Another drop lands on my nose. Then another on my shoulder. Each one startles me a little more awake, bringing my attention back to the fact that I’m standing in a rainforest with George. We’ve always wanted to travel together, but I’d resigned myself to it never happening. And here we are, on the western edge of Vancouver Island.
“I can’t believe we’re here,” I say, not for the first time today.
“You know what?” he says, looking at me intently. “Neither can I.”
• • •
I gasp whenwe enter the lobby. In every way, it feels like an extension of the forest, with its honey-brown wood and shades of slate and earthy greens. There are brown-butter leather armchairs and sofas, a dramatic stone fireplace, and art everywhereyou look—striking pieces that honor traditional Indigenous techniques and styles: smooth stone sculptures of seals and bears, a brightly colored painting of a whale, and panels of carved wooden suns and moons. The room smells like freshly cut timber and ocean breeze, as if someone has managed to bottle the outdoors and gently infuse it throughout the space.
I leave my suitcase by the front desk and head straight to the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking up and down the foggy shore, where the rainforest collides with the Pacific. It’s unlike any beach I’ve seen—pristine white-gold sand buttressed by wind-bent evergreens, dense shrubbery, and craggy rocks. The palette is muted, the beauty rugged. It’s hard to accept that we’re still in Canada.
“George, can you believe how gorgeous this is?” I say, glancing over my shoulder. He’s watching me with a strange expression. He blinks, and it vanishes.
“It seems mythical, doesn’t it?” he says.
“Nowthatis the perfect word for it,” says the man behind the front desk. He’s around our age, wearing a navy suit and tie. He seems unreasonably happy to see us, two straggly travelers who are wildly underdressed for this level of luxury. I’m wearing George’s old Parks Canada T-shirt and bike shorts, and he’s in ripped jeans and a plaid flannel. Although, other than the staff, the guests are sporting beach attire or hiking gear.
“I’m Kevin,” he says, extending his hand to George as I join them. “I’m the head of guest experiences, andyoumust be our newlyweds.”
This is far from the first time we’ve been mistaken for a couple. We often let it slide—what’s the point in explaining to aserver that we’re friends? But if we’re going to be interacting with someone for more than a few minutes, we’ll deliver our spiel.
So when George says “That’s us,” all I can do is gape. He doesn’t look at me. Instead, his hand settles in the middle of my lower back, and I straighten like I’ve been shocked. I can feel the heat of his palm through my T-shirt, and I’m not sure I breathe as he pulls me into his side with the slightest of pressure, as if we’re dancing.
“Allow me to formally welcome you to Moss and Stone,” Kevin says. “It’s an absolute pleasure to have you join us, Mr.and Mrs.…” He pauses. “It’s Bacon, correct?”
I’m immediately hot with rage. I can’t believe Nate put us both under his last name.
“No,” George says. “My assistant must have made a mistake when he booked.Weare Mrs.and Mr.Francesca Gardiner,” he says. I almost snort, my anger already cooling.
Kevin doesn’t so much as blink. “I do have a credit card on file for Nathaniel Bacon, and I received assurance that all charges should be put on it.”
“That’s perfect,” I say.
I used to be uncomfortable with the financial imbalance in our relationship, but if Nate wants to play sugar daddy for the week, so be it.
“Actually,” George says, setting a matte black card on the desk, “I’d prefer to use this one.”
George doesn’t like to talk about money. I think he’s a little scared of it. When we moved in together, I forced him to have afrank conversation about finances so we knew where we both stood. It was awkward. I had nothing and, thanks to Mimi, he had a lot. He’s never liked spending it, though. Watching his dad blow through cash has left George anxious about suddenly finding himself broke.
“You don’t have to,” I whisper, not wanting to make a scene. But George only gives a subtle shake of his head.
“Absolutely,” Kevin says, taking the card. He gestures to the seating area. “Take a seat and enjoy the view while we get you checked in and ensure your accommodations are ready. We’ll have your bags sent ahead.”
We settle on the softest leather my ass has had the pleasure of being acquainted with, and Kevin brings us two flutes of bubbly pink wine.
“May I offer you a glass of sparkling rosé?” he asks.
“After that drive, you can offer me a swimming pool of sparkling rosé,” I tell him, reaching for the glass.
Kevin laughs, and the sound is like the tinkling of wind chimes. “It’s my little way of saying welcome and congratulations, Mr.and Mrs.Gardiner.”
I nudge my knee against George’s leg. He’ll hear about this later.
“To us,honey,” I say, clinking my glass to his. I meet his gaze, giving him a lion’s smile. “I can’t wait to get you all alone.”
He smirks. “I bet,buttercup.”
It’s either the best wine I’ve ever tasted, or spending hours feeling like we were about to careen off a cliff has made me particularly thirsty.
