I rub my eyes, sure that they're deceiving me…but they're not. My throat tightens as I look through the large picture window and across the street at beautiful Frankie sitting on those front porch steps. It's a sight I've seen a million times, yet this time is different—she's different.

She's older and more mature. Her body is the same, yet she's a woman now and not the girl I remember. I knew every inch of her back then, and my body trembles in remembrance as I watch her, longing for her like I did all those years ago. The longing never really went away; I just buried it behind my job, the bottle, and endless women who could never hold a candle to Frankie.

I lean against the wall and study her—taking her in. Her hair is longer now…she's ten years older, but she looks exactly like I envisioned her. She rocks back and forth slowly, her arms wrapped around her knees with her face tilted to the sky, just as she's always done, and my stomach twists at the sight. How I've longed to reach out to her over the years—to apologize to her, to explain to her, but some things are better left in the past, including us.

The sound of her voice on the phone when I called was enough to send me on a bender. I spent the night at the garage, drowning my misery and regret in a fifth of Jim Beam, and even that didn't drown out the pain of my lies and how they hurt her—hurt me, and destroyed us.

She sits on those damn lop-sided steps that I've been meaning to fix for months, but never have. I couldn't. Those were the steps that Frankie had built her dreams on, planned her life—a life I was supposed to be a part of, a life that I let go of—for her.

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat as I remember her running her fingers through my hair as she'd tell me stories on those steps. There was nothing in the world I loved more than listening to her and having her run her fingers through my hair. To this day, no one is allowed to do that to me—touch me like that, that was Frankie's thing. It'll only ever be hers.

I close my eyes and push back the memories to the little place that's too painful to visit. I made a decision all those years ago and while I've regretted it every day since then, I still know it was for the best.

I push off the wall and walk down the hall to the bathroom, flipping on the shower and turning the water all the way to hot. I yank open the medicine cabinet and pull a bottle of ibuprofen off the shelf, shaking two pills into the palm of my hand. Tossing them in my mouth, I fight to swallow them against the back of my dry throat. I'm hoping the pills and hot water will lessen my headache and bring some relief to my aching body before I have to face Frankie.

---

Shoving my phone into my back pocket, I grab my car keys and jump into my aging Jeep Wrangler. I spent the better portion of two years after Frankie left restoring this thing. It was the perfect distraction and the only way to take out my frustration. I spent days and nights, for weeks and months, burying thoughts of Frankie while I restored it. She's now pristine.

I drive down to the old auto shop, Ryan Auto Works, the garage my dad opened when I was a little boy. It's no longer the shop we use, but I keep tools and personal vehicles I'm working on here. I couldn't bear selling this building after Pops died. This was the first building I ever held a wrench in and where I learned how to change a tire. This shop was part of me, just like Frankie.

The battered brick building has seen better days, the once vibrant red brick now faded from years of sun and weather. I lift the large metal garage door and it slides open, exposing the old Harley Davidson and the Ford Mustang I've recently purchased. When Pops died five years ago, I took over his auto shop business but also expanded to restoring vehicles—a hobby of mine.

Three guys run the auto maintenance side, and my buddy Carter and I do the custom refurbishing. It's a long and tedious process to restore a vehicle back to like-new condition, one that can take years. In fact, I have a wait list up to two years to take on new projects. In the last couple of years, I've made connections through recommendations with a couple A-list actors in Hollywood. Their projects will take us the better half of the next two years to complete, with the other guys taking on the bulk of the other auto repair work. A custom job can run upward of a quarter of a million dollars, and we have no shortage of people willing to pay. Our wait list is insane, and while the lure of big money sits on that list, I pride myself on quality, not rushing through a job.

We were fortunate enough to be able to build a new, modern garage on the other side of Main Street. In the last couple of years, Crescent Ridge has actually seen growth in development. We used to only have a diner, a local grocer, Pop's auto shop, a gas station, and small drug store. We've recently added a coffee shop, a dance studio, a bakery, and a library that serves as a community center. A small credit union is slated to open later this year, and I'm reinvesting in Crescent Ridge by building a small bar and grill that will cater to the evening crowd.

Progress is good, and it's been great for the economy here, but it’s even better to finally see hard working people not struggle to find the jobs they so desperately need.

"Ryan!" I hear from behind me and I turn around to see Carter wiping his hands on a dirty towel.

"What's up, man?" I holler over my shoulder at him.

"How's Ms. Callaway?" He strides up next to me, using the towel to wipe grease off his fingernails.

I stare ahead at the motorcycle, making mental notes of everything I need to order to restore it. Distraction, it's what I'm good at.

"Fine," I mumble, walking closer to the bike.

"What's got you in a pissy mood? Shelley not putting out for you?" He laughs obnoxiously, following me into the garage.

I ignore his comment and him, kneeling down to twist a foot peg, hoping to loosen it. Damn thing is rusted on.

"Hello," he says, waving his arms around to get my attention. Attention that is focused only on the girl who still owns my heart. "Earth to—"

"Frankie's back," I tell him quietly, running my hand over the cracked leather seat of the Harley. Seeing the condition of this bike physically hurts me. I've always treated vehicles and motorcycles like small children—very carefully, delicately, and with utmost protection.

"Holy shit." I hear him mumble. "She came back?" He's as surprised as I was to see her back in Crescent Ridge.

I nod and use the handle bar to help pull myself back up. I prop my hands on my hips and turn to look at Carter. "She did."

His eyes widen as he waits for me to tell him more, only there's nothing else to tell. "And?" He tosses the dirty towel onto a pile of other dirty towels that need to be washed.

"And what?” I retort. “She's back. Her mom is sick. End of story."

"Have you talked to her?"

I puff air loudly through my nose and smirk. "I hardly think Frankie will be up for catching up. What happened in the past stays there. We've both moved on," I lie to him. I'll never move on from her, but he doesn't need to know that.

Carter has been my best friend since elementary school. Actually, Frankie was my best friend. Carter was next in line, but he fell right into first place when I hurt Frankie and she left.

"You haven't moved on, man." He slaps my shoulder and squints his dark brown eyes at me. "You're lying to yourself if that's what you believe. She may have moved on, but you, my friend…you have not moved on."

"Fuck off," I grumble, raking my hands over my face in frustration.

Clearing his throat, he toes a crack in the garage floor with his work boot. "Maybe you should come clean. Tell her the truth. Get that shit off your conscience." He raises his eyes at me, and I shoot him a dirty look.

Come clean? That's the last thing I'll be doing. I scoff, "Let it go, man. Some things are best left in the past."

He groans in frustration. "Why did you let her believe you were with Whitney?"

I see his feet retreat a few feet back, probably afraid of what my response will be. I take a deep breath and look up at him. "Because I needed her to go, Carter. She would’ve thrown her life, her career, her education away for me." My voice breaks, and I clear my throat to shove down my emotions.

"You could have just broken up with her ya' know. You didn't have to make her believe you were cheating on her, or that Whitney's baby was yours." He takes a deep breath, eyeing me carefully, knowing he's gone too far. He's wanted to call me on my shit for ten years and right now, I'm weak enough to let him.

I twist the throttle on the motorcycle, finding something to fidget with. "She would have come back here. She wasn't for a second going to just let me break up with her…that's not how Frankie and I were."

"You need to talk to her."

"No can do." I turn back to the rusty foot peg.

He shakes his head and strides over to the fridge we keep in the old shop, pulling out a cold bottle of water. "I'm just saying you may never see her again, Cole. Don't let this opportunity slip past you. It's rare in life that we get an opportunity to right our wrongs." He shoots me a disgusted look and leaves the garage. A look I wholeheartedly deserve.

I kick a wrench that's lying on the ground and feel the anger I've buried for so long bubble to the surface. "Let it go," I tell myself. "Let her go."

---

Hours later and feeling no better than I did when Carter left, I slam the large rolling garage door down. It makes a thunderous sound when it meets the concrete drive. I engage the lock and head back to my Jeep, starting it and revving the engine. I engage the clutch and push the gas a little too hard, causing the Jeep to lurch forward. Just as I near the street, I catch something in the corner of my eye. I slam on the brakes and the tires squeal.

What the hell!

"Would you look out!" I yell as Maggie Winthrop rolls by on her skateboard.

Maggie Winthrop is Frankie's niece, Faith's daughter, and a dead ringer for Frankie at nine years old. She narrows her blue eyes at me and hops off her skateboard before turning back to glare at me.

"Why don't you slow down!" she hollers back and adjusts the baseball cap that's turned backward on her head.

"You're a pain in the ass, Mags!" I holler at her before easing the Jeep onto the road.

"Back at you, Ryan!" She rolls her eyes at me and then hops back on her skateboard.

When Faith Winthrop moved back to town after her divorce, I was certain I'd hear from her. I've been waiting for the riot act—only it's never come. She was always Frankie's protector…but she's never spoken a word to me in the three years she's been back in Crescent Ridge. I catch her nasty glares and dirty looks in passing, but she's never once confronted me about what happened between Frankie and me.

Maggie, on the other hand, is never short on words. I often see her at her Grandma's house across the street, and she's always offering me the latest insult or jab—reminding me so fondly of Frankie from the past. Maggie is complex, much like Frankie was. She's a Tomboy, a ballet dancer, and a swimmer. She's talented and multi-dimensional, just like her aunt Frankie, and I find all of her qualities, including her smartass mouth, endearing—though I'd never admit that to her.

My stomach lurches as I roll into our cul-de-sac and park my Jeep in the driveway. I take a chance and peer through my rearview mirror at the house behind me, hoping to catch another glance of Frankie. When I don’t see her, I hop down from the Jeep and walk toward the front porch of my house. A moment later, I hear the screen door across the street squeal before closing with a bang.

My feet feel like bricks as they come to an abrupt stop and I turn around. My lungs release the air I was holding and my stomach settles when I see the nurse I hired to care for Martha. She offers me a short wave as she walks down the driveway to her car parked on the street. I jog down to meet her, anxious for an update on Martha and anything she'll willingly tell me about Frankie.

I approach and she offers me a kind smile. "Mr. Ryan," she says, her voice soft and comforting. "Frances made it home late last night."

I nod and stand with my hands on my hips, one eye carefully trained on the house behind her in case Frankie appears.

"Martha is up and Melinda is preparing her breakfast,” she continues. “She was so happy to see her daughter. Melinda will walk Faith and Frances through our afternoon care routine."

"Good," I tell her as she juggles her car keys in her hand.

"I'll be back again this evening and will make sure to update you immediately if anything changes with Ms. Callaway."

"That sounds great. Thank you again for your help." I smile at her as she opens her car door and tosses her purse on the passenger seat.

"Oh," Judy says, turning back to me and wringing her hands together nervously. "Ms. Callaway…I mean Frances," she corrects herself, "asked for billing to be transferred to her— "

I shake my head quickly, cutting her off. "Nope. Our agreement remains intact. I'll continue picking up the costs for her care until I determine that it should be transferred.” I quickly add, “No need to argue with Frankie about it, just don't transfer it."

Judy sighs loudly but doesn't argue with me. "Yes, sir," she says quietly and slides into the driver’s seat of her Nissan Sentra.

I wave to her as she drives off, and I cross back to my side of the street where I belong. Far away from Frankie.

There are very few things I can do to ever rectify what I did to Frankie. Even though she's moved on and is some big-time lawyer in Los Angeles, this is something I can do to help clear my guilty conscience.