“Good.”
We drive back to the resort, and I shower and get dressed for dinner. I put on jeans, a pretty pale blue tank top, and white sandals. I go through the effort of detangling and blow-drying my hair. Two months of not caring about my appearance enough to use a hot tool has left it shiny and healthy. I don’t bother with much makeup. Just the usual: a bit of mascara, blush, and a tinted lip balm.
While I wait for George to get ready, I pull out my phone. I haven’t responded to Brie’s text from earlier today, not that it necessarily warrants a reply.
I hear Tofino has a great food scene! Have fun! Get inspired!!!
I frown at the screen. Why is it bothering me so much? It’s such an innocuous message.
“Everything okay?”
I peer up to find George in dark jeans and a lighter denim shirt, sleeves rolled up. His hair is still damp. He looks fantastic. “Canadian tuxedo?”
He shrugs. “Seemed like the vibe.”
“I’m into it. It says, ‘I can ride a horseandprepare an excellent oat milk latte.’ ”
He looks down at himself. “That’s unfortunate, because I can do neither of those things.”
I stand, and George eyes my outfit. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you wear something like that before.”
The tank top has a flouncy ruffled hem. I was only half teasing George this morning when I reminded him that I’m a woman—sometimes I really do think he forgets.
In his defense, I never used to wear such feminine clothes. I wore my brothers’ hand-me-downs until I was ten. In high school, I dressed in jeans and tees I found at Value Village. It wasn’t until I had disposable income and more fashion-conscious friends that I branched out.
It’s my turn to shrug. “Seemed like the vibe.”
“Why were you looking at your phone like you were about to fight it?”
I hand it over. “Does this seem weird to you?”
He reads Brie’s message. “Five exclamation points seems excessive, but otherwise, no. Why?”
“It’s bugging me.”
George studies it again. “Is it because she’s talking about inspiration as if it’s something you can buy in a grocery store?” He looks at me. “Like, can you pick up a carton of inspiration on your way home?”
I laugh, because thatdidbother me.
“Do you feel like she’s suggesting youneedinspiration? Because I can see how that might irk you.”
“I don’t think that’s what she meant. She isn’t passive-aggressive.”
“Then maybe,” George says, “it’s not about Brie. Maybe it’s more about your stuff.”
“I don’t have any stuff,” I say, and now George is smiling. His eyes laugh.
“Frankie, we’ve all got plenty of stuff.”
“Takes one to know one.”
A chuckle rumbles in his chest. It’s a good sound. “Exactly,” he says. “I’m the king of stuff.”
The restaurant is in Ucluelet, the closest town to Tofino and about thirty minutes away. Pluvio is a small spot with an open kitchen and a nineties R & B playlist, and I know why George brought me here as soon as I examine the menu. It begins with a glossary, which would be startling under most circumstances, except this one is witty. It lists a few definitions of Ucluelet, including: “A small village that virtually nobody knows about, which is close to another village that is more popular, nationally and globally” and “Tofino’s less-hipster sister.”
On offer tonight is a five-course seasonal tasting menu with a few choices and a list of additional dishes you can add to the feast. It’s clear that the chef is devoted to both using localingredients and having a good time. Just reading the descriptions has me more excited about food and its possibilities than I have been in a long time.
Our server is a young woman named Gerry with an infectious laugh and white-blond braids pinned in a circlet around her head. Gerry, we quickly discover, is from Toronto. She tells us a thirty-second version of her life story as she pours our water. “Got dumped. Googled the most beautiful places in Canada. Came out here five years ago and never left.”
