Chapter Thirty-Six
We drive to Tonquin Beach when we get back from the hot springs. George wants to see the tide pools. I protest because I’m ready for a nap, but when we get to the beach after a short walk through the forest, any argument dies on my lips.
The receding tide has uncovered an entire ecosystem clinging to the rocks.
Hundreds of starfish—dark purple, orange, and red.
All manner of kelp and seaweed. Barnacles and mussels.
Alien-looking dark green blobs sitting on the sand that George says are anemones.
Tiny crabs we can hear scuttling among the rocks.
It’s like we’re under the ocean. I’ve never seen anything like it.
I know my mom would love it. I can almost hear her breathless excitement.
In just one day, I’ve witnessed more natural wonder than I have in my entire life.
It’s too much for one person to hold. I wish I could share the beauty of this place.
I picture a section in a cookbook with recipes inspired by Vancouver Island and the west coast of Canada, accompanied by vivid photographs.
“Here,” George says, pulling me from my reverie. “Look at this.”
I follow him to a dip in the rocks, where a pool of water has been left behind. It’s full of what looks like bright green and pink blooms. The green ones are much larger, some the size of a salad plate. “What are they?” I ask, marveling.
“Sea anemones. They open in the water. Aren’t they amazing?”
“They are,” I tell him. “They’re wonderful.”
He looks at me, tracking the awe on my face. His voice is soft. “Frankie Gardiner, overwhelmed by nature. So people do change.”
· · ·
When we get back to the resort, I send my mom photos that I took at Tonquin Beach, and she writes back immediately.
Mom: Oh, how marvelous. The green ones are surf anemones. The pink are aggregating anemones. Did you touch one?
Me: No! Don’t they sting?
Mom: They can, but the ones out of the water are safe. Touching an anemone is a rite of passage.
I laugh, because it’s the sort of thing only my mother would say.
Mom: Are you having a good time? How’s George?
Me: I’m having the best time. And George is…
I think about how George is.
Perfect, I write.
I take a nap in the late afternoon, and when I wake, George is gone. He’s left me a note saying he’s out for a walk along the point and if I’m awake before he’s back to come meet him for dinner.
I find him out on the stretch of land that darts into the ocean.
He hasn’t seen me yet, so I watch him, silhouetted by the golden evening sun.
The wind is so strong I have to hold down my lilac cotton dress so I don’t flash the entire beach.
It’s the prettiest thing I own—there’s a ruffle across the top of the one-shouldered bodice and a big flouncy hemline that falls to the middle of my calves.
George turns as I approach. We have a reservation at the resort’s restaurant in thirty minutes, and he’s already dressed. He’s wearing jeans, a well-loved Roots T-shirt, and a cream suit jacket with wide lapels. A little bit seventies. A lot hot.
“Hi,” I say, raising my hand, nervous.
“Hi,” George says. “That dress is—”
I’ve never worried this much about George’s opinion of my outfit, but he’s looking at me in a way that makes me think he prefers the regular jeans-and-a-tee Frankie.
“I’m going to go change,” I say as the ruffle at my neck flutters in the wind.
“Hey.” George swoops around me to block my path. “You have to give me a chance to form a sentence.”
“It shouldn’t be so hard to tell me I look nice.”
“You’re right—it shouldn’t be.” He clasps the back of his neck with a self-deprecating laugh. “But whenever I see you dressed up like this, my brain goes blank. It just empties out.”
“In a good way?”
A smile flits along his lips. “Yeah, Frankie. In a good way.”
“I didn’t know,” I say, drawing closer.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know.”
A shiver of anticipation rolls through me.
I used to be preoccupied with discovering what George kept inside his small wooden chest. This is so much bigger.
There’s a side of him I’ve never had access to—an entire ecosystem beneath the sea.
The thought of crossing the threshold of that last, most intimate place is exhilarating.
I want to unlock George, but I want to unlock myself, too.
“I know what I want,” I say, holding my hair out of my face as the wind whips through it. My heart has never beat so fast. “I don’t need any more time.”
George goes still, his eyes piercing mine. He hasn’t moved, but I feel his energy coursing under the surface. “What do you want, Frankie?”
It’s a challenge not to break eye contact when he’s looking at me with such focus. I’ve never let myself stare so deeply into George’s eyes as I have this week. When he looks at me like this, I feel stripped of all of my clothes. I am bare.
“I want you to have dinner with me tonight. I mean, I know we’re already going for dinner, but I want it to be different.”
“Different how?”
“I want you to think of it as a date. And while we’re on our date, I want you to consider whether you want to go on another one with me, and maybe a third and a fourth. Because I think that’s what I want. I want to try.”
George’s smile appears like a sunrise over a hilltop, slowly ascending until it’s fully formed, and its magnificent glow warms my face. “What about a fifth date?”
“I think I probably want that, too.” My voice shakes when I laugh. “It could be a disaster, and the timing isn’t terrific after everything that happened with Nate, but he feels like a blip.”
Here is the line I never thought I’d see the other side of. I take a breath, because I am crossing it.
“The twelve months we were together are nothing compared to what you and I have shared. To what we could share, if we choose to. I want to find out, George. I want to see what it would be like if we weren’t just friends. I want more. And I want you to decide whether you do, too.”
His gaze brims with tenderness. “Should we start over, then?” he says. “I don’t want to mess up our first date.”
I stand straighter. “Hello,” I say, a little giddy now.
“Hi,” George says, drinking me in. “You look beautiful, Frankie.”