Affection unfurls inside me as her words settle, warm and deep in my heart. “That’s a very nice thing to say, Francesca. And you do have me.”
The way she looks at me, her fear and vulnerability gut-wrenchingly close to the surface, is like a blow to the chest. As is so often the case with Frankie—and I’ve noticed this with my sister, Ziggy, too—her mind sees the world incisively, with a raw analysis that most of us avoid. Frankie cuts straight to the heart of love’s vulnerability. And while most of us like to comfort ourselves with the delusion that love is bliss, it’s not called falling in love for nothing. We love, entranced by the breathtaking view, and we fall, not knowing where we’ll land.
Our food is set before us, plates turned to an exact angle for best presentation. Waters filled. Then we’re alone again.
Frankie stares at her food and sighs.
“Hey.” I touch her gently, slipping her hand inside mine. “How are you feeling about all of this?”
She meets my eyes. “After last night, when you told me, then you left…I thought about if I could do this, if I wanted it.” Her eyes soften, and her shoulders round, like she wants to curl in on herself. “And all I could think was about how much I missed you. I wished I was with you. So that’s why I’m here, because right now, I can at least tell you with complete sincerity, that I want to be with you, and I feel like I’ll want to be with you more and more. But I also have to be honest, Ren. This is scary.”
“How can I make it less so?”
She smiles softly. “Be honest with me. Be honest with yourself. When it gets to be too much, tell me.”
“It won’t, Frankie.” I squeeze her hand. “I’ll show you that.”
“Well, that’s that, then. But until we’re out of the playoffs or we win the Cup, we act like we always have at work—completely professional. As long as the season runs, no matter what we do personally off-hours, nothing changes in how I treat you in front of others.”
“What about if someone finds out while you’re still with the team? Do you want to wait until after the season?”
Please say no. Pleeeease say no.
“Hell no,” she says, waving a hand. “We’ll be professional at work, and if anyone guesses why I’m spending time with you outside of it, it’s not like I risk losing my job for it anymore. I’m leaving the team. It’s no one’s goddamn business what we do. I mean…does that work for you?”
I smile at her. “Absolutely.”
“Good.” Frankie smiles to herself and cuts into her meal. She’s quiet as she works her way through her food, and just as I’m starting to worry about the silence, about the places her thoughts have taken her, I’m stopped by the gentle press of her foot next to mine beneath the table.
The tiniest gesture.
But it feels impossibly significant.
19
Frankie
Playlist: “Crush,” Tessa Violet
I don’t know why I play footsie with him under the table. I don’t know why it feels so relieving to confess that I feel vulnerable, that the prospect of intimacy terrifies me, because one day he could do what others have done before and hurt me.
What I do know is that as we eat and I replay his response in my memory, my heart beats calm and steady, an unfamiliar warmth centering beneath my ribs, radiating to tender, forgotten corners of my body.
I know that sunlight on Ren’s hair shines like a weathered copper penny, that some fragile bud of happiness blossoms inside me as we eat in comfortable quiet. He’s willing to prove his trustworthiness when he shouldn’t have to, and I wish I didn’t need that from him. I wish I didn’t see people as guilty until proven innocent. But the past has been a harsh teacher, and its lesson isn’t easily forgotten—I don’t get hurt when I adopt a self-protective outlook.
“So.” Setting down his fork, Ren leans back and lounges in his seat, hands behind his head.
“So.” I slurp the last of my root beer, then frown down at it. When I glance up, he’s smiling at me. “What?”
He shakes his head. “What do you plan to do between the season ending and starting law school?”
“Well, not too much. Study, read, catch up on sleep. Maybe get a hip replacement.”
He drops his hands, his eyes widening. “Frankie, you didn’t tell me your hip was that bad—”
“Easy, Ren. It was a joke. A bad one, obviously.”
Ren scrubs his face, then rakes his fingers through his hair. “Okay, I’ll catch up. Autoimmune diseases and major surgeries are fair game for humor.”
“It’s not major surgery. The new technique is minimally invasive. And yeah, I have a sense of humor about my medical dossier. You know the saying. ‘If you don’t laugh, you’ll cry.’ So, I crack jokes.”
Our waiter comes by with a fresh root beer. “Oh.” I glance up at him and smile. “Thanks.”
He turns beet red. “S-sure, miss.” Spinning away, he’s gone before I can say anything else, like “Can I see the dessert menu?”
What? I have a sweet tooth.
Ren clears his throat, prompting me to turn back to face him. His eyes dance over my face. “I had no idea that was all it took to earn that kind of smile from you.”
I wrinkle my nose. “What?”
“Root beer. And here I thought it was the gummies.”
“You got those for me?”
Ren tips his head. “Of course, Frankie. I knew you liked them.”
“Oh.” I fiddle with my fork. “I thought you just liked them after trying them at my house.”
A beat of silence holds between us. He leans in and wipes my lip clean.
“Ketchup,” he says quietly. Then he sticks his thumb in his mouth and licks it clean with a pop.
Preschool Jesus with a Carpentry Awl, my wires are crossing. And as he leans close, he hits me with his spicy, clean scent. I stare into his kind eyes, absorbing his sheer size and proximity. I decide Ren is living temptation. I want under him. Yesterday.
I can’t meet his eyes for long. They see too much, they travel too far under my skin and stir up feelings that make me shiver and gulp for air. That gently smiling mouth says he can go slow. Those pale cat eyes say I want you for dinner.
“Frankie,” he says.
“Hm?”
“Will you come over tomorrow night?”
“Yes,” I blurt.
And I may literally jump you when I arrive.
“Good.” Lifting a hand, he signals the waiter. “Because I miss Pazza.”
“Hey. A girl likes to know she’s wanted for more than her adorable dog.”
He smiles. It’s a new smile. A secret smile. “Then let me reassure you. I want you for much more than that.”
Gulp.
“But as I said, there’s no rush or pressure,” he continues. “On either of us. Physically. Emotionally. We’ll go slow, just spend time together.”
“Oh, I feel zero pressure. Going slow isn’t necessary.” And I swear to whoever is the patron saint of sexual satisfaction—trust me, there is one, Catholics have patron saints for everything— if that man doesn’t seduce me the moment that I walk into his house tomorrow, I’m going to lose my mind.