Chapter Twenty-Eight
I gape at the spot where George was sitting, not quite believing that he walked out of the restaurant. Stunned, I get to my feet and slowly make my way across the dining room and into the lobby. George is nowhere to be seen.
“Can I help you?” asks the young man in a black uniform at the desk.
“Did you see a tall guy with dark hair and glasses a minute ago?”
“He said he was going to bring the car around.” He points outside. “Is that him?”
The hatchback is pulling up in front of the entrance. George is in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead.
He doesn’t look at me when I walk toward the car. Or when I open the door. Or when I sit down, buckle my belt, and say “Hi?”
“Hi.” His voice is glacial.
We drive back to the resort in tense silence. Thankfully, the trip only lasts five minutes. I keep glancing over at George as we walk to our villa, but he remains stone-faced.
Suggesting we get married was impulsive and off-the-wall, and perhaps it was somewhat unfeeling of me to suggest he wouldn’t find someone. But storming out of a restaurant and giving me the silent treatment is dramatic, even for us.
I unlock our door and step inside.
“I’m sorry, okay?” I say, turning around.
But he’s not there.
I stick my head outside and see him walking away, back into the night. I call his name, but he doesn’t stop.
“Where are you going?” I shout.
“For a walk.”
I watch him turn toward the beach, my anger rising. I step back into the villa, but then I pause.
Screw this.
I kick off my shoes and head after him, down the trail that leads through the forest and onto the beach. I can make out his silhouette in the distance.
Bonfires flicker along the shore, with resort guests gathered around them. Someone is playing a ukulele. I know I’m about to make a scene, but I really don’t care—and it’s not like it will be the first time.
“George,” I yell, not sure if he can hear me over the surf. Faces turn in my direction; I ignore them. I’m focused only on George’s shadowy frame as he continues walking.
I charge toward him. I shout his name as loud as I can. He pauses. For a moment, I think he’s going to turn around, but then he keeps walking.
“Asshole,” I mutter to myself, and then I start to run. My dress and the sand conspire to make it very difficult, and I’m out of breath by the time I catch up to him.
“George. Stop.” I don’t wait to see if he does before I set my hands on my knees and bend over. “Oh my god, I think I’m dying.”
I stare at my toes, panting. I used to be a good runner. Now there’s a stitch in my side. Each inhalation burns. If George keeps walking, I’m not going to be able to follow. I may need to seriously consider going to a gym when I move back to the city.
“You’re not dying.”
I look up, and George is standing there. It’s hard to see his expression in the dark, but he sounds pissed. His shirt is rumpled, the top three buttons are undone, and the hem is untucked.
I straighten my spine and take another breath before saying, “You’re supposed to run away with me, not from me.”
I move closer, so that we’re only a few feet apart. I want to see his face. I need him to see mine.
“I’m sorry.” I hold out my hands in surrender. “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
His laugh is bitter. “Well, you’re exceptionally good at it.”
“I’m so sorry, George. I was only trying to say that I miss being together. I hate that half a year will go by without us seeing each other. I hate not celebrating our birthdays together. I just wish things were different. That’s all. I wasn’t thinking about what I said.”
George’s gaze remains steely, so I set my fingers on his arm and step closer still.
“Of course you’ll find the right person. You’ll meet someone who’s charming and accomplished, and they’ll be so lucky. You’re the best, George.”
I expect him to yield, because as far as groveling goes, I think I’m nailing it. But he turns away from me, fixing his eyes on the water. The moon is golden, and the surf is gilded beneath its glow. I drop my hand from his arm and face the yawning ocean.
A minute passes before he speaks. “I know you don’t mean it,” he says, setting his hard gaze on me. “But sometimes the things you say are really fucking cruel.”
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I hate that I’ve made you so upset.”
George puts his hands on his head, then nods, as if psyching himself up. “Forget about it, Frankie. It’s fine.”
He walks past me, in the direction of the resort. But then he stops and spins around.
“Actually, you know what? It’s not fine.”
I brace myself as he strides toward me, staring me down like this is our final battle. I straighten my shoulders.
“Do you believe I’m someone who’d be happy in a sexless marriage?”
I’m taken aback by what he’s said, and by the way he’s said it. Raised voice. Accusatory tone. Frustration written across his face.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought I was being progressive. Plenty of couples have open relationships,” I try.
“But we’re not a couple. An open relationship is different from a relationship without physical intimacy.”
“I know that.”
“You think I’d want to spend my life with someone who isn’t attracted to me, who can’t stand the idea of being with me?”
“That’s not what I said. That’s not what I meant.” I shake my head, my throat tight. “I was only thinking you might like being with me as much as I like being with you. I thought you might want to spend your life with me.”
He’s close enough that I can smell the subtle leather scent of him. “I don’t want that.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Got it.” I push past him because I know I’m about to cry. But George clasps my wrist, turning me to face him. Before I can make sense of what’s happening, he pulls me close.
Shock barrels through me like a bullet.
George takes my face in his palms as he stares at my mouth. My hands move of their own accord, balling his shirt in my fists and tugging him closer.
I once promised George I wouldn’t kiss him again, but now I rise on my toes, no thought in my head except the need to feel his mouth on mine.
He leans down to my ear. His lips brush my skin.
It’s the barest of touches, yet my body thrums with desire.
I feel his responding groan more than I hear it.
A hand falls to the small of my back, hauling me against him. George is hard. I let out a gasp.
He pushes my hair behind my shoulder, and I tilt my head as his thumb strokes the line of my neck. His name leaves my throat on a whisper.
George’s lips coast over my ear just before he snarls, “Fuck your sexless marriage.”
He pulls back slowly, his eyes boring into mine, and then his hands fall from my body. I stare at him, heart kicking against my chest, as he turns and walks away.