“What are you talking about?”
“Three years ago, Frankie. When I was driving through the fires, I told you then. I couldn’t stand the idea of you not knowing how I really felt if something were to happen to me.”
I stare at him in disbelief. “You told me you loved me.”
Frankie, listen to me. I need you to really hear me, okay? I love you. You have meant everything to me.
“You told me you loved me,” I say again. “You didn’t say you werein lovewith me. There’s a difference! You know there’s a difference.”
“It didn’t matter, Frankie. When I got to Toronto and I saw you, I knew you didn’t understand, or maybe you didn’t want to. Either way, you didn’t feel the same.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” I say, my voice catching. “You told my fiancé before you told me.”
My mind is reeling. George was the reason Nate walked away. This whole time, he’s been holding back so many secrets. I thought we were in the same place, that this week was a revelation for both of us.
“I’m sorry,” George says. “I know it was wrong, and I know I shouldn’t have kept it from you. I wasn’t expecting things tofinally change between us this week. I was terrified that you’d hate me and never speak to me again. I swear I was going to tell you. I thought about telling you when we were on the beach earlier, but I got scared.”
The last two months play before my eyes like a horror movie. The hotel room. The note. Being carried out. Throwing up in the car. Aurora’s couch. Barely hanging on. Hating myself. Punishing myself. Crying myself to sleep in my childhood bedroom.
“This whole time,” I say, bereft and furious at once, “this whole time, I thought something was wrong withme. This whole time, I’ve been blaming myself. And youknew?”
George brushes away a tear with the heel of his hand. “I fucked up. I’m so sorry. I couldn’t figure out how to fix it. I tried reaching out to Nate to explain that you didn’t feel the same way, but he wouldn’t talk to me. I should have told you sooner. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”
I turn my head to the silken mist winding through the trees. The sun is somewhere through the foggy veil, turning the water shades of silver and gold. Arguments fly around my brain—reasons why George should have made himself clearer and what he should have done differently.
“Look at me,” George says, his voice desperate. “Would you please look at me?”
The grip I have on my anger is tenuous. I shut my eyes for a moment, trying to keep hold of it. But it’s gone. I turn to face him. Tears stain his cheeks.
“What do you want from me?” I ask.
“Everything. Your mind. Your heart. Your body. I want all of it. And I know that makes me selfish. I am so fucking selfishwhen it comes to you.” His voice hitches. “I love you, Frankie. I want you to love me, too.”
My heart aches. Because I see it. Loving George, being with my best friend. Every day. It’s the most beautiful thing I can imagine. But I’m not sure where to go after he’s kept such monumental secrets from me.
Something else he said scrapes at my mind.
What did you always say? That no one was going to be everything to you.
I think of my dad, crushed and silent when my mom left. I think of my mom, yearning for her dream so much that she ran from us, and how changed she was when she returned. I think of Mimi, alone in her castle. I think of how lost I’ve felt, how unsure of myself I’ve been, and I’m terrified by the undertow. I’ve made some terrible decisions in the past year, and George cannot be one of them.
He presses his lips to my forehead. “Tell me how to make it better. Tell me what to do.”
“I want you to know that you matter more to me than anyone,” I say, crying. “But I can’t do this, George. Notnow.”
TheWoods
Chapter Forty-eight
The whisper of my parents’ voices.
Beams of sunlight slanting through the window.
The crunch of Darwin’s truck’s tires on the driveway.
I put the pillow over my head and try to fall back to sleep. But my brother’s booming voice carries up to the bedroom. My eyes feel as though they’ve been rolled in granules of glass.
It was after midnight when Dad picked me up at the airport last night. He knew something was wrong as soon as he saw me, but it wasn’t until we were pulling onto the highway that he asked if I wanted to talk about it. I didn’t. My brain was too woolly. I slept the entire two-hour drive to Old Stone Road. Mom was waiting in her nightgown at the door. She pulled me into her arms, and I began to cry. Suddenly, I was six years old, and there was nothing better in the world than being enveloped by my mother’s soft body.
