Here’s the thing: I’ve always thought George was cute. When I was little, I simply liked the way he looked. The pink cheeks and big navy blue eyes. I thought George was the most handsome boy in school, well before he became the undisputed cutie of our class.
But in ninth grade, the way I saw boys changed. There was a new, terrifying, exhilarating layer in the mix.Attraction.
Attraction, I’ve learned, can be uncontrollable, inexplicable, and frustratingly inconvenient. The first time I was confronted by this fact was during our fourteenth birthday pool party. George had recently returned from Montreal, where he’d spent the past seven months living with his dad, and I wasn’t used to how much he’d grown. He was wearing a forest-green bathing suit I’d never seen before, and as he stepped up to the edge of the diving board, I remember thinking the color looked good on him. As he sprung up and down, readying himself to leap, heat radiated over my body like a sunburn. I wanted everyone to leave so we could be alone. I wanted George to myself with agreed that was almost scary. He dove into the water, and I snapped out of it. But I couldn’t stop sneaking glances at him, glances that felt illicit. As I lay in bed that night, I could admit to myself that I thought my best friend was hot. I resolved to accept and ignore it, which is exactly what I did. For the most part.
“You good?” he asks now, and I reluctantly look his way. His hair is windswept from the boat ride. His eyes are intent. There’s a day’s worth of stubble on his jaw. His body is…well, I can’t even look at it.
“Of course.” I was once a pro at ignoring the physical reality of George Saint James. I simply need to find my sea legs again.
“I’m just taking it all in. How did you know about this place?”
“I didn’t. Derek told me to hit him up if I was ever out this way. The sauna is owned by a friend who rents to tourists, and there was a cancellation today, so here we are.”
Every so often, George meets a source who becomes a friend. They’re almost always people he admires. George tells me how Derek stayed calm through the evacuations in Kelowna and was unflappable during the toughest hours and days of the McDougall Creek wildfire.
“Nice work, Saint James,” I say. “This place is incredible. You’ve takenrunning awayto the next level.”
“Beats the cupboard in the library, huh?”
“Hmm…I do love that cupboard. But this is a close second.”
I lean back on my hands, shut my eyes, and rest my head on the cedar. I take a long breath in and sigh it out, then another. Beads of moisture roll down my chest, into the valley between my breasts. Suddenly I’m aware how quiet George has become.
I open my eyes and find him staring at me. His mouth is parted, and his gaze is locked on my chest, eyes dark and full of something that looks a lot like want. My stomach whirls. He’s so focused he doesn’t know I’m watching him watch me. Georgeneverlooks at me like that.
The pink tip of his tongue glides along his upper lip, and I blink. George’s gaze swings to mine, but neither one of us moves. I can feel my heart throbbing. I have an image of setting my mouth on the strong line of his throat to find out what his skin tastes like.
I sit up straight. “I think I’m overheating.”
George is nodding like a bobblehead. “We should cool off.”
I head outside and cannonball straight into the water, no hesitation. The cold is shocking, and I come up with a gasp as George slices into the sea, his dive flawless. He swims beneath the surface. I can’t see how far he’s gone until he breaks through, much farther out than me.
“Feels good, right?” he calls.
“It’s fucking freezing,” I say, swimming back to the ladder.
George follows me, and we spend the next hour toggling between the sauna’s dry heat and the sharp bite of salt water. I let out a yelp every time I jump in, and when we return to the warmth, George stokes the fire and we sit in silence, our eyes closed. Everything softens. My bones might be pliable. There’s no mirror here, but I can tell my cheeks are glowing. With every bracing dip, my heart pushes my blood faster. My skin tingles. Even my eyesight seems clearer. It’s as if I can detect each of the infinite shades of green on the tree-covered mountains. It’s not unlike being high.
After our fourth plunge, I sprawl out in the wide dock hammock, drinking in our impossibly stunning surroundings while George swims. I lay my head back, my hands folded behind my neck, gazing at the sky. A bald eagle soars high above, its wings spread wide, and it seems like a gift just for us.
“Did you see that, Frankie?”
I sit up. George has swum out pretty far, but I can still see a flash of teeth when he smiles.
“I saw it,” I call back, grinning.
He points to a large nest in the highest branches of a tree where the bird is now stationed. I’m not an environmentalist like George and my mother, but even I’m impressed.
“You okay up there?” he asks.
“Yeah, I’m fine.” But as I say it, I realize it’s an understatement. “Actually, I’m kind of amazing.”
I know it’s partially the adrenaline, but I feel as though I could handle anything. I’m not sure I’ve ever felt this alert, thisalive, before.
While George takes one of the kayaks out for a paddle, I close my eyes and my awareness shifts to my body. The droplets of water that snake down my skin, my pulse tapping against my wrists, the tight pinch of my nipples against the wet fabric of my bathing suit. Maybe that’s why George was staring earlier. Warmth builds between my legs. I haven’t feltthatfor months.
It turns out that getting dumped the day before your wedding is a great way to smother your sex drive. There have been no rebound one-night stands. I haven’t even given myself an orgasm. But lying beneath the sun, with the smell of salt and woodsmoke on my skin and my blood thrumming in my veins,desire and need wake inside me like a bear from hibernation. I squeeze my thighs together. If I was alone, I might really make this a day for indulgence.
