I smile as she bites her lip and tries not to smile back at me.
Suddenly, her face turns to a frown. “We need to talk about something,” she says seriously.
My heart leaps off a cliff and free-falls into panic “Oh? What’s that?” Worst-case-scenario thoughts blitz my mind with stunning clarity.
She’s not satisfied.
This isn’t working for her.
She just wants to be friends.
“I don’t know your middle name.” Her frown deepens. “And I realized it’s one of those details you’re supposed to know when you’re serious about someone. I feel like I failed because I didn’t ask you that. That and a few other things.”
No longer plummeting to its doom, my heart flips and lands in a pool of sweet relief. I drop my head on a rough exhale.
Frankie doesn’t notice. “I realized in the shower earlier,” she continues, “I’ve shared more life with you, had more sex with you than anyone else, talked about worldviews and politics, but I don’t know your middle name. I know you want to stay with the team for as long as you can, that you want to miss the woods as much as you love the ocean, that you want a piano in your house, but I don’t know your middle name. And I should. Am I making any sense?”
Finally, my body’s calmed from the free fall my heart just took, and I glance up, meeting her eyes.
“What is it?” she asks, looking at me in confusion.
“Oh, I just catastrophized. I thought you were breaking up with me for a minute.”
Her mouth drops. She blinks rapidly, and then she bursts into laughter. Hysterical, loud laughter. “How?” she says between fits of laughter. “How could you think that?”
“I don’t actually find the internal panic I just went through that funny, Frankie.”
She sobers. “I’m sorry. It isn’t funny, you’re right. It’s just that, Ren… I’m happy with you. So happy.” Her features grow guarded. “Are you happy?” she asks quietly.
I slide my hand into hers and tangle our fingers. “Far beyond happy, Frankie. I’m over the moon. Every day.”
A small, pleased smile warms her face. “Good.” After a beat of silence, she pulls away and takes a sip of her water. “All right, fill in the gaps for me, then. Middle name. Cough it up.”
“Isak. Yours is Chiara.”
“How did you…?” She gives me a look. “You totally scoped out my ID, didn’t you?”
I smooth my napkin, straighten my knife. A man needs a little dignity in life.
Taking my non-answer for the answer that it is, she moves on. “Do you really want five kids?”
Glancing up, I meet her eyes, trying to trace the route of our conversation, which isn’t always clear when Frankie and I talk. She doesn’t do all the pit stops and detours that “typical” dialogue takes. Sometimes I need a minute to catch up, but I find it wildly refreshing to speak so directly with her.
“It’s a ballpark,” I tell her. “I’m open to discussion. You?”
“A couple at least.”
I stare at her, finding it easy to picture her as a mom, and a good one, at that. Playful, empathic, affectionate. I can see her sitting near the water in a comfy beach chair, reading a book with a baby sleeping on her chest. That picture, that moment in my mind’s eye, it’s something I want with a physical hunger.
Frankie smiles and slips her legs between mine under the table. “I think you like me, Zenzero, conversational speed bumps and all.”
God, if she only knew how much. “I more than like you, pumpkin patch. I love you, exactly as you are.”
She smiles and peers down at her menu again. “That’s the disturbing thing.”
After we order, we watch the sun set, and I smile as she moans and sighs over a gourmet burger. When the server clears our plates and leaves a dessert menu, she picks the chocolatiest confection, then sits back with a sigh in her chair. The sea breeze sweeps her hair up and drags dark strands across her face. Frankie deftly tugs them back and glances at me, catching me staring at her.
“Hi,” she says quietly.
I grin and stretch my legs further beneath the table, tangling with hers. “Hi.”
“This has been really nice, Ren. Thank you.”
“Good.” I lift my water in a toast to her. I’m not touching alcohol, not when I’ll be driving her home. “Congratulations on law school, sugar plum.”
Her lips twitch as she lifts her root beer. “Thanks, pudding pop.”
The waiter clears his throat, looking like he might have gotten more than he bargained for when he took this exclusive two-top. Frankie glances away, hiding her smile by sipping her drink.
Accepting the check, I pull out my wallet and hand him my card. “Thanks.”
The best kind of server, our waiter simply sets the dessert right in front of Frankie, slips one candle in it, which he lights, then silently disappears.
“Huh.” Frankie reaches for something on the middle of the table. “What’s this?”
I watch her pick up the fortune cookie paper as if it’s in slow motion. It must have fallen out of my wallet. I didn’t mean for her to see that. Not yet.
Faster than you’d think, she snatches it up, and spins the worn paper between her fingers. But I’m fast, too, and my hand clamps over it.
Her eyes narrow at me. “What?”
“It’s…private.”
“A private fortune?” She tries to pull her hand away, but my grip is solid. “What’s the big deal?”
“Please, Frankie. It’s a souvenir of sorts. It’s special to me.”
She frowns. “Why won’t you let me read it?”
The lightbulb goes off over her head. Her eyes widen. “Souvenir? Is this from that night? When you came over and ate all my Chinese?”
“Excuse me. We split that food fair and square, Miss Revisionist History. In fact, I think you stole one of my wontons, maybe even two.”
Wrangling the paper out of her grip, which I feel a little bad for—late in the day, Frankie’s hands get stiff and, in her words, “sloppy”—I flip open my wallet and slide it back inside.
I’m saving that fortune paper for a day in the future. One involving a sparkly ring and me hiving with anxiety.
Giving me a scowl, Frankie lifts a fork to dig into her cake, then pauses as she sees the solitary candle. Her face blanks. “Why the candle? It’s not my birthday,” she says.
“I told him we were celebrating you. I think he misunderstood.”
Frankie peers at the flame, as if it holds a secret. “What do I do?”
I rub my knee against hers, knowing touch is sometimes all she needs for a little reassurance. “It might not be your birthday, Frankie. But you can always make a wish.”
She glances up at me and holds my gaze. The sunset blazes in her eyes, sets her skin on fire. I soak in every detail I can when she closes her eyes and blows out the tiny flame with one powerful breath.
As smoke curls in the air, my heart says its own wish, too.
Once we park in my garage and get inside, Pazza’s thrilled to see us. Frankie doesn’t even scold her when she jumps up and tries to lick me. She’s far away, her brow furrowed. Gears turning.