“Well,youcan be a bit secretive.” Although he has a hard time getting anything by me—or Mimi.
“I’m telling you the truth. There’s nobody else.”
I blink. “Nobody else! So thereisa somebody.”
“It was a slip of the tongue,” George replies, but he’s staring out the window as he says it.
Chapter Fifteen
For the rest of the evening, George is a bit bossy. He says I have to get all of my wallowing out and rest up for Day Two. He sends me to the hot tub to “feel my feelings” while he unpacks. I briefly consider telling him to leave my underwear alone, but considering we used to fold each other’s laundry when we lived together, I decide to chill the hell out, wrap myself in a plush white robe, and enjoy the hot tub.
I melt into the near-scalding bubbles with a groan, letting the jets pound against my shoulders and lower back. I could spend all seven days out on this deck, surrounded by fog and forest, toggling between the hot tub and the chairs, watching surfers bob in the water, waiting for one of the waves before it breaks and crashes against the sand.
When George is done with our things, he brings me a glass of the sparkling rosé.
“Get your suit on,” I tell him. “It’sWhite Lotus–level luxe out here.”
“You’re supposed to be focusing on yourself and your feelings, not me.”
“I am! Ifeelthat I’d prefer if you were with me.”
It almost lures out his smile.
“We have the whole week together. Take some time to sit with your emotions, Frankie.”
I scrunch my nose. “I’m not sure about this mindfulness app version of you.”
“You’ll get used to it.” He modulates his voice so it’s soapstone smooth. “Now close your eyes and bring your awareness to your breath. Inhale. Exhale. Let the thoughts come and go without judgment.”
“Gah.”
He laughs and heads back inside.
And I sit there. Everything is perfect: the wine, the rugged landscape, the scent of salt and pine. I should feel gratitude or tranquility. Through the window, I watch George reading a stack of papers, glasses on the tip of his nose, hair crashing in waves like the ocean, pen tapping on the page. I get out of the tub.
“That was ten minutes,” he says, not looking up when I slip inside in my robe.
“I don’t want to be alone,” I tell him. “A week isn’t all that long. I want to be with you.”
His pen stills. Slowly, he lifts his eyes to mine. I know he’s thinking, because he’s got that line between his brows. I standthere a little awkwardly, waiting for him to say something, but he doesn’t.
“Sorry if that’s too sappy,” I tell him. “But that’s how I feel. I’ve spent two months thinking about almost nothing but myself and my emotions. I’m sick of me. I want to hang with you.”
We’ve spent countless nights talking until the sun rises, but when it comes to expressing our feelings, we’re both a bit hopeless. We’ve always been better when we have time to consider our words and write them down.
“Okay,” he says softly. “You win.”
George orders room service while I shower in the display case upstairs. I take time to comb the tangles out of my hair. I can’t believe how long it’s gotten—it falls past my chest when it’s wet. By the time I’ve changed into the T-shirt and shorts I brought for pj’s, George has our food laid out on the dining table.
He didn’t ask me what I wanted, but he’s got it exactly right.
“So?” he asks as I survey the burgers, my mouth watering.
“Your psychic ability to predict what I want to eat is an extremely niche, somewhat disturbing talent.” One he cultivated when we were roommates, and he’d order takeout for when I came home from a shift.
A smile tickles his mouth. “It’s been a while. Glad to know I’ve still got it.”
“What’s yours made with?” George is a pescatarian, so he doesn’t eat meat, and he’s particular about fish.
