wip wednesday :) any day can be wednesday spiritually ... tagged by @honestlydarkprincess !!! langdonmel MCD for you!
He can tell there’s something on her mind already. She’s staring out of his bedroom window, the one that faces his backyard, overlooking the garden Abby was so proud of. He was proud of it, too, because Mel liked to walk along the cobblestone path and pick some for Becca sometimes before she went back home.
He flops over and pulls the sheets down so he can lay his cheek on her breast. She welcomes him and adjusts so she can run her fingers through his hair while they lay there, quiet. It’s still cool, early morning air slipping through the open windows. Mel liked hearing the birds in the morning, so he made sure to always keep them cracked.
“Don’t leave her,” Mel says gently, keeping a steady pace with her hands, soothing and repetitive. “You’ll need her.”
She’s calm, but her can hear her heart picking up under his ear.
The when I’m gone is left unsaid, but he hears it perfectly clear.
“You’ll need your kids,” she continues, but he sits up, sheets rustling, and takes her face in his hands.
“Don’t, Mel,” he says seriously.
“It’s just—Frank, it’s not—"
“Don’t say it’s not worth it, stop.”
“Frank,” she cautions, unable to keep the warble from her voice. He can’t bear to hear it. The sun hasn’t even finished rising. They have the whole weekend to themselves. They were supposed to wake up together and go to the boba place Mel likes best, the one by the bookstore with the cute handmade coasters, and figure their day out from there, play it all by ear, and they were supposed to be laughing. They were supposed to be delighting in their wrongdoing, with Abby and the kids away at her parents’ place in Deep Creek. They weren't supposed to talk about it. They were supposed to forget about everything going on, just for one weekend, before Frank told Abby he wanted a divorce.
“You don’t need to ruin your life for me, not when I won’t be—"
“Mel, stop, stop.” He drops his hands from her face and runs them down her arms, up and down, trying to be soothing but he’s going too fast, his hands are shaking and he can’t really look at her. If he looks at her, if she sees her eyes flitting around his room, taking in Abby’s laundry pile by the closet, his slippers next to the door, he thinks he’ll cry. He knows what she’s thinking. She’s told him before.
“Frank,” she says again, stern this time. “Just promise me.”
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