“Please don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like you pity me.”
His patience snaps. “For fuck’s sake, Frankie. I don’tpityyou. I pity your ex for missing out on a life with you. It matters to me if you’re not doing well. You’re my best friend.”
I have a bad habit of lashing out when I’m hurt, and I can’t stop myself from asking, “Am I?”
As if I’ve hit him, George rears back, blinking at me. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I went through hell two months ago, and you abandoned me.”
“I had to work.”
“You could have taken me with you. Ibeggedyou to take me with you.”
Regret flashes in his eyes. “I couldn’t, Frankie. Not then.”
Not ever.
“Then when? When are you going to be there for me?”
“What are you talking about? I’m always there for you. And I’m here. I came as soon as I could.”
“Come on. You’ve basically been gone for the last three years.”
He looks away.
“I get that you have your own life,” I say. “But so do I, and I’dbeen trying to figure it out. Then, when I finally start to feel steady, you swoop in and shit all over it. How do you think that felt?”
“I’m sorry,” he says, taking a step closer. “I was out of line at Christmas.”
I can tell he means it, but I don’t know what to do with his apology. The truth is that I’ve felt George’s absence every day since he moved out of our apartment—more so over the last few years. Even though he’s standing a few feet away, it feels like we’re in different time zones. I think of what Mimi said earlier. Do George and I even know each other anymore?
I chew the inside of my cheek, rejecting the notion. George and I know each other in a way you only can when you’ve grown up with someone. He understands me better than anyone. He not only accepts me for who I am but also embraces all of me. George makes me feel like I’m home. But I’ve never had the language to tell him how much he means to me. I don’t know how to say that I’m afraid I’m losing him, that I’vealreadylost him.
“Forgive me?” he asks. A squiggle of hair falls over his brow.
But there’s nothing to forgive. George behaved exactly as I would have. “I’ll think about it,” I tell him. “For now you’re on probation.”
“That’s too bad,” he says, a glint of mischief in his eye. “Because I have a problem.”
“Is that so?” I try to fight the smile from stealing across my lips, but it’s no use.
“Yes.” He sighs deeply. “You see, I’m utterly desperate for an adventure.”
It’s been a long time since I’ve heard him say those words,but they hold no less power. My heart races. Because, god, so am I.
“Did you have something in mind?” I ask.
A smile spreads across his face. “We’re running away.”
George and I spent our childhood running away together—to the cupboard in the library at the Big House, to the top of the red oak tree, to the creek at the far end of the field. When we were older, we’d take Dad’s truck down to the end of an old dirt logging road, high up on a hillside. In the day, we’d rest on the tailgate, staring at the lakes and rivers that shone in the distance. On a clear summer night, we’d lay a blanket on the ground and talk to the stars. But we had dreams of going farther afield, of traveling the world together. Only George followed through.
“Oh?” I ask. “Where are we escaping to this time?”
His eyes glimmer. “Tofino.”
