But Liz notices.
“Things seem a little off between you two today,” she says as we watch George paddle into a wave. He manages to stand for a few seconds before falling.
“We had a little fight yesterday, but it’ll be fine,” I say, hoping that’s the end of it.
“For sure,” she says. “All couples argue.”
I assumed Liz thought George and I were together, but it’s the first time she’s stated it. “We’re friends,” I tell her. “We’re not a couple.”
“Really?” She cocks her head. Her gaze drifts to George, who’s walking through the water toward us, before looking back at me. “Why not?”
My lips part as I ready my list of reasons.
We’re not attracted to each other.
He doesn’t see me like that.
We’re just friends.
I close my mouth.
Why not?
Chapter Thirty-one
I lie in a canvas hammock strung between two Sitka spruces at the edge of the beach. I’m surrounded by shrubs with waxy, dark green leaves and clusters of dark purple berries. The tide is low and the surf is mellow. I watch a mother and her small daughter walk to the water with a pint-sized surfboard. The girl can’t be more than four, but she stomps into the ocean like she’s returning home. She lies on the board on her belly, and her mom holds on to the tail, giving her a push when a wave comes. She’s on her feet in seconds, gently gliding into the sand, her mother whooping happily and running toward her.
For a moment, I’m a kid again, pedaling my bike for the first time, my mom running down Old Stone Road behind me, her laughter rising on the wind.
I smile and pluck a dark purple berry from the shrub, examining it.
But then I feel his gaze. I turn my head, and George iswalking toward me. He’s all ready for our hike, dressed in a T-shirt, shorts, and boots. Our eyes meet, and my heart stops.
“It’s a salal berry,” he says, nodding to the fruit in my palm. “They’re edible.”
I pop it into my mouth. It bursts between my teeth, its taste similar to a blackberry or a Concord grape. I wonder what I could make with them. The plants are everywhere, and it wouldn’t be hard to collect enough to cook with.
“I’ve never tried one. Is it any good?” he asks. Instead of answering, I pluck another from its stem and hold out my hand.
George steps closer. His fingers brush my hand as he takes the berry from me and slips it between his lips.
“I think they could be good for jam,” I tell him, aware that this is the most we’ve spoken today. I watch George fill his palm with berries and toss all but one in his mouth. He gives me the last one.
“How’s the homework going?” he asks.
When we got back to the resort after surfing, George sent me outside like a disobedient child to work on the list of things I like about myself. Of all of his activities, this is my least favorite. By far.
I hand him the piece of paper, and he broods at it. “You’ve got one item on here, Frankie.”
Good cook.
“I know.”
“And a bunch of stuff that you’ve scribbled over.”
“It was harder than I expected,” I tell him. “Every time I thought of something I value about myself, I could see the flip side, like how being passionate can also make me headstrong.Stubborn. Argumentative. I’m independent, but I’m also set in my ways. I’m competitive, and I—”
George cuts me off. “Frankie. Jesus.”
