Frankie
I’m curled in a ball on the cold tile floor. Scalding-hot water rains down on me, melting the caked sand from my feet in chunks. Somehow I managed to get away with only a few minor cuts, plus one slightly stubborn gash, which continues to bleed even under a constant stream of water. Eventually, the bleeding stops.
I get out of the shower and put on a pair of yoga pants and a white tee. I use toilet paper to bandage the cut and then cover my foot with a sock.
Now that I’m away from Darian and free to cry without judgment, I can’t. It’s like the tears that have been building for the last hour are stuck. My brain can’t process what happened, and my heart doesn’t want it to. I just want to sleep this off, and since the sun has no immediate plans to set, I toss back a couple Tylenol PM and wash them down with a handful of water from the sink.
Darian’s sitting on the edge of the bed when I exit the bathroom, his gaze fixed on a white plastic box on his lap. He doesn’t notice me come in, and I stand there, watching him for a moment before I make myself known.
“Shower’s all yours,” I say, combing my fingers through my towel-dried hair.
He holds up the box. “I have a first aid kit. Just want to take a look at your foot.”
His voice is kind, and I’m in no mood to argue. I lie down on his side of the bed, the side closest to where he sits, and hold up my foot. He carefully pulls off my sock, but I wince when he tries to take off the paper.
“Francesca…” He makes a guttural sound in his throat. “The paper’s stuck to your cut. Why didn’t you ask me…” His question fades, and he gets up from the bed. “It’s okay. I promise I’ll be gentle.” He disappears into the bathroom and returns with a warm washcloth that he holds against my foot. The paper dissolves, and he dabs the area until it’s clean. “I was worried you were going to need stitches,” he says. “This will be a little cool. It’s just antiseptic; it won’t sting.” He smooths the cream over my cut and it instantly feels better. “It’s definitely not as bad as I thought. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head.
Darian places a bandage over the cut and covers it with my sock. “I don’t have a lot of comfort-type food here because I usually grill, but—”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Francesca, you have to be. You haven’t eaten today.”
I hug his pillow beneath my cheek. “Please, Darian, just let me sleep for a little while.”
“Okay,” he says, conceding, but at least a minute passes before he stands. “Get some rest.” He leaves the room and the door closes behind him.
I sleep hard and undisturbed for a full eight hours, but it’s still only one a.m. when I wake. The scent of frying bacon wafting in from the kitchen sends my angry stomach into fits. I haven’t had a thing to eat since dinner on Saturday.
I find Darian at the stove with a large cup of coffee in his hand and a dish towel slung over his shoulder. A small, rueful smile pulls at his lips as he turns around. He sets the cup on the counter and reaches for the towel to wipe his hands.
“Hey,” he says, coming around the small island as I sit on one of the barstools. “How is it?”
“Better, thank you.”
Darian crouches down beside my foot. “If you want to get it checked out…”
“It’s fine, I promise. It doesn’t even hurt.”
When he stands, he’s close to me, really close. I can smell the fresh scent of soap on his skin, even over the bacon. He slips his hands in the pockets of a pair of pajama pants I’ve never seen him wear. His shirt is a plain white V-neck. Something about it, something about him, just feels off. Everything feels off. I hate that this is where we are. And to think, if he had just gone with handcuffs, none of this would be happening.
“So, food,” he says, returning to the kitchen. He takes a Diet Coke out of the refrigerator, pops it open, and hands it to me across the island. “I figured you’d be waking up, so I dug around and found biscuits and bacon in the freezer. How do you feel about breakfast? We had eggs and cheese so I thought I could make sandwiches.” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “And please don’t say you aren’t hungry; your stomach was growling in your sleep.”
“You checked on me?” My voice sounds small.
“I sat with you,” he says and then quickly turns his attention back to the bacon. “Shouldn’t be much longer.” The oven beeps. He puts in the biscuits and sets the timer. “Everything else is ready.”
I feel like I’m in such a precarious place with him. The lines between us have always been blurred, but lately, they’ve been nonexistent. Yesterday a line was drawn, and I don’t even know why.
“Thank you for cooking,” I say over my rumbling stomach. “I am pretty hungry.”
He smiles. “Of course.”
Darian attempts small talk while we wait for the biscuits, but I mostly stay quiet, nodding when I think I should, shrugging occasionally.
“I was thinking we could take the boat out today,” he says, sitting beside me at the island. “Cruise around, maybe anchor somewhere and swim?”
My empty stomach suddenly feels heavy. “Um…we could do that.”
“Did you bring another swimsuit? Because if you didn’t—”
“I have one.”
“Francesca, about yesterday,” he says, turning toward me on the barstool, “what you said caught me off guard.”
I look up at him, and his eyes briefly meet mine before dropping to his hands wrapped around his coffee mug.
“You say you’re the overreactor,” he continues, “but yesterday…I guess I just misunderstood. I did misunderstand, right?”
“Darian, it’s not that you—”
“Because I thought we were on the same page.” He lifts the mug to his lips and holds it there for a second, then sets it back down without drinking any. “I don’t mean to lead you on, but that’s exactly what I’m doing, isn’t it? I care about you, Francesca. I like making you happy, but that’s as far as this can go. I need to know you understand that.”
“Darian, I do, but—”
The buzz of the timer cuts me off, and I slump over the bar, heaving a long sigh as he takes the biscuits out of the oven. One o’clock in the morning is obviously not the time to discuss anything serious when he’s wired on coffee and I’m starving.
Darian sets my plate in front of me and then downs his sandwich in a couple of bites while standing over the sink.
“You don’t have to wait for me; you should get some sleep,” I say, my eyes darting to the cup of coffee on the counter. “If that’s possible.”
He shrugs. “I’ll be fine. Are you coming back to bed?”
“I think I’m going to read for a while.”
I don’t miss the slight downturn of his lips or the way his brows pull into a subtle frown. His disappointment shouldn’t bother me, but it does.
“Okay,” he says, walking toward me.
He leans in like he’s going to kiss me, but I pull back just enough to deter him. I can tell my rejection stings, which only makes me feel worse. He squeezes my shoulder instead.
“Don’t stay up all night. We have a big day ahead of us.”
We anchor in an empty cove, walled on three sides by jagged cliffs. The water is a deep cerulean blue, a stark contrast to the periwinkle sky. Clouds are few and far between and stretch like white taffy above us. The beauty of this place makes it easy to ignore the elephant in the room.
“Nice, huh?” Darian calls from behind me. “I mean, they should be. They’ve never been used.”
I turn around. “Why do you have skis if you always come alone?”
“Drew,” he says. “He gave them to me as a housewarming gift, but I’m pretty sure they were a bribe.”
I smile. “So you’d bring him.”
Darian lays the skis across the rear of the boat and takes a seat at the helm. “I’ll bring him eventually.” He peeks over the rim of his sunglasses at my foot. “So what do you think?”
“I don’t think I should risk it,” I say. “I’m not much of a skier anyway. I like it better when I can keep my legs closed. Together I mean. On my knees.” I hide my face in my hands. “Like on a kneeboard.”
Darian laughs. “Why don’t we just hang out today? And tomorrow, if you’re up to it, we’ll go into Marathon for a kneeboard or a tube.”
A lump forms in my throat. He says tomorrow like it’s nothing, but to me it feels so far away.
“Sounds like fun.”
“And I can teach you how to drive the boat,” he says. “Matter of fact, come here.”
My gaze cuts to the open water. “Maybe we should think about this. I’ll probably crash into a whale or something.”
“Nonsense.”
Darian pats his lap and my chest tightens. The thought of being that close to him makes me anxious. I never did go back to bed last night. I stayed on the couch with a book and pretended to read.
A small smile touches his lips as I take hesitant steps in his direction.
“I promise, Francesca. It’s easier than you think.”
If only that’s what I was nervous about.
I sit with him behind the wheel and focus my attention on the switches and gauges on the dash panel, but as soon as I feel his hands on my skin, my focus falters.
“You need sunscreen,” he says, pulling the hair off my back. “Your shoulders are pink.”
He digs the bottle of SPF 30 out of the bag by his feet and pops the lid. My head falls forward as he works the cool, satiny cream into my skin. His touch draws out an accidental moan, and I stiffen beneath his fingers.
“I can think of a few more places that could use sunscreen,” he whispers against my neck.
Nervous laughter bubbles out of me. I climb off his lap and move away from him, my arms wrapping protectively around my waist as I warm my face in the sun.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Darian says from behind me.
My lips pull in a tight smile, and I turn around. “I think we need to talk about yesterday.”
“I thought we did talk about yesterday.”
“No, you talked about yesterday. We didn’t talk about anything.” I slip my hands in the pockets of my shorts and press my back against the wall behind me. “Darian,” I say softly, “what you did in that clearing goes way beyond overreacting. You were cruel. You yelled at me.”
He takes off his sunglasses and sets them on top of the console. Then he leans forward with his fingers linked, forearms resting on his thighs.
“In my whole life, no one has ever screamed at me like that,” I say, my voice turning brittle. “Even at the diner, and I’m not a very good waitress. Darian, the fact that it was you—”
“Francesca…”
“Can you not see how much that hurt me? You didn’t even apologize.”
He sits up. “Of course I apologized.”
“No, Darian, you didn’t.”
“I’m sorry then. But it was just a stupid misunderstanding. It happens.” Darian shoves out of his chair and moves to the rear of the boat. “Why do we have to make a big deal out of it?”
“Because it is a big deal. It’s a big deal to me.”
He stands with his legs planted wide, his arms crossed. “Yell at me.”
“What?”
“Yell at me,” he says again. “Even the score so we can move past this. Be cruel. Say what’s on your mind. Come on, Francesca.”
My heart sinks. “I don’t want to yell at you.”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m hurt, Darian, not angry.”
“What if it were Jane?” he says. “What if Jane had overreacted?”
“What does Jane have to do with this?”
“Just humor me, Francesca.”
I look out over the gulf and watch the birds circling in the distance. “Jane would never talk to me that way.”
“Let’s say she did. Would you be hurt?”
My gaze darts back to Darian. I move away from the wall and take a step toward him, my arms at my sides, my hands clenched into fists. “If Jane screamed at me the way you did yesterday, I’d be pissed. I’d tell her to fuck off.”
“Then be pissed at me,” he says, his face twisting in a scowl. “Tell me to fuck off.”
“I can’t!”
“Why not? What’s the fucking difference?” He links his fingers behind his head and turns away from me. “Why be pissed at Jane and not me?”
“Because I’m not in love with Jane!”
Oh God.
My hand catches a sharp gasp as it leaves my lips. I spin away from Darian and brace myself against the fiberglass wall.
Jane’s right. I’m in love with him.
The wind starts up and the boat begins to sway. A large osprey flies overhead and casts an ominous shadow. It chirps loudly, breaking the short silence that settled in.
“The water’s getting choppy,” Darian says. “I didn’t check the weather. I don’t want to get caught out here if it storms.”
I sink into the closest seat and keep my eyes trained on the bird as it circles above us.
It was such a beautiful day, and then the sun just disappeared.
Darian secures the skis, then moves to the helm. “I’ve missed a lot of work that I should get back to,” he says over his shoulder. “And I know you have stuff to catch up on.”
I nod, but I don’t think he sees me.
“I’d like to get out of here by seven tomorrow if you can be ready,” he says.
I nod at that too.
The drive back to Miami is unbearably tense. Darian doesn’t speak to me once, nor does he turn on the radio. Two and a half hours is a long time to be punished by that level of silence. I stay curled against the door for most of it, pretending I’m asleep.
We get to Darian’s place at a quarter past ten. He parks in the forecourt, directly in front of the house. I lift my head as he cuts the engine.
“We’re here.” His voice is quiet. He keeps his eyes and hands on the wheel and makes no immediate move to get out of the car.
A trace of hope flickers in my chest. I take off my seatbelt and turn toward him, but he still doesn’t acknowledge me.
“Will you please say something?” I ask.
“What do you want me to say, Francesca?”
“Anything, Darian. Everything.” I hug my shoulders, resting my cheek on the back of my hand. “Something.”
He says nothing.
“You can’t seriously be mad at me. It’s not like I planned this. You aren’t some asshole I’m fucking. You’re a genuinely good guy—maybe not right this second but usually. Of course I was going to fall for you.”
Darian reclines his seat back and crosses his arms over his chest. “Yes, Francesca, I can be mad at you,” he says. “I’m fucking pissed. I was up-front with you. I told you from day one, nothing could come of this. And what did you say? You said, ‘We’re both adults,’ and that I wouldn’t have to worry about you.”
My nails dig into my palms. “And what did you say, Darian? You said we were friends.”
“We are friends!”
“No, we’re not. You buy me expensive gifts, you take me on dates, you cook for me, bring me flowers—that’s not what friends do. What the hell was I supposed to think? I even called you out on it. I told you it was confusing. The very next day, you took me on a romantic getaway to South Beach.”
Darian opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “I’m not blaming you. It’s not like I woke up this morning and thought, Darian’s saying one thing and doing another. I knew you were sending me mixed signals, but I only paid attention to the ones that suited me. I’m a masochist, Darian, not an idiot. So be mad at me if it makes you feel better, but you’re gonna have to get in line.” I draw a shaky breath and reach for the door handle. “I’ll take a cab to the airport and book a flight when I get there.”
“Wait.” Darian reaches for my hand, and I swear my heart stops when his fingers close around it. “I talked you into coming. You were hesitant, and I…” His words fall away as his thumb sweeps over my knuckles. “And you hate flying. I’ll have a plane ready by one.”
I nod, my eyes filling with tears behind the dark lenses of my sunglasses.
“Francesca…” He squeezes my hand once, then lets it go. “Let me know when you’re ready.”
I grab my clothes from Darian’s closet and carelessly throw them on his bed.
What did you expect, Frankie?
I empty the drawer he gave me and then clear my stuff out of his bathroom.
Did you think you were just gonna laugh it off and go back to the way things were?
I shove everything in my duffel.
Pretend it never happened and never speak of it again?
I fold his Doors T-shirt and leave it on his dresser. Then I pick it up and stuff it in my bag. Then I put it back on his dresser.
Or did you think he’d be in love with you too?
I take one last agonizing look around. It’s all so very normal. The same faint tick of the library clock sounds through the bedroom door. Birds tweet from the same branch outside the window. The late morning sun warms the same area of carpet and casts the same yellow glow on the walls. Everything is exactly as it was before me and will be this way long after I’m gone.
“Darian?” I call his name as I descend the staircase, my duffel strapped across my chest, my laptop bag hanging from my shoulder. I’m met with more of his silence…
And the addition of a scribbled note on the console table.
I HAD AN EMERGENCY AT WORK. I’M SORRY I COULDN’T STAY.
CJ WILL BE HERE AT NOON TO TAKE YOU TO THE AIRPORT.
HAVE A SAFE FLIGHT.
DF
My heart drops like lead to the pit of my stomach. He isn’t even going to tell me goodbye.
“Hello, milady. Your chariot awaits,” CJ says as I slide into the backseat of the familiar Mercedes SUV.
“Hello, CJ.”
Despite my desire to sleep, I stay awake for the drive.
“Traffic is at its best this time of day,” CJ tells me.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I manage a smile.
Rural becomes urban, and homes become buildings as we close in on the airport. Anxiety builds inside me at every turn, and by the time we pull onto the tarmac, I’m ready to crack. My stomach is a tangled mess of nerves and it has nothing to do with flying, only flying away.
“We’re here,” CJ says as he puts the car in park.
I turn to look out my window and I see a small jet, dark blue and silver with burgundy trim.
Of course.
It’s like this whole trip has turned into a bad movie playing in reverse. The same driver, the same car, the same plane.
So I take the same seat by the window because why not?
God, this sucks.
My finger hovers over Jane’s number for a while before I press Call, and any semblance of calm I possessed crumbles the second she picks up. My voice breaks as soon as I say her name, and then I completely fall apart.
“Frankie? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m coming home,” I say, choking out the words. “You were right about me. Wrong about him.”
There’s silence on the line, then a sigh.
“Oh, Frankie. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“I thought things were changing. I thought…” I wipe my eyes beneath the lenses of my sunglasses. “No. He said friends, and I should have listened.”
“You aren’t friends,” Jane says. “You never were.”
“Then why did he insist on calling us that?”
“I don’t know, sweetie, but my guess is…he had to.”
I stare out the window as CJ’s SUV rolls out of sight. “Why do I feel like this? It hasn’t even been that long.”
“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been,” she says. “Love happens when it happens. Some people fall in love; some people start out that way.”
And some people refuse to love at all.