Maybe that’s because Iwassomeone else when I was with Nate. I had spent my twenties climbing my way up to sous chef at one of the city’s most prestigious restaurants. Night after night, I performed under extraordinary pressure to exacting standards. I was on a roll. I wason fire. I survived on adrenaline and two a.m. ramen. I chose romantic relationships that were casual and demanded very little of me so I could save my energy for what mattered: success. I stopped dreaming of faraway places. I no longer had time for reading cookbooks or browsing farmers markets.Workbecame the adventure.
But in the end, I crashed and burned. All it took was one terrible customer to push me over the edge. He’d brought a server to tears, berating her for an overcooked steak. I’d walked into the dining room, slapped a raw sirloin on his plate, and before he could react, I strode back into the kitchen and quit.
When Nate came along, I wanted nothing to do with the stressed-out, fire-breathing person I’d become. For the year we were together, I was a new Frankie. Adventure was the last thingon my mind. I needed to recharge. I needed a life outside of a career. I craved calm. I let go of the things that bothered me in our relationship. I wanted peace.
Now, there’s nothing but peace. Reasonable work hours. Slow-cooker recipes without sizzle or flame. The days bleed together, and I feel like I’m eight years old again, desperate for something,anything, to happen. I want adventure. I want excitement.
I slip on my sunglasses and close my eyes, imagining I’m fourteen and that George is inside getting us grape Crush. Summer stretches before us, glittering with possible escapades, and my biggest problem is squeezing them all in before August comes to an end.
I must dream it, too, because I hear thesnap-hissof a soda can being opened, followed by a familiar low laugh.
Chapter Ten
I peel one eye open and tilt my head. A tall man looms over me, silhouetted by the sun. He takes a long drink and then extends his soda toward me.
I’m dreaming. I was imagining being a kid again, hanging out with George. And now he’s in my sleep.
“You’re not fourteen,” I say.
“You sound disappointed.” A deep voice. A man’s voice to match the long, ink-stained fingers around the sweating purple can.
I hum and shut my eyes, falling into a deeper sleep. Things were so much easier when we were fourteen.
“Frankie, wake up.”
I sit up, gasping. My sunglasses slide off my face as I blink up at this man. He isn’t dream George. He’s real-life George. With a squeal of delight, I leap to my feet, throwing my arms aroundhim, squeezing so tight that his laugh sounds strangled. He’s as stiff as a pallbearer, and I don’t care.
“Succumb,” I say, and he relaxes a little.
Somewhere around the time when I got boobs and he started hiding stuff from me in a locked wooden chest beneath his bed, we reached a silent agreement that most forms of touching were off the table. Dancing was an exception. A shove to the shoulder or a handshake were both acceptable; tackling each other to the grass and holding hands were not. We no longer played in the creek in our underwear, and George wasn’t allowed to sleep over in my room. Though there was nothing for my parents to worry about: George made it clear when we were sixteen that he had no dishonorable intentions where I was concerned.
I breathe him in, and he smells different. Not in a bad way, like in the ninth grade when I had to hide his toxic body spray. He smells leathery and smoky and far too elegant for someone who’s been living out of a carry-on for the past two months.
“Frankie,” George says, prying my hands from his sides. “I can’t breathe.”
I reluctantly let go. “You’re my surprise,” I say, jumping a little.
“I’m your what?”
“Mimi said she had a surprise for me. You’re it!”
His eyes dance. “I feel like I should have sprung out of a cake.”
“Would you?”
“No.”
“But for me?”
“Never.”
I take a minute to give George a thorough once-over. There are no new visible scars or wounds—he’s fearless in his pursuit of whatever story he’s covering. Right now, it’s a series about the restoration of mangroves in biosphere reserves throughout the Caribbean and Latin America. Since I last saw him, he’s spent time in Peru, Ecuador, Colombia, and Cuba. He’s cut his hair; the sides are now neatly trimmed, but it’s still swirling mayhem up top. He’s got on a pair of leather hiking boots, faded black jeans, and a gray T-shirt. But most importantly, he’s also wearing…
“New glasses?” I raise my brows.
They’re tortoiseshell horn-rims, but the bottoms of the lenses are frameless and the arms have chic gold touches. These are far more sophisticated than the heavy black ones he always wears.
I tap my finger against my chin. “Hmm. New haircut, new glasses, and new cologne.”
