But Frankie doesn’t need to know how much I’m missing her either.
“Wow. Are you nervous?”
“My stomach’s doing laps. I’ve never had to audition before. Read, yeah, but Malcolm hooked me up with all my parts. I had the part before I read.”
“You’ll do great. Tell me how it goes.” I can’t muster any more enthusiasm than that. “Listen, I’ve got to pick up Junie, so I should run.”
“Yeah, alright.”
I don’t miss the disappointment in her voice, but what else is there to say besides goodbye? I can’t tell her I’m worried Malcolm’s drawing her back into a life she doesn’t want, and Hollywood will make friendship impossible for us.
If Frankie wants to start acting again, I’ll support her. And if she’s made the choice to stay with Malcolm, I’ll trust that she knows what she’s doing. It sounds like, for the first time, she’s walking into this conflict with her dad instead of running from it. And she’s not running from the spotlight either.
She’s moving forward.
I just wish forward didn’t feel like further away from me.
Over the next week, Junie asks less about Frankie, but she hasn’t forgotten her. A day will pass where she doesn’t ask to watch the video of Frankie, and I thinkmaybe we’ve moved on. Forgotten her. But then she’ll ask to “watch Frankie,” and I’m as anxious to watch the video as she is.
And it’s ridiculous to think I’m going to forget her when I’m supplementing her personalized thirty-second video with every episode ofSurf City Highand every movie she’s been in—no matter how small her part. I don’t mention that in any of our texts. I tell her things are fine and ask about her dad.
My job is to be supportive, not needy. And definitely not manipulative, which is what telling her how much Junie still misses her would be.
More weeks pass, and our texts grow less frequent, even if my thoughts about Frankie don’t. I force myself not to rewatch The Video or check in every time I think about her—which would be about a million times a day. The one thing I can’t make myself do is quit checking to see if she’s called or texted, then answering right away if she has. But our messages are short, surface-level things.
She’s fine.
I’m fine.
Junie’s good. Turning four and insisting on aBlueyparty.
I leave the party planning to Mom who volunteers after I ask her if I have to invite Junie’s entire preschool class and if cake and decorations arereallynecessary. I may have played up my cluelessness, but Mom does love to entertain. She always put on the best birthday parties for us, so I figure it’s best to leave the really hard parenting stuff to the expert.
On Junie’s actual birthday, I take off work to spend the whole day with her.
“Anything you want to do today, birthday girl, that’s whatwe’ll do!” I say while braiding her hair as she sits on the bathroom counter.
“Can we visit Frankie?” she asks.
I flinch. “Sorry, Bug. No.”
Sooo, maybe notanythingshe wants.
She purses her lips then sticks up her pointer finger. “I know! We can go to Fingo’s, then to the beach.”
I draw in a breath and force a smile. We haven’t been to the beach once this summer—so that’s a fair ask. But we haven’t been back to Flamingo’s since Frankie left, and I hadn’t really planned to go back. At least not until I can sit there without wishing Frankie were there the whole time.
So… never. Probably.
But I can’t say no to Junie. Who knows how many birthdays I have left where she’ll be satisfied with a plate of pancakes and a day at the beach with me?
“Sounds like a plan! Put on your swimsuit while I pack the beach bag!” I lift her off the counter, and she darts to her bedroom.
Five seconds later she’s back, blocking the door. “And we can go shopping for my own four-wheeler, too?”
So, zero birthdays left before she starts asking for expensive gifts.
“Absolutely not.” I turn her back around, nudge her back toward her room, cursing Bennett at the same time.
