“It was nothing,” I say, looking to George. “I don’t even remember what we were squabbling about.”
He barely flinches. “It wasn’tnothing. We were fightingabout the stuffing again. You wanted to change it, as always. But everyone likes the old stuffing. What was it…corn bread and pecans that time?”
It’s true. I do try to convince the Gardiner and Saint James families to mix things up at the holidays, but that’s not why we argued. No one corrects the lie.
“You know how they are,” my mom says to Nate.
Nate tilts his head, glancing at me, because no, he doesn’t know how George and I are. Not really. I’ve tried to explain, of course. But our history is so intertwined that it’s impossible to have enough distance to see our friendship clearly, let alone explain it. George is of me, not separate from me.
From the day we met at eight years old, we were inseparable. Back then, I was protective of him, the shy, squinting new kid who seemed wary of everyone but me. Dad started calling George my missing rib. As in, “Where’s your rib?” Or, “How’s your rib? Haven’t seen him since this morning.”
Then George got glasses and stopped squinting. He grew taller and bolder. He became handsome and popular. He was still my partner in crime, but he didn’t need me to protect him anymore.
When we graduated from high school, we moved to Toronto together and shared an apartment. George studied journalism, and I went to culinary school. We were twin rocket ships, bolstering each other while we pursued our own dreams. Until George moved across the country for work, leaving me reeling. Each step in George’s career has taken him farther away, but we maintained our friendship through a never-ending stream of texts and emails. Three years ago, George spent months covering thewildfires that annihilated so much of the country. When he returned, everything was different.
“George, come sit down,” my dad says. “You must be starving. How was your flight?”
I watch George stoop to kiss Mimi, who whispers something in his ear, before he’s absorbed into my family the same way he was when he moved next door. He was like a stray cat. He kept showing up. We kept feeding him. He stuck around. He helped keep us together as much as we helped him.
Nate and I take our seats. Aurora pours me a glass of water and passes the bread basket. “Eat.”
Chapter Three
A metal scouring pad couldn’t wipe the smile from my face. Now that George has arrived, everything is perfect.
I down two flutes of crémant in short order and feel my body unwind. I’m filled with relief.
George has my three-year-old niece, Birdie, in his lap. They’re working on a page in her coloring book together. Darwin and his wife, Anh, look grateful for the reprieve. My mom is plying George with questions about the climate change conference while my dad listens. He’s a man of few words and infinite compassion.
George has already loosened his tie. He’ll undo the top button any moment now. He walked in looking respectable, but he can’t stay tidy for long. He can’t sit still, either. Unless he’s deep in thought, George is in motion. Sometimes I think he shifts around so much because his body needs to burn off what’s happening in his head.
When his eyes meet mine during dessert, I hold up a hand, fingers spread.
Five minutes?I mouth.Outside?
He nods.
• • •
I get pulledonto the dance floor with Nate. He’s asked the pianist to switch to jazzy pop covers. We’ve been taking dancing lessons in the lead-up to the wedding, although I already knew the waltz, the tango, and the foxtrot. Mimi taught me and George ballroom dancing when we were kids. As a guardian, she wasn’t strict, but as a former ballerina, Mimi was adamant George learn to lead a partner around a dance floor. For years, that partner was me.
George was a natural; I was always trying to lead. Mimi made me dance with my eyes closed so I had no choice but to follow.
Forward, side, together.
Francesca, you have the grace of a rhinoceros.
One, two, three.
Mimi and Nate are the only people who call me Francesca. I’ve never corrected Mimi because she’s a little scary, and Nate gets an exemption because he says I’m too beautiful to be called Frankie.
My fiancé is not a natural dancer, and despite the lessons, we haven’t found our rhythm. He steps on my toes five times while we dance, but I don’t care. When I glance at George, he’s sporting a smug grin.
Rhinoceros. He mouths the word to me, and I laugh so hard tears fall from my eyes.
Five more minutes?I mouth, and he nods.
• • •
