George laughs. “We didn’t travel all the way to British Columbia to die,” he says. “But yeah, there are worse places to perish.”
“Right? I thought it was green where we grew up, but this is…” I search for the right word. George is a master of distillingpeople and places to their essential adjective, but I’m at a loss. “It’s on another level,” I finish.
We left home at three thirty this morning to make it to the airport in Toronto for our flight. My parents set their alarm to see us off and practically shoved me out the door when George pulled up. We were on the plane for more than five hours, and we’ve been in this roller skate of a hatchback for over two. I’m not sure if George has bulked up or if he seems wider because of how cramped we are.
He hands me the last bite of his power bar—he always saves me the last bite. I take it from him and set the plastic baggie of my homemade trail mix within his reach.
“Salted? With cashews?” he asks.
“What am I, new?” There are even dried currants in it—he’s going to flip.
He takes a handful and moans extravagantly as he chews.
George has a kind of pent-up intensity to him—I can see it in the hyper-focus of his eyes and his constant movement. When he’s still, I’m ready for him to spring into action at any moment, like a jack-in-the-box. He doesn’t like to be confined. So before we left, I filled a large tote bag with his favorite snacks. Keeping him fed means he won’t get hangry while he’s trapped in a car for hours on end.
“The currants are so good. And the yogurt-covered blueberries.”
There’s nothing better than the sound of someone enjoying food I’ve prepared.
I crack the window to take a hit of fresh air, and George’s eyes dart toward me as we approach another corner.
“Don’t look at me!” I cling to the grab handle as we swoop around another bend. “Look at the road!”
George chuckles. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard you yelp like that. It’s kind of adorable.”
I stick out my tongue, feeling giddy despite the long day. George’s eyes laugh at me, and he sticks out his tongue in reply. We both crack up.
Everything simmers beneath the surface with George, but he’s radiating joy today. He starts humming—a French lullaby he remembers his mom singing. George almost never talks about her, but he always hums that same song when he’s happy. It wasn’t until we were ten that he told me how she died—struck by a car when she was riding her bike in Montreal. I know her name was Lily. I know she was an architect, like George’s dad—they met at school. And I know her death was too much for his father to cope with—it’s why George moved from Montreal into the Big House. He’s been humming Lily’s lullaby a lot today; I don’t think he knows he’s doing it.
The next curve is at the bottom of a steep hill. There’s a rock face on George’s side of the car and a sharp drop-off on mine. The guardrail is a preposterously flimsy barrier. I hold my hand to my belly as nausea sets in.
George winces, and when the road straightens, he touches the dashboard screen a few times, changing the music. “You need a distraction.”
I know the song by its first note. Kelly Clarkson’s “Since U Been Gone” came out around the time George and I became friends. It resonated with me deeply, and it’s still my go-to karaoke jam.
George shoots me a sassy grin, then starts singing. That’s the thing about George. Most people only see the brainy, determined journalist—the part that swings between deep thought and bursts of physical energy. As a reporter, he has a reputation for being relentless, but he also has a playful side I’m not sure he lets anyone else see.
“Don’t make me do this alone,” he says between lyrics.
“I wouldnever.”
We sing “Since U Been Gone” at the top of our lungs three times. I forget about my car sickness, and tears of mirth stream down my face by the time we let the playlist shuffle forward. I can’t remember the last time I laughed like that—but then, no one makes me laugh the way George does.
His smile glows like moonlight, and my heart fills. We’re good when we’re together. It’s being apart we never figured out.
“Promise me we’ll make it to Tofino in one piece,” I say as we take yet another sharp corner.
His mouth curves. “Promise for a promise?”
“I don’t think guaranteeing my safety should count,” I say. Seconds later, rain batters the windshield like we’re in a car wash. I swear, and George chuckles as he turns the wipers to full speed.
“You sure?” he asks.
“Ugh. Fine. Promise for a promise.”
“I promise you’ll make it to Tofino in one piece,” he says.
“You can figure out what I owe you when we get there.”
