He walks past me, in the direction of the resort. But then he stops and spins around.
“Actually, you know what? It’s not fine.”
I brace myself as he strides toward me, staring me down like this is our final battle. I straighten my shoulders.
“Do you believe I’m someone who’d be happy in a sexless marriage?”
I’m taken aback by what he’s said, and by the way he’s said it. Raised voice. Accusatory tone. Frustration written across his face.
“I don’t know. I guess I thought I was being progressive. Plenty of couples have open relationships,” I try.
“But we’re not a couple. An open relationship is different from a relationship without physical intimacy.”
“I know that.”
“You think I’d want to spend my life with someone who isn’t attracted to me, who can’t stand the idea of being with me?”
“That’s not what I said. That’s not what I meant.” I shake myhead, my throat tight. “I was only thinking you might like being with me as much as I like being with you. I thought you might want to spend your life with me.”
He’s close enough that I can smell the subtle leather scent of him. “I don’t want that.”
I suck in a sharp breath. “Got it.” I push past him because I know I’m about to cry. But George clasps my wrist, turning me to face him. Before I can make sense of what’s happening, he pulls me close.
Shock barrels through me like a bullet.
George takes my face in his palms as he stares at my mouth. My hands move of their own accord, balling his shirt in my fists and tugging him closer.
I once promised George I wouldn’t kiss him again, but now I rise on my toes, no thought in my head except the need to feel his mouth on mine. He leans down to my ear. His lips brush my skin. It’s the barest of touches, yet my body thrums with desire. I feel his responding groan more than I hear it. A hand falls to the small of my back, hauling me against him. George ishard. I let out a gasp.
He pushes my hair behind my shoulder, and I tilt my head as his thumb strokes the line of my neck. His name leaves my throat on a whisper.
George’s lips coast over my ear just before he snarls, “Fuck your sexless marriage.”
He pulls back slowly, his eyes boring into mine, and then his hands fall from my body. I stare at him, heart kicking against my chest, as he turns and walks away.
Chapter Twenty-nine
We Were Sixteen
I started kissing boys when I was twelve, before I was all that interested in them, because I knew George was already thinking about girls that way. By the time I turned sixteen, I was obsessed with sex. I was pretty sure I was the only girl who thought about it so much. I was anxious about when I’d lose my virginity and who it would happen with and what it would feel like. I was absolutely terrified I’d be bad at it.
I knew George was already doing it. The whole school knew about George and Tish. It was the kind of intel that spread through the student body as if via osmosis. Plus, Tish was a gossip.
It made me feel itchy, this knowledge George had that I didn’t. I had no desire for a boyfriend, but I didn’t want to be left behind. And George wouldn’t talk to me about it. It was the first hint that our lives were splitting in two.
Even then, I didn’t like leaving things to chance, especiallywhen it came to something as important as sex. I wanted complete control of the experience. I decided that on the night of the winter formal, I was going to sleep with Dylan Martin. I’d stolen a condom from George’s bedside table drawer the week before and practiced putting it on a banana, worried my first time would be ruined by my inexpert handling of latex. I didn’t anticipate getting quite so tipsy on Dylan’s rum, nor did I count on George following Dylan and me out of the dance—I didn’t think he’d paid us any attention. But there he was, in the parking lot, tie loose, sleeves rolled up.Seething. I’d never seen him so angry. I’d never seen him hit someone.
Eight weeks had passed since then, and in that time, Dylan had stopped talking to me, George and Tish had broken up, and I had devised a backup plan.
Tonight was the night to put it into action.
Darwin was living with a buddy in Peterborough, and my parents were visiting Moby in Ottawa. I sent George a text:Sleep over?
The request wasn’t unusual. He often snuck through my window at night, and I hated being alone in the house. But everything else about that evening was different. I paced around my bedroom, practicing my pitch.
It was well after midnight when I heard thethudoutside my window. I’d left it unlatched for him—I knew he wouldn’t use the front door. I held my breath as he climbed through, dressed in sweats.
“What’s with all the—” George’s mouth fell open as he took me in. “Candles,” he finished hoarsely.
