“But you don’t.”
“I never really notice they’re dirty unless I’m writing. Doesn’t it annoy you to do it for me?” he asks as I set them back on his face.
“No. It’s second nature. I’m barely aware I’m doing it.”
“Well, thank you,” he says. “I can see better now.”
The rest of the drink goes down easily, tingling its way to my toes. I tilt my head, watching George. His book is open in his hand, but he’s gazing into the distance, humming his lullaby.
“What’s it called again?” I ask.
“What’s what called?”
“Your mom’s song. The one you’re humming.”
“Am I?”
“You are.”
“ ‘À la claire fontaine.’ ”
“You hum it when you’re happy.”
“Do I?” A self-conscious smile. “Well, it’s true. Iamhappy. Didn’t realize I was humming, though.”
“You do it all the time. I’ve told you this. I’m sure Lara pointed it out when you were together.”
“No, actually. She never mentioned it.” He looks at me. “You’re the only person who’s brought it up.”
“Huh. Maybe it’s a me thing, then.” A lullaby for Frankie.
George turns back to the view. “Today was a good day.”
The sun has turned golden, the way it does before ushering itself out.
He’s humming again, and I’m filled with an overwhelming sense of rightness. Here with my brilliant, beautiful best friend.
George lowers his gaze, concentrating on his book again. It’s a history of Tofino, the Clayoquot Sound, and the Nuu-chah-nulth peoples. His face is set in a thoughtful scowl, his glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose.
I feel a deep sense of contentment, like I could sink into this moment for a very long time. There’s something paradoxical about being around George. His ambition, his deep connection to his work, his sense of purpose—he makes me want more for myself. But I also have permission to just be. If I could only keep him close, not lose him to the next assignment, a different country, another time zone.
Maybeweshould get married.
Be together forever.
I spend a minute considering it before realizing the cocktail must have been stronger than it looks, and I haven’t eaten enough. I’m starving, I realize.
“Why are you staring at me?” George asks without turning in my direction.
“Am I?”
“Mm-hmm. For several minutes now.”
I watch the surf crash against the rocks at the end of the bay, the spray shimmering in the pinks and oranges of the retreating sun.
“I was thinking about what you said when we were surfing, about being friends in our eighties.”
“Yeah?” He slants his head my way, his face aglow.
