“And you look happy,” he adds.
“I am,” I tell him. “I don’t think I’ve ever felt this happy.”
I step on his toes. George presses his hand gently into my back, a reminder that I’ve been forgetting to let him lead. So for the rest of the song, I dance with my eyes closed, the way Mimi taught me. Everything narrows to the music and the movement, the pressure of George’s touch. It’s the only time I hand over control to someone else, and the feeling is one of complete liberation. It’s a sensation I haven’t found elsewhere, and haven’t felt in years, not since George and I danced at Darwin’s wedding.
• • •
When the musicchanges, I open my eyes. “I missed that,” I say.
“Me too.” His voice is hoarse.
Sometimes I can still see the lost boy I met so long ago, but there’s no trace of him right now. George’s cherub face has beenreplaced by hard angles and a dark shadow. He’s sure of himself. Nate has a capable park ranger sort of energy. But George’s confidence is somehow both quieter and totally undeniable.
I’ll never forget him at eight, with those soft pink cheeks and blue eyes staring at me through the cedar hedge. I didn’t know George’s story then, but somehow I knew he needed me. Just like I know something’s wrong now.
“What’s going on?” I ask, our hands still clasped as we move around the room.
His mouth quirks wryly. “Nothing. Although, the gummy was probably unwise.”
“Amateur move. Ingesting anything from Moby’s pocket is a bad idea.”
“He told me it was mild.”
“This is the same person who convinced you to smoke an entire joint the first time you got high.”
We were fourteen. I took one hit, but I think George wanted to impress Moby. Minutes later, he wasflying. Moby thought it was hilarious, but I was the one who had to sneak George past Mimi and up to his bedroom, where he alternated between fits of giggles and earnest speeches about our friendship. It would have been sweet, except it lasted forhours.
A smile curves a corner of his mouth. “You’re right. I should know better.”
We look around the room. Moby is roping Nate into a breakdancing competition, and my fiancé is dusting off his shoulders with a grin. Nate will make a fool of himself, and he will not care. I love this about him. He’s a serious person, but he doesn’t take himself too seriously.
“How’s Chiara?” I ask, turning back to George.
His current girlfriend (a strong word given how quickly he moves through them) is an interpreter he met in São Paulo.
“Lara,” he corrects.
I wince. “Sorry.”
George doesn’t talk much about the women he’s sleeping with, and there’s no trace of them on his social media. It’s all panoramic fjords, rare tropical plants, and adorable marsupials. And if you scroll back far enough, walls of fire and forests turned to ash.
But I lived with him for four years and know he gets around. George is always up-front about what he’s looking for and what he can offer. He travels so much, that’s often only a night or two. But there are some women he sees whenever he’s in a certain city. The human rights lawyer in London. The pilot in Vancouver.
“Girlfriends”—partnerships where there’s exclusivity—are rare. So I should remember Lara. He brought her to a dinner party I threw at Nate’s house. But I was too focused on George—it was his second time meeting Nate.
“How isLara?” I ask.
“Her piece on the endangered spotted rhinoceros of Namibia just won a huge award.”
Lara’s a journalist? Shit. Ireallywasn’t paying attention. “Wow,” I say. “Tell her congratulations for me.”
He lets out a low chuckle. “Frankie, Lara is an interpreter.”
I shove his shoulder. “I knew it!”
“And there’s no such thing as a spotted rhinoceros.”
“You’re an ass.”
