When I finally wake up, it's seven o'clock in the evening and my head is pounding to the beat of my pulse. I grumble and push myself out of bed, stumbling into the bathroom. Two Tylenol and a hot shower is exactly what I need right now.

I swallow down two capsules and step into the warm spray. As the hot water stings my face, I inhale the steam and let it burn my lungs. My stomach turns when I think about my child, my own flesh and blood, and Frankie keeping that from me. I draw in a deep breath and pinch my eyes closed as I envision what my little girl might look like, what she might be into these days, if she plays sports, if she loves music. Does she have my eyes and Frankie’s dark hair? Does she have Frankie’s fighting spirit? So many things roll around in my mind.

Yesterday I was filled with anger and hurt, and today I'm just numb. I believe everything Frankie told me. I could see her pain written across her face as she recounted the decisions she made based upon her life in those moments.

To think about how life may have turned out had I not gone through with my plan to push Frankie away…I can’t even think about it; it makes me fucking sick to my stomach. Is there a feeling deeper than regret? Because regret doesn't seem to even touch how I'm feeling for the part I played in all of this.

Feeling lower than I’ve ever felt in my life, I finish my shower and throw on some clothes before heading over to the shop. Planning to lose myself in Jack Vanderbilt’s vehicle is a much better choice than what I used to lose myself in—booze and pussy.

When I get to the shop, Carter's truck is parked at the curb and the exterior lights shine bright against the dark sky. Carter has gotten good at reading my mood over the years, and with my current state of mind, I fully expect him to leave me the fuck alone.

When I push the door open and step into the large garage, I find Carter standing next to a rolling cart, holding a laptop. He does this when parts start coming in for restoration vehicles, ensuring every part ordered is correct. This is how we keep inventory and maintain accurate records of every part ordered for the vehicles we're restoring. Carter has always been the one to maintain organization in this place. I've always been the creative mind, the chaos, while he keeps the ship afloat.

He looks up from the computer, giving me a onceover. His face hardens yet he says nothing, just as I expected. I toss my sweatshirt on the chair and push the power button on the car lift. As Vanderbilt's car rises, I mentally break down where we'll start with this thing.

I run my fingers over the rusted muffler, feeling the old, rough metal under my fingertips. As I poke around under the car, I can see Carter powering down the computer and beginning to stock parts that have come in. He works quietly while I make noise. That's just how we work.

Hours pass when I finally see him shrug on his jacket and toss the last cardboard box he's unloaded over in the corner. He walks over slowly, resting both of his hands on side panel of the Corvette I'm still standing under. "You know, this car has seen better days." He runs the palm of his hand over the large dent in the door. "When it was new, it used to be perfect." His eyes almost smile as he looks over the car. "But like everything else in life, wear and tear and abuse beat it down."

I stop poking at the lines underneath and prop my hands on my hips, wondering where he’s going with this.

"Sometimes we get cars with a history so bad I wonder if we'll ever get it back to its original condition." I narrow my eyes as he builds on his story. "And then I remember, we don't want it to be new. These cars have a history, and stories, and we're taking away all of the outside damage to make it look new, and work like new—but we can't erase that car’s history."

He clears his throat and his hands fall to his sides. "Kind of like you and Frankie."

Resentment burns inside me as he speaks of us. I clench my jaw, my heart squeezing in my chest at the sound of her name.

"Back in the day, you two were perfect." He looks down at his feet, avoiding my death glare. "But then wear and tear happened…nothing that can't be restored. Pull off the damaged pieces and start building a new relationship. The history will always be there—you don't get to erase that—but you can put it back together better than it was." He raises his head to look at me. His eyes hold mine and I swallow hard against my dry throat.

"Don't let this destroy you two," he says quietly before turning around and grabbing his car keys off the rolling cart. "Just like you, Cole, she deserves a second chance, too." He pushes the shop door open and steps outside. I hear the click of the lock moments before I hear his old truck roar to life. Fucking Carter Richardson, always dropping wisdom when I least expect it.

---

The past week has been a time of reflection and mourning for me. I haven't spoken to Frankie since that night a week ago. I see her come and go, and a few days ago she had Maggie return the key I gave her to the old thrift store. She assumes that I want it back. I don't. It's hers. It always will be.

I hate to admit it, but I've learned that there is nothing that time can't or won't heal—it's about learning to let go of the past and not becoming a hostage to it. The last ten years I've been a hostage to the choices I made that led to Frankie making choices that have held her hostage. We've been in an endless cycle of living our present based on consequences of the past.

I'm done with that.

Two days ago, I placed a lumber order, printed the building plans off my computer, and hired a construction crew to help me with one goal in mind—tear down the past and rebuild the future.

So here I stand, on a Saturday morning at seven o'clock, with two cups of coffee, a sledgehammer, and a plan. The old front porch is flimsy and it takes only a couple of swings for the sledgehammer to bring the entire damn thing down. A part of me hurts watching an important part of my past descend into a pile of rubble, while another part of me understands that letting the past go is critical to building a future.

Frankie and Faith stand in the large picture window, each juggling a mug in their hands while watching the crew work with a look of confusion on their faces. Faith looks pissed and Frankie looks…sad. I cleared the demolition and construction with Martha a long time ago; I just didn't have the heart to let go before now.

Ten minutes later, Frankie rounds the corner of the house all bundled up in a large cream sweater. Her hair is piled on top of her head and a few loose strands hang down, framing her perfect face. Her bright blue eyes shine in the morning sun.

"What the hell are you doing?" she yells over the sounds of saws and hammers.

"What I should’ve done a long time ago." I turn and look at the pile of old wood sitting in a large construction dumpster. "Letting go of the past." I manage to say without getting emotional. I'm tucking those memories deep inside my heart. I'll never forget the days and nights Frankie and I spent sitting on this porch—every conversation we had here, and every dream we conveyed to each other. I'll carry those memories, and also the pain of some of those memories, with me forever. However, I decided it's time to focus on moving forward.

Frankie tilts her head and narrows her eyes at me as I begin to speak. "If you thought for a single second I was going to walk away after getting you back, you are sorely mistaken."

I toss the sledgehammer onto the frost-covered ground and hold Frankie's gaze. "I needed to take some time to process everything." I look away from her and to the ground where I kick at the brown lawn. "I needed to think about how my choices and decisions impacted yours." I look back to her. "And I needed time to get my head put back together."

Frankie shivers and rubs her arms with her hands. She pulls her lips in between her teeth as she watches me.

"I'm sorry," I tell her. I seem to always be apologizing. "I don't know that I'll ever agree with the decision you made, but I do understand why you did it."

I see tears forming in the corner of her eyes and her chin trembles.

My voice grows hoarse with emotion as I tell her, "It's time for us to move forward, Frankie…if you still want me."

The tears that were pooling in her eyes finally spill over and she lunges forward, colliding with my chest. Her arms wrap tightly around my neck and I pull her closer, breathing in the scent of her. She smells like coconut and coffee, and while our story is far from perfect, it's also far from over.

"I love you, Frankie," I whisper against the top of her head.

"I love you, too." I hear her say as the final piece of our past is loaded into the dumpster and driven away.