—42—
Frankie was drunk. Not charmingly tipsy, not accidentally-had-a-few-too-many. She was stupidly, pitifully sloshed. She swayed back and forth, burying thoughts that this was a terrible idea. After drinking a bottle of Barossa Valley shiraz (the one she was saving for a special occasion) alone, she picked up her phone and drunk-dialled Sunny. It rang out to voicemail, like it always did. With her head spinning and her heart aching even more than usual, Frankie tied her hair up in a topknot and drunkenly stormed out of her apartment. And here she was, one nauseating Uber ride later, standing at Sunny’s front door. At two in the morning.
‘Sunny!’ She banged on his door, her knuckles reddening. ‘Sunny!’ She knew Sunny was probably asleep. He was undoubtedly resting casually on top of his blanket, his sketchpad and pen balanced on his bare torso. Frankie’s chest fluttered at the thought.
‘Damn it, Sunny! I know you’re in there,’ she slurred, sloppily thrashing her hands on the front door. She heard brash, thumping footsteps and inhaled. He’s coming to get me.
‘Frankie. What the hell are you doing?’ Sunny swung the door open. His hair was tousled, his boxer shorts hung loosely around his hips and, just as she had imagined, his chest was irresistibly exposed.
‘Sunnnnny,’ Frankie gurgled, resting her hands on his chest. ‘Just the beautiful man I wanted to see.’ She leaned into his torso and kissed it, laughing.
‘Jesus, Frankie. You’re wasted.’ Sunny’s forehead creased in the centre, like it always did when he was frustrated. He pulled her away and looked her up and down. She was wearing nothing but her silk pyjama shorts and camisole, and tiny goosebumps covered her body.
‘And you’re handsome.’ She giggled, then hiccupped indelicately.
‘Fuck, Frankie. You’re freezing. Come on, I’ll call you an Uber home.’ Sunny reached into his pocket to take out his phone, but Frankie grabbed his hand before he could.
‘No, I want to come in. Invite me in, silly billy.’ She laughed. Everything is so funny tonight.
‘That’s not a good idea, Frankie.’
‘What? Why? Do you have someone else here? Another woman?’ Frankie asked, lilting to the side. ‘Hello! Other woman? Hello!’ she called behind Sunny.
‘You’re being ridiculous, Frankie. I’m calling you an Uber,’ Sunny said angrily.
‘You do have another woman in here! I can’t believe it!’ Frankie pushed past Sunny’s barricading body (she was particularly strong when she was intoxicated) and ran into his bedroom.
‘Hello? Mrs Sunny! Come out, come out wherever you are.’ She stopped at the side of his bed. Sitting on his bedside table, for the whole world to see, was a sketch of her. In it, her hair was tied up, just like it was now, and her head was thrown back in fits of laughter. He had drawn every detail of her perfectly, right down to the freckle above her eyebrow.
‘What’s this?’ Frankie picked up the sketch, her hands shaking.
‘Get out of my bedroom, Frankie,’ he barked.
‘What is this?’ she asked again, standing on her tiptoes to press the sketch up to his face.
‘It’s nothing.’ He snatched the paper out of her hands and ripped it in half. ‘I was drawing you out of me, line by line.’ He let the torn drawing float to the floor.
Frankie stepped back as she watched it fall.
‘You didn’t have to do that.’ Frankie pouted, looking at the torn drawing at her feet.
‘Frankie, please, you have to go. You can’t be here.’ Sunny’s forehead crease was particularly prominent. He looked tired, exasperated even. She was about to leave when she noticed his eyes trail her body, from head to toe. They glazed over in … in desire? Frankie crept closer to him and placed a hand on his bicep.
‘You don’t really want me to leave, do you?’ she purred.
‘Frankie, stop it,’ Sunny snapped, pulling his arm away.
Frankie smiled and brushed her hair away from her face. She was overcome with her newfound, alcohol-induced confidence. She edged towards Sunny, reached out to him and seductively whispered in his ear, ‘Come on. It doesn’t have to mean anything. Just a one-time thing.’ She softly kissed his bicep.
‘Frankie,’ Sunny uttered, his voice faltering.
Frankie took his hesitation as a sign, and slowly leaned into him, kissing his bare chest. ‘Come on, don’t you miss this?’ She kissed him again.
‘Frankie,’ he groaned.
‘Shh …’ She sighed, kissing him over and over. ‘Do you miss this?’ She gently nipped his skin. She heard him inhale, waver and then release.
‘Fuck it,’ he grated, and picked her up over his shoulder. He threw her hastily down on his bed, and almost fell on top of her before she had a second to breathe.
‘Don’t you miss this?’ She sighed into his skin, letting his weight engulf her. He answered by kissing her with a fervent, angry passion, like he was livid and hungry with desire all at the same time. She kissed him with equal lust and rage, until they were both entangled in a mess of aching fury.
Ach, my head.
Frankie peeled open her eyes and was shocked to find herself in Sunny’s bed. Naked. Light crept through the curtains, making her head throb. Then it all came back to her, like a startling, raw flash. The drunken confrontation, the sketch, the kiss. She groaned, pulling the sheets over her head. She breathed in deeply, the sweet scent of Sunny surrounding her. How she had missed being in this bed. Frankie rolled over lazily, wanting to drape her arm over him. But instead, her arm hit the exposed mattress.
‘Sunny?’ she called hesitantly.
No reply.
She staggered out of bed and threw on one of Sunny’s T-shirts. This is all too familiar. Heartbreakingly familiar. She crept towards the bathroom, her bare feet grazing the cold tiles, and carefully opened the door. He wasn’t there. She scoured the kitchen, the living room, the study. He was nowhere to be found.
‘Sunny?’ she called again, her head pounding, her eyes still half-open. She found her phone lying near the front door and clicked it on. One SMS from Sunny, sent an hour ago, awaited her.
Sunny: Damn it, Frankie. You can’t do that. You can’t just come to my place in the middle of the night and pretend like nothing’s happened. We’re over, Frankie. We are well and truly over, and I shouldn’t have done anything last night to make you think otherwise. Please, stop calling me. I’ve left for the day. Lock the door after you.
Frankie breathed in and out, tears burning behind her eyes. She squeezed the phone, threw it to the other side of the room and let out an ear-piercing, thunderous scream.