Page 11 of Give Me What You Will

Something in Frankie’s chest hurt, and he shook his head.

“Papi’s dead. Nona’s dead…” Sammy shifted in his seat. “I appreciate you making the flight out here to tell me about Nona. But I got an early day tomorrow and need to get some sleep.”

“You serious?”

Frankie knew a blow off when he heard it. He’d done countless of them throughout his career as a serial dater.

Sammy pulled out his wallet and threw cash on the table.

“You’re really gonna leave it like this?” Frankie asked incredulously.

“How else am I supposed to leave it?”

“I dunno, we catch up. We hang out.”

“We have and did. I’m tired.”

“You’re running, is what you’re doing.”

His green eyes flashed in the dim bar light. “What do you want from me?”

“Your friendship—but apparently, that’s a hard ask for some fuckin’ reason that’s beyond me.”

Sammy abruptly leaned forward. The table light fell over his face, somehow illuminating him in a new light. He knew Sammy’s face better than his own. But for some reason, he was unrecognizable. Maybe it was the stupid mustache. Maybe it was the way Sammy was holding himself, or the distance and time spent away from each other.

Maybe… he never really knew Sammy at all.

No, don’t fuckin’ think that.

He’s my ride or die. Sammy is and always will be Sammy.

My fuckin’ Superman.

“Our friendship is over, Frank.”

Frankie’s chin jerked back like he’d been sucker punched. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me. We’re done. What happened, there isn’t any coming back from.”

He stared, dumbfounded, hurt, and confused. They kissed! So what? He knew for a fact there were plenty of straight men and women who experimented a time or two with a safe, gay friend. Except Frankie wasn’t the one who had kissed Sammy. Sammy had kissed him. Still, it wasn’t a good enough reason to end their friendship.

Fuck that.

“It didn’t fuckin’ mean anything, Sammy.”

Sammy sucked in a breath, something revealing in his expression for a split second that Frankie didn’t understand before he was suddenly on his feet, so quickly that he bumped into the table. “Goodbye, Frank.”

“Frank? Frank?!” Anger flared inside him. “Really—Mitchell?”

Sammy spun, fists clenched at the sound of his first name. He hated being called Mitchell. He waited for the punch. But it never came as Sammy promptly pivoted on his heel and marched out the front door. Frankie yanked out another twenty and tossed the cash on the table, chasing after him.

He wasn’t going to let Sammy walk out again.

Not again.

Not ever fuckin’ again.

Cold February air struck his face, and he sucked in a quick breath, scanning the parking lot, but he didn’t see Sammy walking toward his car. He glanced around and saw him disappear around the corner. He jogged after him, ignoring the stiffness in his knee from the pace and the cold. As he rounded the corner, he saw that Sammy seemed intent on walking to cool down the rage still clenched in his fists.