“Mushrooms.”
We devour our burgers and truffle fries in a companionable silence that’s occasionally punctuated by hums of satisfaction. It’s a damn good burger. I polish mine off first. George is aconstant snacker, but I’ve always been the faster eater. I’m sucking salt crystals off my fingers and George stares at me, bun halfway to his mouth, looking very pleased with himself.
“Must be the sea air,” I say.
“Must be.” Without taking a bite, George sets down his food. He rubs his thumb over his bottom lip, assessing me.
“What?”
He gives his head a little shake. “Nothing.”
“George and his secrets.”
“It’s just nice to see you eating like that.”
“Like a barnyard animal?”
“Yeah. You were so proper at that dinner party.” The one I threw at Nate’s house, he means.
Sometimes I wonder if George wishes I’d stayed preserved the way I was when we met. A child with grass-stained knees and dirt under her fingernails. Or a restless teenager with no interest in makeup. One of the guys.
“I was starving,” I tell him. “It might come as a surprise, but I don’t typically wolf down my food to the disgust of my dinner companions anymore.”
When I was a kid, I had to eat quickly so my brothers wouldn’t steal from my plate. It’s a hard habit to break, but I’m not the wildling I was when George moved into the Big House. I’m not the woman I was in my twenties, either, giving myself over to my ambition, regardless of the toll. I think back at how confident I was, how sure of myself, and I can’t relate to being so foolhardy. The truth is, I’m lost, even though I know exactly how I got here.
My mom tried to talk me out of culinary school. She warnedme how intense the life of a chef was, how I’d be working when my friends were having fun, but I didn’t listen. If anything, I dug in harder, wanting to prove her wrong. Who was she to give career advice?
But Mom was right. I started out determined to demonstrate my mettle, to show I wasn’t “good for a female,” as my first boss had put it, but that I was just plain good. I told myself I was thriving, but I burned out every shift. Sometimes I burned myself literally. Eventually, nothing made up for the fact that I spent six days a week in a high-pressure hellfire. I’d been vigilant not to lose myself to another person, but my job had swallowed me whole. I needed out.
I was looking for a safe place to land, and both my job with Brie and my relationship with Nate provided one. He was established—both as a tenured professor and as a homeowner. He needed nothing from me except my companionship. It was uncomplicated. There was never any risk of being consumed by him.
The same is true of work. Finally, I have control of my time. I don’t work weekends anymore, or wake sweating from a dream in which I can never keep up with the orders pouring into the kitchen. And while I enjoy the experimentation that comes with recipe development, I miss the buzz of creating a truly special dish and the heart of what matters most: the people eating it. Brie’s recipes are influenced by algorithms and TikTok trends. I’m encouraged to come up with the next Marry Me Chicken or The Stew. I respect Brie’s desire to win the internet, but it’s not what fuels me. Lately there’s a voice in the back of my mind saying,This is not it.
“What’s wrong?” George asks. He’s always been perceptive, although he seems especially attuned today. I haven’t so much as sighed.
We’ve had such a good day, and I don’t want to spoil it. Being together is like slipping on that Parks Canada T-shirt. Familiar. Comfortable. It doesn’t quite fit like it used to, but I’m hoping this week will change that.
“Absolutely nothing,” I say. And it’s mostly true.
Chapter Sixteen
I sit on the deck, watching the fog roll over Chesterman Beach like it’s tucking in the shore for bedtime, while George showers. There’s a couple in a wedding dress and suit, walking hand in hand along the sand. A group of teenagers ride their bicycles past them, ringing their bells and shouting congratulations.
I send Aurora and the Gardiner group chat photos of the view to let everyone know that we’ve arrived.
My family was enthusiastic about the trip, but Aurora seemed hesitant. “I told Nate that you’re going, but I didn’t tell him about George,” she said when we spoke yesterday.
“Why not?” I asked.
“I was worried he might not be cool with you spending a week in a villa with your smoldering Man of Steel best friend.”
I paced my room, ranting. “Nate lost his right to an opinion. I could spend the week with an all-you-can-eat buffet of hot surfers if I wanted.”
Aurora has her phone on do not disturb and doesn’t reply, but my family is blowing up our message thread.
Mom:How’s George? Say hi for me.
Dad:
