I haven’t been honest with myself about that, or really anything to do with Frankie’s career. I told myself her coming back here meant she didn’t want to be famous anymore; that she wanted the same quiet life I do. I never considered she’d want both Serenity and Hollywood, even though she’s given more than one hint she does. She flat out said it tonight.
She loves acting the way I love vet work, despite the parts that stink. I can’t ask her to walk away from that. But as much as I want to be a part of her life, I have no idea how to do the fame part, and I don’t think I want to learn.
With that conclusion, the man in the mirror stares back at me with disappointment. I walk away from him, ready to climb into bed, but I can’t. I can’t let things end like this. At the very least, I’ve got to apologize to Frankie for not being willing to try.
I pull on some sweats and a t-shirt and walk down the hall to the guest room. The light is off, but the door is cracked. I nudge it open and whisper, “Frankie?”
No answer, so I step all the way in and let my eyes adjust to the darkness. Once they do, I make out the untouched bed. I tiptoe closer to verify my eyes aren’t fooling me.
They’re not. Frankie’s not in the room.
I flip on the lamp on the bedside table. Her Barry’s hat is there, next to a folded piece of paper with Junie’s name. I openit and read the carefully printed letters, big and blocky enough for Junie to sound out some of them.
Dear Junie,
I’m sorry. I had to go. We will always be friends.
Heaps of Love,
Frankie
At the bottom, she’s included a rough sketch of Bluey.
I read it once more, then re-fold it and tuck it into my pocket.
I don’t go after Frankie. I don’t call. I don’t text. I go back to my room and, like a coward, I go to bed.
But I don’t sleep.
I toss and turn, trying to pause the continuous loop of my conversation with Frankie. But it just keeps playing while my brain takes notes on everything I could have said and done differently. The thing I can’t figure out, though, is how the outcome could have been different.
I must have fallen asleep, because sometime in the early morning, the next thing I know, Junie’s yelling, “Daddy, I can’t find Frankie!”
I bolt up, surprised and disoriented, ready to search for Frankie, until I remember, I’m the reason she’s missing.
I rub my eyes. The time on my phone reads five thirty-eight a.m. Sounds coming from the kitchen clue me in that the rest of the house is awake—we usually are by this time. But Junie’s up early.
“Come here, Bug.” I wave her over and pat the spot next to me. “What are you doing up this early?”
She clambers onto my bed and kneels next to me, bouncing with excitement. “I want to play with Frankie.”
I knew I’d have to break the news to her that Frankie’s gone, I just hoped it would be after the sun came up. Then again, we’re going to have another scorcher, and bad news feels even worse in the heat of the day.
I wrap my arm around Junie and tuck her into my side. “Frankie had to leave, sweetie.”
She squirms out of my hug to face me, not bouncing anymore but still vibrating with energy. “When does she come back?”
Junie’s not making this easy.
I take a breath and drop the bomb I’ve been avoiding. “I don’t think she’s coming back this time.”
Junie goes still. Her shoulders drop, and her bottom lip pokes out. With a huff, she slides off the bed and stomps out of the room, calling for Jo-Joe.
Under the circumstances, this is probably the ideal reaction from her. She’s not crying. She’s not angry. She’s just sad. I understand. I feel the same.
I roll out of bed, pull on a T-shirt, and follow her into the kitchen where Mom’s making breakfast. Junie’s at her side, and I was wrong about the tears. Her eyes brim with them as she looks up at Mom.
“Daddy didn’t make Frankie stay. We were supposed to play, and he made her go home,” she tattles.
