I snorted. “Of course. You were a perfect gentleman, as always. You really should watch how much you drink, though, honey. You can’t handle it.” I started the coffee. “If you’re hungover, there’s ibuprofen in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom.”
“O-okay. Thanks.”
I heard him leave the kitchen and it took every bit of strength I had not to start crying again.
I also knew if I didn’t want to lose Ellen, I needed to gracefully admit defeat and hope that she’d turn to me first if he ever broke her heart.
And pray that George was truly a good man who’d take good care ofmygirl.
* * * *
I know for certain Ellen’s mom wasn’t fond of me. She was from that generation where Southern ladies were supposed to marry well, know how to make proper sweet tea, and if they couldn’t make good biscuits it was an affront to God and the church.
Ellen’s dad thought I was a hoot. He used to tease me about the guys I’d bring with me to family events when I was invited to attend with Ellen.
I used to find hot guys, sometimes not the brightest ones, who would make George look ugly in comparison and make Ellen’s mom give me epic levels of side-eye.
Hey, at that age, nearly any guy will pretend to be your boyfriend if you promise him a free meal and a blowjob. Especially guys who are gay but who need a beard for their own reasons. Although most of the gay ones would settle for me pretending to be a beard for several of their family functions instead of cashing in the blowjob voucher.
One thing I will admit—once I accepted the status quo and awarded George close friend status in my life, it was nice knowing I could relax around him and appreciate the man he was. I had promised Ellen I wouldn’t tell him about the two of us, despite that grating on me. But making that promise to her meant I could keep her in my life as my best friend. Saying that she was terrified by the possibility of her parents or sisters ever finding out about us, even after she was with George, was an understatement.
Over the years, I realized I did love George as friend and family. The night I received the phone call from him that I literally thought at first was a horrible prank, it struck me deep in the center of my being justhowmuch I loved him.
Wasinlove with him.
Maybe I’d always been in love with him, at least a little, once I realized he was a nice guy.
Before I identified Ellen’s body, I knew surviving this disaster was possible, because they’d found survivors adrift at sea. I hoped beyond hope and prayed in ways I hadn’t prayed in decades that George had managed to keep her alive through some miracle.
Then they located the wreckage, and recovered those bodies from inside, and my world…shattered.
When George’s body wasn’t found inside the plane with Ellen’s, I assumed he was dead, too, and kicked myself in the ass that I never told him how I felt about him. Not in a meaningful way.
My only comfort regarding Ellen’s death is that I always told her I loved her. Always. And I took comfort knowing she knew how I meant it. Even though her “I love yous” were for me as her best friend, I still had that.
I thought it was a blessing, in some small way, that they died together. Because I saw how much that man loved her, how devoted he was to her. He never cheated on her—I literally would have killed him if he had—and he was a devoted father to their kids and friend to me. I wasn’t even sure if he’d want to live without her, I knew he was that devoted to her. In all the years I knew the man, there wasn’t so much as a hint of him even looking at another woman beyond a cursory glance any man is liable to give. I was rock-solid confident in his faith and love regarding Ellen.
Itrustedhim. With their deaths, the number of people in the damn world I trusted dropped from three to a whopping one—Declan.
Then camethecall.
As I stood there in the hallway of George and Ellen’s home in those pre-dawn hours, surrounded by their kids, and Chase, and Tyson, with tears running down my face and wearing my damned Snoopy PJs Ellen had given me the Christmas before, I realized how thankful I was that George was still alive.
He wasn’t just my boss and my friend, he was more to me.
Far more.
He wasn’t even the embodiment of good luck.
He was an absolutemiracle.
* * * *
We’ve been put in a private lounge area probably reserved for VIPs like movie stars and musicians or something. They’ve got us in there, and family for the other two men also returning home today, and various government officials. No press allowed. I stand there with the kids and Tyson. George had asked me to stay behind in the US to handle all the things that had to happen before his return—like getting him declared alive again—and to act as a buffer for the kids with the insane press coverage that converged on us all.
And he admitted he didn’t want me, or the kids, flying across an ocean.
When they’re escorted into the room, if it wasn’t for those damned blue eyes I wouldn’t have recognized George despite knowing him nearly three decades. His face looks hauntingly, painfully gaunt. He’s dropped at least thirty pounds and aged twenty years, despite what looks like a recent haircut. His clothes—clothes that I packed myself and sent with Chase, clothes thatusedto fit him perfectly—now hang off him like thrift-store castoffs.
