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“I’m going to see him on Monday.”
“Not literally.” Lauren grabs a pillow from behind her and smacks me with it. “This is it—this is the night. If this was a movie, this would be the montage where she’s staring out her window at the rain, probably crying without ruining her makeup. He’s off doing something sweaty and manly. Chopping wood or killing bad guys. Whatever. That’s not the point.”
“Okay, I understand what you’re describing, but that’s not me, okay? I’m not the kind of girl who stares out a rainy window wishing for something I can’t have.” I’m lost, but an inkling of what she means is creeping up in the back of my mind.
“It’s not your dark night, dummy. It’s Julian’s.”
Julian’s? “What?”
“He heard us talking at the party. After shit went down with Derek, he must have come back inside because I saw him leave after we said you were being mean to him.”
My stomach twists at the idea. What did he hear? Is he upset? “Why didn’t he say anything?”
Lauren pops back up on her elbow, tucking her hair behind her ear. “What was he whispering to you when we got there?”
The twist in my stomach tightens when I think back on his words. “He said that if I just wanted to be friends, that’s fine. But if so, I was a shitty friend. He”—I swallow hard—“He told me he wanted something real, and I never gave him an answer.”
Lauren swings the pillow at my face again. “Jesus Christ, Frankie. Why didn’t you lead with that? Use your words, for fuck’s sake, and tell him you want to be together.”
“But don’t you think I’m too late? That after this week and tonight he’ll have changed his mind?”
“Frankie Davenport, you are not this stupid. This is why everyone hates the miscommunication trope, it’s fucking annoying.” Lauren glares at me. “If you tell me your phone is dead, I will fucking murder you.”
I clamp my lips shut.
“Ugh, I wash my hands of you.” Max hops up on the bed with a little meow. He pads close to Lauren and rubs his head under her chin. She strokes his back absently, still eyeing me. “Ball’s in your court, babe.”
Max settles on the bed between us, his little feet kneading my chest. He’s not the reason why my chest relaxes a smidge and my stomach untwists, but I pet his soft belly anyway, taking a deep breath. “How would you suggest I go about communicating?”
Twenty-two
Julian
She never answered my text.
After I got home last night, I made sure the ringer was on, just in case she needed me, but I never heard anything. I stayed up with Liam for a few hours playing video games, but finally went to bed disappointed. So when I woke up, instead of moping about it, I forced Liam out of bed and to the gym with me to sweat it out.
I’ve been checking my phone all damn morning, waiting for her to respond.
In retribution, Liam made me pick up Emma on our way home, ostensibly to work on their biology project that’s due on Monday. Poor girl probably didn’t count on being squished into my truck with two sweaty men, but she bears it like a champ. Although I notice she doesn’t touch Liam nearly as much as she usually does.
Someone is standing outside our building when I pull up. A certain small, orange-haired someone who makes my heart race in my chest. She’s holding two coffee cups in her hands, the February drizzle soaking into her hoodie, her slumped posture and down-cast face setting warning alarms off in my gut.
“Frankie?” Emma is the first to speak. She turns to look at me. “You didn’t tell me Frankie was coming over.”
Liam swoops in, taking Emma by the hand and leading her upstairs. I hesitate, my heart warring with itself.
“I got your text,” Frankie says, her voice quiet. “No one answered when I buzzed up.”
My instinct is to wrap her up and take her inside so she can dry off. To let all of the shit go because she’s here and giving me a kernel of hope. But my mind is telling me not to trust her yet. If she was here to give me the answer I want, she wouldn’t look so uncertain. My aching soul is wary of being hurt again. Is the fact that she’s here her answer to my question?
Instead of demanding an answer while we stand in the rain, I make small talk, trying to calm my racing heart. “How long have you been waiting?”
“Long enough to finish my coffee and stare longingly at yours.” She smiles at me, offering up the paper cup. “Can I come inside?” Her smile and the offering spark a glimmer of hope in my chest.
Remembering that Liam and Emma are up there unsupervised, and the kinds of things I got up to at his age, I nod. “For a minute.”
She passes close as I hold the door open, the scent of coffee drifting up to me as she passes under my arm. Is it the coffee, or is it her? Will I ever be able to enjoy a cup again if every time I smell it I think of Frankie?
