“Yep.” He bobs his head and hums along to a blink-182 song playing from the invisible speakers mounted around his place.
“Darla goes running sometimes,” I say, oh so casually. His back muscles tense. “Don’t see the appeal, personally. But she says she can go forever. Endless stamina. Like sometimes, I’ll be working a shift, and she just shows up. Ran all the way from her house, which has to be at least four miles away.” He’s not moving, totally focused on what I’m saying, and I try not to smile in evil glee. “Sally always chides her for coming in dripping sweat, wearing nothing but a sports bra and short shorts. But Darla just chugs some water and runs back home. Eight freaking miles round trip. Blows my mind.”
“Huh,” Shawn says, his attempt at nonchalance obvious as he picks up eggs and puts them back down in the carton without cracking them. “And uh, does she do that…often? Certain days of the week or…?”
“Hmm. Not sure. Never really kept track.”
“Cool. Yeah. Sure. Why would you?” He grumbles the response and starts chopping broccoli aggressively, no doubt picturing my friend in all her running-goddess glory. Serves him right.
I could handle book club with George, but getting an eyeful of his athletic body first thing in the morning is just cruel.
George reappears as Shawn is pulling the savory-smelling frittata from the oven. We eat at the island, the two of them standing and me perched on a stool because I’m going to be on my feet for the rest of the day. Best to give my soles a break while I can. Shawn chats about the next book, the one he picked out, raving about how it’s a cozy fantasy with cowboys and love and zombies.
Okay fine. It sounds interesting, I’ll give him that.
Most mornings after book club I handle dish washing since Shawn cooks, but George claims the task before I can. Still, I grab a towel and start drying, realizing belatedly that Shawn has disappeared, probably to shower.
“Thank you,” George says as he hands me a fork.
I shrug. “You’re the one doing the hard job. Drying is easy.”
“No, I mean thank you for letting me join. Last night. I know that book club is something for just Shawn and you.”
I pause, my fingers pinching the tines of the fork with the towel, then I resume drying.
“He told me what yesterday was for you.” I make sure the fork is extra dry. “I’m sorry. That’s…I just…” What do you say to a person in their grief? Is there any right thing? I know there’s plenty of wrong things, so I’ll try not to blurt those. “I hope that if you were having a hard time, watching me berate Shawn for his fanciful book notions distracted you. At least for a little while.”
The corner of George’s mouth twitches into a smile even as he stares down at the soapy dishes he’s handling.
We work together quietly, the silence surprisingly companionable.
“She took me up my first time,” George says finally. “My mom.”
“Flying?”
“Yeah.” He pauses, and I wonder if talking about her is difficult or if he’s just unused to it. “She had her license. Loved planes. And cars. And speedboats. Most anything that went fast.” He hands me a dripping plate. “I think that’s part of why she fell for my dad. Because of BBN and all the vehicles the company has access to.”
That makes sense, in a superficial kind of way. Not that I plan to say that.
“You two went flying a lot?”
A crease forms between George’s brows as he scrubs at the frittata pan. “Not really. When I was younger, we did. But not so much as I grew up. She got into aerobatic planes. Real adrenaline-fueled stuff. Not my speed.”
“Oh.” I nod and consider what he’s describing. Shooting through the air and executing wild maneuvers. I’m not opposed to that kind offlying. If the opportunity presents itself to ride along on that type of flight, I’d probably grab it. But do I have an undeniable urge to push the limits of flight? Not really. “I think I’m the same way,” I offer. “As you, I mean. Flying is thrilling, but I just need to be up there. I don’t have to go fast.”
He nods.
I want to ask what happened to her. Was it a crash? If she lived a high-risk lifestyle, I could see that happening. If that is what occurred, I can’t imagine how our engine failure affected George.
But Shawn alluded to drugs of some kind in her system, and I continue to wonder.
As if reading my thoughts, he quietly tells me.
“It was…the news articles didn’t get it right.”
“I didn’t read anything. Honestly, I didn’t even know.”
A tension I hadn’t noticed in his shoulders eases.
