Trailer trash Frank feeling like a piece of shit for forgetting his wedding anniversary (as he should), trying to make it up to you but still managing to be a complete dick about it! Pleeaaaaseee!!!
I got a handful of asks and a some comments under the original wanting him to make it up. 2k + words, longest piece on this silly lil blog. My eyes hurt. Here's Frank's big apology. If you haven't read part 1, you can find it here. Enjoy !
Inside the shower, Frank braced both hands against the tile, letting the scalding water beat down on the back of his neck and shoulders. No matter how hot it ran, it couldn’t burn away the guilt crawling under his skin.
Three hundred sixty-five goddamn days.
He’d stood right there in that busted courthouse wearing a borrowed suit that smelled like menthols, and somehow you’d looked at him like he hung the fucking moon.
You always looked at him like that. So eager. So proud to be his. It made him sick to his stomach.
The tray. The lingerie. That big dumb smile you wore like it was made just for him. You looked like a Playboy bunny who’d wandered into the wrong zip code—soft, glittery, stupidly hopeful. And what did he do? Barked. Snapped. Swatted you off like you were another inconvenience in his already fucked-up life
He was a piece of shit. He knew that. He’d known it ever since he was old enough to understand the family curse. Iero men came with one setting: ruin whatever woman was unlucky enough to love them. His father had done it, his grandfather had done it. It was the Iero legacy.
But seeing it reflected in your eyes—the hurt, the humiliation—that sank deeper than any drunken bruise his old man ever left on him.
Your eyes looked just like the women in his family. His ma. His grandma. The ones who flinched at raised voices and apologized for breathing too loudly. The ones who stayed because they didn’t think they deserved better.
He swore he’d never be that man. Swore he’d claw his way out of this place, be the one who finally broke the pattern.
What a joke.
He was exactly like every Iero before him. And you were the one paying for it.
He exhaled, long and shaky. The anger that had flared so fast had burned out just as quickly, leaving only the heavy, rotten weight of shame settling low in his gut.
He couldn’t just say sorry. Sorry was for people who had words. Frank never had words. Frank had fists, a bad temper, and a deep-seated inability to handle any emotion that wasn’t rage.
The water finally ran cold, shocking him out of his spiral. He wrapped a towel around his waist and stepped into the bedroom, steam billowing out. The bed was empty, and the tray was gone. For a second, a foolish, hopeful part of him thought maybe you'd left. That would be easier than facing everything else.
Then he heard it. The faint clink of a dish from the kitchen.
His stomach dropped. You were still here. Of course, you were still here. You always stayed.
He pulled on yesterday’s jeans and a faded black tee steeped in gasoline and sweat. Moving down the short hall, his boots landed heavy on the linoleum.
You were at the sink with your back to him, head lowered as you washed the dishes. Your shoulders slumped, your motions slow and deliberate. Now and then you wiped your cheek with your shoulder, and he could tell you were still crying—softly, trying to keep it silent.
The tray sat beside you, empty now. Once-perfect breakfast scraped into the trash. Eggs. Strawberries. Pancakes with the good syrup. All gone.
The sight was a physical blow.
You didn’t look at him when you heard his boots.
Didn’t flinch.
Didn’t fuss.
Didn’t chirp “Hey baby!” like you always did.
You just… scrubbed.
Silent.
Small.
Like his mother washing dishes after one of his father’s outbursts.
Frank’s throat closed. He needed air. Needed out.
He turned, grabbed his wallet and keys from the bedroom, and bolted.
Outside, the screen door slapped shut behind him. He fired up the truck, the old piece of junk coughing to life. It was his day off; he had no shift at the shop. But stewing in the trailer? He couldn't face that. He’d rather tinker with carburetors, rack up hours, do anything to drown this out.
Frank didn’t understand much, but he understood cars.
Cars were easier than people. Why can’t people function like cars?
If they did, maybe he could fix the one thing that mattered.
The shop was deserted, thick with the scent of motor oil and burnt coffee from the battered Mr. Coffee in the corner. No appointments, no customers. Only the silence he’d wished for and the leftover projects nobody wanted.
Frank busied himself with work. He drained oil from three rusting Civics abandoned in the back lot, tightening the wrench until his knuckles blanched and his jeans were splattered with black grime. Work it out. Sweat it out. Forget their face.
By noon, he'd reorganized the toolboxes—wrenches in neat rows, sockets lined up like soldiers. A pointless task that did nothing to quiet the noise. He slammed the drawer shut, the metal clanging through the empty garage.
Your voice looped in his head, that small squeak of a whisper.
‘I bought the fancy good syrup…’
Jesus.
“Fuck," he muttered, grabbing a socket set. He attacked a stripped bolt on the old F-150 Ricky promised to fix months ago. For two hours, he fought it, muscles screaming, sweat stinging his eyes. On the third brutal twist, his knuckles split against a rusted edge, blood mixing with grease. The bolt didn’t budge. A solid, immovable fuck-you. Just like the shame lodged in his chest.
Ricky shuffled in around one, nursing a sweating Big Gulp and a Camel Light. Twice Frank’s age, beer gut, three missing teeth. "The hell you doin' here, Iero? Day off, ain’t it?”
Frank didn’t look up. "Extra cash.”
Ricky snorted, lighting up right under the No Smoking sign. "Bullshit. Got that look. Wife givin' you trouble? When I was your age, I’d haul my ass straight here too when mine’d start hollerin’—"
Wife. The word hit like a punch. “Mind your fuckin’ business.”
Ricky just chuckled, wandering off with smoke trailing behind him.
The afternoon dragged its nails down his spine. He power-washed an engine block until the water ran clear, but all he could see was the runoff swirling down the drain—grey, then black—just like the mascara streaking down your ruined face.
He was breaking. The solitude he had longed for had turned into a magnifier, reflecting his own failure back at him in brutal clarity. Distraction felt like a cruel illusion.
By nine, he finally accepted defeat. Fourteen hours. No calls. No texts. Nothing. You were probably asleep on the couch, or worse, lying awake, wondering if marrying him had been the biggest mistake of your life.
The guilt turned hot and rotten in his gut. He wasn’t ready to go home. Didn’t know how.
As he was locking the heavy garage doors, Ricky poked his head out of his rust-bucket truck, engine rattling like it might fall apart.
Frank turned, his body aching with a fatigue that went deeper than muscle.
Ricky gave a gap-toothed grin, tapping a greasy finger against his temple. “Flowers ’n sugar, kid. That’s how you get an old lady to quit cryin’.”
The truck peeled out, leaving Frank standing alone in the parking lot, the words hanging in the humid night air. Flowers and sugar.
Not much.
Not enough.
But better than the silence he'd handed you this morning.
The 24-hour mart’s parking lot glowed a sickly yellow, moths beating weakly at the bulbs. Frank killed the engine, the sudden silence louder than the truck’s rumble. He sat for a full minute, hands gripping the wheel, staring at the automatic doors like they were the gates of hell.
Ricky’s stupid, gap-toothed grin flashed in his mind. This was it. His grand romantic gesture.
If it didn’t work, he was gonna strangle the old bastard.
He shoved the door open and headed inside. First objective: sugar.
He marched straight to the bakery section, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his grease-stained jeans. He eyed the pre-made cakes. Sponge cakes with neon frosting. Sheet cakes with limp roses across the top. One read ‘Congrats!’ in bright blue icing.
He rolled his eyes. Congratulations. For what? For marrying a fucking loser?
He moved to the candy aisle. Snickers. Butterfingers. M&M’s. None of it felt like an apology. It felt like a bribe.
“Fuckin' stupid,” he muttered, picking up his pace. “Whole thing’s stupid.”
Freezer aisle. Rows of frozen dinners, microwavable burritos, and then—
Ice cream cakes, bright and cheery.
When he was a kid, these were the fancy desserts, the good ones suburban kids got to eat. His mom would buy them only on birthdays if the paycheck hadn’t vanished at the bar. They were rare. Special. He remembered being eight years old, his face pressed against the freezer glass, wishing someone would bring one home for him.
He crouched down and opened the door, cold air spilling across his arms. A classic Carvel cake. Medium-sized, white frosting, blue sprinkled trim.
He grabbed it without hesitation.
Objective two, flowers. The floral section was a sad rack of cellophane-wrapped disappointment. Fake roses, tacky balloon bouquets, wilted carnations floating in murky water. He dug around the back and grabbed the least-dead bunch, a bouquet of pink carnations that weren’t fully gone. Close, but not quite. Good enough.
He marched to the only open register, slapping the cake and flowers onto the conveyor belt. The cashier barely looked up, just eyed the cake and flowers like she’d seen this sitcom a thousand times.
Frank shoved a crumpled twenty at her, not waiting for the change. “Keep it.”
He rushed back to the truck, setting the sad peace offering in the passenger seat.
As he pulled out of the lot, doubt curdled in his gut. What the hell was he even doing? What was he gonna say? ‘Hey, I forgot our anniversary and made you feel like shit. Here’s a cake meant for an eight-year-old and some plant corpses.’
But underneath the anger was something colder.
What if you weren’t home?
What if he walked into an empty trailer, your shoes gone, your side of the closet packed up, the only good thing in his life, finally realizing they deserved better.
He pressed harder on the gas.
The trailer park finally came into view, headlights sweeping across the dark, silent row of homes. He killed the engine and grabbed the cake and wilted bouquet. The flowers were even deader now, crushed against the damp cardboard box.
The walk from the truck felt longer than the entire drive back.
He stood at the door, heart slamming against his ribs.
Inside, the living room was lit only by the faint blue glow of the TV playing a late-night rerun of Cheaters, some woman screaming at her no-good husband in a grocery store parking lot.
Frank stepped in quietly. You were curled on your side on the scratchy plaid couch, wrapped in the old afghan his grandma crocheted. Your glittery makeup was gone. The baby-pink babydoll was replaced with a hoodie and sleep shorts. You looked...smaller. The kind of tired even sleep couldn’t fix.
He paused, the cake heavy in one hand and the drooping carnations in the other. Waking you felt wrong, but leaving everything on the coffee table and hiding in the bedroom felt worse.
He took a step forward, the floorboard creaking under his boot.
Your eyes snapped open, wide and alert. He was caught and had no time to assemble whatever the hell a “good husband” was supposed to say.
“Hey,” he grunted, voice rougher than intended.
You stayed quiet, pulling the blanket tighter. Your eyes moved from his face to the sad little offerings in his battered hands. Confusion surfaced, then a slow, aching hurt as your sleep-heavy mind made sense of it.
“Uh—brought you this,” he muttered, eyes everywhere but yours. He set the cake on the coffee table with a dull thud and basically dropped the bouquet into your lap. A few pink petals fluttered down like dying confetti.
You stared at the carnations, then at him, your expression unreadable.
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating, broken only by the sobbing woman on TV screaming about betrayal. Perfect.
He cleared his throat, shoving his hands deep into his pockets.
“Look… about this morning.”
He gestured vaguely—meaning the breakfast, the outfit, the way he snapped like a cornered dog.
“I was… I had a long fuckin’ night. And you… with the… with all that.” He waved clumsily at his own face, mimicking glittery makeup. "Wakin' me up like a goddamn… parade. It was just… a lot."
It wasn't an apology. It was an indictment. You were a lot. You were the problem. He was a poet, really.
He finally looked at you, catching the single tear slipping down your cheek and disappearing into the blanket. Fuck. Fuck.
He ran a hand through his hair, tugging hard, his temper beginning to boil over.
“Christ,” he muttered. “I got you the cake, didn't I? And the fuckin' flowers. What else you want from me? A marching band? Just… stop cryin', alright? It's cake. Eat it or don't."
Another wave of silence. He felt defeated. Before rage could consume him, you slowly pushed yourself up. You lifted the drooping carnations he’d basically chucked at you, touching each sad petal like it was something precious, like it wasn’t something he’d grabbed in a last-minute panic. Your eyes moved to the cake box. A tiny, wobbly smile surfaced. It wasn’t the bright courthouse smile he remembered. It was something gentle, bruised, but still so unbearably soft.
“…It’s melting,” you whispered.
Something in Frank’s chest pulled tight—painful and relieved all at once. He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Yeah, well," he managed, all the anger drained out of him. “Don’t let it melt all over the goddamn place.”
He stood there, awkward, until you shifted on the couch, making a small space beside you. An invitation.
He was hesitant at first, but then turned to the kitchen, coming back with two spoons.
He sat down, keeping a careful foot of space between you. For a long minute, you both just stared at the cake, listening to the infomercials on the TV.
You reached for the box, settling it on your lap before peeling back the lid. The sprinkled icing was already forming a puddle around the edge. You dug into the dessert, lifting a messy spoonful.
You didn’t bring it to your mouth. Instead, you held it out to him, a gesture akin to a wife feeding her husband wedding cake.
His throat went tight. Leaning forward, he wrapped his calloused hand around your wrist to steady it, then took the offering into his mouth. The sugar was achingly sweet, a reminder of childhood birthdays and the few good memories he had.
As he swallowed, you rested your head against his shoulder, pressing into the worn cotton of his t-shirt. Your voice was a muffled whisper against his arm.
Frank sat frozen for a second, the ice cream cold in his throat, the warmth of your head seeping through his t-shirt. His free hand, the one not holding your wrist, lifted stiffly and settled on the back of your head.
“Yeah,” he finally rasped, "It's good."
Frank knew he was cursed. Even if his father and grandfather were six feet under, he knew their spirits would haunt him for eternity. He could never truly fix the mistakes in his marriage—but here, in this rare, shared silence, it felt as close as he would ever get to a “happy ending.”
