“That’s because exercise makes for a boring topic of conversation.”
I raise my eyebrows. I’m pretty sure that’s a dig at Nate, who spoke at length to George about his triathlon training.
“It’s not boring to me,” I say. “I want to know—no, Idemandto know about your cardiovascular fitness.”
“Oh really?” George looks amused as he leans against the counter.
“Yes,” I say, adamant. “As your best friend, it’s also my right to be consulted when you’re thinking about switching up your glasses. I want to know if you’ve started running and lifting and drinking protein shakes so I’m not shocked by all of this.” I push his stomach gently, andwow. His chin drops as he follows the movement, a curl falling over his forehead. Slowly, his eyes lift to mine and I pull my hand away.
“What else?” he asks.
“I know you’re busy rescuing polar bear cubs and jumping out of helicopters, but…”
“I’ve done neither of those things,” he says, fighting a grin.
“I used to know pretty much everything about you,” I say. “All the little things that make youyou. I knew what you were reading and listening to, or whether you were going through a James Dean phase.”
His mouth curves. “That leather jacket did look amazing.”
“It was pleather.”
“And the slicked hair? The cigarette pack rolled in my T-shirt sleeve? Great look for a fifteen-year-old. Very authentic.”
I let out a laugh.
“You know who was into it?” George says, arching a brow.
“Avery Harper-Klyne.”
“Avery Harper-Klyne,” he agrees.
I take a banana from the fruit basket, peel it, and pass it to him before continuing. “I feel like I’m missing the important stuff, too. I never know how long you’ll be gone or when you’re coming back. You hardly talk about your relationships.”
George could point out my hypocrisy—I hadn’t exactly looped him in on my engagement—but instead, he takes abite. “There hasn’t been much to tell,” he says, his mouth still full.
“You’re missing the point.”
“Highly unlikely.”
“I guess I’m worried that our friendship only works in close proximity. When we’re not together, maybe you forget how much you like me.”
“Frankie, that would be impossible. Believe me.”
I chew on my lip.
“This alleged plan of yours,” I say.
“Thisvery realplan,” he corrects.
“It’s all about me.”
“It is.”
“I think it should be about us, too.”
George pauses mid-chew, staring at me with an inscrutable expression. “How so?”
“I want us to beusagain. I want it to be like the way it was.”
