried to get me into my pajamas.
I could hear him moving about the kitchen, so I peeled myself off the sofa. He was in front of the fridge, drinking orange juice from the jug in a pair of black boxer briefs that made his morning semi extremely obvious.
I stood there, gaping.
I understood why so many girls found George hot—he had a sexy, mysterious aura.
Intelligent eyes behind those black frames and a chiseled face.
But I mostly managed to ignore that. He was George.
He was floppy haired and long limbed. I knew he was strong, because he carried me home from the bar with ease, but seeing him half hard, chugging juice, Adam’s apple bobbing, rewired my brain.
It was like someone gave me a new pair of glasses, and in an instant, he wasn’t just George. I’d seen the freckles on his shoulders a thousand times. But now I wanted to chart them with my fingers. I wanted to feel the soft parts and the hard parts. My newly inked name on his side made me dizzy.
George saw me before I could tear my gaze away.
His eyes slipped down my body, and I saw the way it affected him. There were three seconds when neither of us moved; three seconds when I considered closing the space between us and ruining ten years of friendship. But I rallied. I didn’t need a repeat of what had happened two years earlier.
“Do you need to take care of that?” I asked, grinning. “Maybe pull out one of the magazines you’ve got stashed in your box.”
The mahogany chest had moved from under his bed at the Big House to under his bed in our apartment. It had lilies carved into the wood and, unfortunately, a keyed latch.
“You think I keep magazines in there?” he asked, stepping closer to the counter so his lower half was hidden.
I shrugged.
“This isn’t the nineties.”
“Then what do you keep in there?”
“I’m an eighteen-year-old man, Frankie. I can’t share everything with you.”
“Pfff.”
There was a notebook sitting on the end of the counter that he opened, writing down something.
“What are you doing?”
He glanced up at me. “Setting boundaries.” He handed me the pen. “Add yours.”
HOUSE RULES
From George:
Clothing must be worn in common areas at all times.
We will respect each other’s belongings. (Frankie will not attempt to pry open locked objects with a fork.)
Frankie will ask before she takes George’s T-shirts.
Frankie will refrain from making fun of George’s glasses.
From Frankie:
We will alert each other when bringing home a date.
Thursday nights are Bachelor nights. No arguments.
Friday nights are to be reserved for G & F dinners. No exceptions.
Frankie cooks. George cleans.