Chapter Five
Frankie Miller was the hottest guy in ninth grade. That may not seem like much, but believe me, when you’re in eighth grade, it’s a big deal if the shortstop of the baseball team buys you an ice cream. Frankie singled me out, and we dated on and off throughout high school. And then my senior year, he took me to prom and told me he wanted to marry me.
I guess it was kind of romantic—I was crazy about him at the time. But he was also doing me a favor. My parents were verbally abusive, at least, mostly verbally, and I wanted nothing more than to get away from them. I had no siblings, no other family.
So when Frankie said he would take care of me, and that I’d never have to spend another night under their roof, I said yes. I gave him a resounding yes.
Married at seventeen. Divorced by nineteen. Frankie and I had spent our young adult lives together, so it was definitely sad to break up. But not because one of our hearts got broken. It was sad because it was over.
Despite not being legally married for the last five years, Frankie and I still hung out. Laughed together. Ate meals together. He’s one of my best friends. Not as close as Zoey, obviously, but we share a long history together. Now I’ll be all alone. A spinster at twenty-four.
I’m driving home when the world’s saddest song comes on. “I can’t make you love me…. if you—”
“Nope,” I say out loud, and click to another station.
“All by myse—”
“Seriously?” I ask. I click through two more stations, all set to the “die alone” playlist, apparently. I turn off the radio, and blow my hair away from my face.
I pull up to Miller’s Garage, and take my usual parking spot in front of the office door. At the sound of my muffler, Frankie walks out into the driveway. He’s wearing his light blue Miller’s jumpsuit, wiping his hands on a dirty rag. He stuffs it in his pocket, and puts his hands on his hips as he waits for me to get out of my car.
Frankie isn’t much taller than I am, the sort of thing you don’t notice in ninth grade. In fact, I had never kissed a guy over six foot until after I was divorced. Zoey likes to refer to it as my Napoleon phase.
But Frankie is adorable. He’s pale blond with light blue eyes, dimples in both cheeks. He used to smoke, but quit after high school. Now he chews gum and always smells like cinnamon. I used to daydream about what our kids would look like—curly blond hair? Dimples? I still think they would have been the cutest trees a school play had ever seen, but it wasn’t meant to be.
Now Frankie was going to have babies with someone else.
I open the car door, and Frankie tilts his head, looking sorry for me. “I went by the apartment,” he says. “I even brought you a latte.”
I sigh heavily, and I can’t help it, I’m miserable. Frankie holds out his arms and I walk straight to him and hug him.
“I’m sorry about the way I told you, kid,” he says affectionately. “I should have gotten you drunk first.”
I laugh, my cheek to his. “Yeah, right,” I murmur. “When has that ever ended in a good decision?”
Frankie pulls back, and looks me over. His pity turns to suspicion pretty quickly, and he takes a step back. “You hooked up last night,” he says.
My lips part, and I try to hold on to some dignity. I hated that all of my friends could read my every sin. “It was a friend of a friend,” I admit.
“Nice guy?” Frankie asks.
I smile. “Not sure. Probably not.”
To this he frowns. “Well, if he’s not, I’ll beat his ass.” Frankie loops his arm in mine, and leads me toward the office.
Frankie will fight if I want him to. He’s a hot head, like me. But after seeing Ryerson mostly naked, I can’t imagine my ex-husband would have a chance at winning. I’ve had to jump in too many bar fights to count. I hope Ray is prepared to take out her earrings.
“Where’s Ray?” I ask as I go to stand behind the counter, opening the drawer to count the money.
“Her place. She’s, uh…” He lowers his eyes, and kicks at the ground. “She’s packing.”
“Packing? For wh—?” I stop. “Frankie, is she moving in?” I ask.
He shrugs. I’m annoyed that he didn’t tell me that part; I’m pissed at him, if I’m honest. I wanted a little more warning, a little more time to adjust. Now, suddenly, it’s no longer Cheyenne and Frankie. It’s Frankie and Rayanna. I slam the drawer closed.
“Kid,” Frankie says, leaning on the counter. “If you have a problem with her, we can—”
A horn beeps from the front of the garage, and Frankie tells me to hold that thought. I wasn’t the one talking, so I sneer at him, and turn around to arrange the rows of motor oil.
“What can I do for you, bud?” Frankie calls out, the same friendliness in his tone he shows all of his customers.
“I typically know my way around engines,” a voice said. “But I’m running late, and damn if I can’t find the source of that rattling.”
My heart stops. No way. I peek around the door. No fucking way.
Ryerson Banks stands next to a truck, the back of it packed with buckets of paint and drywall boards. He’s wearing sunglasses, and a fresh white T-shirt. Damn. Those arms.
I duck back around the door, my hand on my chest. I can’t let him see me. Oh, no. I’m wearing yesterday’s clothes. If I could just slip inside the back room, maybe I could—”
“Cheyenne,” Frankie calls, sounding distracted. “Can you bring out some papers for us, please?”
I close my eyes.
“Cheyenne?” Ryerson repeats, curious.
Before Frankie can attempt to explain who I am to him, I grab up the sales paperwork and head outside. I can’t believe I’m going to have to see him. Wearing the same clothes I kissed him in. Standing next to my ex-husband. I pray for a meteor to strike me down, but first, Ryerson turns in my direction, and his mouth pulls into a half smile. His eyes are hidden behind his sunglasses, so I can’t see his true reaction.
I should say hi. Maybe even a “nice to see you again,” but instead, I quickly jab the pen and paper at Frankie, and turn on my heels.
“Hey,” Frankie says, reaching out to take my elbow. “Stay out here with me.”
He puts his arm around my back, sifting through the papers before looking sideways at me. He presses his lips into a smile, his dimples deepening.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” he says quietly. And I can see he feels truly bad. That’s the thing about Frankie: he would never ever hurt my feelings on purpose. I’d appreciate it a bit more if Ryerson wasn’t standing three feet in front of me.
“It’s fine, Frankie,” I say, putting my hand on his chest to push him back a step.
“I’ll make it up to you tonight,” he says, reaching to pinch my chin sweetly.
“Sounds like a good offer,” Ryerson interjects. Both Frankie and I look at him, and Frankie laughs.
“Cheyenne will give me hell if I don’t. Trust me.”
“I bet,” Ryerson says, and turns to look around the garage.
“Happy wife, happy life,” Frankie says, and winks at me. It had been a running joke with us for years, funnier after we were divorced. Not very funny in this moment.
I could correct him, but that would mean outing my wild night with Ryerson Banks. And although I don’t regret it, I don’t exactly want to broadcast it. If I could just keep it together for another second, I can get out of here without talking to him at all.
For his part, Ryerson only sucks at his teeth, not looking in my direction once. Frankie hands me the paperwork.
“Let’s take a look under the hood,” Frankie says to Ryerson, and goes over to pat him on the back. They start toward the truck when Ryerson pauses to look back at me, his eyes still shaded.
He doesn’t smile when he replies, “It was nice to meet you, Mrs. Miller.”
***
“Zoey,” I say, the second she answers. “I need your help.”
“What’s wrong?” she sounds a little sleepy, and I almost hang up because she probably just had an afternoon delight with her hot officer fiancé, but my life is in shambles.
“Ryerson was just here,” I say.
“That stalker!” she says, and the phone shifts. “How did he find you?”
“He wasn’t looking for me,” I say, twisting a rogue curl around my finger. “He was having trouble with his truck. Anyway, he was here and dumbass Frankie called me out into the stall.”
“Oh my gosh,” Zoey says, and actually laughs. “Ryerson was talking to Frankie? Gross!”
“Be quiet,” I say, darting my eyes around to make sure neither guy is within ear shot. They were still outside. “So Frankie made his little ‘happy wife, happy life’ comment, and nobody laughed.”
“So?” she asks. “You’re not actually his wife.”
“I didn’t correct him.”
“Uh… why not?”
“Because I didn’t want him to know that Ryerson and I were together last night. And I wasn’t really in a place to talk to Ryerson because I was shocked to see him. I was still in last night’s clothes.”
“You should have borrowed a dress from me,” Zoey says like that’s the real problem here.
“I was almost done with my humiliation,” I continue, “when just as he walks out, Ryerson looks back and says, ‘Nice to meet you Mrs. Miller.’”
I exaggerate the ‘Mrs.’ a little more than Ryerson did to drive home the point. Zoey gasps.
“That was a solid move,” she says. “I would have done something very similar.”
“Zoey!”
“I’m just saying. Okay, so what do you need from me?”
“I need you to explain to him that I’m not married. I don’t want him to think that about me.”
“What do you care if you’re not going to pursue him?” she asks.
“I care because he thinks he hooked up with Mrs. Miller!”
“Fine,” Zoey says like I’m overreacting. “We’re having dinner with him later this week. I’ll casually mention your ex-husband, but I will not try to make you sound sexy. Ryerson doesn’t need the encouragement.”
“Thank you,” I say. “But feel free to call him before then so he doesn’t think I’m a horrible person.”
“Dinner’s on Thursday,” she sings out, and then kisses the receiver and hangs up.
***
“Frankie,” I say when he comes back into the office to give me the paperwork. He was able to fix Ryerson’s truck with a wrench and a couple of curse words, and the two shook hands and called it good. I stayed hidden in the office, although I saw Ryerson check the garage window before he drove off. “Frankie!” I call louder.
“What’s up?” he asks wide-eyed as he walks in. “You okay?”
I stare at him a moment, deciding whether or not to tell him about Ryerson. It’s not his business, although under normal circumstances, I would have told him, and we would’ve joked about it. But this time is different.
“I’m going home to change,” I say, grabbing my purse. “That cool?”
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
“I’m good. I just… I have to go.” I walk past him, and out to the Honda. I flip down the mirror, and groan when I see how terrible I look. I bet Ryerson rethought his evening after seeing me in the daylight.
I swipe my finger under my eyes, wiping away a bit of smeared mascara, and then speed toward my apartment. After I park in my assigned spot, I walk toward my building. No one is out. Most people are at work or school, but even if they were here, it’d be all kids and families, as if I’m the only single person left in the domestication apocalypse.
My apartment itself is cute, well-decorated with bright colors and fabrics. Salvaged antiques and a few new pieces. Zoey always said I had great taste. In high school, before I got married, I used to think I’d be an interior decorator. I have a knack for colors. For design.
Instead, I’m a receptionist in a car garage half-owned by my ex-husband. Life doesn’t always work out the way we plan.
I strip my clothes as I walk toward the shower, and when I’m under the hot water, I close my eyes and sigh heavily.