Chapter Forty
Day Six: Expand
The shudder of thunder.
A white lash of lightning.
The solid warmth of George’s chest beneath my cheek.
And the slow, steady beat of our hearts.
A storm rages outside. The elements hurl themselves against the windows.
But there’s a stillness within me. My limbs are leaden.
My body is impossible to move. Not that I want to go anywhere.
I have the sense of settling into myself.
I let my eyes close, listening to the familiar sound of George’s breath, and my own falls into the same rhythm.
This, I think, is what I’ve chased for so long.
Not just shelter from the storm, but a haven.
The next clap of thunder is so tremulous, George’s glasses rattle on the nightstand.
But he sleeps on, unshakable. My eyelids fall heavy once more.
Lying here with George, his arm curled around me, I feel like a piece of driftwood that’s finally found its way to shore, its rough edges smoothed by the sea.
There were mornings when I wanted Nate to stay in bed with me, to give me exactly this.
A body to lay my head upon. Strong arms to hold me.
The reassurance of a place to come home to, a person to call my own.
But on the rare occasions when he skipped the gym and stayed in bed, Nate was restless by being thrown off his routine.
I could tell his mind was elsewhere. Neither of us got what we wanted.
George’s pulse drums in my ear like a poem, and I feel myself drifting back to sleep with one last thought.
Even if Nate had been fully present on those rare mornings, he wouldn’t have been able to give me this.
There’s only one person who’s ever been my haven.
And that person is George.
· · ·
A pair of glimmering sapphires stares at me from across the pillow when I finally wake.
The storm wages a violent campaign outside, and we don’t say a word as we lie facing each other.
George’s hair is a typhoon. I push a wayward curl off his brow. He watches, his gemstone eyes darkening to blackish blue.
An understanding passes between us.
We have nowhere to be. In this weather, there’s nowhere to go. We could stay right here all day. We could dress ourselves in nothing but white sheets and rose petals while the clouds roll over the beach and the waves explode against the point.
It’s our last full day here, and this is the only way I want to spend it.
I shift closer and kiss him once, softly, my gaze never straying from his.
“It’s like a dream,” he whispers.
“It’s better than a dream,” I say. “It’s real.”
I wrap a leg over his thigh, pulling my body to his. He’s already hard. My hand ventures between us.
“Can I touch you?” I ask.
“Fuck,” he says. “Yeah.”
I watch his pupils swell as I run my hand over his thick length. Even through his shorts, I can feel him grow harder under my fingers.
“Frankie.”
I’ve never heard him say my name like that—gravelly with need, as if it’s both a curse and a prayer. George shifts so one arm is under my head and I’m lying on my back while he’s wrapped around me.
“I want to know what you like,” he says, brushing my hair away from my face.
When I’m turned on—and I am already very turned on—I lose the ability to speak. Stringing words together becomes a near-impossible task. I’m more of a show than a tell partner. I will give verbal instruction when necessary, but it’s just not my preference.
“I want to know everything,” George says.
Tilting my face so I can watch his reaction, I take his hand and direct it to the apex of my thighs. I’m wearing only his Parks Canada T-shirt and underwear. His fingers skate over my panties, across the damp heat. George’s eyes flare, and he does it again, pressing against me.
“There,” he says, his voice a scrape.
It’s not a question, but I nod.
George’s gaze pings around my face, then down my body. We both watch as I tilt my hips, wanting more. Needing more. His fingers dip beneath the elastic of my underwear, and he cocks an eyebrow at me, waiting. I help him push it down my legs and kick it off.
His eyelids grow heavier as he takes me in. His tongue runs over his bottom lip. When I squeeze my thighs together, he lets out a soft chiding noise and pushes them apart.
I feel him press against my hip, and I reach for him.
My hand steals beneath the waistband of his shorts to wrap around him.
It takes all of my effort to quiet the giddy voice in my head that can’t believe I’m touching George like this.
He blows out a breath, throbbing against my palm as I give him a test stroke.
He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth, then lets out a groan.
“I’m not usually this sensitive,” he says, fixing his eyes on me. “And you’re not usually this quiet.”
I stare at him and shrug.
He looks at me, and the blue of his eyes is almost completely blacked out, but they glint with mischief. “Then I’ll have to figure out on my own what you like.”
I hum at the sound of his voice, my grip tightening. Because that’s what I want to hear. I want every sense to be obliterated by George.
He slides a finger inside me and I gasp. My back arches off the bed, and I lose my grasp on him, winding both hands around the bedsheets. A rose petal lands on my leg.
“You feel so good,” he says, setting a slow rhythm. “So wet.”
I shudder at the sound of his voice, and he grins. “So you don’t like to talk, but you do like to listen.” His lips rasp against my ear, and I shiver again. “I can work with that.”
I try clamping my legs closed, but George nudges them back apart. I’m swollen and flushed and slick. My thighs begin to shake. I’m coiling tightly, ready to unspool.
“I like you like this,” he says. “You have no idea how much.”
“I have some idea,” I manage to say, looking at the bulge in his shorts, and he smiles darkly.
“You really don’t.”
He’s moving down my body, whispering dirty things against my skin.
“George.” I gasp his name. “I need you.”
“You have me, sweetheart,” he says.
“No,” I say, pulling him up. “I want you,” I repeat, holding either side of his face so I can meet his eyes.
George sweeps my hair behind my shoulders. He kisses the base of my neck, and for a moment he rests his lips there. He breathes, as if needing to steady himself, and then he lifts his head. His eyes are full of emotion.
“I only want you,” he says.
I rope my arms around his shoulders, kissing him slowly, our tongues swirling together.
I reach for the hem of his shirt, and he kneels, yanking it over his head.
His shorts come next. When I get my first full sight of him, I shake my head.
The tattoo. The scar. The hard planes of his chest and the flat expanse of his stomach.
The arrowing jut of his hips, and the dark path of hair that descends south. And wow.
“What’s that look?” he asks.
I stare at him, sitting up on my elbows. “I should have known you’d be perfect everywhere.”
He fights a smile and loses.
“Can I?” he says, pulling at my shirt, and I nod, helping him take it off.
His eyes flare at the sight of my breasts, and then he pounces.
With his hands on my waist, he hoists me to my knees and his mouth finds my nipple, his tongue worshipping the stiffening flesh.
He does the same to the other breast, groaning.
His lips find my tattoo, and he kisses it once before returning to my chest like he’s starved.
I’m tempted to say something funny, something to pull us back to familiar territory—something that feels like the old us. But we’re not the old us anymore.
My fingers travel south, circling around him again. His hand covers mine and squeezes, tugging harder, showing me what he likes. He kisses me. Voracious. A clashing of teeth and bruising lips. We watch each other, and then our hands.
Eventually, we sink down to the bed. I lie on top of George’s body, bare skin against bare skin, and gaze down at him. I know the wonder in his eyes matches my own. My hair falls in a golden sheet around us. It reminds me of being in a tent, and suddenly I can see it.
I’m ten years old, camping with George in the field behind my house, telling ghost stories. But then George traces my top lip with his finger, and that version of us is gone.
“You okay?” George asks.
I sit up, pressing my palm to the center of my chest. “I’m having a lot of feelings.”
George moves my hand over his heart. “Me too.”
His hair is a chorus of waves and curls and smooshed-down bits, and I run my fingers through it. The strands feel like laughter. George watches me, and then he begins to chart every millimeter of my body with his fingers—my hips, the small of my back, my thighs, my shoulders, and my elbows.
We get lost in kissing again, in exploring and touching and just looking.
In a way, it feels like we’re meeting each other all over again.
I map the ridges and valleys of George’s torso.
I leave a kiss on his tattoo. I peer at him, and he’s staring at me with the silliest one-sided grin—a smile I’ve rarely seen.
“Frankie.”
That’s all he says. Just my name. But something inside me ruptures. I want all of George. I want to give him all of me. I want to fall apart with him inside me. I want our first time to be the first time. I want every part of him touching every part of me. I need him now.
I crawl back up his body and take him in my hand, my intention clear. George smiles softly, and then his eyes widen.
“One second.”
He gently rolls away and I watch him walk to the bathroom and bring back one of the romance kit condoms.
“You didn’t pack any of your own?” I tease.
“No.” His gaze slides down my body. “I didn’t plan for this.”
I hold out my hand as he climbs onto the bed, and I roll the condom down his length. He watches me, his thighs taut with restraint.
I pull him on top of me so he fits between my legs. Later we can compete. Later we can race to the finish. We can try all the positions. We can pick a favorite. We can laugh. We can play. We can fool around until we can’t feel our toes.
But for our first time, I want this. Just George and me.
George positions himself over me, pressing against my inner thigh as his mouth finds my collarbone, my shoulder, my neck.
He kisses the tender skin beneath my ear, and then his lips claim mine as we rock against each other.
He pulls back to meet my eyes, and the significance of what we’re about to do ricochets through me.
“I’m scared,” I whisper.
“I know.” Of course he does—he’s the only person who could understand what’s at stake. “Me too.”
We stay like that for a full minute, maybe longer, staring into each other’s eyes as the emotions pass through them like a weather system.
“Everything could change,” I say. “I don’t want to lose us. I want you in my life always.”
“Always,” he says. “I promise.”
His hand drops to my hip, his fingers meeting my flesh with a question.
“Yes,” I whisper.
George kisses me once. And then he pushes inside. I cry out at the feel of him. He takes his time, his forearms on either side of my head, my hands against the small of his back. My gaze is bound to his, and I see it all.
Blue eyes through the cedar hedge.
“Were you watching me?”
“No. Well, not for long.”
Running through the field to the creek, grasshoppers springing out of our way.
Dressing up as king and queen in Mimi’s old clothes.
Sharing vows under the apple tree.
A labyrinth in the long grass.
School bus rides and letters and dancing lessons.
Sobbing into his neck in the library cupboard the day my mom came home.
George’s dad, coming to take him away.
Weeks of crying. Months of missing him. Taking in his strange body as he lay face down on his bed.
Letting George lead me around the ballroom with my eyes closed.
Pool parties and grape pop.
The funeral we held for Baryshnikov.
George slugging Dylan Martin.
“Touch her, and I’ll kill you.”
Kissing George in my bedroom.
Moving to the city. Tattoos. Fake IDs. Seeing George in his underwear.
Years of texts and phone calls and emails.
The summer the country burned.
“Frankie, listen to me. I need you to really hear me, okay? I love you. You have meant everything to me.”
Yelling at each other in the snow-covered field.
Twenty-two years pass in a blink of time as George and I come together, and a single tear streaks down my face.
He pauses, his eyes searching mine. “Are you okay?”
I swallow the lump in my throat, but I can’t stop the feeling that’s expanding in my chest like helium.
“George.” It’s all I can say.
He sets his forehead on mine, shutting his eyes for a moment. When he opens them, they shimmer with unspent tears.
“Frankie.”
· · ·
We move together, slowly at first, as if we’re trying to make it last forever.
Our eyes are joined, just like our bodies, breaking only when George lavishes kisses on my nose, my temples, my forehead.
My hands grip his backside, keeping him as tight to me as possible.
There’s no space between us, but I still want him closer.
He says my name, over and over.
“Frankie” whispered in my ear.
“Frankie” kissed over my eyelid.
And then “Frankie, sweetheart” sighed against my lips.
“I know,” I tell him. “I know, I know.”
Our skin becomes slick, our breaths catching.
Thunder and wind and rain roar at our doorstep, but we’ve created our own weather system. Sex with George is an act of destruction. This is a tempest, a hurricane, a cyclone. We’re ripping through our old selves. Our friendship. We’re tearing it all down to build something new.
My thighs clamp around his hips as tension rises inside me.
I dig my nails into George’s flesh, and I lift my hips, needing friction.
My moans become impatient, and I reach my hand between us.
George rises onto his arms, looking down at me, swearing at the sight of me touching myself.
He squeezes his eyes shut, and then he rolls us over onto our sides, lying behind me like he did that morning.
He slips one arm beneath me and rolls my nipple between his fingers.
The other hand goes straight to the tight bundle of nerves between my legs.
I cry in pleasure as he enters me again. I cry in relief.
George. My George. Mine.
Lightning spears through the sky, but our own storm is building momentum as it travels across the sea. This is a hurricane of our own making.
“Your eyes,” he rasps. “I want to see your eyes.”
I look at him over my shoulder.
“So beautiful,” he says. “The most beautiful violet eyes I’ve ever seen.”
I stare into a sea of blue as the last remaining wall of our friendship comes tumbling down.