Welcome to P-Star Rentals

As a personal assistant to megastar (and mega man-child) Dieter Bravo you've had your fair share of headaches. Getting accidentally pregnant with his baby however takes the cake, especially when he offers to pay you to be his surrogate. You just weren't expecting to fall in love with him along the way

A poker night over at Benny’s tests the burgeoning secret relationship you have been hiding with Frankie Morales.

After getting matching daisy tattoos with my cousin Jackie, she is convinced it’s finally time to find her soul mate. Me on the other hand? I don’t buy into fate, matching tattoos or destiny shit. Across town Joel Miller doesn’t believe in soul mates either, until he wakes up one morning with a daisy tattoo behind his ear. A disastrous first encounter leaves Joel and I firmly in enemy territory. And when Joel meets Jackie at a party and they discover their matching tattoos, it seems like destiny has brought them together. And me? I’m going to keep my own matching tattoo to myself. Why complicate things? Jackie is happy with Joel and I've started dating his charming and sexy brother, Tommy. Plus, there’s no way the annoying Joel Miller could be my soul mate…. Right?

hold·ing pat·tern - the flight path maintained by an aircraft awaiting permission to land. - a state or period of no progress or change. You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire. Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.

You and Frankie find yourselves in a complicated situation when invited to Benny's wedding for a week in Mexico. Despite your strained friendship, you both pretend to be a couple to save Frankie embarrassment when seeing his recently engaged ex wife. However as you navigate through this charade, old feelings and unresolved issues resurface.

.Newly settled into Jackson City, you’re assigned to patrol duty with Joel Miller; a man of rough edges and cool appraisals. His story is buried deep beneath scars of loss while you hide your own grief behind flour-dusted hands and the desperate hope of belonging. What begins as forced proximity slowly shifts into something fragile and all-consuming. But as the past creeps forward through old wounds and the ever-present threat of raiders, your feelings for one another become both a sanctuary and a liability. In a world already broken, where there is already so much to lose, can you let yourself love Joel Miller?

Facing eviction you're desperate for a roommate, even if it comes in the form of the strange and often brash Max Phillips. What you don't understand is why he only works nights, why you never see him eat and why strange noises are coming from his room during the day. . .

"Drink some more water."

"If I drink any more I'm gonna piss my pants," you grumble.

Hilary is there at your shoulder, shaking her head at you. She arrived five minutes ago smelling of cigarette smoke and mint gum. Frankie didn't re-join her in the room and you're too embarrassed to ask why. 

“So can I leave?”

"Doctor just told me you have to be here overnight for observation," she sighs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.

"Fuck."

You're in a hospital gown, propped up in bed with a cup of warm jello next to you. This whole day has been a barrage of nurses and doctors to take your vitals, blood, to give you stitches and x-rays. 

"I don't need to stay here overnight," you croak. "I'm perfectly fine."

"You don't look fine."

"It's just a sprain."

"And a possible concussion."

Your shoulders lower. "I'm sorry, Hil. As if you didn't have enough to worry about with Mom." 

Hilary gives you a rueful looks, shrugging. "I like an interesting life. Besides, Mom is fine. She was just sleeping when I left." 

You nod guilt and fatigue fighting a battle within your body. You lower the back of the bed slightly, sighing. 

"I can't believe some asshole blasted through a stop sign," she says before she clicks her tongue.  

"I don't have the best luck," you say blinking up at the ceiling. 

You can feel your sister's eyes on you, the sound of gum snapping against her teeth. 

"Did you get to tell Frankie everything or...?" She trails off.  

You shake your head. "No time."

"But you're gonna, right?"

You exhale slowly, thinking about it.

A part is terrified that maybe Frankie is seeing someone, or at least interested in someone else. That lipstick tube you found at his place still rattles around in your head.  There’s also the chance that if you tell Frankie how you really feel about him, that he'll reject you outright. Any relationship or friendship the two of you were embarking on will be decimated. 

And yet…

"Yes." 

 “What exactly are you hoping to get out of it? A relationship?”

There's a part of you that worries this confession will be a selfish act. That it will drudge up bad memories for Frankie. But you know he deserves the honesty, the clarification. He’s owed that much even if it ends with him banishing you from his life.

“Whatever he wants,” you say. “But mostly, I think I just want to apologize to him. He deserves that much.”

You watch as Hilary picks at her ragged nails with the chipped black polish.

"Did you ever think of reaching out to Frankie before? Like, in the years you weren't talking?"

You think back to the intervening years. To the times between bouts of hurt and sadness. To the moments when you craved being back in his arms and in his life. 

"Yeah." 

She looks up at you, eyes red rimmed and exhausted looking. "Why didn't you?" 

"I was too afraid." 

"Yeah. That's what I figured."  She seems more contemplative than usual and you're about to ask if she's alright when she jerks her chin up. "Justin called when I was heading over here." 

You push yourself up in the bed, stunned. "Really?"

"Yeah."

"Is this the first time he's called?"

"It's the first time I've answered." Hilary shifts in her seat, legs crossing. "He wants me to give us another shot," she mutters. 

"What did you tell him?"

"That I was open to it," she says, eyes stuck on the ragged edge of her nail. "That I missed him." 

You try not to look too hopeful. "What changed your mind?" 

Hilary glances at the door, as if she is expecting to be interrupted. A beat passes before she worries her bottom lip with her teeth. 

"I see how much you and Frankie care for each other even after all this time," she offers. "Even after the misunderstanding and the hurt." 

You're quiet, eyes bouncing between hers when she lifts her gaze your way. 

"It made me miss Justin."  

This is a new Hilary sitting next to you bed. The bricked wall behind her stare is lowered, her eyes shiny. You've never seen this reaction in her and it warms your entire body to see it. 

"Because you love him," you grin. 

She slumps back against the chair, arms crossing as she rolls her eyes aggressively at you. But there's a small tug to one side of her mouth. 

"Stop being so fucking annoying."

The two of you giggle gently before a calm silence settles. Beeps from machines and far off cries from other patients are heard faintly.

"Are you going to give him another shot?" 

Hilary shrugs. "Maybe."

She stays until the doctor comes in to give his overview, and as she leaves you inwardly beam, soul lightening at the realization that while Hilary has been coming to rescue you, maybe you've been able to impact her in some small way. 

THEN

"I miss her," Hilary murmurs, eyes half closed on a warm August night. She and Santi sit on her front porch, iced tea sweating in mason jars between their thighs, a cigarette smoldering in an old glass ashtray. 

"Me too." 

Santi is back before being deployed to a part of South America he can't tell anyone about. He and his team are after some big drug kingpin. 

But right now as he sits beside his cousin, Hilary feels like they're kids again. It reminds her of secretly smoking cigarettes at the baseball field after school; shitty ones Santi stole from his father's room. 

"I mean, even though she annoyed the shit out of me, the house just feels wrong without her," Hilary sighs. "Mom's always wasted and I should move out but rent is so high everywhere and ..."

Hilary draws her legs up to her chest, propping her chin on her knees and exhaling through her nose. Santi looks her way when she trails off. He's always been a good listener and in the years without you being at home, he and Hilary have grown a bit closer. 

"I don't know what I'm doing, Santi," she says quietly rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. "I feel like I keep fucking up."

He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Hil-"

"The most lucrative thing I've done in the past five years is have a slip and fall case at Walmart that paid out."

Santi is quiet, watching her carefully. Hilary isn't like you, she doesn't enjoy affection. She's a cat personified; only interested if you ignore her. 

"I mean, I haven't even been in a functional relationship. Just one night stands or tindr." 

Santiago shrugs. "That's pretty normal." 

"For you" she says snidely. 

With anyone else she'd have to edit herself, but Santi isn't easily offended. He just smirks, chuckling a bit to himself. 

"I'm so proud of my sister starting her life over there, but sometimes it just reminds me that I'm a huge loser."

"You're not-"

"Santi, c'mon," she says through a puff of smoke. "Look at my life. I'm not exactly enviable." 

"From where I stand you're gorgeous, smart as hell, devoted to the people you love -'

"It doesn't matter," Hilary interrupts, wrinkling her nose. "Love. Stability. That kind of shit is for someone else. My sister, maybe. Not for me."

Santi leans back in his chair, eyes distant. 

"Ever thought of talking to Pip about all this?"

"No," Hilary replies. "Never." 

Hilary brings out another cigarette, puffing away thoughtfully as her cousin looks onto their empty street. He twists his neck to scan her closed body language.

"We're not the kids we were, Hilary," he says. "You can change your future." 

"Easy for you to say," Hilary scoffs, taking another puff. "Golden boy Garcia. Everyone in town talks about the big fancy job you have. How you're out there making a difference in the world." 

He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, face pinking slightly at the cheekbones. 

"Plus Frankie flying all over, now. Where is he these days? Still in Argentina?"

"As far as I know."

Hilary just sighs, shaking her head slightly. She can't imagine a world in which she has that sort of freedom. She isn't sure she even wants it. Maybe it's just the security she craves. 

"You ever hear from him?" Santi asks, taking the cigarette and stealing a puff before handing it back her way. 

"Frankie? No. Not unless he's in town. Sometimes he'll drop by for a beer but..." She trails off, shrugging.  

"He ever talk to you about your sister?" 

Hilary's attention which had been divided between her cousin and her thoughts now focuses in on his words.  "No. Why?" 

"I think he's in love with her." 

Santi shuffles his feet against the wood porch, the toe of his boots tapping as he considers. 

"I thought they had something going on back when they were younger," Hillary acknowledges with a nod. "But I don't think there's any love left on either side, now." 

"I don't know about that," Santiago offers, eyes hooded from fatigue. 

Hilary tilts her face his way, brows rising. 

"What do you mean?" 

He shifts from the seat, standing to go lean against the porch railing. He takes his time stretching before he swivels to face her, keeping his voice low. 

"We were deployed together a few years ago and Frankie was stabbed pretty bad."

"He mentioned that, yeah. They had to medi-vac him out of there."

Santi nods. "Yep. He was losing a lot of blood, and, honestly, I was really scared for him, Hil. I thought it was over for him. But all he kept saying over and over was your sister’s name. Even when we were helping get him out of the compound, all he kept saying was that he needed her." 

A thoughtful said silence settles between the two of them, iced distant as they both take in what this could mean. 

It's no secret that Hillary is aware something happened between Frankie and her sister. The feelings that Frankie wore on his sleeve that evening he came with flowers. She doesn't know what happened between her sister and Frankie, and their relationship isn't in a good enough place for her to reach out to her sister and ask. 

Santi leaves a short while later with a wave, promising he'll try to call more often. Hilary doesn't believe him, but she smiles and waves back anyway. 

Her mom is passed out, snoring in front of the television when she comes inside. An empty gin bottle is tucked between her hip and the cushion. A smoldering cigarette rests between her nicotine stained fingers. 

Hilary quickly plucks it, extinguishing it on the nearby ashtray.

"Time for bed, mom." 

Her mother makes no attempt to wake and Hilary gives a dark groan when she sees a large damp spot on the lap of her mother's pajama pants. The sharp stench of urine hits her nose and she recoils. 

"Christ." 

This has been happening at least a few times a year now and each time is humiliating. Her mother is too drunk, unable to be roused tonight and Hilary gives up with tears in her eyes. 

"Fuck this." 

She decides to check out the new pub that opened in town a few months ago. Apparently it has cheap drinks and plenty of pool tables. When she gets there it's only half full, mostly with tourists that wear fanny packs and sunburn painted noses. 

Her phone beeps as she heads to the bar. She pulls it out; internally sighing when she sees it's her boss at the hospital. 

Need you in for a double tomorrow. Start is at six.  I'll be there. 

She pockets her phone, eyes shutting as she lowers her head. Why does it feel like she'll never escape this life? This depressing, endless-

"Hi there." 

Hilary raises her eyes at the soft voice, meeting gazes with the man behind the bar. 

He has sandy brown hair and a thick beard. His eyes are a deep hazel, one slightly lighter in color than the other. He blinks before serving a shy smile her way. "What can I get you?" 

"Whatever's on tap." 

"Be right back." 

She shrugs off her jacket, her tight tank top pulled low. Several men walk by and she recognizes them as stoners she went to high school with. 

They wear clothing stained with paint and sawdust, their hands dirty from day labor. One of them winks when he passes - Danny.  

"Here you are." 

Hilary turns back and is struck that the handsome bartender looks at her face instead of her tits when he slides her drink across the glossy bartop.It makes her linger a bit longer there instead of snagging one of the empty booths. She takes a sip, eyes trained on him. The beer is shit, but she doesn't tell him. 

"Thanks." 

"Anything else I can get ya?" He asks her eagerly "Peanuts? Pretzels?"

"Sure. Pretzels." 

She watches him move to the other end of the bar, opening a new bag and pouring them into a small bowl. He brings it back to her proudly, like a cat with a dead mouse, and again his eyes don't stray from her face. 

"Here you are." 

"Thanks." 

She takes another sip of the soapy tasting beer, hiding a grimace. She finds she doesn't want him to move, she enjoys his calm disposition. 

"Where's your accent from?"

The man chuckles. "Oh shit, you can hear one?" 

"Yeah." 

"Canada. Nova Scotia."

Canada? Hillary doesn't know much about the country, but she knows that it's supposed to be cold. 

"Why'd you move here?”

"I wanted a change of scenery I suppose. The sun helps."

"And you chose the asshole of America?"

The man laughs and when he does Hilary observes that his nose crinkles in an incredibly endearing way. He's about to say something else when a group of tourists catch his attention, requesting some drink Hilary has never heard of. 

He moves over to them and Hilary rubs at her temples, head still pounding. After her talk with Santiago, her mom and that work text she's feeling very vulnerable, and irritated because of it. She hates this feeling of being exposed. 

She should just turn her phone off and let herself fully unwind. But she can't, fingers pinching it from her pocket as she begins to type hurriedly. 

Do you ever talk to Frankie?

Her sister doesn't respond right away. It's at least 3 minutes of nursing her beer until she sees her phone light up. 

No. 

Her sister isn't exactly loquacious over text, but she's definitely not normally this brusque. This is a no-star conversation. Hilary pockets her phone and throws back her beer. On tottering heels she moves from the stool and towards the bathroom. 

She looks at herself in the mirror, sees the smudged, eyeliner and the tired expression she wears. She wipes at her makeup, trying to look presentable. On her way out she brushes against a tall guy waiting for the men's room. His familiar cologne makes her tense up. 

Danny. 

He's got a new snake tattoo around his neck, and several markings along his knuckles but she'd know him anywhere. She gives a silent bid to the universe to go unnoticed by him. But of course he spots her when their shoulders graze; an oily grin spreading over his face. He eyes her slowly, like a predator finding prey. 

"Hey Hil. Long time no see." 

"Hey, Danny." 

She goes to move past him when he blocks her way. He smiles, body language open. 

"I didn't know you came here." 

"First time." She speaks sharply, to the point, eyes not meeting his. 

She wants him to know he's inconveniencing her but he's oblivious. Instead he gives her a wolfish grin. 

"The guys and I are heading to Lovett's place after the next game."

"Cool."

"You wanna join us?"

"I'm good thanks." 

"C'mon, Hil," he entreats, fingers attempting to slide up her bare arm. "Could be fun. It sure was last time." 

She slept with Danny and a friend a few years back during a Halloween party. When he suggested a threesome she was up for it, if only to keep the good vibes going. She was buzzed from the punch and good weed her friend Penny passed around. She regretted it the next morning, but the damage was done.

Now Danny stands there staring at her with a look that makes her flesh crawl. 

Hilary cringes, steering away from his touch. "No thanks, Danny." 

Again she attempts to move around him and again he blocks her. She clenches her teeth in frustration. 

"C'mon doll." He motions to the guys around the pool table who are watching the exchange. "My friends wanna meet you. I told em all about you." 

Hilary feels her stomach sink when he says that. She can only imagine the things he's told them about her, the details of their encounter. She sneaks a glance at the men gathered around the pool table. They're smirking at one another, chalking the ends of their pool sticks. 

"You don't have to put on the sweet and innocent routine for me," Danny croons, face nearing hers. "We both know how wet you get when you're double teamed." 

Shame heats her cheeks, humiliation causing her to remain rooted in place. 

"You looked so good that night," Danny whispers against her ear. "Like you were made to take two cocks at once." 

The scent of his cheap cologne mixing with the stale alcohol restarts her body. Her hands curl into fists as her eyes pierce his face and she speaks between gritted teeth. 

"When a guy's dick is small it makes it easier. And from what I recall, you weren't exactly packing." 

The amusement is gone from Danny's face and he backs off, an ugly sneer crossing his face. 

"Fucking slut."

This doesn't faze her. She's been called worse by better. Hilary just rolls her eyes, making her way back to the bar. 

"See you, micro-dick." 

He hisses something at her back, but she's already across the floor seating herself back on the bar stool

"You're back." 

The handsome bartender looks relieved when she settles back into her stool and motions to her empty pint glass. 

"Another one?"

"Sure." 

Why not. It's only $4. With enough of them maybe she'll get a good buzz. One that ensures she can forget her shitty life for a bit. 

Like mother like daughter. 

 Her heart pounds at the interaction with Danny, face warm when she hears the murmurs and ugly chuckles coming from the pool table.

The Canadian bartender brings her back another pint glass and stands looking at her for a moment too long. Like he’s trying to memorize it.

"You were gonna tell me why you picked Florida," Hilary prompts him, feeling the cool beer flood her mouth. 

He leans onto his forearm, a playful smirk on his face. "I kinda just threw a dart at a map." 

"You fucking didn't." 

He laughs, and his nose scrunches again. Hilary grins at the sight of it. 

"I did. I'm kind of a nomad. I like going from place to place."

"Sounds nice ... Kinda."

"Not a traveler?" He asks, starting to wipe down the nearby pint glasses. 

Hilary ponders this. If anything, she should want to travel the world, to move from place to place. But there's something about being settled in one spot that makes her feel safe. 

"I like being in one spot, I think." 

"Mhm." 

She watches as he continues to dry the pint glasses, a small little smile tugged to one corner of his mouth. He smells good, like fresh soap and clean laundry. 

"So you didn't follow some girlfriend out here then?" She says lightly, eyes tracing over his biceps. 

"Nope. No girlfriend. Haven't had one of those in years." He looks at her with seriousness. "How about you?"

"Nope, never had a girlfriend," she quips.

He laughs, a rich, echoing sound. "I meant boyfriend... Husband..." He trails off and Hilary is delighted to see his face flushing.

"Nope. Haven't had one of those in a long time either,” she murmurs before taking another long sip. This beer is weak. She'll need at least four to even hope for a trace of a buzz. 

The two share a small smile before several voices call over to him from the far end of the bar. 

"Yo, can we get some actual service?" 

"Shit. Sorry." 

He excuses himself with a look of regret before moving his way towards them. Hilary scratches at the coaster under her glass and looks at her phone as it beeps. She sighs when she sees her sister's text. 

Why are you asking me about Frankie?  No reason. Santi brought him up and it made me think of you.  Ok.  How's Mom?

This is usually the topic of conversation Hilary and her sister dance around. Pip likes to check in over text, and Hillary thinks it's because it makes her feel as if she's doing her daughterly duty. 

She's fine. Same as always. You? Got a new apartment. Two bedrooms and a view of the needle.

Hilary reads the question she'll never ask; if she'll be in the neighborhood. Two bedrooms means a guest room for visitors. 

Thoughts of going to Pip's Seattle home and seeing everything that Hilary could never hope to accomplish doesn't sit well with her. 

Hilary stares at the message for several moments before she heads outside for a smoke. She needs to clear her head. 

The rough brick bites into her jeans as she leans against the building, lighting her cigarette and looking into the parking lot.She looks at the message from her sister again before she pops the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, texting back quickly. 

Cool. 

She watches a couple moving from the pub towards the car. They laugh together, their bodies close, arms tangled. She feels a strange pain of longing, not for the sex they'll inevitably have, but for the closeness, the ability to be with another person and feel completely safe. 

"Can I bum one?" 

Hilary looks over her shoulder to see the Canadian bartender headed her way, hands in his jean pockets. 

"Don't you have to work?"

"I'm on break." 

Hilary digs into her purse, producing a cigarette and her lighter, handing it his way. He takes them with thanks, popping the cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. The end flares orange in the darkness. 

"Don't worry I wasn't running out on my tab," she murmurs, scanning his large forearms covertly as he returns her lighter. 

He removes the cigarette and blows a tendril of smoke away from her. 

"Already settled." 

Hilary stiffens, eyes casting to the front door of the pub where inside guys like Danny and his friends are playing pool. Undoubtedly he did it to fuck with her.  

"I'll pay it myself. You can refund him." 

"Him?"

She tilts her head in the direction of the pub with a scowl. "The guy with the neck tattoo." 

"He didn't pay for your drinks." 

"Who did?" 

The man swallows, voice a little quieter. "Uh, I did." 

She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?" 

He continues twisting his cigarette. "Dunno. Felt like it." 

Hilary doesn't like stuff like this: men who pay to play. Ones who think that once the drinks are bought she owes them something in return. 

"I'm not going to fuck you just because you bought me some shitty beer," Hilary snaps, exhausted from the day, from her life, from gross men. "I'm not some whore-"

"Whoa, whoa," the man replies, hands held up, palms facing her. "That is not... That's not what that was." 

"What was it then?" 

"You just seemed like you were having a hard night," the guy shrugs. "Guess I wanted to cheer you up." He pauses, blinking slowly as Hilary stares at him. "You really think our beer is shitty?" 

A soft, surprised huff escapes her at the question and the man seems delighted by her response. Her anger ebbs in the face of his levity, her shoulders lowering.

"What's your name?" She asks after a beat.

"Justin. Nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand to shake hers. She stares at it a moment before moving towards him. 

His brows rise when her fingers move to grip the back of his neck, dragging his mouth to hers and kissing him fiercely. His hands rest respectfully on her hips, a small gasp escaping him when she begins licking into his mouth. The sound thrills her. 

He tastes like Guinness, that sweet rich chocolate aftertaste making her heady. And when she pulls back from him, he's staring at her with a dazed, half smile as if he's drunk on her. 

She grins up at him, feeling her heart trip. 

"I'm Hilary." 

The following morning the doctor confirms that you don't have a concussion; the wound on your head is healing just fine and you can be discharged as soon as you’re dressed. As you’re leaving he hands you a prescription for painkillers and tells you that you're good to get back to life.

That's exactly what you plan on doing. 

You feel lucky in so many ways. That crash could have ended much worse. That is the thought which takes your breath away. You could have gone to the grave never letting Frankie know the truth. Never letting him know you never stopped loving him.

When you return home via cab the first thing you do is throw yourself into the shower and scrub every inch of hospital air off of you. 

Shortly after, with Rosalita at your side, you kiss your mother's weathered brow, looking at her serene face as she rests in bed. The sunlight is streaming over her face, casting her in a warm marigold glow. 

Rosalita’s weathered hands come to rub at your back in soothing circles. “I am so glad you are safe."

"Me too." 

You feel safer being in this room with Rosalita. You feel emboldened enough to reach forward and squeeze your mother’s limp fingers resting on her coverlet.  You look over at Rosalita as you do this, eyes worried. 

"She's doing okay?"

"Yes."

Your mother twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling around yours for a fraction. You smile at her, liking to imagine that she's giving her own kind of confirmation.  

Afterwards you move into the kitchen to find Hilary chopping veggies before dumping them into a fragrant and bubbling crock pot. 

"Justin will be here tomorrow," Hilary informs you casually when she sees you watching. "He likes chili." 

You lean against the door frame, trying not to look like the cat who got the cream. 

"He does, does he?"

"Yes," she replies primly, ignoring the grin you shoot her.

"Good," you answer with sincerity. "I'm looking forward to meeting him." 

"He's looking forward to meeting you too," she says, starting to dice the onions. 

Her response is uncharacteristically warm, even sincere. You wonder if Justin is actually excited to meet you. In the end it doesn't matter. Does it? You're happy to see your sister happy. A chirp sounds on your phone, an alert. 

"My cab is here."

Hillary pauses and looks up from the cutting board, her kohl-rimmed eyes slanted your way. 

"Frankie?"

You nod, taken aback by the toothy smile she sends you. 

"Finally."

THEN

It's late and Frankie's house is pitch-black. The alarm clock beside the bed ticks. The tap in the kitchen drips slowly like it always has. 

Frankie lies on his belly with his arm slung over your middle. His face is half smudged into his pillow, his pouty lips slightly parted. You rest facing the ceiling, having just woken up desperate for a glass of water. 

The two of you had a great afternoon of talking and having fantastic sex and talking some more. It seems like you two can't stop finding things to talk about. At home things are so quiet with Hilary and her monosyllabic way of speaking and your mom's absence.

But here with Frankie his house is full of words and laughing. He makes noise when he cooks, pots and pans banging, the radio playing in the background, his humming when he washes the dishes. And even when the two of you do find yourself in quiet moments, it's rarely uncomfortable. Sitting, staring at the stars, playing cards, passively watching television, all feels comfortable.  

It's just hard when you know you should leave for home. When the hour is late and you don't want to be caught by your mom. You hate leaving because Frankie gets this pinched look on his face; this raw expression of naked anxiety. 

Despite being an independent guy, Frankie doesn't want to be left alone here. You wonder if it's the ghost of his parents in every room or the way the house feels so oppressive in its stillness. Whatever it is, you find yourself sleeping over most nights. Preening under the relieved smile he gives you, snuggling against his chest, wrapped tightly in strong arms, his husky voice at your temple. 

"Night, baby." 

You always rush home before dawn, crawling back through your bedroom window just in time to exit for breakfast. You think Hilary might suspect, but if she does she never rats you out. 

You watch Frankie a little longer this evening, his golden skin painted silver in the moonlight. He looks so innocent like this, so sweet. You smile, fingers tracing along his cheek until he flinches and your recoil.

"Don't leave," he mumbles.

You frown in confusion before you realize he's still asleep and must be dreaming. His leg twitches under the sheets, brows saddling. 

"Pip," he whispers worriedly. His arm wraps tighter around your middle.  

"I'm here," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm right here, baby."

You've never called him baby to his face. Always too shy, even though it's passed his lips several times before. 

"Don't.... "' he groans, eyelids twitching. "Just stay...."

"I am staying," You assure him, peppering his face with light kisses. "I'm not going anywhere." 

He settles immediately, brow smoothed, worry fleeing from his handsome face. He goes slack with deeper sleep, his breathing slow once more. You kiss his eyelids lightly, snuggling tighter against him. You watch him sleep, your heart swelling in affection. 

"I'll always be here, Frankie." 

Its late afternoon when you arrive at Frankie's and despite knowing exactly what you want to say, you're still shaking as you walk up the steps to his house.  You knock with a trembling fist, breathing heavily through your nose. You wait a minute.

Then two. 

Where is he? 

It's then that you turn to scan the front yard and notice his truck isn't in the driveway. 

He's not home. 

Crestfallen, you give a small cry, head bowed against his front door. Suddenly insecure thoughts go through your head. 

He's with someone else. A woman. One who didn't inadvertently break his heart. The one who left the lipstick tube. 

Or maybe he's hurt. He's been in an accident and you'll never see him again. 

Or he's g-

"Pip?"

Your heart lurches as you hear his familiar raspy murmur, spinning around to see Frankie exiting his truck. In your fearful delirium you hadn't even heard him pull up.

"Frankie," you manage in a choked whisper. 

He walks over to you quickly, keys in hand, a worried look on his handsome face. He scans your face, eyes bouncing. "Are you okay?"

"You weren't home," you murmur by way of explanation. 

"I was at the flight school," he says. He readjusts his hair under his hat without thought, a trait you've always loved, will always love. 

"Flight school?"

"First day back. I'm officially teaching again."  

"That's amazing," you say with a beam. Pride fills you. "I'm so glad." 

Frankie steps closer, so tall you have to tilt your head up. "Pip, why are you here? Is it your mom?" 

"No. No it's..." You realize you don't want to have this talk here on his doorstep. "Do you have a minute?" 

"Of course."

Frankie isn't expecting you there on his doorstep. He assumed Hilary would have texted him when you got out of the hospital. He wanted to be there for you, maybe even bring you flowers. But now you're here and you look so anxious that it makes his guts churn. He opens the door but before he can usher you inside he feels your fingers move to gingerly rest on top of his forearm. 

"Why didn't you stay that day?"

"When I took you to the hospital?"

You nod, looking anxiously up at him. Frankie blinks, his hand still resting on the doorknob. 

"Because Hilary wanted to stay with you and Rosalita wasn't able to come to your mom's right away, so I went and stayed with your mom until she got there." 

You take a deep, steadying breath. You're satisfied with his answer, he thinks.

"Is that what you needed to talk about?"

"No. It's something else," you inform him, mouth thinned. "It's important."

"More important than going home to rest?"

"Yes." 

He swings the door open widely, large hand raised to gesture for you to walk inside but you're already moving past him into the house. 

He watches the way you move through his home as if it's second nature, as if you always belonged here. Longing hits him strong and acute as he thinks of you bleeding in his truck, at the thought he could have lost you in a completely different and much more awful way. 

He follows you to the living room, watching as you pace a moment. Your eyes move to his fireplace several times before you give a small sigh and march over to it. He watches curiously as you reach for a small gold tube he's never noticed before. You look at it for several moments before you turn around to look Frankie square in the eye. 

"I need to know if you're seeing someone." Your breathing is elevated, eyes bright. "Even if it's casual." 

Frankie steps closer to you, puzzled."What?" 

"Are you seeing anyone?"

Frankie is at a loss. None of what you're saying makes any sense. He watches your feet shuffling along his carpet, anxiously awaiting his answer. 

"That's what you came over to ask me?"

You shake your head before brandishing the tube for his inspection, fingers shaking.  

"Whose lipstick is this?" 

Frankie squints at the slender tube between your shaking fingers. He didn't even realize it was lipstick. And you got it from his fireplace mantle?

"No clue," Frankie finally says with a shrug.

"It's been here a long time," you say, holding your breath. 

Frankie thinks back to any group gatherings he's had here in the past few months. 

"One of Santi's girls probably left it here after poker night. I'm always finding their shit here." 

"Really?"

"Really. Last time I found an earring by my sink."

“So you’re not seeing anyone?”

“No.”

He watches relief bloom on your face. The sight makes his heart trip delightedly. Even with a bandaged head you're still luminous. 

"That's...good," you say almost to yourself as you place the tube back onto the mantle. “That's really good.”

"Why?" Frankie asks lightly. 

You pause before suddenly looking away shyly, lashes lowered like you're embarrassed. 

"I thought you might be casually seeing someone." 

You are embarrassed. Frankie feels the hitch to one corner of his mouth. 

"Were you jealous or something?"

It's said with levity, but he's not joking, he's desperately hoping. Because if you're jealous that means something. 

You give him a challenging look that he knows too well. He's about to be told in no uncertain terms that you're never jealous. That you had no reason to be. But then you straighten, head held high. 

"Yes. I was jealous about you being with someone else."  

He's embarrassed at how quickly his pulse quickens. His insides feel hot, body on fire for you. 

"You were huh?" He's smiling wider now, dimple popping. "Thought you hated me," he says with another light chuckle. 

His voice is too breathless when he says it, embarrassing himself. He tells himself it's just an observation about your past animosity. But he's suddenly nervous because you don't seem angry or defensive like he's used to. You're looking at him in a completely new way, soft eyes and open body language. 

"I never hated you," you finally say with a trembling chin. "Even when I wanted to."

The amusement flees from his handsome face, leaving only open curiosity. "No?" 

You scan his eyes before motioning to the couch. You give a soft grunt as you drop onto a cushion, looking utterly exhausted. 

He joins you on the couch cushion, big hand spanning over your kneecap and squeezing gently. He can't help it; he needs to touch you in some way. When you don't pull away he simply rests it there. 

"Frankie... I-"

His heart is thumping steadily, but it picks up its tempo when you look up at him with such sad eyes. "Pip what's wrong?"

You don't look away from him, even though you seem to be in some sort of internal anguish. It makes him long to pull you into his arms, but he remembered what happened last time. How you ran from him and he doesn't want to put that pressure on you. 

"You've been visiting my mom for months. Cooking and cleaning and spending time with her." 

Frankie feels his breathing stutter, thrown at the sudden change in topic. 

Did Hilary tell you? Or maybe your mom?

He supposes he was just hoping the secret would remain one. He thought maybe your mom might say something, unable to remember it wasn't meant to be shared. At the time it hadn't seemed like a big deal, but then again Frankie never imagined you and he would be getting closer this trip. 

"Uh, yeah," he mutters.

"Why did you do it?"

His face goes pink; he can feel the heat crawling up his throat. He rubs at the back of his neck, voice quieter. 

"I was on suspension because of the coke," he mutters, "I had all this extra time on my hands and Santi and Hilary mentioned about your mom and I figured it was a no-brainer. I always liked your mom, she was always nice to me."

You stare at him as you digest what he's telling you. 

"You did that even after I treated you so horribly for so long?" You whisper, eye line wet. 

"Not your mom's fault." 

Frankie wonders why all of this is coming out. Was it the accident? Maybe you do have a concussion after all. 

"Why didn't you tell me?" 

"We weren't really talking, Pip," he says to his feet. "I mean, until this visit I don't remember the last time we had a civil conversation." 

Before Travis' party, he thinks bitterly. Before everything was ruined. 

He releases your knee, moving to rest against the back cushion of the couch. You nod, blinking the tears away as quickly as possible. Frankie stares at you for a long time, body tensed.  

"I tried reaching out to you before," Frankie admits. "Not about your mom, but to check in." 

He feels like this is a time for confessions, so he doesn't hesitate in sharing this. He waits patiently for you to formulate your response. 

"When?" 

"Around your graduation I tried calling your dorm but some guy answered," he mutters. "And you were in the background talking about going to bed..."

You flinch, clearly recalling the moment. 

"That was just some guy from a party my roommates threw. I asked him to sleep over-"

"I don't need to hear this-" Frankie interrupts. He doesn't want to know the details. Hearing this is just making him feel worse. 

"But I couldn't do anything with him," you finish in a rush as you look up at him with wide imploring eyes. "I couldn't because I just kept thinking about you, Frankie." 

Now Frankie is thrown, eyes snapping to focus on your face. You look sincere, but that's not possible. 

"What?"

"Every time he touched me all I could think about was how it felt when you touched me. And I realized how he felt wrong when you always felt right.” 

Frankie's taken aback by your candor. But also uncomfortable. You don't know what this conversation is doing to him. Your eyes go impossibly soft at the edges, matching the gentle murmur of your voice.

"It's always been you, Frankie." 

Now he feels cold seeping into his bones, his expressive face gone neutral. 

"Not always, Pip."

He goes to stand, but you cling to his forearm, wrapping your own arms around his elbow, keeping him in place on the sofa next to you. 

"Wait! That's what I'm trying to explain," you beseech him. "Please, Frankie, you have to listen. That night at Travis' party-"

"Stop, please," he says with a pang in his chest because in the years that followed your betrayal, he was plagued with the question of why you did what you did. 

He always wanted to know why your cruelty had reared Its ugly head that night. But now affronted with the choice to hear it, he suddenly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back to that ugly time. He doesn't want to remember another man's hands on you. 

Again he tries to pull away from you but you still haven't let go of his arm, you're pressed up so close to him he can smell the floral of your shampoo. And he's weak because he can barely move in the face of your nearness. 

"Frankie, please, just sit there and don't talk for five minutes. No, not even five. Just two." 

He watches the shaky breath you take in, voice coming out in a rush and he relaxes back, dark eyes narrowed on you. He'll hear you out. 

"That night at Travis' party I thought I saw you and Christy having sex in his parents room." 

The wind is knocked from him. "What?"

“You remember you told me Travis’ parent had a waterbed? That you wanted me to meet you up there?”

“Yeah.”

"Well I went up there and I see these two people, Christy and some guy. They were going at it and I couldn't see the guys face but I could see he was wearing your hat."

At this you make a vague motion to the Standard Oil cap Frankie now wears. Absently he touches the brim, eyes wide as your voice hitches, going low.

"I just... I assumed the worst."

Frankie is quiet, his body gone still. His ears are ringing. Something feels like it's taking over his body, something that protects him when he feels his most vulnerable. 

"Is that why you..." Frankie flinches. "You kissed him?"

"Yes."

Your face drops to your hands as you shake your head. Mortification is clear in your body language. 

"I feel so stupid. I don't know how I could have ever thought you would do that to me." 

"So all this time..." Frankie whispers, the puzzle pieces connecting. "You thought I cheated on you that night and that's why you've been so cold to me since then."

"Yes." 

"So you didn't hate me all this time," he says slowly, he needs to understand fully, he needs the clarity. 

You shake your head slowly from side to side, gaze not leaving his. 

"I couldn't ever hate you, Frankie," you admit in a shaky voice. "I was in love with you."

Frankie thinks back to his time in service, when the flash bangs would go off and leave the room and his ears ringing. This moment is similar to that, that same slightly unreal sensation that makes him feel off-balance. 

"You loved me," he whispers. 

"So deeply that when I thought you cheated on me I was devastated," you say with a flinch. "I was heartbroken."

He remains gaping at you. 

"You loved me," Frankie repeats quietly. 

"Yes." Your voice is trembling. "You're the only man I've ever truly felt like myself around. No one compared to you, even at their best."

You hear the small hitch to his breath, but you're unable to stop. 

"I've always loved you and I'm so sorry for what I did. For never talking to you. For Travis. And even though I know you can't love me after how I've treated you all this time, I just needed to tell you how much you mean to me. I need you to know I always have and always will love you."  

There, the final truth is laid at his feet and Frankie knows he needs to say something, but his body and brain aren't in agreement. Instead he lurches from the sofa, shaking off your loosening grip. He can't even look at you right now. 

He moves from the room in a hurry, feet carrying him to the bedroom, your watery gaze on his back. 

You watch as Frankie moves from you and into the bedroom, the pain in his face unbearable. But that's nothing compared to the brutal stab in your sternum at his rejection. 

I’m too late.

You whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. 

You can hear rustling in his bedroom, drawers being opened. A sickening drop goes to your stomach as you think of him packing up your hat and telling you to leave his home. Erasing every part of you that existed here. 

You're confused when he reappears still wearing his hat and a tense look on his face. In his hand is a yellowed envelope that he extends your way, eyes trained on your face as you stare at it. 

You stand, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm. "What is this?" 

"It was the first letter I was going to send you when I left back for basic." He exhales slowly as he passes it to you. "I wrote it before the party. I wanted to give it to you right before I left."

"Why?" 

"Remember you were giving me shit about writing you bad letters the last time? I figured I'd start out with a really good one." 

You hold the envelope in front of you, tracing your fingertip along the scrawl of your name over the front. "You kept it?"

He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "Felt weird to throw away." 

You scan his face. "Do you want me to read it?"

"Not right now." 

"Okay." You blink up at him. "Why not now?"

"Because the things in that letter are the same things I've wanted to tell you for years."  He steps forward and you watch as his biceps curl, big warm hands cupping your cheeks. "But I want to say them to your face first."

His dark eyes trail along your face, transfixed. Like he's finding new details he'll commit to memory. Your hands fly to his wrists, holding loosely as you marvel up at him.

"You are the most singular woman I've ever met," he says. "You're funny and sexy and thoughtful. You're kind and you're brave even though you don't believe it." 

Shame floods you at the praise. After everything you’ve put him through?

"Frankie, no," you say shaking your head. "I'm horrible." 

Frankie ducks his head, finding your eyes, his own are warm and honeyed. 

"You gave a boy you didn't know a hat, just because you thought it would make him feel better," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "You scaled a tree to save his kite; you stayed with him when he lost his parents even after everyone left."

Tears spill over your cheeks when his voice gets thick with emotion. 

"One thing I didn't put in the letter is that I love you," he says, raspy voice wavering as his dark eyes scan yours. "I have loved you for years and years and I'm going to keep loving you until the day I die and I needed to tell you that to your face."

Your eyes glisten as your hand finds your sternum, flattening your palm over it as you try to quell the thunder of your heartbeat. 

"You loved me back then?"

"Of course I did," he says through a wet chuckle. He brushes the hair back from your damp eyes. "How could I not?" 

"Because I'm stubborn and I jumped to the wrong conclusion and-"

Your eyes blink brightly up at him, trying not to cry when you see his eyes are shiny. 

"You trusted me to save you from that tree. To carry you when you were hurt," he says in that familiar low rasp. "You gave me your first kiss. Your first time. You've done nothing but show me love and trust from the first moment we met. How could I not love you? How could I love anyone else?"

And Frankie Morales, the boy who didn't even cry at his parent’s funeral suddenly can't hold his tears back from you. They slide down his face no matter how much he tries to blink them away. 

"I'm sorry," you choke out at the sight of them. "I'm so sorry, Frankie,” you hiccup a cry. "We had this perfect, beautiful thing and I ruined it." 

"Oh, baby, I-" he cuts himself off, strong arms pulling you into him.

You sob brokenly against his throat, arms tightly gripping him like he's the guiding light in a storm. You sob for the years missed. For birthdays and Christmases you didn't spend together. For lazy mornings in bed and his shitty French toast you never experienced. For the years of amazing sex and time spent laughing you were robbed of.  

And when you're finally finished crying, when your body feels it might turn to dust, you realize Frankie's still rocking you in his arms, his mouth pressed to your hairline. 

"You didn't ruin anything," he assures you in a rumble you can feel through his shirt. "I'm here. You're here. We're here together. We got here." 

Your arms are sealed around his waist, fingers lacing at the base of his spine. You have this crazy thought that if you don't hold him tightly, if you don't cling to him, he'll float away, gone forever. 

"I don't want you to leave," you whisper brokenly into his shoulder. Your chin is quivering when you speak. 

He makes a noise in his throat, sadness? Disbelief? Whatever it is, he holds you closer, like he's trying to physically move the love from his body to yours. 

"You're the love of my life," Frankie says in a hoarse voice. "And I'm never leaving you again."  

Those words break through the terrified crystallization of your fears, sending the shards falling away, forgotten. Frankie is the warmth, the sun melting them until you're freed from their oppressive hold. 

You feel the motion of him removing his hat, tossing it onto the coffee table. You raise your face to his and your lips are parted to reply to him when Frankie's plump mouth presses to yours. 

You kiss tenderly, lips damp, tongues searching. It's like the kiss from not so long ago but magnified now that your feelings have been shared. And it's just right. That same sensation of homecoming and safety and desire all wrapped up in one. The kiss that every other was compared to. 

"I missed you," Frankie murmurs between sighs, eyes closed. "I never stopped." 

"I never stopped loving you, Frankie." 

Your mouths meet again. Desire surges through you, arms scrabbling to wrap around his neck, mouths kissing furiously as his banded arms hold you against him. Your core pulses with a deep need as the kissing intensifies.

You coo when Frankie begins lowering you both to the couch, his heavy body resting lightly over yours.  He groans against your jaw, voice husky between tender nibbles and wet kisses against your neck.  

"You still smell the same." 

You feel the deep grind of his pelvis against yours and you moan into his mouth. It seems to echo like a plucked violin string, plaintive and mournful.  

"I need you," you murmur, tongue coming to flick gently under his upper lip. The intention is clear, your body melded to his. 

Frankie's eyes are like glossy black marbles when he pulls back. He's flushed; his dark curls have fallen into his forehead. He's never looked sexier. 

"You might be disappointed," he says, thumb grazing your jaw. "I was recently told I have a dad bod that peaked in basic."

Frankie laughs lightly, a tinge of insecurity at the edges.  

You hate that you put it there. 

You push him back slightly so that you can sit up, eyes dragging around his handsome face. 

"You know why I said that?" 

He shakes his head, jaw tensing in embarrassment. You move off the couch, dragging him to a stand before your hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, eyes heavy as you gaze at him. 

"I said that because Benny caught me staring at you that day at the beach," you admit, helping to peel the T-shirt from his body. "And I was staring because you looked so fucking good." 

Frankie flushes delightedly at this, hair fluffed from the removal of his t-shirt and hat. Your ankles cross as you move a slow circle around his body, fingers trailing over his pectorals, feeling the rise of goose flesh under the pads of your fingers. 

"You were standing there with no shirt, the sun on your skin," you recall with a sigh. "And I was hypnotized." 

You come to stand in front of him once more and Frankie watches you take in his broad, muscled shoulders, the thick biceps and tensed belly. 

"Because you're still so perfect," you whisper in quiet awe. 

He gives a shy shake of his head, about to speak, to deny this, when your finger slowly presses against those plump lips you adore, urging him to remain silent. You want to show him that you're not just saying this. That your desire has not waned in the slightest. That in your opinion he's only gotten more attractive, more masculine, more sensual.  

You lean forward and kiss his collarbone, just because you can. Then you move to the base of his elegant neck. His skin is warm; he smells the same as he always has. Old spice, laundry, fresh sweat. 

Frankie.

He makes a soft purring noise in the back of his throat, head tilting back to give you better access. Your nose glides along his throat, inhaling both him and the memories of your combined youth. You suck a soft bruise into the skin just below his jaw and are rewarded with a deep, reverberating groan. 

You love every part of him, from his body to his mind. His compassion and even his temper. You love it all because it is all of him, every piece of him a gift you want to cherish properly. 

You kiss down his warm torso, body trembling under your lips. He's so eager, so needy. You feel it pressed against your belly as you descend. 

Your lips move over the firm swell of his belly, leading a trail of kisses to the top of his hips. You both shiver excitedly when your lips move lower, to where his bronzed flesh disappears under his jeans. 

Your eyes shift now from his skin and back to his face. He's breathing through his mouth, eyes trained on you when you slowly sink to your knees, hands on his belt buckle. You unhook the button of his jeans, drawing down the tongue of the zipper without thought. 

He goes to speak, but you're already bringing him out of his boxers and into your waiting palm. He's warm, thick and throbbing in your eager hand.

"So pretty," you say looking at it with devotion as you begin to stroke slowly. "I almost forgot how pretty."

He hisses as you thumb the damp slit. His fingers reach out to graze your cheek, thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even know was there. Your eyes are on his, glued, fascinated. 

"I never forgot how pretty," he murmurs.

The heat of his gaze and the touch of his fingers on your cheek make you feel shy. You remind yourself to stay on task when his eyes go unfocused. 

You stroke slowly, eyes on his, watching when those dark lashes begin to flutter before squeezing shut. 

"You're shaking, Morales," you tease, your movements increasing in pace, watching the pleasurable disbelief cross his face. 

His brows saddle as you tighten your fingers upon your descent, enthralled to see how his hips buck in response before his legs wobble. 

"Can you blame me?" he grunts, hands at his side in useless fists. 

You gaze up at him, tongue coming to lick the rosy head of his cock, delighted when it twitches at the contact. 

"Jesus, Pip," he groans, eyes pitched black. 

You continue smirking as you take a long, languid lick along the underside of him, never breaking eye contact. He stares down at you in awe, fingers twitching. 

You lean forward, lips parting as you take the head of his cock into your scorching mouth.He makes a muffled choking noise, one hand continuing to cup your cheek, feeling the architecture of your jaw as you widen your mouth to accommodate him. 

His eyelids flutter again as you flatten your tongue, tasting every inch you urge him to feed himself further into your mouth. 

"Baby, you're killing me."

You hide a grin as his head tilts down again, chin propped on his sternum so he can watch everything you're doing. 

He shudders as you swirl your tongue around the ridge of the head, savoring the salt and scent of him. He groans under his breath, fingers coming to tangle in your hair and you whine around him at the pleasure his grip sends skittering through your body. 

"God, look at you," Frankie groans, mouth trembling. "Still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."

You increase the suction, tongue flickering against the sensitive underside in the way you can remember he loves. He arches his back, his hips canting instinctively again before he stops himself. 

"Wait, Pip, wait," he whispers, his voice ragged and broken.

You pull off of him in confusion when he begins to curl over, hands warmly squeezing over yours. You give a look of concern up at him which is wiped away you see the open need in his expression. 

"I need to feel you first." 

You give a small giggle of surprise as he reaches down, pulling you into his strong arms as if you weigh nothing. He holds you in a bridal carry as his mouth finds yours, kissing you deeply. 

"Can we keep going in bed?" He rasps against your lips. "Like that first time?" 

You beam at him, arms wrapping around his neck as he moves to walk you both over the threshold of his childhood bedroom. 

"Yes."

Hours later the two of you sweaty and grinning under the covers. Its dark now, both of you lost track of time after your third orgasm. The window is cracked open a fraction to let the night air in. 

"Like we never skipped a beat," you pant, burrowing against him. 

"I dunno about that," Frankie says, flushed and impossibly happy as he kisses your forehead. "I feel like it was even better than before." 

"Yeah?"

"I mean, it was pretty amazing when we were kids but this? Next level."

You give a soft laugh of surprise. "Next level." 

"Mhm." 

"You're right," you agree after a moment's sincere consideration.   

"Finally, you admit I'm right about something," he teases. The corners of his mouth curve into a gentle smile, the kind he saves just for you. 

"Don't get too used to it." 

You press a kiss to his chest, letting the moonlight paint his golden skin silver. The window is slightly ajar, the sound of cicadas chirping in the distance. 

Despite the satisfaction and relief of knowing Frankie feels the same way about you, an ache remains under your ribcage, prompting Frankie to tap your chin gently with the crook of his forefinger.

"What is it, baby?" 

"How can you forgive me so easily?" You whisper, eyes limpid. 

"I'm not big on keeping score," he shrugs, smiling indulgently at you. "And you're here in my arms. I don't need to over think it." 

You grin back unsteadily at first; unsure if this free flowing kindness is to be believed. But again your brows saddle.

"We could have been like this the whole time," You say, brushing the curls from his face. "I just think about the years we lost-"

"We're here now," he interrupts before you can begin any further self-flagellation. "And that's all that matters." 

You bury your face in his neck, happy tears wetting his skin. His lips find yours once more and for a glorious moment it feels like nothing bad will ever happen again. All that exists is joy and togetherness and safety here in the harbor of Frankie Morales strong arms. 

Beep.

Beep. 

Your phone beeps and vibrates, drawing your attention over to the side of the bed. Your reach down to retrieve it from the back pocket of your denim cut offs. 

Frankie watches you read the text, brows knitted when you give a soft gasp. He jerks up in bed when you hurriedly start to get dressed. 

"Baby, what is it?" 

"My mom," you say with a crazed look in your eyes. "We need to get back right away." 

He doesn't hesitate, simply tugs on his jeans, T-shirt and hat before he ushers you into his truck. He holds your hand the entire way from the truck and across the threshold of your childhood home. 

"Hey," Hilary says in a quiet voice as you both enter the house. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy. But when her eyes move between the two of you and your linked hands, you see a softness to her expression. 

"About damn time, Fish." 

Frankie ducks his head shyly in reply. 

For a strange moment you feel like this is all a dream. Frankie, Hilary, your mom. Like the world is hazy and not quite solid under your feet. 

Rosalita is there at the doorframe of your mother's room. Her eyes are wet when she looks between your sister and you. 

"It is time, my dears." 

She doesn't say anything more, she simply steps back into your mother's room. 

Frankie squeezes your hand gently and you drop it only so that you can take Hilary's. Her fingers wrap tightly around yours as you feel Frankie's warmth at your back. 

"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me" Frankie murmurs gently, kissing your cheek and moving back into the other room. 

You can hear the quiet, agonized breathing of your mother and the sound terrifies you into taking a step back. Hilary notices, the big sister in her causing you both to stop just outside the door. 

"I can give her a message from you if you don't want to come in" Hilary offers.

Up close you can see her eyes are swollen. You see the fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes and mouth. You see the sister that has always protected you, even when you didn't realize it. 

But she doesn't need to do that anymore. 

"I'm okay." 

You enter into the room with Hilary, the two of you coming to stand at the side of the bed, both staring down at the placid face of your mother.  Her rasping breath rattles in her narrow chest, her eyes closed, mouth parted. 

You watch as Hilary leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead before her mouth moves to your mother's ear and she whispers something. You'll never know what she said that night, and you'll never ask. 

When she rights herself, you can see the tears that have flooded her face. She wipes them away before looking at you expectantly. 

And despite the fear you've felt at being left alone with your mother, suddenly, it's all you want. A peaceful send-off. 

"Can I have a minute alone with her?" You ask your sister quietly. 

Hillary's surprised, but she nods."Of course."

She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, closing the door gently behind she and Rosalita. 

You look back to see your mother's breathing is labored, her face waxen. And this is when you want to leave, to rush from the room where it's bright and safe. You want to escape the hard things, just like when you flew to Seattle, when you started over, when you left. 

But as you take your mother's hand for what will be the last time; you do it because for once, you are choosing to stay.

Me when Pip and Frankie reunited

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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THEN

Frankie's dad loves to slap the back of his head. Whether it's in jest or disgust, Frankie can usually anticipate a sharp sting at the base of his scalp. 

He was sitting there eating cereal in the kitchen when the sharp snap came. He yelped, hand going to rub the sore spot. 

His father stands next to the table, posture rigid. He has a buzz cut, square jaw chiselled, his shave as close to smooth as possible. 

Frankie touches the brim of his hat as he pops it on anxiously. It's safer that way - his father doesn't usually hit him upside the head when the hat is on. 

"You can't bring that with you to base," Frankie's dad mutters, plopping his heavy body at the end of the table. "No personal items." 

"I know. I'm going to drop it off at a Pip's." 

"Why the hell would you do that?" 

Frankie feels his cheeks get warm. How can he explain that he just wants to see you before he goes? Wants to ask you to write him while he's gone. 

"It's her hat. She just lent it to me." 

His dad makes a scoffing noise as his mother brings a cup of fresh coffee, placing it at his elbow. 

"That girl's whole family is trash," he says with a shake of his head, sipping his coffee. "I'm glad you're getting away from her and that Santiago boy."

Frankie doesn't understand how they can all be so similar socioeconomically, and yet his dad can have so much disdain for people like Pip and Santi. 

"I caught her mother coming out of the liquor store at ten in the morning. She was already three sheets," he says with a shake of his head. "No wonder her oldest is always getting into trouble. Little slut."

Frankie hangs his head, hair falling into his face, feeling like a traitor when he says nothing to stick up for you or your sister. But he's learned the hard way that the less his father knows the safer.

"Jesus, Francisco," his father snaps. "It's a good thing you're headed to basic. You look like a fucking girl with that hair." 

That's the last thing Frankie remembers of his family before he left for basic. The interaction that will stay with him forever. 

Since the funeral Frankie sometimes goes over that last morning with his father. The ugliness in the senior Morales, his mother's turned back at the stove as her husband rained down insult after insult. The thought makes him sick sometimes. 

The first few days back home had been hell. Family, planning the funeral, insurance workers, the bank and everyone with an opinion on what to do with his life and the house. 

But when he saw you that day, felt the softness of support as you sat next to him on that sofa, all he wanted was you. And without the parental figures that haunted this home, it felt he could acknowledge it fully. 

The two of you rested on towels over the grass of his backyard the following week. The day was sunny and sweet and the wind tickled along gooseflesh dotted arms. Cold glasses of lemonade rested at your elbows. 

"Do you think Santi knows about us?"  Your voice is soft and a little tentative. You’re leaned back, face basking in the warmth of the day. 

Frankie moves to rest his head on your belly, eyes closed behind his aviators.

"No. He's so distracted with girls he has no idea."

"You're sure?"

"Mhm." He cracks open one eye, seeing the pinched expression you wear. "Why?"

"I'm just scared of what he'll say." 

You can't relax and he can feel the tension in your tight muscles. He feels a sudden surge of guilt. 

"Is this stressing you out too much?" He asks, his own nerves catching up to him. "Did you want to stop-"

"No."

Your answer is immediate and Frankie has to tamp down the delighted grin his mouth wants to curl into. 

"Me neither." 

He sneaks a glance at you behind his sunglasses, to the small contented smile you wear. 

If only every day could have you in it. 

He wants to hold you and take care of you and atone for all the times his dad disparaged you and your family while he remained silent. He wants to protect you from anyone and anything that might harm you.

He wants a family that was nothing like his own. 

"It's so weird to see your hair so short," you murmur, fingers moving to card through his shorn locks. He makes a soft purring noise, like a contented cat.

"You should grow it back." 

"Can't," Frankie says around a yawn. "Have to keep it short for service." 

He goes quiet for a moment, cheeks warming as he thinks back to so many years ago, the scars of which never seen to heal. 

"Besides, didn't you think my longer hair made me look like a girl?"

He feels you look down at him strangely, but he keeps his attention on something in the distance, shielded by his frames. 

"Of course not," you answer gently. "Your hair is so beautiful, Frankie." You start to stroke his short hair once more. "Everything about you is beautiful." 

He loves you, he acknowledges. He's known for a while but this perfect moment, this mending of his soul makes it so apparent. Soon after he has a thought that makes his body break out in delicious warmth. 

He's going to marry you one day. 

"Pip? Can you hear me?" 

The sound of a deep, husky voice startles you into wakefulness, your heart tapping unsteadily.

You groan, body aching all over. You feel disoriented, eyes struggling to blink open.It takes you a moment to realize you're slumped over your steering wheel. 

When you look closer you see a dark smear of something marked along the edge of the steering wheel. 

Through the spider web of cracks along the windshield you take in the side of the building the truck skidded into from the road. It blocks your driver's side, casting a shadow that makes you winced. Your water bottle and mom’s old prescription bottles have flung everywhere, your purse contents spilled in the collision. 

The tick of the cooling engine is like a frantic heartbeat and something warm is dripping from your forehead. When you swallow you realize its blood. Why are you bleeding? You hiss when a pulse of pain throbs behind your eyes, slamming them closed. 

"Pip?"

The voice is back. 

It’s  raspy and familiar. It soothes you. And you immediately realize who it is. 

You slowly crack open your eyes in the direction of the voice. A familiar shadow is standing there at the passenger’s side of the truck. 

Frankie. 

Everything looks fuzzy at the edges, like someone put Vaseline on the lens of a camera.

You’re dead. This is the afterlife and somehow Frankie is there to greet you. You're scared, but the thought of Frankie being there gives you a sense of calm. 

You raise a shaky hand his way.

"It's you." 

He's beautiful and broad and he's tugging at the door, swearing in frustration. 

"It's me, baby," Frankie says in a choked voice. You can't see much, but you make out his dark eyes which look wet. 

All the feelings you've been biting back for ages are fighting to escape. Like the proverbial floodgates being opened. You need to tell him everything. 

"Frankie I wanted to tell you-"

"Later," he says, eyes intense. "Right now we need to get you out, okay? The doors are wrenched shut. Can you unbuckle and crawl over to me?" 

Yes, you realize after a few moments of fumbling. You can and your do, knees scraping some of the safety glass that landed on the bench seat. 

But you don't care about the pain. All you want is Frankie's arms around you. To be held by him. To tell him everything. The pain of not being with him all these years hurts worse than the scrapes and bruises along your body.

He's reaching through the broken window towards you. You see he's removed his jacket and placed it along the edges to ensure you don't cut yourself. 

"Frankie-"

You're so close, almost about to raise your arms in return when you hear the sound of your own unsteady breathing. 

"I've got you," Frankie's encourages, arms outstretched your way. His fingertips manage to graze your cheek. 

But his voice starts to sound muffled and far away. When you blink it gets darker at the edges until Frankie is a pinprick. 

"Pip, keep going-" 

You try to focus, to respond to Frankie's call but your head is so heavy and the darkness is overpowering. 

THEN

Frankie's throat is caked with dirt, his face smudged with perspiration. He wishes he could wipe at his face with his arm, but the sleeves are rolled down to keep from scrapes despite the sweltering heat. 

On top of that his ballistic helmet sits snugly over his head, his night vision goggles making it easier to see.  

The fatigues he and the rest of his team wear are muted greens and beige that help them blend into the environment. Pope's is in front of him, body coiled tight. He wears the same gear as Frankie, but his is worn and well lived in whereas Frankie's is more meticulous. 

Just like his dad expects.

"Left clear." 

Will and Tom flank Pope, their faces firm lines of intense focus. They've been on several missions together and training at base. Somehow Frankie stumbled upon a group of friends he wasn't expecting. 

He hadn't expected to see Santi sailing into basic a day after he did. Didn't expect the relief he felt at the friendly face. He didn't expect the haughty Tom and the quiet and calm Will to gravitate to them after their first mission together. But soon they were a strange little family all their own. 

Now after a gruelling rehearsal earlier, they are here at drug kingpin Charles Moss' compound in Argentina, ready to take him down. 

The magazines and rifles are held tightly to their bodies. Despite the amount of times they've done this, Frankie still feels that initial hiccup behind his heart. 

These are the moments, these calms before the storm where his mind plays cruel tricks, where his thoughts betray him. Where they distract him from what he should be thinking about.

A dark baseball cap.

A kite in a tree.

Lightning bugs.

Pip.

He hates that you can find her way into his head during moments like these, but you always do. 

He hates it because it causes him to imagine a world where he doesn’t survive his mission. It makes him imagine a world where he never sees you again.

And considering how you broke his heart he should be over that by now.  But he's not. 

Frankie watches as Will raises his left hand, curling a fist and that drags him back to the present. The group of them pause, taking stock of their surroundings and clearing the corners. 

They move swiftly as Tom deploys the first flash bang. They flood the room like a broken dam, weapons raised, voices clipped.

"Left clear."

"Right clear."

"Moving."

Another flash bang is detonated, white light blasting like thunder. The men moved through the ringing aftermath with their heavy rifles at the ready. 

A large man stumbles from a doorway with a hand over one ear. He's disoriented from the flash bang and reaches clumsily for his weapon. 

Will closes the distance in two strides, the butt of his rifle knocking the man out. Frankie is quick with the zip ties, securing him.

The man swears at them in Spanish, spittle flying from his lips. But it doesn't matter; they've come for who they needed. When his goons come sailing in they're all easily taken out by the four soldiers. It's done with calm efficiency and stoic expressions. 

They've done this countless times before. And today's the earlier rehearsal has them prepared. They just have to stay on script. 

Unfortunately Pope has never been particularly adept at playing by the rules. Especially not when the sound of a woman's cry is heard echoing from somewhere deeper in the compound. 

"Left stairs. Let's go." 

"Not the plan," Tom hisses, eyes scanning the perimeter. "Not how we rehearsed. Simple extraction of Moss, which we've done." 

"I don't give a shit," Pope snaps. "I hear a civilian." 

Frankie can see the strain on his friends face from where he stands. But he doesn't defend  Pope because Frankie plays by the rules. And yet as the cry is heard once more, he doesn't hesitate to follow his friend. 

“Let’s go.”

Will and Tom swear under their breath, but Frankie is already trailing after Pope, whispering his name. They round the corners, feet scraping against dirty stairs. Frankie is focused, advancing room by room. Pope is always out front, attention keen. 

He pivots, covering a doorway while an approaching Will moves past him. Tom is nowhere to be seen, likely still with Moss. 

A shout echoes from somewhere ahead. Pope is jogging, gear clinking as he moves. Will is close behind him, sweeping the corners. 

"Hostages located!"

When Frankie pushes into the room after them he can see several frightened female civilians huddled against a crumbling wall. These are drug mules that Moss uses. 

There are at least six of them, all shackled by their feet to the cement floor. 

Pope and Will sweep the room, making sure there are no immediate threats. There's no other door, no windows.

It's safe.

Frankie stands in the center, scanning the room. The adrenaline is already beginning to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Will and Pope begin working on the women's metal shackles, blades popping the screws. 

Frankie copies Pope and lowers his rifle slightly when a woman with dark makeup looks up at him from the ground in fear. 

"¿Vas a hacernos daño?". 

Frankie kneels next to her speaking in a calm voice.

"Estamos aquí para rescatarte a ti y a tus amigas."

His rifle is tossed over his shoulder as he reaches down for her shackled feet. She wears many layers, covering the ground under her. 

He looks over at Will who announces he's going to take the first batch of girls with him to a secure location. He watches the women leave after Will, their bodies thin and shaking. 

The sharp pain in Frankie's shoulder catches him by surprise. A painful blast of hot, stinging pain causes him to yelp in pain. 

"Fuck!" 

He looks at the woman in confusion before he twists away, realizing that it’s a sharp blade sinking into his shoulder. He realizes now she's not bound like the other girls in here. She likely works for Moss collecting girls for trafficking and probably enjoys the power of her station. 

She pulls the blade from his shoulder as Frankie kicks her off of him. The woman snarls at him, teeth bared as she raises the blade again. 

"¡No te llevarás a mis hij-"

She doesn't finish the sentence before Pope has her knocked face down in the dirt, securing her wrists behind her. He looks down at Frankie with concern as he ensures she properly restrained. 

Frankie can feel as blood bubbles forth from the wound. It's warm and there's so much of it. His breathing is uneven, starting to come out raspy. 

"You okay, Fish?" 

Frankie is trying to respond but he's starting to feel lightheaded. The smell of gunpowder and old sweat is causing his stomach to churn. 

Outside, helicopters are whirring away in the distance, but they are growing muted. And there he falls onto his back, eyes on the dirty ceiling. 

This will be the last thing he ever sees.

He's going to die now.

He can feel death coming for him like an old friend covering him with a blanket, whispering soothing words. And he's not upset because he's afraid of dying. No, the bone deep  fear is never seeing you again. Never holding you, never kissing you, never forgiving you. 

He could have forgiven you.

He loves you. 

It's getting foggy in his brain, dark at the edges of his vision. Pope is saying something but he's so cold and he's so tired. He can say only one thing as he surrenders to unconsciousness. 

"Pip." 

"Pip."

You hear the sound of tires over gravel. You're in a vehicle and it's moving steadily. But that's Frankie's voice, worried and tight.

"C'mon baby, stay awake."

You feel a seat belt over your chest, the chair pushed back so you're in repose. 

Didn't something happen to you truck? What happened again? 

You try to ask about where you are but it comes out mumbled gibberish. Your tongue re feels too big for your mouth. You close your eyes, slumping back.

"Stay awake," Frankie's worried voice tells you. "Can you hear me? Don't fall back asleep." 

You go to sit up, groaning when a sharp pain slices through your temple at the attempt. Your hand flies to your head, eyes squeezed shut. 

"Fuck!" 

"Relax. Just relax. We're almost there." 

Your eyes flutter open slowly, eyes slanting to the left in the direction of the voice. 

"Frankie? How are - Where am I?" 

"We're almost to the hospital." 

Frankie is driving quickly, hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as he maneuvers through traffic. Your body goes cold, fingers gripping either side of the seat.

"Hospital? What happened? Is it my mom?" 

Frankie makes a soothing cluck under his breath, hand groping for yours across the bed of the truck. His hand dwarfs yours, warm and steady as he squeezes. He doesn't tremble like you do. 

"Slow down. Breathe. Your mom is at home with Hilary." His eyes shift your way and then back to the road "We're going to the hospital for you." 

"For me?" You pause. "What? Why?" 

"You don't remember?"

"No."

"Some asshole blew through a stop sign and totaled your mom's truck." 

Fragments of memory are starting to come back, the sound of the crunching truck frame, the jerk of you against your seat belt. 

“We’re here.”

Your eyes hurt, blinking as the emergency room comes into view. Frankie parks quickly, looking over at you with scrutiny. 

"Look at me for a sec." 

You glance over at Frankie, hissing when his big hand moves from covering yours to brush back the stray hair across your forehead. 

"The cut on your head isn't bleeding anymore. Good." He unbuckles your seat belt and then his own. "Let's go." 

To the ER? While your mother lays dying at home?

Not just that, you think of the insurance that won't be accepted in a Florida hospital. You think of the bills that will await you. 

"It's too expensive-"

"I don't give a shit," Frankie interrupts, tugging his key from the ignition. "We're here and you're going to be seen by a doctor." 

He reaches over, unbuckling your safety belt.

"I can't," you say, briefly shaking your head until the motion makes your skull ache. "They'll keep me all day. I need to get back to my mom." 

"No." 

The single word is a boom in the cab of the truck. You stare at Frankie open-mouthed as he exits the truck, tall form stalking around to your side. His hair is sticking out from under his cap, muscled body held taut under the T-shirt, like he's going to fall apart if he doesn't.

When he flings open the door his eyes are sharp.  "Come out." 

"No. Just take me home," you whine, your head pounding, irritability flooding you. You want to go to sleep in your own bed. You just want to sleep. “Please, Frankie.”

Frankie steps even closer, voice low. 

"I'm not arguing with you about this." 

When he reaches his long arms out to you, you try to angle away from him but his hands are on your hips, gently removing you from his truck. You're too exhausted to fight back. 

His grip is surprisingly gentle as he tugs you out onto the sidewalk. He makes sure you're stable, feet planted firmly on the ground before he crouches, making sure he's eye level with you. 

"Either you walk into that ER right now or I carry you." 

"I can't, Frankie," you whimper. Everything feels too bright, too loud, too overwhelming. "Just take me home." 

His hands cover your shoulders, squeezing ever so gently. 

"Baby, listen to me," he says, voice low and tender. "I'm taking you into the hospital and I'm not leaving until I know you're okay."

He points over your shoulder at the emergency room but you can't look away from his face. From the fierceness in his expression, the burning intensity in his eyes. 

“I have always tried my best to protect you. So go ahead and keep on hating me if you need to." His cheek twitches as his eyes take on a glassy look. "But I'm not losing your stubborn ass, do you understand me? Not this time."

The tone of his voice is intense, but the words border on melodic. His voice holds that power, the rough touching the soft. You gaze up at the man you want nothing more than to care for. At the man you wasted so many years apart from. 

And as he pulls you gently to the emergency room, all you can do is let silent tears fall down your cheeks, the same words going over and over in your mind.

I don’t hate you Frankie. I love you.

THEN

You remember the carnival coming to town one summer. It was one of those cheap things that moved from place to place setting up overpriced cotton candy stalls and rusted rides as tired looking staff, tried to persuade you into paying extreme sums to throw darts at balloons. 

However, growing up with little cash meant you knew to avoid those classic money traps. All you wanted to do was ride the roller coaster, the flashing sight of its neon green track greeting you the entire week you took the bus to and from school. 

Santi promised to take you when you told him about it, and true to his word showed up with an excited look on his young face that Friday night. 

"No rollercoaster," he tells you as you scramble to pull on a light jacket. ""I'll go on any other ride but that." 

Hilary in a rare moment of sisterly tolerance agrees to come that evening as well. She even drives the three of you in your mom's pickup truck, listening to you whine to Santi about the ride. 

"Please, Santi."

"No way, Pip. I hate those things." 

"But Santi-"

"I'll take you on the stupid roller coaster," she says as you sail down the street towards the flashing lights. "Just stop whining about it." 

Frankie and Travis are there at the entrance waiting for you both. Travis seems delighted that your sister has shown up. 

"Hey Hilary."

Hillary is sixteen and has grown into her shape in a way that has you endlessly envious. You’re thirteen and still in that awkward phase where you feel uncomfortable in your own body. 

Frankie greets you both with a muted hello, eyes tired. You don’t overlook the bruise on his upper arm peeking out from under his T-shirt. The humid night means no sweaters. Clearly his dad had been in a mood, something Santi knew all too well. Something the two of them bonded over. 

Sometimes you wondered what it would be like if your mom just didn't drink but beat you every so often as well. You don’t like to linger in that frame of mind. 

Especially not tonight. You're on a mission and weave through the crowd to buy tickets as the group calls out to you. The guys eventually join you, voices loud and obnoxious when a cute girl walks by. You have to fight not to aggressively roll your eyes. 

You're patient though, following the older kids with a spring in your step. You watch Frankie and Travis go on the bumper cars while Hilary and Santi ride on the Ferris wheel. You buy cotton candy and take your time letting it melt on your tongue, fingers sticky. 

Soon the place full of chattering teens and families, the hour growing late. You wait on a bench for the guys to grab mini donuts. Hilary is standing near the ring toss game cultivating the attention of nearby boys in oversized basketball jerseys. 

One of the boys motions to the game and Hilary gives a shrug, as if she couldn't care less. As the boy begins to play, Hilary brings out a cigarette, looking like she practiced it in the mirror as she pops out between her pouty lips. 

"Lines pretty short for the coaster now," your cousin informs you as he draws closer. "Should probably head over there."

"I want to, I'm just waiting for Hilary." You twist around, waving and calling her over.

She shoots you a dark look, moving towards you with a frown.

"What do you want you little turd?" 

"You said you'd go on the rollercoaster with me."

She gives you a dramatic roll of her eyes.

"Jesus, just go on it by yourself.”

"What? I can't go on by myself."

"Why not? You're not a baby anymore." 

"You said you'd go on with me," you whine gently, brows furrowed. 

"Yeah, well, now I'm gonna hang out with that guy," she shrugs, motioning to the young man with baggy jeans and an oversized jersey. 

"But Hil-"

"I'll meet you at the car at ten," she promises.

You watch as she leaves, shoulders slumped and tears stinging your eyes. Travis pauses for a moment before his tone turns coaxing.

"C'mon, Pip," he says. "I'll walk you over. You'll be great." 

"Will you go on with me?" 

You don't want to go on a rollercoaster with Travis. You don't feel safe with him like you do with your sister or Santi... Or Frankie. 

"Nah. Got no tickets left." 

"Oh. Then no, I don’t feel like it." 

He looks at your down-turned face, pausing before reaching into his pocket and rustling inside. 

"Oh wait. Just found one more. C'mon, let's go." 

You're desperate to go on the coaster, even if it means doing it with Travis. And at first as you walk alongside him towards the ride you're excited. But it seems the closer you get, the higher the coaster goes, becoming more and more foreboding.

You pass Santi and Frankie on their way to the pirate ship ride, giving them a nervous wave. They give you a concerned look back, but Travis just smiles their way. 

"Taking Pip on the coaster." 

Frankie frowns and Santi nods, pausing a moment you scan your face before you and Travis keep walking. 

"This'll be fun," Travis promises as you get closer to the screaming passengers. "We can sit right up front." 

You line up behind a large group of giggling teenagers, feeling shy as they look your way and smirk. It makes you wish Hilary was here. 

A screaming group rattles by you on the coaster, some clutching the seat, others throwing their arms up. 

Suddenly your heart is in your throat, the sound of the ride, the group of teens waiting in line, the wooden railing making it impossible for you to leave. And then more people line up behind you, boxing you in. You won't be able to exit without embarrassing yourself. 

When you get to the front you expect that you'll be able to slink off to the back seats. But the group of teenagers has started to amble onto the ride, moving decisively, leaving only the two front seats free. 

A teen in a stained red shirt indicates you should step up and take your seat. You stare at it, eyes widening when you see how unsafe it looks. What if something happens? Travis can't save you! The entire situation is too daunting and you turn to Travis, voice a squeak. 

"I changed my mind-"

"C'mon," Travis insists, not allowing you to move back. His arm blocks your path. "You gotta face your fears, Pip." 

The pimply faced youth running the ride gives you a bored look as you stand there, fingers wringing anxiously. 

"You getting on or not, kid?" 

People in line are starting to whisper, their eyes on you, irritated that you're holding up the line. You want to cry. 

"Travis, please-"

"C'mon," he cajoles, tugging you by the arm. "There's still room in the front."

You allow yourself to be pulled to the front of the roller coaster, a terrified lump in your throat. Travis helps you step into the seat, hands clammy. You notice his hair is damp with sweat. He's looking at you strangely, almost cagey. 

The teen running the ride is there at his elbow, frowning. He looms over you with his hand extended. 

"Tickets?" 

"She's got hers," Travis says, pointing at you. You reach into your pocket, handing it off.

You wait for Travis to do the same, but he just steps back out of the box, shaking his head at the guy.

"What are you doing?" You ask eyes like saucers. "You said you were riding with me." 

"I just said that to get you up here," he grins. "You need to face your fears, Pip." 

"What?"

You look back in front of you at the thick iron track. You can hear the teens snickering behind you. 

"Just ride," Travis is saying, looking gleeful. "Stop being a wuss." 

You're frozen in fear and humiliation body stiff as the teen straps your lap belt. You want to scream but you feel like you're made of ice. 

"I'll meet you at the bottom," Travis tells you, giving you a thumbs up.

"Travis, wait!" 

"You're gonna be great. Just don't puke!" 

Your mouth opens but nothing comes out. You can only sit there, watching him disappear until he's a dot in the crowd. The ride operator steps out, facing the waiting crowd of miserable faced onlookers.

"We have a single rider," the teen calls out, unaware of your distress. "Got any singles who want to catch this ride?" 

Of course no one volunteers which only adds to the wretched lump in your throat. Tears are starting at the corner of your eyes. You can't hide them anymore.  One rolls down your cheek before you can brush it away.

"Holy shit, are you crying?" A voice says from behind you. "How old are you?" 

You don't have to turn to know it's the teen with overly gelled hair.

"It's just a ride," another jeers. 

Your heart is going like mad at the unwanted attention, more tears are slipping down your cheeks and the snickers behind you cause your face to burn. 

"No singles?" The teen asks again. "Okay, let's get this going, folks." 

You're going to be on this ride all by yourself. This terrifying experience will be done solo and the thought makes your stomach twist. Your eyes squeeze shut as you make a frantic silent entreaty to the universe. 

Please let something happen to the ride. A mechanical failure. Let someone throw up right now and have us evacuate. Please don't make me-

"I'll go." 

You know that voice.

Your head spins around just in time to watch Frankie settling into the seat next to you. You stare over at him in quiet awe.

“Frankie.”

He's so tall his long legs keep knocking against yours as he busies himself with the lap belt. The teens who were snickering before all go quiet when he shoots them a dark look over one broad shoulder. And in the moment you're so grateful for him, you think you might start crying again. 

You look at him with a nervous grin, hands gripping the bar lowered over your laps. Frankie does the same, his grin broad. 

"You still wanna do this, Pip?" He asks as the teen starts to lower the lap bars on the cars behind you. 

"Yes." 

You don't hesitate and not because you aren't afraid of the ride, because you are. And not because you want to prove something to Travis. No, it's because you want to do this for yourself and with Frankie Morales at your side, you know you are protected.

The emergency room is blissfully sparse given it's the middle of a workday. But even if it wasn't, it turns out a car crash victim with blood down the side of her face takes priority. 

You're in a private room within minutes, Frankie pacing alongside the hospital bed you lay on. 

"What the fuck is taking this doctor so long?" Frankie says angrily throwing his arms up in the air. "We've been waiting here at least 10 minutes."

"Frankie, please," you say wincing. Your eyes are tired from tracking his going back and forth at the foot of your bed. "It's been maybe 2 minutes."

"Yeah, well you have a head injury from a car crash. I guess I thought that was important enough for immediate care." 

You catalogue his features; the shine to his dark eyes, the plump of his lips, the way his hair is curling under one ear.

"You're still okay?" Frankie asks, fingernail wedged between his two front teeth. "Headache isn't getting worse?"

"Nope."

He rips off his baseball cap, his fingers carting through his curls before readjusting the hat over them once more. 

"Frankie, just... Just sit," you say motioning to the seat next to the hospital bed. It's an ugly mint green color, full of holes. 

He does as you ask, coming to sit the edge of the chair as he rests his large hand over yours on the bed.You stare at him for a moment, reveling in his touch. You can feel him, taking in every detail of your face 

"You scared the shit out of me," he says, thumb tracing soothing circles along your knuckles. "When I saw that truck and all the broken glass." 

It comes back to you in fragments, bits and pieces of the accident. You remember the screech tires, the scent of burning rubber, and a weightless feeling for half a second. 

"How did you find me?" 

"Hilary called me saying you left in a frenzy and she was worried. And then something in me just told me I needed to drive to find you. I can't explain it." 

You go quiet, thinking of Frankie coming across the truck, of you passed out behind the wheel. You can't imagine what you would have done in his place, if you'd seen him slumped over the steering wheel. 

You think of all the things you haven't told him. All the things you might never have been able to voice. You drag your eyes back to his and suddenly notice he's wearing the standard oil heating hat. 

The sight of it is enough to have your chin starting to quiver. 

Frankie, sweet Frankie. 

"I was so scared," you whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop. "I was so scared I never got to tell you." 

His brows pinch. "Tell me what?"

"The truth about that night," Your voice is cracked. "That night at Travis' party-"

Frankie shuts down a bit, mouth thinned. You can see the indifferent mask he forces over his features. "We don't have to talk about that."

Before you can insist, the doctor arrives, checking your name and information. But you're distracted, eyes stuck on Frankie who looks pensive.

"I found her at the side of the road, unconscious. Her forehead was bleeding but it stopped pretty quick. I’m worried about a concussion." 

The doctor barely looks up as he makes notes on his computer. "Mhm. Great great." 

He spins back towards you, peering at you before glancing over at Frankie who remains seated there, gazing at you with concern.  

"Sir? You'll have to leave while I examine her."

Frankie jerks to a stand, tapping the brim of his hat absently. 

"Oh. Oh, right." He glances your way. "I'll give your sister a call. Let her know what's going on." 

"Frankie-"

Your hands reach for him in desperation, but he's already gone out of the room, closing the door behind him. 

THEN

Frankie finishes up with the sweeping, head cocked to listen to Jeopardy playing on the TV. He hears the voice of the host and your mother's enthusiastic guess. 

"COMOROS!"

She's wrong about the capital of Madagascar, but she's so damn enthusiastic it doesn't matter. Frankie grins to himself, dumping the latest pile of dirt into the garbage. 

He's been doing this for months, coming by once or twice a week to do some cleaning, making a few frozen meals. Sometimes he comes more often, taking your mom for a walk or bringing brownies. 

He likes having something to do, something to mark his days. He misses flying so much it aches, but when he's here with your mom he feels of service, like he has value. 

When Santi mentioned your mom was struggling and that Hillary was pulling up the slack, Frankie figured he could visit once or twice. Your mom had always been kind to him. He didn't count on how good it felt to be of service to someone else. 

And he can admit that one of the boons of being with your mom means hearing stories about you. Little crumbs of information sate him for days. Where you're living, how you like your job. It's pathetic that he thinks that, but it's the truth.

He doesn't love hearing about your relationship with Greg, but at the same time feels a bit relieved that you're with someone who sounds respectful and kind. 

Over the years his anger has grown less and less. Maybe it's the NA meetings teaching him about forgiveness, maybe it's just the passage of time. Whatever it is, he feels softened. 

The door opens and Frankie glances up to see Hilary walk through the door. She gives him a tired smile. She's not getting enough hours at the hospital, so she's been out all day searching for side jobs. 

"Hey stranger. The place looks great," Hilary says, brows rising when she spots a familiar glossy box on the counter. "Did you bring her brownies?"

"They're her favorite," Frankie smiles to himself, pouring soap into the sink. 

Hillary shrugs off her jacket, hanging it on the hook as she looks over his way. 

"Was she okay today?"

"Oh yeah. Took a walk, had dinner. Now she's watching Jeopardy." 

Hilary nods, moving into the living room where Frankie can hear the little mumble of mutual conversation. She returns shortly thereafter looking a little more relieved. She watches him continuing to tidy, placing plates into the drying rack. 

"You really have to let me pay you for all this, Fish."

"No," Frankie says shaking his head. "No, Hil. Anything extra you make at work just put towards getting a nurse. You need the help." 

And so does your mom, he wants to add.

Frankie can't do the things a nurse can. He can't shower or help your mom use the washroom. He doesn't know medication rules and he doesn't want her in danger because of his inexperience. 

Plus if he gets his license back he's going to return to work the second he can.  

"I think I found someone actually. She was visiting a patient in the hospital and we got to talking. Her name's Rose-something."

"See?" Frankie emphasizes with the point of his soapy hand. "That's who you should be spending money on.""

Hillary nods, leaning back to crack her spine before she opens the fridge, crouching over to scan the contents. He hears her rattle a few bottles. 

"You want a beer?"

"Uh, can't," Frankie says awkwardly, turning to busy himself with some dishes. His face burns with shame. 

"Oh, shit," Hilary mutters. "Sorry, Fish. Totally forgot." 

"S'okay, don't worry about it." 

He continues to do the dishes as Hilary sits herself at the kitchen table with a groan. She pulls a pack of cigarettes out, lighting one between sips of beer. 

"You still seeing that woman from the bakery? Fiona?"

"Nah, that's been over for a bit." 

Fiona is to date the longest relationship he's ever had. Four months that ended when his license was suspended. 

When he had to go into recovery and attend NA meetings Fiona decided that he 'wasn't any fun anymore' and promptly left. It was a blessing in disguise because without her hard partying lifestyle it was easy to stay on the wagon. 

"How about you and Justin?" He asks, thinking of her boyfriend. When she takes a moment to respond he looks over his shoulder to see her head tilted down. "Hil?"

She's got a distant looking her eye, cigarette dangling out the corner of her mouth.

"He's chill I guess." 

Justin is actually the first nice guy Frankie has seen with Hilary who normally draws assholes to her like a moth to a flame. Justin works at a local pub, all smiles, very sweet. When Frankie isn't here and Hilary is slammed he comes by to visit your mom as well. 

"He seems like a good guy," Frankie shrugs. "Your mom likes him."

"He wants to get married and move to Canada." 

Frankie can't help but let out a huff of amusement. "Really?"

"Yeah, apparently he has family there, and where his folks live is way less expensive than here. I mean we can't even afford an apartment out here by ourselves and we're not all going to live with my mom." 

Frankie understands that all too well. With housing prices the way they are the only reason he owns his place because of his parents passing. 

She gives a rueful laugh, shaking her head. "I don't know why he wants to bother getting married anyway. Not like it changes anything." 

"I don't know about that,” Frankie says thoughtfully. "Maybe it's not about the actual marriage, but what it symbolizes."

"Tax breaks?"

"Wanting people to know you chose one another?"

Hillary frowns, taking a long drag from her cigarette. "Seems performative."

"Or he's just proud of the love you two have and he wants the world to know," Frankie shrugs. 

The minute the sentence leaves his mouth Frankie realizes that he shared too much. A sensation not unlike the dizzying effect of being at a tall height overtakes him.

That's exactly how Frankie felt with you moments before the disastrous end of that party. Wanting to ask Santi's blessing, desperate to let everyone know that you chose one another. Relishing with you two had created. 

He goes silent, hating that all these years later he can't stop thinking about you. Knowing that he's never been in love before or after you. Will he ever be able to trust someone enough to let them? Or will he constantly go back to that moment, where the rug was pulled out from under him?

Your mom gives a cough, calling out for a tea. 

"I'll bring it in a sec," Hilary calls out. She crosses her arm, frowning deeply, a crease forming between her brows. "Pip should be here. But no, she gets off scot-free because she's in Seattle." 

Frankie swallows. "Well, she has a whole life there, doesn't she? Isn't she living with some guy?" 

That sentence hurts to say out loud. He knows the guys name. Knows what he does for a living. Tried stalking him on Facebook until he found out the guy didn't have an account. 

"You mean Greg? That loser? She broke up with him a long time ago," Hilary says tapping the ash of the cigarette into her cup. "He cheated on her with some chick from work."

Frankie stills, hand mid-scrub. Greg cheated on you? Since when? He forces himself not to whip around, calms himself from shouting question after question. 

"I'm so glad she didn't marry him," Hilary clicks her tongue, not realizing the bomb she's just dropped. "I never liked him. And she didn't either, not really. I don't know why she stuck around so long." 

Hilary yawns as she stands, tamping out her cigarette in the ashtray on the table. 

"I'm gonna get Mom her tea."

"You just got home," Frankie says shaking his head. "I'll do it."

"I can't ask you to do that-"

"You're not asking," Frankie states, drying his hand and flicking on the kettle. "Just relax."

Some nights like tonight Frankie lingers because he enjoys the warmth of your home even without you in it. He likes the familiar scent of cinnamon from your mom's toast and the cheap perfume Hilary wears and the sensation of the carpet under his feet. It's familiar and comforting. 

He also likes it because this house is alive with voices and television. With the warmth of people living. Something his own house is sorely lacking. 

Sometimes he dreams of packing it all up and starting somewhere new. Somewhere no one knows him. But you exist in that house. The rooms you touched with your laughter or gasps or moans. The windows where the sun cast you in a golden glow. The kitchen table you played cards at. He can’t let that go – it’s all he has left of you.

Hilary remarks that she might run herself a bath as Frankie finishes preparing your mother's tea. He feels her tired eyes on his profile.

"Thanks for everything, Frank." 

She strides from the room, squeezing Frankie's shoulder as she passes. 

He brings the mug of warm chamomile tea to your mother who sits in front of the television on the couch, her feet propped up with fuzzy slippers.

When she thanks him for the tea he can smell alcohol on her breath. She probably has a bottle hidden away in the cushions. He'll tell Hilary about that later. But for now he just smiles and watches as she takes a sip.

"Come and watch," your mother encourages him, patting the empty cushion beside her. He drops down next to her on the couch/

Your mom is slowly declining, not too apparent right now. Most of the time Frankie forgets she's ill until he catches sight of her shrinking body inside her pajamas, or the way her hair started to fall out from chemo that wasn't effective in the end. 

The two of them continue watching as the final Jeopardy question is revealed by a grinning Ken Jennings. 

"The United States’ 3 most densely populated municipalities lie along a 3.5-mile stretch of Palisade Ave. in this state.”

"New Jersey," Frankie murmurs. 

"Oh that's a good guess," your mom nods. "I think that too."

It turns out New Jersey is correct and your mom announces that Frankie isn't only handsome but brilliant as well, which causes him to blush shyly, chuckling under his breath. 

"Pip made us watch it all the time when we, uh, when we were kids," Frankie finishes awkwardly when he realizes what he's just said. You're on his mind so much tonight, it's like you can't stop bringing you up. 

"I remember the four of you huddled around the television after dinners," your mom says laughing gently. "I used to have to tell Santi off for sitting so closely."

She brings the mug to her mouth, blowing gently on the steam. 

"You know I always thought you and my daughter would get together," she says casually. 

Frankie seated next to her feels his fingers tighten around his thighs. "What?"

“That night you came to the hospital to ask for her number I was really hoping…” she trails off, looking somber. “Well, anyway… I really thought you were going to be my son-in-law one day.”

Frankie is quiet, letting this information flow over him like a tide.

"I mean you were always spending time together," your mom continues, eyes on the television. "I figured it was inevitable she'd date you or Travis. I always hoped it would be you."  

"Why's that?"

"You were always so gentle with her, so patient. I wasn't nervous when she was with you." 

She gives a wistful look in the distance.

"And the way she looked at you over the years. Like you hung the moon. My husband and I never looked at each other like that in the years we were married." 

It's hard for Frankie to imagine how the outside world would have viewed he and pip. They kept so many things close to the chest, and yet some things must have gotten through. 

"You still care about my daughter, don't you?" Your mom says quietly.

"I think I always will," he replies.

“You love her?”

Her eyes stay on his face when he nods. 

“Yes, ma'am."

me when no one leaves detailed comments:

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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THEN

The party is so loud Frankie can barely hear himself think. Bodies bump into his shoulder, alcohol-soaked breath wafting over him. 

And he can't stop smiling. 

Frankie is twenty one, he's in the air force and he shouldn't be this giddy at the thought of being someone's boyfriend. But with Pip, he's nearly beside himself with joy. 

He sneaks a look at you across the party, watching with fondness as she talks to her girlfriends. He's in love with you, he acknowledges. But he's too scared to admit that part out loud to anyone. It's too soon to tell you that. Liking you feels safer. 

Even though it's not just liking that has him fantasizing about them living in his house when they're both done with school and training. Of shared dinners after work, long nights of lovemaking and laughter. He thinks of the marriage his parents had and how he will do everything different.

He's always been quiet, prone to deep reflection and slower to anger than most of his peers. The air force has taken a bit of that from him. It can feel dehumanizing at times, exhausting and frustrating. But when he's behind the stick of his favorite chopper, everything else fades.

He just wishes Texas wasn't so fucking far away. 

He thinks about asking Pip for a photo he can bring back to his barracks. Something to look at that reminds him he has a future waiting for him back here. Would it scare you to know how much he's imagined a future with you? That this summer hasn't just been amazing because of the sex, but for the quiet moments in between?

"Can you believe my parents locked the liquor cabinet? 

Frankie is brought back into the moment, Travis at his side holding a solo cup and whining. 

"They have so much in there and they never started locking it up until now. Fucking idiots. I wish they'd leave and never come b-." He catches himself, eyes going wide as he looks at Frankie. He's said an impossibly stupid thing. "Shit... I'm sorry, Frank."

"No worries," Frankie mumbles with a wince. "You seen Santi?" 

"Nope. But I've seen Christy," Travis replies, briefly flashing a wag of his pink tongue. "Damn, she looks good." 

"Oh yeah?" Frankie replies distractedly, dark eyes scanning the room. Travis watches this, voice turning exasperated. 

"He's here with some hot date apparently," Travis says with an eye roll. "Surprised you don't know about it, being his boyfriend and all." 

Frankie's jaw feathers. He's always had to maintain a civil relationship with Travis, but as they've gotten older he finds the boy more and more annoying.  It's also painfully obvious that he has a thing for you even though she's given no indication that she feels the same. And why would you? You like Frankie. He still can't quite believe it. Seems almost too good to be true. You’re so smart and gorgeous and funny and... He feels his cheeks heat delightedly. 

"I've been sorta busy lately," Frankie finally says distractedly when he sees Pip's head weaving through the crowd. 

You glance Frankie's way and he feels his whole body going warm when their gazes connect. Everything about you is just so fucking perfect. Even the subtle smirk you send his way.

Travis' must notice the gooey look Frankie shoots her. The small smile you share before averting your gazes. 

"You try anything with Pip and Hilary will kill you," Travis murmurs. "If she doesn't, Santi will."

Frankie is quiet, unhappy that he's been so obvious in his desire for you. 

When Travis turns, Frankie can see the young man's attention is fixed on your smiling face. The way you throw your head back when you laugh. His eyes scan down your body in a way Frankie knows he wishes his hands were. 

"Would be worth it though," Travis continues in a low voice. "I've been dying to get a piece of that ass for years." 

Ugly jealousy twists in Frankie's guts. His fingers are curling into a loosened fist at his side. 

"Yeah, well, like you said, Santi and Hilary would kill us." 

Travis laughs in response and Frankie watches as his attention moves over the other girls in your group. They land on Christy and her skimpy outfit. 

"Can you believe Christy's a real beauty queen?" Travis says, clicking his tongue appreciatively. "I mean I always thought she was hot, but that's insane."

"I guess." 

Frankie knows that Christy is attractive. He's not blind. But he also knows she only ever flirts with him to get to Santi. He also knows he doesn't care what she looks like or what she does because the only girl Frankie has ever truly wanted actually wants him back. 

It's hard not to smile when he thinks about that. How the girl he grew up alongside became the woman he can't think of life without.

You're standing there stiffly observing what Christy is saying. You look upset. This look is magnified when he notices Christy approaching from the corner of his eyes. 

"Hi Travis. Hi Francisco," Christy says. He notices her voice is pitched higher, bubblegum sweet. 

"Hey."

"Enjoying the party?"

She steps closer and from this distance he can smell the floral perfume she wears. Can see her nipples jutting through her thin camisole. He forces his eyes to the ground, feeling lecherous. 

"Sure." 

She tilts her face forward, ignoring the way he doesn't look her way. She's so close he feels the heat of her body. 

"You look good tonight, Francisco."  

Knowing that you're watching from across the room this makes Frankie flush with embarrassment. "Thanks," he mutters, voice low. 

Travis excuses himself with a sneer. Clearly Frankie is taking the attention he wants for himself. Once he's out of earshot, Christy leans forward again. 

"I need to tell you something."

"Okay."

"I always liked you, you know, during school," she says, giving a girlish giggle and ducking your head like she's feeling shy. "I can't believe I just told you that. I must be drunk."

Frankie takes a sip of his beer, head rising to look for you. But you've escaped somewhere, lost in the shuffle.

"I hear there are some empty bedrooms upstairs," Christy purrs, her hip bumping into his. "Should we go check one out?"

Frankie cringes, trying to think of a nice way to say no. 

"You said you're drunk," he says flatly. "I don't fuck drunk girls." 

"I'm not that drunk," she insists. 

He feels his jaw tighten. He's not an unkind person at heart, but her closeness is making him uncomfortable. "Not interested, sorry." 

Christy gives an overdramatic pout, jutting her chest his way. When she sees he's not giving in she moves her face in again. "C'mon Francisco," Christy says, lips almost brushing his cheek. "I'll make you s-"

"I'm with someone," Frankie interrupts, no longer interested in being polite. She pulls back in shock, eyelids fluttering dramatically.    

"What? Since when?" 

"For a while," he replies smoothly. "And I'm really into her." 

Saying it out loud makes his insides quiver delightedly. He almost wishes Pip was there to hear it. 

Christy looks like she's just swallowed a stink bug. She's not used to being rejected and that's clear in her expression. But then her face slowly smoothes out. She leans her hip against his again, trying her best to get him to grind against her. 

"I won't tell if you don't," she says, her mouth curling into a mischievous smile as she drops her voice. "Could be our little secret." 

Frankie places his empty beer cup down on the nearby side table. "Maybe Travis wants to hook up," Frankie replies. "He's heading back now." 

Christy briefly lifts her eyes to see Travis returning with two new solo cups before her attention flicks back to Frankie. 

"You're telling me you don't want to fuck a beauty queen?" She asks with a disbelieving scoff. 

Frankie shoots her a piteous look.  "Have a good night Christy." 

He gives her a kind smile, hoping that it will soften the harshness of his departure. She doesn't seem to enjoy it though. She rolls her eyes and goes stalking off in the direction of upstairs. 

Travis smirks, handing Frankie one of the cups. 

"Damn what did you say to Miss Florida? She looks pissed." 

Frankie shrugs. He doesn't care that Christy is offended. He doesn't want her. 

"You seen Pip?" 

He wants you at his side. Or at least he wants an eye line of you. 

"You really like her, huh?" 

Frankie feels his stomach bottom out, turning his attention to Travis. The young man is looking at him in a way he's never seen, or perhaps never noticed, before. A dark kind of look: cold and dangerous. 

"What are you talking about, man?"

"Pip. I see the way you look at her these days," Travis says smoothly, like this is a fact everyone knows. "And we all know she's been in love with you for years." 

The tips of Frankie's ears burned in both embarrassment and delight at the word. "I'm just used to her always being around." 

"Is that why you wear that hat everywhere?" 

Frankie's cheeks burn as he absently taps the rim of his hat. 

"This?" he says forcing a laugh. "I'm just used to it is all."

Travis laughs back but it’s a hollow sound. It doesn't touch his eyes, his mouth barely moves. 

"Right. Sure." His eyes flick to Frankie's head again. "You won't mind if I borrow it then?" 

His arm jerks out, hand swiping Frankie's ball cap right off of his head. Frankie goes to snatch it back, but Travis has already popped it on over his shorn curls. Before Frankie can attempt to take it back again, Travis hears his name being called. 

"You can have it back in a bit," Travis said with a cruel kind of amusement as he walks backwards towards the call. 

Frankie feels his teeth clench. Not just at having his shit taken, but knowing that Travis is probably on his way to tell Santiago about Frankie's obvious affection for his cousin. 

"Hey, man." 

A frustrated Frankie glances over to see several young men on the couch. All are fuzzily bearded and sleepy-looking. The bigger one with a baseball cap extends his arm, a joint held out in his fingers. 

"You want a toke?"

Frankie hesitates briefly before shrugging. "Sure." 

He didn't smoke pot often; his dad always knew when he did. He tried popping gum and spraying cologne but it couldn't compensate for the scent that clung to his clothing. But now his old man is gone. Frankie could do whatever he wanted. He's free in so many ways. 

He takes a deep inhale, letting the sweet smoke fill his lungs before thanking the guy on the couch, handing him back his joint. 

When the pot hits him a few minutes later it feels good. He takes a seat in one of the free chairs, listening to the men talk about government cover ups. But he's not really listening. He's daydreaming about his girlfriend. 

Pip. The most beautiful, smart, funny, sexy woman he's ever known. A woman who never takes bullshit. Who sees him at his worst and still likes him. 

He thinks he sees you stealing through the crowd and his heart leaps. He jumps to his feet, moving clumsily towards you. He calls your name but you don’t hear him over the crowd.  Frustrated, he tries to muscle through the groups when he tumbles into a familiar figure. 

"Frank? What're you doing?" 

It's Santi; one arm around a cute blonde. He looks at his friend with amusement, much to Frankie's relief. Travis must not have said anything. 

"I was looking for.... Well, you actually." Frankie runs his hand through his short hair, frustrated to feel his cap still missing. He feels naked without it. "Can we talk?" 

"Sure." 

"Uh... It's private. Can we talk outside?" 

Santi trails a look over Frankie before glancing back at his date. He mumbles something and she nods, shooting Frankie an annoyed look as she moves to grab another drink. 

Santi nods towards the back door, indicating Frankie should follow. "C'mon. Let's go." 

They make it into the backyard where several groups talk loudly. Some playing chicken on the grass. 

"It's Pip," Frankie says, rubbing his clammy hands on his jeans when they find a quiet spot. 

Santi furrows his thick brows. "What? She okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah, she's fine." Frankie feels his stomach twist, his head spacey. He's trying to say it but he feels like he is outside his body. 

Santiago Garcia is his best friend. The two of them have suffered through childhood, puberty, heartbreaks, abusive fathers, shitty home lives. There's the potential that he'll be giving all of that up. Years of friendship, of brotherhood, taken from him with this confession. 

So he has to ask himself, is Pip worth it? 

The speed of his decision surprises even him. 

"I like Pip," Frankie says, feeling the tips of his ears grow hot. "Like, a lot. And I want to date her."  

He physically flinches, awaiting the discipline for his affection. He waits for Santi to start cussing him out, for hatred and ugly accusations. 

"You ask her out yet?" 

A beat. 

Frankie isn't sure that Santi actually said that or he hallucinated it. He's further confused when Santi laughs, pointing across the room at one of their old friends. 

"Oh shit, did you see Jordan just bail off the table?" 

Frankie doesn't bother looking over in the direction of the laughter and whoops. All he can fixate on is his friend not looking upset at all. 

"... You're cool with it?" He says incredulously. "With me dating Pip?" 

"Does she like you back?"'

Frankie has to bite back a grin. "Uh, yeah. Pretty sure." 

"Then sure, why not? I mean.... She's a grown-up," Santi shrugs, eyes glazed from booze. "She can date whoever she wants." 

"You're not upset?"

"This has been a long time coming as far as I'm concerned. Plus I know I can trust you to treat her well." Santi shrugs, giving Frankie a mischievous look. "Better you than Travis." 

The two men laugh and the tightness in Frankie's chest unravels. He feels like he can breathe again. 

"Speaking of which... I'm pretty sure I saw Travis heading upstairs with Christy a while ago," Santiago says with a bemused look. "I just know that's going to end disastrously." 

"You never know," Frankie shrugs, smiling toothily. "Maybe it's fate." 

He doesn't actually believe that. He's just so relieved at Santi's response. 

"C'mon, lemme kick your ass at beer pong."

Frankie follows Santi to the other room, the two of them watching the game currently in progress. Frankie intends to only watch, but eventually it's dragged into the game but a very convincing Santi. 

"You're gonna be family soon enough," Santi jokes over the gathered crowd. "You better stay in my good books." 

Frankie knows he's kidding, but something about the concept of being a family with Santi and Pip and even Hilary makes his eyes water.

They win the next three games, hands sticky with booze, throat raw from cheers. Frankie feels naked without his hat the entire time. He taps out when the suggestion of a fourth round is mentioned. 

"I gotta go find Pip," he says with a light slur. 

Santi only punches him lightly in the shoulder, giving him a knowing look before turning back to start on the next round. 

Frankie manages to walk away from the busy table, his mood serene, and his heart full. He feels happy and warm and he wants his girl with him. He can be public with her now. He can't wait to tell her. 

He notices something dark blue on the coffee table, the familiar logo staring at him. It's half under a pizza box, forgotten, and Frankie grimaces. 

"Fucking Travis," Frankie mutters, grabbing his baseball hat and shaking crumbs from it. He places it on his head, feeling more secure already. 

"Oh my gosh are they making out?" 

Frankie hears the scattered whispers of amused teens nearby. Several of whom are gathered by the large bay window, peering out into the front yard. Normally he wouldn't care about something as banal as a party hookup but he wants to laugh about this with Pip later.

He pictures them back at his place under the covers, laughing about the party, holding each other as they fall asleep. 

He walks to the window, an amused smirk on his face. He joins the search in the darkness, eyes weaving until they land on the couple making out against the tree. Frankie goes to laugh when he sees that the boy is Travis, his movements quick and jerky. 

But the laughter, the smile, all of it dies the second he sees the girl Travis is making out with. The girl who holds onto him and kisses him back ardently. 

No. No she wouldn't. 

But the longer Frankie watches the more the figures become clearer. So clear that Frankie feels like he can hear your whines, the same ones you gave him only hours ago. He feels his heart crack when he observes how you touch Travis in that same soft way you do with Frankie. 

With that he's surging through the crowd, shouldering the front door open with a growl. Like a missile he's guided directly towards the oblivious couple. 

A part of him is so desperate for this to be a nightmare. A bad trip. Anything but Pip willingly making out with Travis after admitting her feelings for Frankie. His mind is completely blank, his feet marching quickly across the grass. His face is on fire, his heart breaking as he sees Pip being pressed into the tree by Travis. 

This turns Frankie's vision red. 

He doesn't remember much of what happens next. The memory is like snapshots of moments. Travis falling to the ground. The anger in a Pips eyes, the casual sneer at the thought of sleeping with Frankie. 

Pulling Travis off of you wasn't an issue. Having everyone circle and whisper didn't affect him. It was the coldness in your voice, the ugly look in your eyes and the disgusted scoff when you said you'd never sleep with him.  

What the fuck had happened?

He's numb by the time he turns away, everything in his body cold. He doesn't notice the laughter or whispers. He couldn't care less about that. All he can think of is your disgust, the chill in your gaze. How could he have ever thought he knew you, his Pip? 

You're a stranger to him. 

He hears his name being called, but its several blocks before a heavy hand lands on his shoulder, spinning him around. 

"Frankie, what the fuck happened?" 

Santi is doubled over with his hands on his knees, breathing heavily and looking at Frankie with utter confusion. 

"Forget it," Frankie says his expression dark. "Forget all that dumb shit I said about Pip earlier. I don't know what I was thinking."

"What-"

"Just drop it, okay?" Frankie snaps, eyes black with hatred. "Don't mention it again. I'm serious. Not to her, not to Travis, nobody."  Frankie has to look away from him when he speaks again. "As far as I'm concerned she doesn't exist." 

Santi is quiet, eyes big and sad. 

"Okay, Frank."

Santi is still talking, you know this because you can see his mouth moving across from you. But you're not getting any of what he says. You feel as if you're being held underwater, the world spinning and growing dark at the edges, sound muffled and your body numb before going sluggish. 

"No," you whisper, closing your eyes. "No," You repeat to yourself, but it's coming out in a whisper. The room is spinning and you grip either side of the table to stop your stomach from flipping. 

"You’re lying," you croak, head shaking violently from side to side. "That's not what happened.”

"I don't know what to tell you," Santi shrugs, brows tight. "He was with me the whole time playing beer pong." 

"No, no, that's not ..." Your throat closes up and you're suddenly spluttering for air because you can't formulate a response to what Santi is telling you. 

But your cousin doesn't lie to you, he never has. He's been there for you during the hard times as much as any brother would be. 

Bile rises in the back of your throat, your stomach heaving. You force your lips shut, swallowing aggressively. You will not vomit in a fucking Denny's. 

"Pip." Santi's voice is low and warped. Like he's a tape being rewound. "Breathe slowly. In and out."

You're starting to shake, legs going cold. 

Breathe. Breathe you fucking idiot. 

You take a deep, sputtering lungful of air, eyes blowing wide. Santi looks beside himself, hand holding your wrist. You clutch at his arm with your free hand, nails digging into the warm flesh there. 

"I saw it with my own eyes. I saw them."

"Travis came down and talked about how he fucked the beauty queen," Santi says quietly, as if it pains him to tell you this. 

"That can't be what happened," you say, lips trembling. "That can't be." 

Because that would mean you kissed Travis in front of Frankie for no reason. That this decades-long feud has been going on because of a misunderstanding. 

Years spent without the one man you've ever really loved, for no good fucking reason. 

Santi leans forward, voice light. "Pip, he never would have done that to you. He told me that night that he liked you. He wanted my blessing I think." 

You feel dizzy because things are starting to come together. Travis and Christy's secret relationship. The taking of Frankie's hat. The way the two of them look so similar from behind. It was Travis who fucked Christy in that bedroom, who came down afterwards and tried to do the same to you. Your skin crawls in revulsion at the thought of you letting him kiss you. 

And an even more distressing, you think of the hurt way Frankie looked at you at that party. The layered cruelty of you words and actions. Punishing him for a slight he never committed. 

Because you know deep down in your bones that what Santi has told you is the truth. That there's no planet in which Frankie Morales would willingly break your heart. 

The nosy patrons, the tired looking servers, everyone fades into the background as you stand, looking at your cousin with your lips quaking. 

"I have to go." 

THEN

Frankie lies in bed that night, heart aching, chest tight. It feels like finding out his parents are dead all over again. That same hopeless feeling. But during that you had been there to bring him comfort and affection. To hold him in his sleep. 

Now who does he have? 

He was going to answer your question later this evening. Of when he first realized he liked you as more than just Santi's cousin. 

The truth is he was pitifully unaware of you as a woman for most of your acquaintance. You'd just always been there in the gang, a sexless figure he liked to laugh with, to protect. 

But the summer of his eighteenth year you asked him to hunt lightning bugs while Santi and Travis were off camping. You had a mason jar and lid ready, your denim shorts high on your thighs. 

"Thanks for coming," you said, tapping the rim of his hat playfully. "Hilary says it's lame to still catch them." 

Frankie didn't tell you he felt the same. But he'd been bored and there was nothing else to do. Plus the summer air wasn't too heavy, the night balmy so Frankie led you both behind the old baseball field. 

Fireflies moved lazily in the dark, blinking like tiny dying stars and Frankie, only half heartedly invested, found himself watching you instead. 

Your smile was wide as you darted after a one flickering flash. The same look you wore when you beat the boys in a race, or said something to make everyone laugh. The smile you'd worn since childhood. 

He followed close behind, pretending to help, but getting caught up in watching how you moved, the way your face lit up when you succeeded in capturing your first.

"Got him!" You crowed, holding up your jar in triumph. 

"Not exactly a skill, Pip. Kids do it every summer." 

"Where's yours then?"

"Didn't feel like it."

You nudged your shoulder against his, rolling your eyes as the two of you took a seat on the grass. 

You never asked him about the air force or how he felt about it. You tucked your knees to your chest, eyes stuck on the jar. 

"They're so gorgeous."

You held up the jar to eye level, light flickering against your cheeks. You turned to grin at him, your face beautiful in the warm glow.

Beautiful. 

That wasn't really a word he associated with you before. But he couldn't deny that in this moment you were the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Like a painting come to life. 

He was curious as to what it would be like to cup your cheek, to feel the plump of your lips beneath his thumb. 

Something warm in his chest caught him strangely off guard, making his head spin.You were almost three years younger than him. Sixteen to his eighteen. He wasn't supposed to think about you like that. 

He felt the need to fill the silence. 

"How come the sudden need for fireflies?"

"Uh, guess I just needed to get out of the house," you said quietly to the jar. "Mom was just ... "

You trailed off, face dropping. Frankie could see it, illuminated by the swarm inside the mason jar. 

Instinctively he shuffled closer, throwing his arm casually around your shoulder like he'd done a hundred times before. Only now you snuggled against him, exhaling lightly. 

"Thanks, Frankie." 

Your head was at his cheek and he inhaled the scent of your hair before he swallowed thickly. You felt good against him, and he longed for you to tip your face up to him so he could capture your mouth in a sweet kiss. 

It wasn't until that warm thread began to weave its way around his lower belly that he realized something had shifted. 

Something he wasn't going to be able to ignore. 

You can't breathe. 

You know you're managing it, gulping deep lungfuls, but it doesn't feel like enough. The air is so hot and humid; it feels like it's coating your insides.

All a misunderstanding. Frankie never cheated. Frankie never cheated. I walked away from the most amazing man because of a misunderstanding.

You stop the truck midway home, your stomach heaving. You manage to stumble out of the cab before you're bent over, vomiting into the grass at the side of the street. Cars whizz by, some calling out to you, telling you to party less hard. You don't even hear them. All you can picture is the hurt in Frankie's eyes. 

You empty your stomach, eyes wet, body trembling. Your throat is scorched when you finally crawl back behind the wheel, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. 

You finish the drive to your house, truck parked haphazardly. You realize you're crying when your view turns into a watercolor blur. You make it through the door, slumping against the wall just inside with a ragged cough. 

A figure grips your hand, lacing their fingers with yours. You stare at the chipped black nails and many rings and look over at your sister. 

"Hey, are you okay?" 

You tell yourself that you don't want to tell Hilary everything that happened. You need time to process this, but your chin wobbles, eyes filling again. 

"Let's go on the porch," she says gently tugging you. "C'mon."

You allow your sister to guide you out onto the porch, both of you seated on the old creaky chairs before she grabs a smoke from her pocket. 

You watch her light it with an old bic lighter, orange flame springing to life. She looks at you through tired eyes, face drawn as she exhales a ribbon of smoke. 

"What the hell is going on?" 

You grip the sides of your head, fingers tangled in your hair. 

"Hilary I fucked up so bad. I fucked up everything." 

Your fingers rake through your hair again and pull as the devastation floods you. The pain serves to keep you anchored in the moment.

She sucks in a slow breath. "What? When?"

"Frankie," you say through a sudden sob. "I thought... Fuck, Hilary, I hated him for so long..." 

The pain feels so sharp, like needles along your aorta. It propels you out of your chair, legs weak. You fall to your knees on the rotted porch planks holding your head in your hands as sobs ravage you.  

You shake; feeling Hilary kneel beside you, hand on your shoulder, pulling you to face her. 

"Tell me what happened." 

She soothes you by rubbing your arms, almost like one would do if someone was cold. It calms you a fraction, allowing you to catch your breath. 

"It was during Travis' party..."

The story pours out of you, ugly and raw and accompanied by warm tears that slip down your cheeks. You can't make eye contact with her during the story, terrified to see the piteous look she'll shoot you. 

You live through that horrible memory, the sounds of Christie's moans, the sight of the standard oil logo looking back at you. 

She's silent the entire time. As you finish the story and raise your eyes you see that she's just squinting at you, perplexed. 

"You thought Frankie cheated on you?" 

"I did," you tell her, eyes blurry. "I really thought I saw it with my own eyes. But it was fucking Travis wearing his hat. This is all so fucking stupid."  

She's frowning, creases starting between her brows.  

"That's why you were kissing some guy at the party," she whispers as if things are starting to fall into place for her. 

You don't even question how she knows that bit of information. Santi probably told her, which causes your face to heat up and embarrassment. 

"It was Travis," you tell her with deeper shame. "I was kissing Travis."

"That fucking snake." She exhales shakily, furious adrenaline clearly coursing through her body. "Fucks Christy and then tries to get you into bed."  Hilary looks like she wants to punch something. Simultaneously infuriated and disgusted. "Have you and Frankie talked about it?"

"I don't think I can say anything," you insist, heart pounding. "I just found out the truth from Santi. I'm still processing." 

"Go have a shower and clear your head then," Hilary says urging you inside. "And brush your teeth because your breath is fucking disgusting."

THEN

Frankie sees Hilary from time to time in town. She's usually buying cigarettes or heading off with some new guy. Tonight she's at one of the bonfires the locals put on at the start of every summer.

Frankie had nothing better to do and with Santi overseas and Travis moved, he doesn't have much of a connection here. He thinks of going home after this to the house of his childhood. The empty one with no warmth. The one he had Pip in for several weeks. 

Barely any time at all. 

"Hey Catfish," Hilary says, handing him a beer as she approaches. Like you, she'd taken the nickname and run with it when his patchy beard grew back. 

"Hey Hil." 

The two drink quietly next to one another looking at the flames of the bonfire. Frankie tells himself he's not going to ask about you. Not going to torment himself.  But it comes out, a slow murmur. 

"You talked to your sister lately?" 

"Not much," Hilary says. She takes another deep pull of her beer bottle. "She doesn't really love talking on the phone." 

"Mhm. She like school?" 

She gives him a look. "Why don't you just call and catch up with her yourself?"

"Not much to say." 

"I know you like her, Frankie," Hilary says shrewdly. "And I bet she'd love to hear from you." 

Frankie's face goes red, splotchy pink leading up his neck. He tries to shrug it off, but fails. 

Hilary saw him that night with the flowers, with the open look of desire he had for you. There's no point in lying to her. 

"I know she cares about you," Hilary says, eyes scanning his face. "And I know because she's never cared about a guy like that. Ever." 

"You don't know that whole story," Frankie says. 

"So tell me." 

He shakes his head. That's Pip's story to tell.

"Look, it's obvious the two of you like each other. Or liked. So I don't get why you both don't just admit that to each other." 

"We did, right before the party," Frankie snaps, before catching himself. "Hours before I saw her making out with-"

He slams his mouth shut, furious at having lost his temper and given away something so private. 

Hilary looks stunned. She seems to grope for words. 

"Wait, my sister was kissing some guy at a party?"

Frankie thinks about telling her that the guy was Travis, but he doesn't want to think about it too much. Saying the details makes it hurt worse. So he stays silent, eyes on the sand. 

"She must've been drinking," Hilary continues. "There's no way she'd do that sober." 

Frankie is quiet, not having considered this. Hilary blinks at him slowly, like an animal considering something. 

"I just, I know my sister, Frankie. She's not a cruel person. There must have been something deeper going on." 

Frankie is embarrassed to feel tears starting along his lash line. He blinks them back furiously, looking away as he shakes his head. 

“You should call her, Frankie,” Hilary adds before walking away from him. “She’s still at the dorms until tomorrow.”

He watches her move over to the group she arrived with, a cigarette hanging from her lips, a beer in her hand within moments. He watches as she whispers something to the muscular man at her right, laughing gaily when he nods, stripping down to his boxers and running into the surf.

She’s always been able to charm people, to convince them to be brave. And when Frankie strides back to his truck an hour later, he realizes that she convinced him too. However, she was gone with some guy from the bonfire before he could chase her down for your number. 

That’s led him here to the hospital where your mom works.  

Would you really want to hear from him? And mostly, why does he want to talk to you? You broke his fucking heart. You acted like you were into him, agreed to a relationship and that same night you were making out in front of everyone with fucking Travis. 

He's sick when he thinks about it. A memory he's tried time and time again to exorcise through booze and women. Because there have been other women in the four years since all of that happened. At first to prove he was over you and then to help him forget you. 

Neither worked. 

Frankie notices some nurses heading out of the hospital on their break. They talk quietly to one another between puffs of their cigarette. 

He taps his fingers on the steering wheel before removing the baseball cap nestled over his curls. He smooths his dark curls back, long fingers carding through the strands before popping the hat back on.

He raises his eyes to the rear view mirror, grimacing at his reflection, because this grey hat with the fishing logo doesn't sit right because it's not the one you gave him. That one sits at home in his bedroom, a shrine to your betrayal. Standard Heating Oil. 

He should have burned it. Should have given it away. Should've buried it where he didn't have to see it every day. And yet he couldn't bring himself to do it. Couldn't bear to erase that part of his life, of you, for good. 

Even after everything, he can't stop this deep want for you. A burning ache that won't be extinguished. 

He'd forgive you if you'd just explain what happened. How you could go from crying his name between his sheets to letting Travis stick his tongue down your throat. 

He needs answers. 

He needs to hear your voice. 

He pushes himself from the cab of the truck, fingers tapping at his thigh as he moves through to the nurses’ station. The hospital is very quiet at this time of night, voices hushed, wards closed. 

It doesn't take long to locate your mom. She works in the same unit she always has and tonight, despite the quiet atmosphere, looks frazzled. She's writing down something in her charts before she notices Frankie approaching. Her face drops and she comes around the desk, meeting him mid-stride in the hallway. 

"Francisco, what happened?" Her hands grip his elbows. "Is everything okay?"

Her breath seems overly minty when she says his name and he knows that its to cover the vodka she keeps in a nearby water bottle. 

"Everything is fine, ma'am," Frankie says, giving her a polite smile. "I promise."

"Santi? Hilary?"

"As far as I know."

"Thank Christ," she says, a hand at her sternum. 

When she gives a relieved smile it reminds him of yours. He never noticed until now that you both have the same smile. 

"It feels like ages since I saw you," she observes, arms crossing as she looks him over. "You've grown up into such a handsome young man." 

Frankie feels himself grow a bit embarrassed at the attention, looking down at the scuffed floor. "Thank you." 

"And I hear you're still flying helicopters? That's so exciting." 

Frankie can't help but smile shyly, pride suffusing him. 

"Yeah, it's pretty great." 

She nods, starting to walk down the hall to check on the charts. He follows beside her, hands in his pockets. 

She scribbles away, talking to him over her shoulder. 

"So, why are you here, honey? Anything I can help you with?"  

Frankie's neck and the tips of his ears go pink, his face warm. Saying this to your mom suddenly feels daunting. 

"It's, uh, well, I wanted to know if you had Pip's number at school." 

She falters only a moment, scanning him. "You don't have it?"

"No ma'am." 

"Of course I have it. Come back with me to the desk and I'll write it down for you." 

He follows her to the desk, sidestepping a young orderly. Your mom digs in her purse for her address book, a few items shifted. 

He sees a postcard inside as she rummages. It's from Seattle, obviously from Pip. She sends postcards home instead of visiting, he muses. Santi tells him as much.  

She notices him looking, her smile toothy as she produces the postcard. He catches your writing on the back, his heart clenching. 

"Just got this one from her today," she says holding it up. "Strange to imagine my baby all the way across the country, but these help." 

"I bet." 

Your mom digs in the desk for a pen and post it note, grumbling about the other nurses being disorganized. 

"Ah, there's one," she announces, brandishing a pen with the hospital logo on one side. "Why did you need her number? You sure Everything's okay?"

"Yes, ma'am. Just..." Frankie swallows, cheeks flaming as he stands there. "Uh... I wanted to speak to her." 

He meets her eyes and despite the glazed look she wears, he sees something else. A knowing, an understanding. A softness that moves to her mouth, hitching at one side. 

"I see." 

He watches her scribble down the number, tearing the yellow sheet from the others and holding it out to him. 

"Here you are, honey." 

Frankie reaches out to take the paper, eyes already memorizing the digits before he folds the page and stuffs it in his jeans pocket. 

"Thank you very much." 

Your mother nods, looking at him curiously. 

"I bet she'll be really excited to hear from you." 

Not so sure about that, he thinks.

"I hope so." 

A beat. The two of them don't move, neither sure how to end the conversation. 

"Your parents would be so proud of you, Francisco. I just know it." Your mother adjusts her scrub top, looking at Frankie with tenderness. "I mean, hell, I'm not even your mom and I'm so proud of all you've done with your life." 

The words are gentle and said with genuine affection so sweet that it makes Frankie's eyes grow damp. 

He'll never hear those words from his parents. No observance of his hard work. No celebration for his accomplishments. Hearing them from your mom takes his breath away. 

He tries to thank her but the words are getting stuck in his throat. 

As a mother she seems to sense this, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his middle. He's a head taller than her, but it doesn't stop making him feel like a child again when she squeezes.

"If you ever need anything, you come see me," your mom tells him. "To talk, to eat, to sleep. Anytime. You promise?"

"Yes ma'am," Frankie says, a tear escaping down his cheek. "I promise." 

He moves from her with a small smile, the drive back home quick. But once inside the quiet house his bravado fades and he takes his time puttering around the kitchen.

The Post-It note sits on his kitchen table, but it could be in the trash for all he cares. He had the number memorized before your mom even finished handing it to him. The phone sits in is cradle on the table, intimidating in its stillness.

He can imagine your soft surprised voice. He loves how you say his name. The slope you put to the end of it. He feels his mouth lift at the corners in anticipation. 

"Just do it," he rasps to himself. "Just fucking do it." 

He picks up the phone, fingers trembling. He internally practices how to start the conversation. 

Hi Pip. Congrats on graduating. No, that's fucking stupid. Hey Pip, it's been a while. How've you been? Hey Pip, you broke my heart and I want to know why. Hey Pip-

"Hello?"

A man's voice. 

Frankie frowns at the phone, confused. This is your dorm room. Hilary mentioned that you live with girls a few times over the years. So why is a guy answering your phone at this time of night? 

"Hello? Is anyone there?" 

I dialed the wrong number, Frankie decides. Stupid of me.

But he still grips the receiver tightly, holding his breath. 

"Nothing." 

He goes to hang up when a voice drifts in the background. A voice he knows all too well. 

"Just hang up and let's go to bed." 

You. 

You telling another man it's time to go to bed. A leaden rock drops inside Frankie's stomach, causing an anguished noise to escape him the second the phone receiver is placed back on the cradle. 

He stares at it in numb shock for a few moments, mind going to the worst places possible. Your and some faceless guy in bed together. Him able to draw sounds from you that Frankie was incapable of. 

What was Frankie thinking? That you'd magically stay single all this time? That you'd be pining away for him like he has for you? 

Humiliation scalds his cheeks, sorrow heavy on his shoulders as he moves to the bedroom. He throws himself onto the bed he once shared with you, holding a pillow to his chest and falling into a dreamless sleep. 

The shower is restorative, the mint toothpaste still clinging to your teeth. You feel better as you enter into the kitchen. 

Hilary is seated there, ashtray half filled. You join her, breathing unevenly. Your body is still vibrating with all of this new information. 

“You need to talk to Frankie about what happened.”

An anxious twist starts low in your belly. "I don't know what to do or what to say. I don't want to bring up all this hurt again. He doesn't deserve it."

"You need to tell him."

“Why?” You keep your voice quiet, not wanting to be overheard by your mother. "It’s been almost twenty years." 

"Because he deserves to know," Hilary defends, brows crossing. "And you know it." 

You think of the lipstick tube you found in his house that one day. The clear sign that Frankie has found someone else; a woman that feels comfortable enough to leave her things behind at his home. 

You push yourself up to your feet, starting to pace around the room.

"Frankie is over all of this, Hil. I'm just the loser that never moved on." 

She gives you a sneer.

"Bullshit. I know he cares about you. He's always cared about you. Even after the party."

"Not true," you scoff. "Until this visit, Frankie has loathed me."

"No," Hilary says shaking her head. "He hasn't." She pauses, grimacing. "I shouldn't be telling you this."

You stop your pacing, eyes over your shoulder. "What?"

"Frankie has been visiting Mom since she got sick." 

You draw back, dropping into the same seat. “What?”

"I was working doubles to pay for stuff for a while and he knew I wasn't at home as much because of it. Santi probably told him. So he started showing up to bring her treats, clean the house, visit over tea. When she could walk he'd take her for walks." 

"No. That's not possible. Mom never..." You pause your sentence. 

Mops. Brooms. Bringing by your mom's favorite brownies. The way she looked at him. The way he knew exactly how to be gentle with her. 

"He only stopped when he heard you were coming back," Hilary says and looks hesitant, like she's betraying his trust by telling you. "He made me promise not to tell you anything." 

"Why would he do all that?”

Hilary sighs, lighting up a new cigarette and giving you a leveling look. 

"Why the fuck do you think?" 

THEN

"A beach birthday is such a fun idea," Inaya says walking alongside Frankie, a cooler full of drinks carried between them. "I'm so bored during the summer." 

Frankie grunts and nods, pulling his baseball cap down a little lower over his eyes. A red one this time. One from the flight school he teaches at.

It's where he met the very beautiful Inaya when she came to take lessons. She works at a daycare during the school year, she's patient and she thinks Frankie is charming.

They both keep it casual. What started as drinks after class has turned into the odd dinner out, sleeping together when they both feel like it. Sometimes it's just nice to go to the movies with someone who isn't Benny or Will. 

Frankie likes Inaya because she fills a lot of the silence between them with chatter about traveling, about her job and her family. 

He's jealous of her stories of close multi-generational family life. That she's excited about visiting her grandparents back in India. It seems surreal that anyone could enjoy being around their family.

She also carries a pain, and it's the only thing she doesn't like to talk about. The death of her fiance, Michael, when they were both still in their twenties. He was in the air force too, shot down over Paraguay. 

He thinks that's why she likes to keep things surface level. It's easier for both of them that way. 

"Do you think Santi will like the gift card?"

"He'll like anything," Frankie assures her.

She laughs, head tilted back. Frankie brought her today because the other guys have been bugging him about bringing her out. They keep telling him that he needs to have a proper adult relationship instead of flings. 

In Frankie's opinion they're the last people he'd turn to for romantic advice. Santi is a serial heart breaker whether he's in Florida or working in Columbia. Will has been seeing the same girl off and on for the last few years and Benny is so focused on his boxing career he might as well be celibate.

"I know you guys served together in Argentina, right?" 

"Yep." 

"Loquacious as always, Morales," she says shouldering him playfully. 

Frankie scans the perimeter, taking in what the BBQ's are, where the bonfire has been started. He takes note of how many umbrellas and towels are lying out, how many bodies rest in various states of repose, sunglasses on, drinks in hand. 

It's a habit that won't leave him, one that he cultivated overseas; making sure no danger lurks anywhere if he can control it. Yet there's only one danger that he can't see. One that terrifies him more than any other. 

You. 

As far as he knows you won't be showing up. You're in Seattle, living a life away from your home life in Florida. Still, his stomach clenches anxiously as his eyes drift over the smiling faces. He searches each one as Inaya makes some crack about millennials and driftwood. 

His shoulders lower when he doesn't see your face, the knot in his stomach loosening. 

He can survive this. 

Inaya is a hit with the guys, not to Frankie's surprise. Will seems particularly enamored with her, hiding it poorly from Janette who hangs off his arm possessively. Frankie cracks a beer, smirking over at Santi who has observed the same. He drifts over to his friend, waving at those who wish him a happy birthday.

"Oye perdejo," Santi greets him, tapping his beer can against Frankie's. "Stop having so much fun." 

Frankie rolls his eyes. If it was just the guys he'd be able to relax. But with this crowd of revelers he just feels awkward. He's never really enjoyed big crowds of drunken people.

"Enjoying your party?"

"Depends, what'd you get me?"

Frankie digs into the back pocket of his shorts holding a small envelope his way. "Gift card." 

"So sentimental," Santi quips, snatching it and shoving it into his pocket as he motions to Inaya laughing with Benny. "So, your girlfriend's pretty great."

"Not my girlfriend," Frankie murmurs huskily against his beer can, eyes hidden behind his aviators. 

"Right." Santi nods, his own eyes fixed so long on Frankie's profile that he feels his cheeks burn.

"What?"

"Nothing." Santi taps his beer can with his pointer finger absently, a small wistful look on his face. "Just wondering when you're gonna be honest with yourself."

"About what?"

"About the reason that you never want commitment with anyone."

Frankie's heart is in his throat. “There’s no reason. Just not the settling down type.”

His friend presses his lips together, exhaling through his nose. "Frank, c'mon-"

"I'm gonna go check on Inaya."

It's clear he wants to say more and Frankie wants nothing less. Santi gives a rueful shake of his head as Frankie crosses the sand, stopping to grab a beer bottle from the cooler before coming to stand next to a bemused Inaya . She's standing politely listening to Benny peacock.

"I'm still new but they're already calling me the 'blue-chip prospect' of the division."

"That's so cool," Inaya says with such sincerity Frankie would think it was real if he didn't know her so well. She glances over at Frankie taking a deep pull of his beer. 

"Forgot mine?"

"You didn't ask for one." 

Inaya gives an exaggerated look of exasperation over at Benny. 

"Since Frank here decided chivalry is dead, I guess I'll have to go get a beer myself," she says, elbowing a smirking Frankie in the ribs. "Be right back." 

"Dig to the bottom," he calls after her. "Stuff on top is still warm."

Benny is smiling broadly when he looks back. Will slowly approaches as well, Janette having just left in a fit. 

"So," the younger Miller says in a teasing drawl. "She's pretty great, Fish."

Before Frankie can explain that he and she are casual, something stops him; something in the air. A strange sense that has gooseflesh starting on his arms and the back of his neck. 

 Santi's voice rings out over the crowd. 

"Hi, Pip! There you are!"

Everything narrows down to a pinprick. The world is muted, save for his shallow breathing. He might as well be back in Argentina with the guys, focus fixed on his surroundings. His heart pumps slowly, body tight all over. His arms have tensed up, knuckles white around his beer bottle. 

It's you. 

He doesn't even need to turn around to know exactly how you'll walk, the way the sun will highlight parts of your hair, the curve of your mouth. 

But he does. 

He moves slowly, sunglasses plucked and moved to hang from the collar of his t-shirt. His pulse plays a cruel staccato in his neck as he finally views you and your sister approaching the group in. 

It's been almost ten years since he last saw you and time has done nothing but add to your beauty. You've developed into your curves; you walk more confidently, your hair loose instead of its customary low ponytail. 

Deep, aching want spreads through his body as he takes in the way your eyes shyly look around, just as they did when you were teens. You may be more at ease in crowds, but you've never really shaken off that initial insecurity. 

"Is that the cousin?" 

"Thought she was in Seattle," Benny murmurs to Will. 

"As far as I know she still is," his brother agrees.

He looks over to Frankie who shrugs even though he knows very well you are. Did you fly out just for this? Why the hell didn't Santi tell him? 

"Here take this first," you say to Santi, your voice makes Frankie's mouth dry. 

He remembers that quiet murmur in his ear wishing him a good morning. He remembers the way you looked when you told him you loved him. He remembers the perfect comfort of being with you whether it was riding bikes through the neighborhood or between sheets. 

You shared more than sex. You shared childhood. A history. Each other's ups and downs. The awkward stages. The milestones no child should have to endure. There is joy at seeing you here and now, pure and honest. 

"She's hot," Benny observes, eyes trailing over you slowly in a way that tells Frankie everything he needs to know about his friend’s intentions. 

"Down boy," Will chuckles. "Pope will kill you if you mess with Pip." 

It all comes rushing back in that moment. And then all of a sudden that same pathetic joy turns to a feeble flame that is easily extinguished. All that's left is ash and ruin at the reminder of your callousness. Your sickening betrayal. 

Fury plumes up Frankie’s throat, a scowl etched across his full mouth when your gaze finally shifts over to him and your eyes connect. He doesn't expect your stare to betray the same simmering agitation, nor an accusation in every blink you don't make. But he long gave up any ability to understand your anger. 

Finally, like a physical severing, the two of you tear your eyes away and turn back to your respective conversations. 

"Lemme get you a burger," Frankie hears Santi offer you. 

Frankie clears his throat, not wanting to hear your reply. He doesn't give a shit about you. He never should have. 

Will's eyes drift over to Frankie who has turned back away from you, fingers tightening around his beer bottle. He feels like he's going to punch something. 

"You okay, Fish?" Will asks, puzzled. He scratches at his eyebrow as he stares at him. 

"M'fine," Frankie mutters. 

He moves from around the BBQ, trying to distance himself. He glances around for Inaya, horrified when he notices her laughter from across the fire. She's standing with you, beer extended as the two of you talk. 

Why the fuck is she talking with you? 

He ducks his head, grabbing some veggies and popping them onto a plate. He sees some blonde guy from one of Santi's poker nights. 

The guy - Barry? Terry? - greets him, starting a lively conversation with him about how they need to have a rematch so he can win back his money. Frankie is only half listening, he keeps sneaking looks out the corner of his eyes at you and Inaya. 

The two of you are still talking, making his stomach a quiver uneasily. 

He distracts himself with conversation, trying to look un-phased that you're here. Before long an hour has passed and Frankie can't stop the itch under his skin. The one that compels him to casually scan the party. 

Inaya is nowhere to be found, but even if she was Frankie wouldn't notice. His dark eyes are dragging over the sand for you and you alone. 

He spots you over by the BBQ, looking tense as you go about fixing a burger. You've got that serious look you wear when you're frustrated. Brows pinched, jaw clenched. 

You could be six, sixteen, and twenty six all at once. You'll always have that same expression and Frankie will always melt at the sight of it. 

He misses you. Misses the way you could comfort him like no one else. Misses the way you said his name. Misses the scent of your skin. He misses lightning bugs and ghost stories around campfires. 

And he knows in that horrible moment, that he's still so in love with you. Despite the party. Despite the man in your dorm room. Despite Seattle. Despite the silence. He misses you so much it feels like a physical pull of his sternum. One that forces his feet over the cooling sand, just to be near you. 

He halts a few steps away, watching the way your body tightens at his nearness. Can you hear his shallow breathing? Can you just sense him? He holds his breath and comes to stand next to you, reaching for a plate that he doesn't even need. He can't eat right now, his stomach is in knots. 

He tilts, eyes finally catching yours and he thinks he might faint or throw up. He's not sure which. You're not glaring at him anymore; instead it seems you're cataloging his features, taking in what a decade has done to him. 

What do you see? The lines between his brows? The patchy quality to his beard that he never grew out of? The length of his messy hair? Or are you looking at the hat he wears today? The old green one from his closet? 

Say something, Frankie tells himself when he realizes he's just been staring at you. Say something. Anything.

"Didn't know you'd be here. Didn't think you'd fly back for it," he adds before clearing his throat, hating how stilted he sounds.  

Your focus moves back to your plate. He watches you work, ears growing warm. 

"Sure." 

Silence extends as you both busy yourself with condiments and sides to your burgers. He keeps sneaking looks at your profile, questions running through his mind. Why did you never call him to explain? Don't you understand he would have forgiven you? Who was that guy in your dorm? Do you miss Frankie? 

"Your girlfriend seems nice," you say. 

Fuck. Inaya. 

He could tell you she's just a friend from work. Could tell you that he just met her recently. But he's never lied to you before, so why start now? 

"She's not really my girlfriend. We just... Hang out together sometimes." 

He doesn't want to talk about Inaya. He wants to talk about that night. He wants to know what happened. He wants to know if you still care about him. 

"Guess some things never change,” you say with a curl to your upper lip. Gone is the sweet voice he remembers, now replaced with something cold and flinty. 

"Huh?"  

“You’ve just always been good at making girls think they mean more to you than they actually do," you clarify.  

Old hurt comes rolling back, like a furious locomotive up his spine. "What's that supposed to mean?"  

Your name is called by Santi and the other guys. Tom has arrived and is clearly eager to meet you. You give a false smile and wave their way before looking back up at Frankie. 

"It means whatever you want it to, Frankie," you say with a disgusted scoff. "Just keep me out of it."  

He watches you leave, hips swaying as you move over the sand to greet the guys. They'll love you, he's sure. 

"That's her, huh?'

Frankie nearly jumps when he hears Inaya's soft voice at his elbow. "Huh? Who?"

"Morales," she sighs in mock exasperation. "C'mon."

Her eyes move from Pip back to Frankie and his nostrils flare slightly, eyes squinting. 

"I don't know what the fuck you're talking about, In." 

She steps closer, voice quiet, only for him. 

"I think I just met the reason you don't want to commit to a relationship."

Frankie's eyes narrow on her, anger clear in his expression. "Since when do you want commitment?"

"Not now," she says with a roll of her eyes. "But someday with someone." 

"Not everyone has your penchant for romance, I guess," Frankie hisses, cheeks splotchy

She looks at him with a worried expression. His jaw tightens, long fingers twitching at his sides as he shuffles in the sand. Inaya knows him well enough to recognize the signs. 

"You wanna leave?"

Frankie glances over her shoulder to see you at the rest of the guys laughing loudly. Just like he suspected, they love you already. 

"Yeah." 

She nods, taking his hand in hers and heading back to the truck. He doesn't bother saying goodbye to anyone. He just wants to slink off into the encroaching dusk and forget this ever happened. 

“That Benny is like an oversized puppy who doesn't know whether to bite or chase its tail,” Inaya laughs, her feet propped up on the dashboard as he drives.

Frankie can smirk at that, nodding. "Spot on." 

"You know, today I think I saw how you would have been as a boy," Inaya says affectionately, "All nervous and serious, hiding under that hat.”

She reaches over and tugs at the stray curl under Frankie's ear. He flinches away from her, scowling. 

"Quit it, I'm driving." 

She giggles, hair dancing in the air from the open window. She glances at the passing houses when she speaks next. 

"Pip seemed cool." 

Frankie is silent. He goes to turn on the radio but Inaya stills his fingers. She pulls herself into a properly seated position, braid falling over one shoulder. 

"Frank, c'mon. I know something happened there. You were avoiding her like the plague for most of the party. And the second you saw her you were, like, in a trance." 

Frankie swallows thickly, trying not to look unsettled. He had no idea he appeared that way to others. Is that what inspired Santi's stupid comments earlier? He's quiet, knowing that his silence is its own damning admission.

Inaya reaches across the cab of the truck, fingers light on his forearm. 

"I just wanna know what happened. I'm your friend, let me help you." 

Friends. He and Pip were friends. Inaya is nothing like you. The comparison makes him furious. 

"We're not friends, Inaya," Frankie snaps, teeth clenched as he jerks to a stop at a red light. 

Inaya takes a slow breath in, fingers lacing in her lap. "We're not?"

"No," Frankie says with a brutal curl of his lip. "We watch movies and eat food and sometimes we fuck. That's it." 

For a moment he thinks she might slap him, but she remains self possessed, voice controlled. 

"I see." 

The light turns green and the truck jostles to life as he aggressively pushes down the accelerator. The rest of the ride is incredibly tense. Inaya flicks the radio on this time and Frankie is thankful for the normally annoying sound of Barry Manilow. 

He eventually drops her off in front of her apartment building, turning the engine off with a slow twist of his keys. Frankie feels dead, his body heavy and useless. 

The two sit in a heavy silence, the day and the harsh words from earlier still echoing around the cab of the truck. Both seem to know this is the last time they'll see each other. 

Inaya unbuckles her seatbelt, worrying her bottom lip with her teeth before she looks his way. 

"We get one shot at life, Frankie," she says as she opens her door and climbs out. "Don't waste yours." 

Frankie doesn't say anything. He just watches her move to the building as he settles himself behind his steering wheel. He waits until she's safely inside before he pulls away, eyes wet and heart aching. 

“I need to see him.”

You move on shaky legs, eyes wild and shaky hands gripping the strap of your purse. Everything you’ve learned in the last hour has shifted your universe in a monumental way. There’s no way you can just sit here any longer

Hilary stands, trying to grab at your wrist at you attempt to leave. “Hey, slow down.”

“I need to see Frankie,” you say sharply. “Right now.”

“You can always call him up and ask him to come over." 

“Face to face.”

"You shouldn't be driving," Hilary tells you, face soft with concern. "Take a minute to breathe.”

"I'll be fine," you insist, shaking off her hand. "I promise." 

Your hurried feet almost catch on the carpet as you rush for the door. Hilary is calling after you, but you don't hear her. All that pounds in your ears is the thrum of your heartbeat. 

Frankie. Frankie. Frankie. 

Images of your time together are assaulting you, the kite, the pool, your first kiss, the funeral and his arms around you. His eyes, those beautiful fucking eyes. 

Your vision is blurry, but you blink the building tears back as you practically tear the door of your truck open. 

You need to see Frankie right this second. You need to clear this up. No more misunderstandings. 

You peel out of the driveway, small little hiccupping sobs escaping you as your foot slams against the accelerator.

You think of the lost years. Of the twenties you two could have shared, could have spent building a life together. Instead you diverged like branches away from one another. Lives led with carried animosity. All because of a fucking misunderstanding. 

I fucked up.

All this time we could have been together.

I didn't trust him.

We could have had so much time. 

These thoughts make your breath catch in your chest, distracting you the vehicle that slams into the side of you truck. For a moment everything seems to go in slow motion. You take in the squeal and scent of burnt tires, the crunch of metal.

And then darkness.

DON'T HATE ME.

dividers by @saradika-graphics

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