“You’ll be hungry again one day, Frankie. Give yourself some slack.”
Not my forte.
“Don’t sleep on the couch,” I say. “It’s too small for you. I’d rather you were here with me.”
He looks at me for a moment. “I’ll probably set an alarm to run. I don’t want to wake you.”
I wave my hand. “I’m used to that. Nate’s went off at five every morning so he could go to the gym.” I despised the sound.
“I won’t be up that early, but I’ll sleep downstairs so it doesn’t bother you.”
“George,” I say. “Please. I don’t like waking up alone.”
“You sure?”
“Of course. It’s no big deal. It’s just me.”
George gets to his feet. “Okay, I’ll sleep here.”
“Good.”
“Oh, I almost forgot.” George crosses the room to the desk and opens one of the drawers. “You said you wanted to see the rest of my research.” He pulls out a stuffed file folder and hands it to me.
“Thank you for doing all of this. I appreciate it. I appreciate you.”
“How strong was that cocktail?”
“It’s not the cocktail.”
George smiles. “I’m going to change and then go downstairs and read for a bit.”
I avert my eyes as he undresses in the corner and heads to the bathroom in only a pair of sweatpants. When he returns to the room, I lift my gaze, swallowing at the sight of the faint scar. My eyes drift to his tattoo.
“Do you ever regret it?” I ask. I’ve met more than a few men who didn’t love finding George’s name on my body.
He looks down at my name written in cursive on his rib cage and smiles. “Not once. You?”
“No, me neither.” Not ever.
“Good night, Frankie,” he says, and heads downstairs.
I brush my teeth and change into my pajamas and settle in bed with George’s papers. As I flip through the pages, I realize the interview transcript is missing.
I’m dozing off to the white noise of waves crashing against rock when the mattress dips with George’s weight. The bed warms quickly, and soon his breathing falls into the steady cadence of sleep. I follow shortly after, and soon I’m dreaming of a familiar arm, holding me close.
Chapter Twenty-two
We Were Eighteen
“Are you having second thoughts?” George said, watching me write my name on a piece of paper. I still hadn’t gotten it quite right. “We don’t have to do this.”
We’d been living in Toronto for a few weeks, and already the city had left its impression on us. George had bought a new pair of black-framed glasses that were somehow both nerdy and hot, and I had gotten my hair chopped into a shoulder-length bob at House of Lords that I instantly regretted.
“Oh, we’re doing this,” I said. “Today is your eighteenth birthday. We’ve been planning this for a year.” My name inked on his ribs and his on mine. A promise for a promise.
George and I had moved together from the outback of the Kawarthas to the downtown core of the fourth-largest city in North America. We were both desperate for our adult lives to sweep us up in new adventures. But I was also overwhelmed bythe change—by the noise and the lights and the number of people on the sidewalks. Our apartment became my life raft.
We were well suited as roommates. I made a mess of the kitchen when I cooked, and George, never one to stay put, tidied in my wake. In so many ways, we anchored each other. He filled our apartment with ever-growing towers of newspapers and magazines and messages written on Post-its or pages torn from one of his many notebooks. I filled the fridge with braises and curries and pommes Anna. George and I often spent Saturday mornings browsing the farm stands at the St. Lawrence Market. I’d leave with ingredients for that night’s dinner along with jars of Kozlik’s mustard and pickled asparagus. We didn’t have enough kitchen storage for all my spices, rices, and condiments, and our counters were bejeweled with bottles of olive oil and vinegar. The collision of George’s stuff and mine made me feel safe.
