Chapter Twenty-Six
We pass the rest of the afternoon on the beach in front of the resort. Lounge chairs. Cold beer. Limp bodies. Talk of dinner at the Wickaninnish Inn, which we’ll need to look presentable for later.
I doze off.
I’m alone when I wake up, squinting into a lowering sun.
George has put one of the resort’s green-and-white-striped beach towels over my shoulders.
His book lays splayed on his chair. It’s almost like we’re kids again, when we’d toggle between swimming and reading on the loungers.
George liked magazines—National Geographic, Canadian Geographic, Scientific American—and nature books.
I loved novels of all kinds, as long as they were set in faraway places.
Even though the Big House was full of books, we’d visit the Lakefield Library almost once a week during the summer, leaving with toppling stacks in our arms.
I picked up a copy of The Wickaninnish Cookbook: Rustic Elegance on Nature’s Edge in the resort gift shop in preparation for tonight’s dinner—it’s the first cookbook I’ve bought in years.
I skim through it now, salivating over recipes for Haida Gwaii halibut and asparagus, squash blossoms stuffed with spot prawns, and barbecue beach oysters. My expectations are high.
George returns, bearing fizzy cocktails garnished with lemon twists, and dressed in a white shirt and gray pants, his feet bare.
“You look like a Bachelorette contestant,” I say, sitting up straighter and accepting the drink. His top button is undone, and his sleeves are rolled up his forearms.
“Thank you?”
“It’s definitely a compliment,” I confirm. “You look nice.”
He clinks his glass to mine. “To a very successful first day of surfing.”
“To us,” I say, noticing a smudge on his lens.
We take a sip, and then I put down my drink and slip George’s glasses off his nose. He watches me with a funny smile.
“I can do that myself, you know,” he says as I clean them on the hem of my tank top.
“But you don’t.”
“I never really notice they’re dirty unless I’m writing. Doesn’t it annoy you to do it for me?” he asks as I set them back on his face.
“No. It’s second nature. I’m barely aware I’m doing it.”
“Well, thank you,” he says. “I can see better now.”
The rest of the drink goes down easily, tingling its way to my toes. I tilt my head, watching George. His book is open in his hand, but he’s gazing into the distance, humming his lullaby.
“What’s it called again?” I ask.
“What’s what called?”
“Your mom’s song. The one you’re humming.”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
“ ‘à la claire fontaine.’ ”
“You hum it when you’re happy.”
“Do I?” A self-conscious smile. “Well, it’s true. I am happy. Didn’t realize I was humming, though.”
“You do it all the time. I’ve told you this. I’m sure Lara pointed it out when you were together.”
“No, actually. She never mentioned it.” He looks at me. “You’re the only person who’s brought it up.”
“Huh. Maybe it’s a me thing, then.” A lullaby for Frankie.
George turns back to the view. “Today was a good day.”
The sun has turned golden, the way it does before ushering itself out.
He’s humming again, and I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of rightness. Here with my brilliant, beautiful best friend.
George lowers his gaze, concentrating on his book again. It’s a history of Tofino, the Clayoquot Sound, and the Nuu-chah-nulth peoples. His face is set in a thoughtful scowl, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
I feel a deep sense of contentment, like I could sink into this moment for a very long time.
There’s something paradoxical about being around George.
His ambition, his deep connection to his work, his sense of purpose—he makes me want more for myself.
But I also have permission to just be. If I could only keep him close, not lose him to the next assignment, a different country, another time zone.
Maybe we should get married.
Be together forever.
I spend a minute considering it before realizing the cocktail must have been stronger than it looks, and I haven’t eaten enough. I’m starving, I realize.
“Why are you staring at me?” George asks without turning in my direction.
“Am I?”
“Mm-hmm. For several minutes now.”
I watch the surf crash against the rocks at the end of the bay, the spray shimmering in the pinks and oranges of the retreating sun.
“I was thinking about what you said when we were surfing, about being friends in our eighties.”
“Yeah?” He slants his head my way, his face aglow.
“I like it. You and me, fifty years from now. Just like this.”
He watches me for a handful of silent seconds. His eyes are in shadow, so I can’t see his expression.
“We should take a photo,” I say, standing and extending my hand. “This is the good light.”
George puts his palm in mine, but instead of letting me help him up, he tugs me down.
“Hey.” I elbow him, wiggling to escape his grip. He tickles the sensitive spot under my ribs, and I cackle. He knows I’m ticklish.
From behind me, he says “Stop fussing, Frankie” against my ear, and a shudder rolls through my body. George must feel it because he freezes. I shut my eyes, not sure what to do or say. But before I figure it out, he pulls me against his chest, tucking me into his body between his legs.
“Take the picture,” he says, banding his arms around my waist.
I nod, because I don’t trust myself to sound like anything but the way I feel. I fiddle with my phone and paste a smile on my face as I raise it. In the screen, I watch George set his chin on my shoulder. His dark curls are pressed against my blond hair.
We look like a couple.
The last two days, we’ve almost felt like a couple.
These are dangerous thoughts. I push them aside and stare at the little green dot above the screen, avoiding looking at the two of us.
“The wind is picking up. Are you getting cold?” George asks when I’m done, his arms still circling me. “You have goose bumps.”
“Oh.” I peer down at the bumps on my arms. I doubt it’s the breeze that caused them. “A little bit.”
George rubs his hands up and down my shoulders a few times, then pulls me even more closely against his chest, wreathing his arms around me. It’s like having a George-shaped beach towel wrapped around my body.
“This okay?”
I’m unable to do anything but nod.
Tell me what you want, sweetheart.
I look back at the sunset, a deep crimson surrounded by burned gold, like a slice of blood orange. After a moment, George begins to hum. But I barely hear him over the screaming of my heart.