The hairs on my arms stand. I’ve never heard this before.
He got as close as he could, until he reached a cedar hedge. He walked until he found a break in its branches, until he could see the girl, in the limbs of a red oak, and her mother, begging for her to come down.
He thought about that girl all year. How brave she must have been to go so high. How lucky she was to have a tree to climb and a mom who cared if she fell.
When the boy was eight, he was sent to live with his grandmother, who turned out to be not so scary after all. As soon as he could, he ran to the break in the hedge, trying to catch a glimpse of the girl. He saw her marching around in a yellow coat, muddy nightgown, and rain boots, yelling at her older brothers. He saw her chase a rabbit. He saw the rabbit appear on his side of the hedge. And then he saw two strange violet eyes, right in front of him.
“Hello,” she said, “I’m Francesca. But you can call me Frankie.”
I know who you are,he thought.
He needed glasses and had to squint hard to see her properly. She had the messiest hair he’d ever seen. It was a hurricane of blond. He thought it was incredible. Everything about her was incredible. Her firm handshake. Her bossy tongue.
She was convinced his grandmother was a witch, and hethought it must be nice to live in a world of fairy tales. He didn’t know about her own pain, that she was like him in so many ways. He wanted to attach himself to her like a barnacle, and he was worried she could smell it—that his loneliness seeped from him like a stench.But she wanted to come inside. He couldn’t believe she wanted to come inside. He was certain she’d grow tired of him.
“I’m not interesting,” he warned her.
“I’ll be the judge of that,” she said. “Please. I’m utterly desperate for an adventure.”
He laughed harder than he had since his mom had died, and she seemed delighted by the sound. He kept looking at her, this magical girl who seemed so fearless and bright, and he decided to bring her into the house. George let her inside that first day, not knowing how deeply she would infiltrate him.
He kept waiting for her to grow bored, but she never did. It turned out that nothing was boring when Frankie was around—not even him. She was fierce and imaginative and opinionated, and he found that when they were together, he was, too. George wondered whether she was rubbing off on him, or if it had been there all along—this aching need for more. More fun. More adventures. More Frankie.
Years later, George would look at his best friend, lying on her stomach by the pool, and realize he liked her. There was no stopping that feeling. No matter how hard he tried to get rid of it, it would come right back stronger. Until, one day, he could no longer deny that he was in love with her, and maybe he had been all along. This love was wild and obliterating—it felt exactly the way Frankie feared it would, a love that could sweephim up. But unlike her, he’d gladly lose himself to it. So he vowed that he’d wait until she was ready. And when it seemed like she never would be, he tried to move on. Move away. Go farther. Try to fall out of love. None of it worked.
Nomatter what George did, he kept falling in love with Frankie, over and over. He’d loved her from the very beginning, he loved her in every second of every day since, and he’d love her until the end of time. And if there was no happily ever after for them, he promised he would always be her best friend.
I stagger back to the house in a daze. My chest is so tight I lie down on the floor with a pillow under my shoulders to try to make more space between my ribs. I read the story twice more.
This love was wild and obliterating.
Yes, I think.It is.
I am obliterated. I’ve spent my life protecting myself against this very feeling. This helplessness. This ecstasy. But I have no choice. I give myself over to it.
I’m still on the floor when my dad comes down to put the coffee on. He’s already dressed in his Carhartt overalls—almost every item in my father’s closet is from Mark’s Work Wearhouse.
“All right?” he asks.
“Not really.”
When the coffee’s ready, he brings me a mug and a slice of banana bread and settles into his armchair while I sit crisscross applesauce on the rug.
“George is a good egg.”
“I know.”
“And I love him like a son.”
“I know you do, Dad.” From the beginning, my dad offered George a place under his wing. We all got special one-on-one time with my father in his workshop, and George was no exception. Once, I found them sanding down a cupboard door, my dad telling George about when he and Mom met.
Dad takes a sip of his coffee and sets down the mug. “But you can walk away, if that’s what’s right for you. I won’t let anyone pester you about that.”
“Thank you,” I whisper, feeling emotional. I break off a corner of banana bread and shove it in my mouth. I’m pretty sure he’ll call for backup if I start crying. “I don’t want to walk away.”
He nods. “Didn’t think so.”
• • •
