George is no longer staring, but he’s frowning as if he’s uncomfortable.
“Does it, like, physically injure you to compliment my appearance?”
Lines form between his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“Just that you never do without me forcing you to.”
“Really?” He looks surprised.
“It’s fine.” He’s a lost cause. I grab my key card off the coffee table and head to the door. “You ready to go?”
George shakes his head once, then walks toward me. I turn the knob, but he reaches around me, laying his hand flat against the door, keeping it shut. I glance at him over my shoulder. His face is inches from mine, his eyes dark.
“Frankie,” he says, his voice low, “you look fucking incredible.” And then he puts his hand over mine and opens the door.
• • •
The Pointe Restaurantat the Wickaninnish Inn is a round space, with a circular copper fireplace at its center and windows around its perimeter—it’s the most jaw-dropping room I’ve ever set foot inside. The ceiling rises like a turret, but it’s planked with wood, as if we’re inside a tree house on the edge of the ocean. The view of the waves crashing against the rocky shore literally takes my breath away.
I’m glad I wore the dress. A space like this deserves a fashion moment. Kevin did a double take when he saw us heading out for the evening. He told me I looked like the rarest of orchids. I think the outfit may have made up for my whale comments.
The service is flawless. Attentive but not overbearing. The food is so good I’m buzzing in a way I experience only when eating at the hand of a master.
We have chanterelle ravioli and scallop tartare, charcoal- grilled sablefish, and roasted elk. A piece of tomato falls to George’s collar. I say nothing, but relish the dot of red.
Every dish looks like a piece of art and tastes like the landscape. Last night during dinner, I felt a light switch on in the corner of my brain that’s recently gone dark. Tonight it glows even brighter. That desire to create. To experiment. To find myself in food. Or maybe even to lose myself in it.
“So what did you think?” George asks after our bill is paid. “Worth the hype?”
“Don’t tell Brie, but I feel kind of inspired.”
George is leaning forward on one elbow, his chin perched in his hand. His expression is earnest. We’ve been drawing closer together over the table whenever our plates are cleared.
“Yeah?” A smile tiptoes across his lips.
We’ve shared a bottle of wine, and I’m feeling as sparkly as the ocean under the moon.
I tilt toward him and say, “I was thinking earlier about how much purpose your work gives you. I want to find that, too. A profound connection to what I’m doing.” I glance around the room. “I don’t know what that looks like, but I haven’t felt this sort of excitement in a long time. And…promise you won’t laugh.”
He draws an X over his chest. “I promise.”
I clear my throat. “It’s been years since we had this much time together. I like who I am when I’m with you. I’m still me, but I can also see a bigger version of myself.” I realize I’m not being articulate, but George looks kind of touched.
“When I’m with you, the world seems to hold so many possibilities. I used to think that it was because I love competing with you, but that’s not it. You’re this unstoppable force, and you make me feel invincible, too. I feel more alive when I’m with you.”
I’ve always thought our personalities were too similar, too spiky for us to be a good couple. But maybe we wouldn’t have been such a bad match after all.
George swallows. Frowns.
“Sorry,” I say. “I was trying to do the honest-feelings thing, but that was a lot.” I set a hand on my flaming-hot cheek. I feel like I’ve peeled off a layer of skin—like I’ve let him see the squishy parts I’m not used to sharing.
“No. That was…” He studies me in a way that makes my stomach spin.
“I’m sorry to interrupt,” our server says, setting down twotiny glasses. “We hear that congratulations are in order. Two amaros, compliments of the chef.”
George pries his gaze away from mine and looks at the server with confusion.
“Excuse me?”
