Frankie
The NyQuil I took wears off, and like an addict after a fix, I trudge to the kitchen for more. I’ve been over my welcome-home cold for a couple of days now, but NyQuil is the only thing that allows me to sleep. I should probably just leave the stupid bottle on my nightstand so I don’t have to keep getting up. But then I might never get up.
I toss back the shot just as my phone vibrates on the counter. A nervous chill sweeps over me. At three a.m., my mind immediately goes to Jane, but as I yank my phone free from the charger, I find it’s Darian’s face, not Jane’s, displayed on the screen. My heart launches into full-blown panic.
Why is he calling me?
Why is he calling me so late?
I don’t answer. I can’t answer.
Seconds later, I get a text.
Darian: I’m in your driveway.
My gaze shoots to the window, but with the light on in my kitchen, all I see is my slack-jawed reflection staring back at me. I flip the switch and look again.
Shit.
Darian’s in my driveway—bent forward with his arms wrapped around the wheel, his hunched silhouette illuminated. The sight of him knocks the wind out of me.
I stare, dumbstruck, not sure what I should do. Other than cracking his door, he hasn’t moved.
These past few days have been hell. I’ve been sick. I’ve been drunk. I’ve cried until I’ve run out of tears. I’ve slept through whole days and spent whole nights staring out this window. Having your heart broken is no fucking joke, but it’s true what they say: every day, it does get a little easier.
Unless the cause of your heartbreak shows up at your house at three in the morning just when you’re starting to get it together. I want to lock the door and pretend this isn’t happening. I want to run to him and pretend everything’s okay.
What is he even doing here?
I take a deep, steadying breath and open the door. The bracing chill from an early spring cold front hugs me with frozen arms. I welcome it; it’s numbing, and right now, numbing is good.
Darian’s gaze locks on me as he climbs out of the car.
“Why are you here?” I ask.
His breath hits the air in clouds of white vapor. He shivers as he walks toward me, his arms wrapped tightly around his torso. He gets to my bottom step and stops. He doesn’t complain about the cold, nor does he ask to come inside.
“I saw your light on,” he says.
“That’s not what I asked.”
“I needed to see you. I was going to wait until morning, but…”
“But you were freezing?”
“I knew you were up.”
A blistery gust of wind slices through the railing. The bitter cold fills my lungs and my cough threatens to return.
“Get your stuff and come in.”
He holds up a white plastic drugstore bag. “This is all I have.”
I give him a single nod, and he climbs the steps. He stops just short of the door and lifts a hand to my face like he’s going to touch me but decides against it.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I don’t know what else to say but I’m sorry.”
I’m sorry too.
“Not out here.” I wave him in.
Darian’s body goes rigid the second he enters my kitchen, and my cheeks heat from embarrassment.
“It’s not as bad as it looks,” I say. “I’ve been sick.”
He turns on the overhead light, and I turn it off behind him; the moonlight coming through the window is bad enough. I sink into the closest chair at the table and watch as his eyes trail over the mess I’ve made of my life in the last four days—the scattered contents of my duffel, the empty wine bottles on the counter, the overflowing trash bin.
“Francesca…” My name comes out as a sigh and only makes me feel worse. Darian sits in the chair across from me but keeps his eyes downturned.
“You weren’t supposed to see this.” I peer down at my guys-suck pajama pants and the mystery stain on my tank. “You weren’t supposed to see me like this.”
He swallows hard. “I’m in no position to judge.”
Then why aren’t you looking at me?
“And you don’t need to worry about me either,” I say. “I’m fine.”
He eyes the half-empty bottle of NyQuil sitting on the counter beside the sink. “You said you’re sick?”
I shrug. “I haven’t been feeling well. But I’m fine.”
His gaze lingers on the NyQuil, but mine falls on him. He looks so different. His eyes are bloodshot and his sexy stubble is on its way to a full-grown beard. He’s dressed in jeans and a plain white T-shirt—no band, no logo, no tour dates gracing the back. Despite everything that’s happened, it makes my chest ache to see him this way, so…unlike himself.
“Why are you here, Darian? I know you didn’t drive over a thousand miles just to tell me you’re sorry.”
He glances down at his thumb sliding back and forth across the edge of the table. “I know I should have called before showing up in the middle of the night, but I thought you’d tell me not to come.”
“You would have been right.”
“God, baby, I’m so sorry,” he says, lifting his gaze.
Now he decides to look at me, just as my eyes begin to water.
I shove out of my chair and move to the sink. “Yes, I know. You’ve said that already. And please don’t call me baby. I’m not your baby; I’m not your anything.”
I crack the window and draw in a sharp breath of cold air. My body is exhausted and the NyQuil is kicking in. I’m emotional, to say the least, and it wouldn’t take much to make me a sobbing mess.
“You warned me. I was the one who fell in love and broke our agreement.” A tear spills down my cheek and I brush it away. “You’re far from innocent in all this, but I can’t fault you for not loving me back.”
“Francesca, there’s so much I need to say to you.”
The legs of his chair scrape against the linoleum as he pushes out of it. I watch his reflection advance toward me in the glass. He cups his hands over my shoulders, and I duck away from him, moving a safe distance across the kitchen.
“You didn’t even tell me goodbye.” My voice splinters and I can feel my resolve splintering right along with it. “I think that was the worst part. You just discarded me like I wasn’t even worth a wave or a handshake.”
He leans forward, gripping the edge of the counter. “I know.”
“Darian, it’s really late…or really early. Like I said, I haven’t been feeling well. The only reason I was up was to take something to help me sleep, and that’s what I need to be doing.”
We both look up at the same time, our eyes catching in the window.
“I can’t do this right now.”
“Okay,” he says gently. “I don’t want to upset you any more than I already have.” He turns around to look at me. “I understand if you want me to find somewhere else to stay tonight.”
The thought of him being here, with only a wall to separate us…it’s unbearable. But the thought of him leaving is worse.
“It’s fine,” I say, moving to the linen closet. “You can have the sofa.” I grab an extra pillow and blanket. “It’s not very comfortable, but it’s better than your car.”
“Thank you, Francesca.” He sits on the edge of my couch, hunched forward with his head in his hands. “I hate that I hurt you,” he whispers as I turn toward my room.
“I know,” I whisper back.
I wake up expecting the same onslaught of tears that have greeted me every morning, but today it seems I’ve been spared. Having Darian here gives me the tiniest flutter of false hope. I’m not foolish enough to think this will end well. I know he will leave and the agony of that loss will hit me tenfold, but right now, my heart feels just a little less broken.
Darian’s back is to me as I step into the kitchen. He’s standing over the sink in a pair of loose-fitting basketball shorts and a white tee. His jeans are spread out in front of him and he’s scrubbing them with a dishcloth.
I stand there a moment and stare. God, how I’ve missed him.
“Spill something?” I ask as I slide into a chair.
The sound of my voice startles him and his head whips around.
“Grass stains,” he says, hanging the rag on the faucet. He grabs a paper towel to dry his hands and then tosses it in the waste bin—the emptied waste bin.
I glance around my kitchen. It’s clean. My duffel is zipped closed and parked near the back door. My counters are clutter-free. I stretch my arms across my bare table and notice even the wine rings are missing.
I’m both embarrassed and grateful he did this for me.
“Thank you for picking up,” I say. “I’m not usually so messy, but I wasn’t expecting…company.”
His lips curve slightly. “Couldn’t sleep. Figured I’d do something to help out.” He takes a white paper bag out of the oven and sets it on the table with a couple of plates. “Sucks trying to do stuff when you’re sick.”
Or when you’re heartbroken.
The savory scent rising from the bag teases my stomach. I pull it open and peek inside. “Tacos?”
“From that food truck next to Rose’s.” He thumbs the neck of his shirt. “Needed to get a few things and thought you might be hungry.”
“I’m starving. I haven’t…”
Eaten, I think, as I pull out a taco and set it on a plate. But Darian already knows that because this is what he does. This is how he takes care of me, and he’s done it this whole time.
Warmth spreads through me at the realization.
I sit back in my chair and slowly lift my eyes to his. “Darian, why didn’t you bring anything? And why didn’t you fly?”
“Last-minute decision,” he says, turning back to the sink to inspect his jeans. He turns on the faucet and runs water over the knees.
“There’s an old toothbrush in the junk drawer on your right,” I tell him. “How did you manage to get grass stains on—”
My question’s interrupted by Jane’s face lighting up my phone. It vibrates across the table and I grab it just before it slides off the edge.
“If that’s Jane,” Darian says, “you might want to answer. She’s been calling all morning.”
A long sigh heaves from my throat as I get up from the chair. “Yeah, I should probably talk to her before she calls in a SWAT team.”
I wouldn’t say I’ve been avoiding her exactly, but I have been putting her off. I can’t blame her for being worried. It’s not like I’ve been the picture of health and stability this week.
I’ve been…blah. And there’s nothing you can do to cheer up blah, so I spared her the effort.
I grab my sweater hanging by the door and shrug into it. The biting wind slams into me as I step outside, rendering the flimsy fabric useless. I huddle in the corner of my patio and dial Jane back.
“It’s about time,” she says, picking up on the first ring. “You know you freak me out when you don’t answer.”
“I didn’t mean to freak you out. I slept in this morning.”
“Morning? It’s one thirty.”
“I was up late,” I say as my teeth begin to chatter.
“Then I hope you got plenty of rest because I just bought both Magic Mikes, oh, and get this, I found Pole Dance 101 on Amazon. We’re gonna need margaritas. I know that doesn’t exactly go with pizza, but I don’t think we want to be sloshing red wine around your—”
“Jane—”
“Duh. We don’t have poles. Red wine it is then.”
Ugh. It’s Saturday. I told her she could come over. I drag my fingers through my hair, pulling it into a clump at my neck. “Pizza and strippers sound heavenly, but we’re going to have to reschedule.”
“Oh no you don’t. Dammit, Frankie. I knew you were going to flake on me.”
“I’m not flaking,” I say, stepping away from the wall with my phone wedged between my ear and shoulder. I run my hands up and down my thinly covered arms trying to warm them. “He’s here.”
“Darian?”
“Yes Darian. Who else?”
I hear her sliding glass door open and close followed by the squeak of the rusted lawn chair she refuses to part with.
“Did you know he was coming?” Her voice stutters in the cold. “How long has he been there?”
I cup my hand over my mouth as if Darian might hear me through the wall. “No. He just showed up. At three this morning. Jane, it’s weird. He drove.”
“Why did he drive? And what does he want?”
“He said it was a last-minute decision, and I don’t know what he wants. We haven’t gotten that far yet.” I move back to my corner. “I think he feels bad. It’s not like we parted on good terms.”
She blows out a loud exhale. “Frankie, you understand this whole friends-with-benefits thing can’t continue, right?”
“Yes.”
“I’m serious. You could really get hurt. You’ve already gotten hurt.”
“I know.”
“It’s freaking cold out here,” she says through her own set of chattering teeth. “Text me with updates, and don’t forget I’m going to Houston for that writers’ retreat on Monday, but I’ll have my phone on the whole time. God I hope it’s warmer there. Call me if you need anything. Call me if you don’t need anything. Just call me, okay?”
“I will. I promise.” My frozen lips curve into a smile as I reach for the door handle. “Have fun, and don’t forget to pack your condoms.”
Jane laughs. “Please. They stay packed. I love you, Frankie.”
“Love you too.”
I hang up my sweater when I step inside the kitchen and then shiver from the lack of warmth it managed to provide. After spending two weeks in the Sunshine State, this weather is just plain cruel.
Darian’s sitting at the table in the chair across from mine. He pops open a can of Diet Coke, pours it over ice, and slides it toward my plate. My mouth waters. Real food and a Diet Coke. I haven’t had either lately.
“Everything okay with Jane?” he asks as I drop into my chair.
“My late night awarded me a pass.” I hold up my soda before taking a sip. “Thanks for this.”
We eat in heavy silence—heavy by way of Darian’s stare that never seems to leave me. I know he’s here to talk; I just don’t know what he wants to talk about, and to be honest, I’m a little scared to find out. If all he wanted to do was apologize a phone call would have sufficed.
I’m worried it’s more than that. I’m worried he wants to go back to the way things were—you know, before I opened my big mouth and spilled my feelings all over his boat.
I wish it were that simple.
I push my glass aside and trace my finger around the water ring it left on my newly polished table—around and around as I try to figure out a way to get this over with.
Say your piece, make nice, and go home…so I can start this whole miserable process all over again.
I look up at him. “Are you going to tell me why you’re here?”
“I miss you, Francesca,” he says without hesitation. He leans forward and rests his forearms on the table. His fingers inch toward mine. “I fucking miss you, and I’m sorry…”
My gaze drops to his hands and my heart aches with longing. I want nothing more than to feel the warmth of his skin, the strength of his grip, the familiar comfort of his thumb as it grazes my knuckles. But I can’t. I can’t let myself feel him because when he lets go, I’ll shatter.
I grab our empty plates instead.
“Darian, I miss you too, but I’m going to have to keep missing you.” I set our dishes on the counter and pull open my junk drawer. With trembling fingers, I dig for the toothbrush and then stretch his jeans taut across the sink. “I’m sorry I fell for you, but I did and I can’t be your friend anymore.” The sentence hurts. I blink back tears as I turn on the faucet and focus on the task at hand.
“You wanted to know how I got the grass stains…” Darian’s voice sounds fragile and quiet, as if we’re suddenly in a library. “I went to the cemetery. Before I came here, that’s where I was.”
My hands stop moving and I lift my blurry gaze to the window.
“I’ve been there exactly twice,” he says as he edges up to the sink. He takes the brush and jeans from my stalled fingers and resumes what I barely managed to start. He’s silent for a moment while he works, but then his hand stills, closing tight around the brush. “And both times, I ruined a perfectly good pair of jeans.” His smile is mirthless. He wipes his eyes with his forearm, then returns to the stain.
The image my mind conjures is heartrending. I move to the side, a hand held to my mouth as I watch Darian work the brush with gentle strokes. The soap lathers to a thick foam, and he rinses it beneath the faucet. The stubborn stain doesn’t even have the decency to fade.
“The first time was right after the funeral,” he says. “I kneeled before Julia’s headstone and promised her there would never be anyone else.” His gaze burns through the window. He splays his fingers and the brush falls from his hand. “The second time was two days ago—when I broke that promise. I told her I was in love with you.” He turns to me then, and a long, slow swallow rolls down his throat. “I love you, Francesca.”
He loves me.
My heart swells with the words and then crashes to the pit of my stomach.
But he wishes he didn’t.
The tears I managed to quell burst free, sliding down my face in a solid sheet.
“I tried to fight it,” he says. “God knows I tried. You left and I thought my only choice was to get over you…but I can’t.”
He scrubs his hand over his face, leaving behind damp cheeks and thick, wet lashes. His eyes search mine, and the desperate look he gives me causes my breath to catch. My fingers itch to touch him and my arms long to wrap around him, but I don’t do either. I just stand and stare, unable to move or speak.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “This isn’t how I wanted this conversation to go.” He rakes a hand through his hair. “I didn’t mean to dump all this on you. I wanted to tell you I fucked up and to please forgive me and that I hope like hell you still love me because I love you.”
Aside from the running water, the room goes completely silent.
“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say.” I hug my arms to my chest. “I can’t imagine what that must have been like for you, but you really hurt me, Darian.”
“I know,” he says, “and I’m going to fix it. Please, Francesca, let me fix it. At least let me try.”
“How?”
“Come with me to Austin tomorrow, just for one night. There’s something I want to show you.”
“Austin.” The word falls from my mouth.
Where we began…
I feel light-headed. “This is a lot, Darian,” I say, gripping the counter for support, “and so not what I thought you were going to tell me.” I turn off the faucet. “I’m a little overwhelmed. Actually, I’m a lot overwhelmed. I need to clear my head and just…think.”
Darian nods. “I understand. Do you want me to go?”
“No,” I say quickly, turning toward my bedroom door. I don’t want you to go. “You don’t have to go. Just give me some time.”
Frankie: He told me he loves me.
Jane: I knew it! What did you say?
Frankie: Not a lot. I’m scared. What if he still isn’t ready?
Jane: What if he is?
I sink low in my claw-foot tub as honeysuckle-scented bubbles rise to my chin. My knees are bent, my feet perched on the lip of the porcelain. The faint glow of the afternoon sun filters through sheer white curtains, bathing the room in dim light. The effect is calming, and I begin to relax for the first time in days.
I lie there for maybe an hour as the water cools and the dim light turns gray. I’m about to get out when my phone vibrates with a text.
Darian: I heard a song on my way here that made me think of you. It’s called Flight. Ironic, huh? Can we erase every stupid thing I’ve said since I got here and pretend I led with this?
Frankie: Darian…
Darian: I know. I’m not playing fair. Just listen.
Seconds later, the appears on my screen and I click on it. A soft piano intro fills my small bathroom and I lie back in the lukewarm water, close my eyes, and let the melody envelop me. The lyrics are both a confession and a promise, and I listen to them again and again until my skin prunes.
Darian’s telling me he loves me.
He’s telling me I’m his lifeline.
He’s telling me…he’s ready.
Frankie: I’ll go with you to Austin.