“Don’t start.” George glowers at me, but his eyes twinkle, ready to play. It’s the spark I’ve been missing, and I grab for it.
“I could be wrong, but it seems like you’ve given yourself a makeover.” My smile is maniacal. “Some might say that’s a little…I don’t know…What’s the word?”
George tips his head back, looking to the sky. “I knew you’d give me shit.”
“Vain!” I clap my hands.
George once claimed that he gave no thought to his appearance. We were roommates, and he was watching me get ready to go out one night, baffled by the amount of time I was spending on my hair and outfit. “I never knew you were so vain,” he’dgrumbled. In response, I not only chewed him out but also listed every single time he’d shown concern for the way he looked. I reminded him how his life had changed when he got hot. I recalled the exact moment he realized the power of being more attractive than anyone else in our school. (When he made out with Tish Torres in the hallway on our first day of eleventh grade. Tish was a senior.) George was full of crap, and I made sure he knew it.
Teasing George is a favorite pastime, and it’s been a long while since I had the opportunity. So I press on, rubbing my hands together with glee. “Now, who was it who once said he was above vanity?”
George lets out a groan. “You’re the worst.”
“I’m the best.”
He meets my eyes, a hint of a grin flitting across his lips. “You’re a monster.”
“I’m an angel, and as proof of my benevolence, I’ll stop now.”
He replies with an amused arch of his brow. “Will you?”
“At least momentarily. But you smell expensive, and you do look very handsome, George.”
He gives me a bored expression.
“Are the glasses Prada? Are you a Prada man now? Is there someone new you’re trying to impress?”
I fold my arms under my chest, and his eyes quickly follow the movement. I glance down. I’m wearing a microscopic bikini to maximize the surface area of my tan—my breasts are smooshed together and my top is indecently askew.
George grabs my T-shirt off the chair and chucks it at me. I slip it on.
“You told me you didn’t take it.” He eyeballs the Parks Canada logo. “I knew you were lying.”
“I knew you knew.”
The corner of his mouth twitches. Pulling a full smile from George is one of my greatest pleasures.
I pinch the glasses from his face. Both lenses are smudged, and I clean them on the hem of the shirt. An old habit George tolerates. After I set them back on his nose, a crease forms between his brows.
“Jesus, Frankie. You look terrible.”
I can imagine what he sees. My eyes will be red and puffy from the chlorine. My cheeks are hollower than they were two months ago. I haven’t bothered much with washing or brushing my hair lately.
“That’s funny,” I say, pretending that the horror on his face doesn’t bother me. “Because I feelamazing. Frankly, my self-esteem was far too high and my self-worth too healthy—but now both are well under control. Not only have the last two months been free of stress, they’ve also been extremely satisfying. I keep bumping into people we went to school with, and wow, are they jealous.”
“Frankie.” George’s voice has become gentle, as if he thinks I’m fragile. “Come on.”
“Despite howterribleI look, I’m actually doing pretty well. If you’d been here, you’d know that.” I prod his arm.
“Aurora messaged me a few times. She’s been worried about you.”
“I’m fine,” I say firmly. I don’t want George to see me as weak.
“I’m worried, too.” He dips down, bringing his nose a few inches from mine. His deep blue eyes, eyes that once felt like home, bore into me. “How are we going to fix this?”
“Wedon’t need to fix anything, and don’t talk to me like I’m a broken faucet.”
His gaze brims with sympathy.
