Sarah
I text Frank the moment my flight lands. He responds to tell me he’s waiting at baggage claim. His words are curt. Informational. There’s no hint that he’s excited to see me. No hint as to how he’s feeling. No hint as to whether or not he’s sober.
Except I know he’s sober.
He has to be.
He drove here and Frank isn’t the kind of person to get behind the wheel while he’s intoxicated.
I hurry through the airport, desperate to see him, but my heart drops when I do. His hair, normally perfectly messy, is an actual total disaster. His beard has grown way past five o’clock shadow. His face is strained, and his eyes are bloodshot, but he smiles when he sees me, wrapping me in a tight hug.
“You really do bring me joy,” he says, his breath whispering past my ear. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you again.”
I inhale, checking his breath for any hint of alcohol and am relieved to find nothing but mint. I melt into him, the familiar planes of his body feeling more like home than Brookside. “I missed you, too.”
We hold hands through the airport and then again on the drive back to his apartment. He asks me about my father and I give him the last two days’ worth of information. I want to talk about him, but every time I try, he changes the subject.
“I overslept,” he says as he fits the keys into the lock on his front door. “And didn’t get to clean up before I left.”
I’ve never seen Frank’s apartment look anything but spic and span, save some unopened mail or the remnants of his morning coffee left on the counter. But, I’ve never seen Frank himself look anything but spic and span, and the man in front of me is a disheveled mess. “It’s fine,” I say, though the moment I step through the door, I pause.
This is not fine. This is the remnants of a breakdown. Or the beginning of one, whispers a horrified voice in the back of my head.
Books cover the floors with pictures, knickknacks, and the shelves they sat on thrown in for good measure. Remnants of a pizza sit in a box on the counter, half-eaten pieces of crust strewn around the inside. An empty bottle of Jameson lies on its side on the coffee table, which is sitting at an odd angle to the couch, and two more bottles, one opened, the other still full, stand like sentinels near the trash. I turn to Frank who runs a hand along his mouth, the stubble scratching across his skin.
“It wasn’t a good couple days.”
“I’d say not.” I step close to Frank and run my hands up his arms, my gaze locked on his. “You want to talk about it?”
“Not really.” He rolls his bloodshot eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
There’s actually quite a lot to talk about, but I take a page from his book and don’t push. “Okay. But when you’re ready, I’m here.” I smile and Frank turns away.
I doubt he’s been sober very much in the last couple days and sadness settles in my heart. In my head, he was impenetrable. An almost inhuman example of how to live life. Seeing him like this is like watching a hero fall. Graceless. Disappointing. Disheartening.
It feels like I’m standing next to a stranger. My Frank would swoop me into his arms, kiss me like I’m oxygen and he’s starving for air, then drag me into the bedroom while telling me how much he missed me. This Frank can barely maintain eye contact. “You wanna take a nap?” I ask.
“Nah.” He scrunches up his nose and runs a hand into his hair. “Guess I should probably start cleaning up this mess.” He bends to grab a book off the floor, then stares at it like he’s never seen it before. “I didn’t drink all of it,” he says, indicating the bottles near the trash. “I started to, but I got control of myself before I went through with it.”
“Good.” I smile, eager to find something positive to focus on, then crouch to start picking stuff off the floor. What he needs is action. He needs his apartment back in order, so we can start working on a plan.
Frank snorts. “Good, huh? You telling me I’ve been a good boy for kind of doing what you told me to do?” His words are caustic and the look in his eyes tells me he intended them to hurt. I furrow my brow and refocus my efforts on cleaning up. There’s no telling how long he’s been sober, though I’d venture to guess not long. He’s definitely hungover and probably feels like shit. I can handle some mean words while he’s working all this out. If the tables were turned, Frank would stick by me until I got myself under control.
“Is there any place you’d like me to put this stuff?” I hold out the things I’ve gathered from the floor. I don’t bother to smile. He’s not looking at me anyway.
Frank drops onto the couch. “I’m kinda partial to where I had it.”
I glance at the space on the wall where the shelf used to be, only to remember the shelf itself is on the floor. “Well, the shelf is broken, so I don’t think this stuff will go back…”
“I mean the floor, Sarah. Just put it back on the floor.” Frank drops his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes.
I take a long breath as hurt rolls through me. With anyone else, that would be my cue to leave, and leave permanently. I’d be gone faster than he could blink. And part of me is ready to go. Of all the people in the world, I never expected Frank to treat me this way. I thought he was better than this.
He is better than this.
This isn’t him.
This is the alcohol talking.
I glance at him and watch as his features soften, the stress between his eyes melting away as he loses his grip on consciousness. Looks like maybe that nap is happening after all. I tiptoe, quiet as I can, and gather a handful of stuff into a pile. Maybe, if his apartment looks more like the way he’s used to when he wakes up, it’ll help him feel more like himself.
“I told you to leave it.”
Frank’s voice startles me and I whirl, then trip over something and fall to the floor, only to find a woman’s high heel shoe staring me in the face.
The dumbest question in all the world falls from my lips. “What’s this?” I ask, even though I know exactly what it is.
“What’s what?” Frank shifts forward so he’s perching on the edge of the couch and drops his head in his hands.
I pinch the shoe between my thumb and forefinger, as if the material might burn me. “This.” I hold it out for him to see as panic spins, hollow and empty, throughout my body.
Frank’s lips part.
His eyes go wide.
He shakes his head.
“It’s not what it looks like.”
“It looks like a woman’s shoe.”
“It is a woman’s shoe.”
“Then it’s exactly what it looks like. Please, Frank. Please explain how this is anything but exactly what it looks like.” I stand. Images of Frank and the owner of this shoe burn through my brain.
His hands in her hair.
Her mouth on his skin.
The two of them, frenzied, knocking the shelf off the wall in their passion.
I drop the thing and put a hand to my heart. “Frank…?”
It feels like my insides are curling up and drying out. Like everything that was right with the world is now shriveling up and dying. My life was blooming after a long, harsh winter. Tender shoots of growth breaking through the cold ground.
And now…this.
A blast of frigid air shocks my system and my hand starts to tremble in front of me.
“Bree came over—”
“Bree?” I brace myself on the wall.
Frank stands and crosses the space between us in just a few long strides. “Sarah…”
“Bree?” I press a hand against my stomach and draw my brows together.
Frank’s gaze pins me in place. “It’s not what you’re thinking.”
“You keep saying that but then not saying anything to help me understand what it really is.” I cannot, not even for a second, wrap my mind around Frank sleeping with someone else while I was gone. It’s not the kind of man he is.
But Bree?
There’s just no way.
There has to be a logical explanation for her shoe to be in his living room. There has to be. I wait for him to tell me, fighting back panic riding in on wave after wave of nausea.
Frank’s eyes darken. “You know what? Fuck it. You won’t believe me if I tell you the truth. You’ve already decided that I’ve slept with her. Or…” His eyes go wide before he narrows them. “You’re just looking for a reason to leave me. Now that I have nothing to offer you, why would someone like you stay?”
I open my mouth to respond, but the words get caught by the giant lump in my throat. Someone like me? What’s that even mean? I’ve been nothing but good to him. And sure, I’ve shared my past, and yes, I deserve to be judged. Hell, I judge myself. But is it fair of him to judge me off of those stories when I’ve been different with him? Even after my brother warned me that I might not know the real Frank, I’m still here because I’m willing to judge him off the man I know, not the man he used to be.
Frank glares. “That’s it, isn’t it? You, the woman who wouldn’t go to her own brother’s wedding, the woman whose best friend knows the only thing you can count on her to do is let everyone down…God!” He rakes his hands into his hair. “It makes so much sense now. I thought you were falling in love with me. But you were using me, weren’t you? And now that I have nothing to give you, you’re going to create some big drama over something, regardless of the very reasonable explanation I have.”
I hold out my hands in exasperation. “But you’ve never even given me the explanation!” Was I wrong? Is he still drunk? That’s the only thing that makes sense right now. Frank is too rational to behave this way.
He pinches his brow, then runs his hand along the back of his neck. “I can’t fucking deal with this right now. My head is throbbing and I can’t remember the last time I ate anything but a pizza crust.”
“How am I the bad guy here? Please just tell me what’s going on.”
Frank scowls and for the first time since I met him, I feel like I don’t know him. “You know what, Sarah? I need you to go. Now. Please, just leave me alone.”