For a moment I consider slipping my hand beneath my swimsuit. But then I hear the quietsloshof a paddle cutting through the water.
• • •
“Is there roomfor two?”
George climbs out of the kayak and onto the dock. I scoot over, and he drops into the hammock beside me, lying back with a gratified sigh.
He’s humming his lullaby, a forearm slung over his eyes. His bathing suit has ridden higher on his thighs. His skin is tanned. Freckles kiss his shoulders and nose, and a small mole adorns the base of his neck. He has enough chest hair that you could run your fingers through it.
There’s a small horseshoe-shaped scar above his right hip where he got stitches after falling on a rock in the creek. We’d been racing our way across, hopping from stone to stone, when George slipped. I pressed gauze to the wound in the back of Mimi’s Cadillac when she drove him to the hospital, and I held his hand while the doctor stitched him up. His tattoo is in the same spot as mine, in the middle of his rib cage. George’s is on his left side, and mine is on my right. I like knowing that no matter how far he goes, a piece of me is with him. He has only the one, whereas Aurora has given me two more: a tiny chef’s knife on my wrist, and a cedar hedge labyrinth on my shoulder.
“Hey, Frankie?”
I jolt at the sound of his voice.
George cracks an eye. “I’m trying to eat two hundred grams of protein a day.”
I laugh. “What?”
He rolls over to face me. His glasses are sitting beside us on the dock. I’m not used to seeing him without them, and it’s weird how much more intimate it feels. It’s like he’s removed an item of clothing.
“You said earlier today that you miss knowing about the small details of my life,” George says.
“You’re a protein shake guy,” I say, smiling. “Knew it.”
“And I’ve been collecting sand.”
I turn onto my side toward George, feeling the slow pull of another smile.
“Sand?”
“Yeah. Sand from around the world. I scoop a little into a baggie whenever I’m at a beach.”
“What are you doing with all these baggies of sand?”
“I have a jar. When I come back, I pour in the new layers and label them with where they’re from.”
“That’s so you.”
“Is it?”
“Most people collect magnets. You collect geological specimens.”
“And I’m learning Italian.”
“No.”
“I picked up some when I was in Bologna. I seem to have an ear for it. It’s not too far off from French and Spanish.”
“Say something to me in Italian.”
“Ti sto dicendo qualcosa in italiano.” It rolls off his tongue with ease.
My eyes widen. “What does that mean?”
“It means, ‘I’m saying something to you in Italian.’ ”
I laugh.
