Chapter Thirty-five
Day Five: Want
George stares at the tiny Cessna with hearts in his eyes. It’s tied to a dock in the Tofino harbor. There’s no fog, and we can see the snow on the peaks of the mountains in the distance.
“I assume we’re getting in that thing?” I ask.
“Oh yeah.” He sounds like a kid on Christmas morning.
It’s the first moment today that things haven’t felt weird. We’ve been treating each other exactly as we did before we kissed, but whenever our eyes meet, the air between us snaps like a rubber band. I know he feels it, too. The memory lingers in his gaze.
“I thought you said you didn’t jump from helicopters,” I say.
“It’s a floatplane, and we’re going to climb in and out of it.”
“We’re going to die in it.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure?” he asks.
“Where’s your sense of self-preservation?”
“It seems to be in very short supply these days.”
I turn at his tone—the clear allusion to yesterday—and I’m startled by the naked hunger I find in his eyes. It’s not a snap. It’s a full-on wallop. Restraint rolls from him in waves. I want to kiss him again so badly.
“You didn’t tell me today’s theme,” I say. “How does aviation fit into The Plan?”
“Today,” he says, “is about expressing your needs. Voicing what you want. Learning to ask for it.”
I blink, wondering if he’s screwing with me, but he’s serious.
“It’s an essential part of healing,” he goes on. “Understanding what you need and being comfortable telling people how to give it to you.”
I can feel my cheeks turning pink.
“No one can read your mind, Frankie.”
“Not even you?”
“Sometimes I feel like I can hear every thought running through your brain,” he says.
“And the rest of the time?”
“I don’t know a fucking thing.”
• • •
We wait forthe pilot with three other passengers on the dock. I turn to George. “Iwantto know where we’re going.”
“Well played. We’re going to Hot Springs Cove in Nism?aakqin Park. It looks incredible, but I also thought it would be a good spot to think.”
“About what I want,” I say.
“Right.”
We’re each given an inflatable life vest before we climb intothe tiny plane. George and I sit on the bench in the back. We buckle in and put on our headsets as instructed. They’re outfitted with microphones, and we can hear the pilot and other passengers through them, even over the roaring engine.
I squeeze my eyes shut as we lift off the water, willing myself not to puke or, worse, cry, when I feel George’s fingers twine with mine. Without me saying a thing, he knows exactly what I want. We fly over islands and alongside the rise and fall of the mountains. I see views so splendid that I forget to be scared. Our pilot points out an island that’s home to a dozen sea wolves who survive on fish, crabs, mussels, and barnacles. He tells us there’s a documentary about these wolves on Netflix, and I glance at George, knowing he’s already watched it. I don’t realize that we’ve been holding hands the entire fifteen-minute flight until it’s time to land and I reluctantly let go.
