Like she’s figured out how to navigate this world without letting it swallow her whole.
Wish I could say the same. This is our first real appearance together, and I’m more scared than I was when Junie was born. I’d never been a father before, but I’d at least held a baby. But I’ve never walked a red carpet and the last tux I wore was a rented one to my senior prom.
I’m not prepared for this.
But I wouldn’t miss Frankie’s return to the spotlight for the world.
A runner opens the car door and says something about “two minutes” and “straight inside,” but Frankie’s already moving, already stepping out like she belongs here. Her pink dress catches the light and for half a second my worries go quiet the way they do right before a foal finally turns the right way.
A camera flashes, and all my worries return.
Then Frankie looks back at me.
Not at the cameras. Not at the crowd. At me.
Her eyes shine with an invitation to join her excitement, and her smile chases away my worries for good.
I step out of the limo. Shutters click. I shield my eyes from a camera’s flash and stumble slightly.
Frankie glances back at me, still smiling, and I square my shoulders. I handle frightened animals who could crush me. I handle a five-year-old girl who hates bedtime and getting her hair combed. I handled a five-week separation from the woman I love while she filmed the movie whose premiere we’re celebrating.
I can handle walking the red carpet to get there.
Frankie reaches for my hand. She laces her fingersthrough mine and gives my hand a squeeze that says, I’m here. I chose this. I chose you.
Another flash pops.
Then another.
Then a whole storm of them, along with a dozen voices vying for Frankie’s attention.
“Frankie! Over here!”
“Frankie, eyes up!”
“Together! Frankie and Cal!”
I hear my name somewhere in the chaos, turned into something British and sharp. I just keep my eyes on Frankie.
I’m supposed to smile. I’m supposed to look relaxed. I’m supposed to act like I’ve done this a hundred times.
I haven’t.
My instinct is to shift my weight like a nervous horse waiting for the trailer ramp. To rock back on my heels. To find the nearest exit.
Until Frankie’s thumb strokes once over my knuckles, and the urge disappears.
“Breathe,” she murmurs, barely moving her lips.
Suddenly I remember how to inhale and exhale.
“Now look at me,” she adds, like she’s giving directions on set.
So, I turn to her, and my chest tightens—not with panic this time, but with that familiar ache that’s been living in me since the day I first saw her at Flamingo’s in a blonde wig and glasses. I didn’t recognize her right away, but her disguise couldn’t keep her from being the brightest thing in the room.
Frankie’s eyes soften when they meet mine. The corners of her mouth tilt, small and real. Not for the cameras. Just for me.
She slides her other hand up my forearm, tucks it into the crook of my elbow, and suddenly we’re posed the way couples pose when they’ve already decided. When the question isn’t if.
