“Under duress.”
“You look good in the dress, Frankie.”
The way he says it makes my skin feel electric. It’s buzzing on the surface, vaporous and glittering, like ocean spray under the moon.
“Some might say I look like a rare orchid in this dress.”
George chuckles. “I think the dress turned Kevin’s opinion of you around.”
“Right? But neither of us is very good at the sentimental stuff.”
“We’re better on paper,” George says.
“Our letters, you mean.”
I think about the one I left in the mailbox last week.
“I missed you,” I say, because he should hear it out loud. “I’ve been missing you for such a long time now, but especially this past year.”
“You’re my favorite person,” George says. “And I’ve missed you like…”
“A rib?” I supply.
“More like an internal organ.”
“Same.”
I stare out at the blackening sea, feeling his gaze still on me and thinking about the story he told our server. The letter he left me in the mailbox long, long ago. It’s one of the ones I kept.
Youare my best friend. And I’ll be yours forever. I can prove it, too.
“Maybe we should have gotten married,” I murmur.
“What?” George’s voice cuts through my daze.
“Married,” I say, pulling my attention away from the ocean and back to him. It’s not the worst idea. “Maybe it should have been you and me getting married in May, instead of me and Nate. This is nice, right? You and me, together like this. I’m your favorite person, and you’re mine, too.”
His eyes are fixed on me with blazing focus, but I go on.
“Neither of us has a good track record with relationships. I agreed to marry the first man who I was serious about after knowing him for six months. And you travel so much, it’s going to be difficult to find someone to share your life with. So why not each other?” I rush to clarify, because the look he’s giving me is unreadable. “Things wouldn’t even have to change. We could have one of those companionable, sexless marriages, where we’re always in each other’s corner but we also give each other freedom.”
George stares at me. For ten seconds, he doesn’t so much as blink. But then he pushes his chair out from the table, throws down his napkin, and leaves.
Chapter Twenty-eight
I gape at the spot where George was sitting, not quite believing that he walked out of the restaurant. Stunned, I get to my feet and slowly make my way across the dining room and into the lobby. George is nowhere to be seen.
“Can I help you?” asks the young man in a black uniform at the desk.
“Did you see a tall guy with dark hair and glasses a minute ago?”
“He said he was going to bring the car around.” He points outside. “Is that him?”
The hatchback is pulling up in front of the entrance. George is in the driver’s seat, staring straight ahead.
He doesn’t look at me when I walk toward the car. Or when I open the door. Or when I sit down, buckle my belt, and say “Hi?”
“Hi.” His voice is glacial.
