Chapter Thirty-Five
Day Five: Want
George stares at the tiny Cessna with hearts in his eyes. It’s tied to a dock in the Tofino harbor. There’s no fog, and we can see the snow on the peaks of the mountains in the distance.
“I assume we’re getting in that thing?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” He sounds like a kid on Christmas morning.
It’s the first moment today that things haven’t felt weird. We’ve been treating each other exactly as we did before we kissed, but whenever our eyes meet, the air between us snaps like a rubber band. I know he feels it, too. The memory lingers in his gaze.
“I thought you said you didn’t jump from helicopters,” I say.
“It’s a floatplane, and we’re going to climb in and out of it.”
“We’re going to die in it.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asks.
“Where’s your sense of self-preservation?”
“It seems to be in very short supply these days.”
I turn at his tone—the clear allusion to yesterday—and I’m startled by the naked hunger I find in his eyes. It’s not a snap. It’s a full-on wallop. Restraint rolls from him in waves. I want to kiss him again so badly.
“You didn’t tell me today’s theme,” I say. “How does aviation fit into The Plan?”
“Today,” he says, “is about expressing your needs. Voicing what you want. Learning to ask for it.”
I blink, wondering if he’s screwing with me, but he’s serious.
“It’s an essential part of healing,” he goes on. “Understanding what you need and being comfortable telling people how to give it to you.”
I can feel my cheeks turning pink.
“No one can read your mind, Frankie.”
“Not even you?”
“Sometimes I feel like I can hear every thought running through your brain,” he says.
“And the rest of the time?”
“I don’t know a fucking thing.”
· · ·
We wait for the pilot with three other passengers on the dock. I turn to George. “I want to know where we’re going.”
“Well played. We’re going to Hot Springs Cove in Nism?aakqin Park. It looks incredible, but I also thought it would be a good spot to think.”
“About what I want,” I say.
“Right.”
We’re each given an inflatable life vest before we climb into the tiny plane. George and I sit on the bench in the back. We buckle in and put on our headsets as instructed. They’re outfitted with microphones, and we can hear the pilot and other passengers through them, even over the roaring engine.
I squeeze my eyes shut as we lift off the water, willing myself not to puke or, worse, cry, when I feel George’s fingers twine with mine.
Without me saying a thing, he knows exactly what I want.
We fly over islands and alongside the rise and fall of the mountains.
I see views so splendid that I forget to be scared.
Our pilot points out an island that’s home to a dozen sea wolves who survive on fish, crabs, mussels, and barnacles.
He tells us there’s a documentary about these wolves on Netflix, and I glance at George, knowing he’s already watched it.
I don’t realize that we’ve been holding hands the entire fifteen-minute flight until it’s time to land and I reluctantly let go.
We walk through an astounding rainforest, with trees even larger than the ones we saw yesterday, for about thirty minutes before fog obscures the wooden path. Ahead is a bridge over a spring of water, steam curling from its surface.
“Can you imagine how much we would have loved this when we were kids?” I ask George. “It’s like an enchanted forest.”
He smiles. “You would have been on the hunt for a witch.”
In a wooden structure that looks over the rocky shore, we stash our things and change into our bathing suits. Mine is a pale yellow gingham one-piece with a bow in the front—the most modest suit I packed. George is wearing his Bond stripes.
He hands me a pair of brand-new Tevas.
“Bare feet are not advised,” he says, and he puts on his own.
We climb down a steep slope of jagged rocks to where the spring cascades in steaming waterfalls overhead.
I put my hand in the water and pull it out quickly, shocked by how hot it is.
Below the falls are clear pools tucked into narrow crevices.
I was picturing couples and hidden spots for kissing, and I’m not sure whether I’m relieved or disappointed to find out that there’s no privacy here and the vibe is much more family friendly.
There are children and grandparents, and groups of friends, but no more than twenty of us.
Whenever someone steps into the water for the first time, they let out a laugh of astonishment at the temperature.
George and I sit together, and there’s no way to escape touching each other. We eventually move to give someone else a turn in the pool. I climb to a pretty spot next to a waterfall and George follows. I tip my head back, letting the cascade of hot water flow over me.
George is facing away from me, his head bent forward and his hands planted on the rock.
I know it’s a bad idea to let my gaze crawl over the muscles in his shoulders and follow the water running down his back.
I definitely should not be noticing how his swim trunks are plastered to his thighs and backside. And yet…
According to George, these geothermal pools were created by fissures in the earth’s crust when groundwater heated by magma rose to the surface.
It’s precisely how I feel. Something inside me has cracked open, and my need for George is spilling out.
I want everyone to leave so I can run my tongue from the base of his spine all the way up to his neck.
I want to dig my nails into his shoulders.
Suddenly the water is too hot and my head is spinning.
I have to take a seat on a rocky ledge away from the springs to cool down.
I stare out at the sea, wondering if all this want is clouding my judgment.
The wise thing to do would be to shove it back down, to bottle it up.
But I’m not sure I can. More than that, I don’t think I want to.
George and I are good together. In every way. We know almost everything there is to know about each other. The only stone left unturned was dislodged by our kiss yesterday.
This week has opened my eyes in so many ways. I think about the meal I made last night and how good it felt to create something of my own.
“What are you thinking about?” I hear George ask a few minutes later.
I turn to meet his gaze. He walks toward me, pushing wet strands of hair from his face. He sits on the ledge, searching my eyes.
I’m thinking terrifying, life-changing thoughts. I’m thinking that I want to pick up that stone and chuck it into the sea. I’m thinking that if today is about owning what I want, then today could change my life.
“Everything,” I tell him.
“Tell me?”
“I’m thinking about how good I felt making dinner last night, and how I know my job isn’t enough for me. I’m thinking about how to make my work more exciting, and that I need to talk to Brie. I’m wondering how I can find time to do something that’s all my own.”
George listens, his gaze brimming with an emotion I’m afraid to name. “Those are beautiful thoughts.”
“I’m also thinking about you. About what I want.”
A smile whispers on his lips. “I want to hear those thoughts, too…when you’re ready.”