Chapter Twenty-Seven
George closes his book when I walk down the stairs for dinner. His gaze flicks up to me, moves away, then zooms right back. I pause.
“It’s not bad, is it?”
I smooth my palms over my stomach, checking the dress once more.
It’s a deep plummy red that plays up the violet in my eyes—the ruched fabric skims my curves to where it falls below my knees.
It has a bit of stretch, so it’s easy to move in, even though it looks delicate, with its thin straps and low neckline. I’ve put on a pair of black slingbacks.
I bought the dress on sale to wear the first time I was invited to dinner with Nate’s colleagues, hoping to trick them into thinking I was sophisticated beyond my years.
A little sexy. Maybe even a bit mysterious.
Despite what Nate said, I knew his friends would be skeptical of me.
Of us. I have no idea whether the dress made any difference, but it did have an effect on me.
George blinks.
“You look…” Slowly, he gets to his feet.
I roll my eyes and continue down the stairs. “Just say I look nice.”
He combs his fingers through his hair. “Jesus.”
I honestly can’t tell what he thinks. He’s looking out the window. “Was that a good Jesus?”
His eyes swing to mine. “Did you look in the mirror?”
“No, I put my makeup on in the dark.” I used some of the stuff Aurora got for the wedding. I had to video-call her so she could talk me through applying the eyeshadow and liner, but I’m pleased with how it turned out. A touch of gold on my eyes. A lip stain a shade darker than my natural color.
George is no longer staring, but he’s frowning as if he’s uncomfortable.
“Does it, like, physically injure you to compliment my appearance?”
Lines form between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Just that you never do without me forcing you to.”
“Really?” He looks surprised.
“It’s fine.” He’s a lost cause. I grab my key card off the coffee table and head to the door. “You ready to go?”
George shakes his head once, then walks toward me. I turn the knob, but he reaches around me, laying his hand flat against the door, keeping it shut. I glance at him over my shoulder. His face is inches from mine, his eyes dark.
“Frankie,” he says, his voice low, “you look fucking incredible.” And then he puts his hand over mine and opens the door.
· · ·
The Pointe Restaurant at the Wickaninnish Inn is a round space, with a circular copper fireplace at its center and windows around its perimeter—it’s the most jaw-dropping room I’ve ever set foot inside.
The ceiling rises like a turret, but it’s planked with wood, as if we’re inside a tree house on the edge of the ocean.
The view of the waves crashing against the rocky shore literally takes my breath away.
I’m glad I wore the dress. A space like this deserves a fashion moment. Kevin did a double take when he saw us heading out for the evening. He told me I looked like the rarest of orchids. I think the outfit may have made up for my whale comments.
The service is flawless. Attentive but not overbearing. The food is so good I’m buzzing in a way I experience only when eating at the hand of a master.
We have chanterelle ravioli and scallop tartare, charcoal- grilled sablefish, and roasted elk. A piece of tomato falls to George’s collar. I say nothing, but relish the dot of red.
Every dish looks like a piece of art and tastes like the landscape.
Last night during dinner, I felt a light switch on in the corner of my brain that’s recently gone dark.
Tonight it glows even brighter. That desire to create.
To experiment. To find myself in food. Or maybe even to lose myself in it.
“So what did you think?” George asks after our bill is paid. “Worth the hype?”
“Don’t tell Brie, but I feel kind of inspired.”
George is leaning forward on one elbow, his chin perched in his hand. His expression is earnest. We’ve been drawing closer together over the table whenever our plates are cleared.
“Yeah?” A smile tiptoes across his lips.
We’ve shared a bottle of wine, and I’m feeling as sparkly as the ocean under the moon.
I tilt toward him and say, “I was thinking earlier about how much purpose your work gives you. I want to find that, too. A profound connection to what I’m doing.
” I glance around the room. “I don’t know what that looks like, but I haven’t felt this sort of excitement in a long time. And…promise you won’t laugh.”
He draws an X over his chest. “I promise.”
I clear my throat. “It’s been years since we had this much time together. I like who I am when I’m with you. I’m still me, but I can also see a bigger version of myself.” I realize I’m not being articulate, but George looks kind of touched.
“When I’m with you, the world seems to hold so many possibilities. I used to think that it was because I love competing with you, but that’s not it. You’re this unstoppable force, and you make me feel invincible, too. I feel more alive when I’m with you.”
I’ve always thought our personalities were too similar, too spiky for us to be a good couple. But maybe we wouldn’t have been such a bad match after all.
George swallows. Frowns.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was trying to do the honest-feelings thing, but that was a lot.” I set a hand on my flaming-hot cheek. I feel like I’ve peeled off a layer of skin—like I’ve let him see the squishy parts I’m not used to sharing.
“No. That was…” He studies me in a way that makes my stomach spin.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” our server says, setting down two tiny glasses. “We hear that congratulations are in order. Two amaros, compliments of the chef.”
George pries his gaze away from mine and looks at the server with confusion.
“Excuse me?”
“Kevin from Moss and Stone called before you arrived and let us know that you’re on your honeymoon. Congratulations.”
“Ah,” George says. “Thank you.”
“I’m actually getting married in the fall,” she says. “Can I ask what your wedding was like?”
“Of course,” I say.
George glances at me, and I smile at him sweetly. “You tell her, honey.”
His eyes glint, and I know I’m going to pay for this later. “Start with how you proposed,” I suggest. I look at the server. “It was so romantic.”
She stares at him moon-eyed, and I nudge his knee under the table. He nudges me back, but he doesn’t move his leg away after.
“She was my best friend,” George tells our server, his eyes on me. “And then I fell in love with her.”
My smile fades, and my chest squeezes.
“One day, when she was very mad at me, which happens more than you can imagine, I wrote her a letter, asking her to meet me so I could prove to her how much she meant to me.”
I blink, because I know this story.
The cupboard in the library. A dress made from a curtain. Violets with twine wrapped around their stems. Sharing vows beneath the apple tree.
I listen as George tells our server a new version of the tale. In this one, we’re thirty, not ten. He proposes not in the cupboard but in the gap of the cedar hedge, the place where we first met. We have a small wedding shortly after with our family gathered beneath the apple tree.
His gaze never leaves mine, and I can’t seem to look anywhere but at him, either. His knee is barely resting against mine, light enough that he may not even realize it’s there, but my leg feels like it’s on fire.
“Awww. I love that,” she says when he’s finished, her hands clasped under her chin. “Well, I won’t intrude on your evening any longer. Enjoy the amaro, and the rest of your honeymoon.”
When she leaves, George is no longer touching me.
I look out the window, my heart a solid, relentless thud against my rib cage.
“Frankie?”
I hum and turn my gaze to George. He’s watching me with a mischievous little smirk. This should be good.
He leans in, his eyes dancing. “Before we were interrupted, I believe you were describing how I make you feel. I believe the word you used was invincible.”
“I’m going to regret telling you that, aren’t I?”
“You called me an unstoppable force.”
“You’re making fun of me.”
“I’m not teasing,” he says. “I’m savoring the moment, making sure I get all the details correct. You’re not often so—”
“Sentimental?”
“I was going to say ardent.”
“Hmm.” I take the last sip of amaro. “I think we’ve learned an important lesson about our friendship tonight.”
His finger circles the rim of his glass. “Oh?”
“We’re both bad at paying each other compliments.”
“I told you that you look good in the dress.”
“Under duress.”
“You look good in the dress, Frankie.”
The way he says it makes my skin feel electric. It’s buzzing on the surface, vaporous and glittering, like ocean spray under the moon.
“Some might say I look like a rare orchid in this dress.”
George chuckles. “I think the dress turned Kevin’s opinion of you around.”
“Right? But neither of us is very good at the sentimental stuff.”
“We’re better on paper,” George says.
“Our letters, you mean.”
I think about the one I left in the mailbox last week.
“I missed you,” I say, because he should hear it out loud. “I’ve been missing you for such a long time now, but especially this past year.”
“You’re my favorite person,” George says. “And I’ve missed you like…”
“A rib?” I supply.
“More like an internal organ.”
“Same.”
I stare out at the blackening sea, feeling his gaze still on me and thinking about the story he told our server. The letter he left me in the mailbox long, long ago. It’s one of the ones I kept.
You are my best friend. And I’ll be yours forever. I can prove it, too.
“Maybe we should have gotten married,” I murmur.
“What?” George’s voice cuts through my daze.
“Married,” I say, pulling my attention away from the ocean and back to him. It’s not the worst idea. “Maybe it should have been you and me getting married in May, instead of me and Nate. This is nice, right? You and me, together like this. I’m your favorite person, and you’re mine, too.”
His eyes are fixed on me with blazing focus, but I go on.
“Neither of us has a good track record with relationships. I agreed to marry the first man who I was serious about after knowing him for six months. And you travel so much, it’s going to be difficult to find someone to share your life with.
So why not each other?” I rush to clarify, because the look he’s giving me is unreadable.
“Things wouldn’t even have to change. We could have one of those companionable, sexless marriages, where we’re always in each other’s corner but we also give each other freedom. ”
George stares at me. For ten seconds, he doesn’t so much as blink. But then he pushes his chair out from the table, throws down his napkin, and leaves.