We gotta fly over the fuckin' Andes, man!!

You notice his absence in these sudden, jarring moments as you walk through your apartment sometimes- memories triggered by something innocent and innocuous. Like when you were vacuuming two days ago, moving the coffee table out of the way, and your thumb rested against the corner where the marble swirl pattern had a defect. Frankie always joked that it looked like a smiley face etched into the tabletop. And when you saw your thumb resting over that exact spot, the corner of the table slipped from your grip and you couldn’t breathe.

And sometimes those moments are a direct assault on your senses. Like when you did laundry a few days after he left and you grabbed the towels he had used, still hanging over the shower curtain, and smelled him. Cedarwood and vetiver, as well as something else that was uniquely Frankie. It was the scent that enveloped you in comfort in every embrace for seven years, but in that moment it made an ugly sob tear painfully from your throat.

He has been a staple in your life for all of these years and now he is suddenly…gone. No explanation, no reason. The grief comes in waves, but it lives in every corner of every room waiting.

You force yourself to live in survival mode because you don't know how to give more of yourself right now.

You hadn’t gone to the bar the past few weeks, but as another Friday approaches, dread and anxiety settle heavily into the pit of your stomach with a deep ache. You start to feel sick at the mere thought of going-in equal measure of seeing and not seeing Frankie in his usual spot.

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On Thursday night you sit propped up in bed, The Poetry of Pablo Neruda resting in your lap. Your hands rest on a page you have read at least a dozen times by now without seeing a single word, when your phone suddenly vibrates beside you.

You don’t get hopeful that it’s Frankie, not like you did those first few days apart. It’s never him anymore.

You look over at the glowing screen and see that it’s Santiago. You quickly answer.

“Hey, Santi,” you greet him casually, even though you feel anything but. “What’s up?”

“I just wanted to check on you, Starshine.” He sounds guarded. “None of us have heard from you in a few days…”

“I’m okay. I’ve just been busy with work.” It’s not a lie, technically; work has been busier than usual. But, truthfully, you haven't been in the right head space to talk to anyone.

“Good, that’s a relief, I’ve been worried,” he pauses, clearing his throat. “Will you be coming tomorrow night?”

“Will Frankie be there?” The words slip out of your mouth unintentionally, almost as if it’s a reflex that you can’t control.

Santiago is quiet for several seconds. You can hear the slight change in his voice immediately. Lower, almost cold. “Probably not.”

“Have you talked to him, Santi?” You can't stop yourself. You have to ask. You have to know.

“No.”

“No…?” You echo back, your brows knitting tightly together as you shut the book and place it carefully on the nightstand.

“No,” he repeats. His tone is clipped, offering absolutely no further commentary or explanation, and is completely devoid of his usual easy-going nature.

You know you should probably let it go. But you can’t. Because it’s Frankie. “Did something happen?” you ask gingerly, your fingers nervously fidgeting with the edge of your comforter.

“Just Frankie being Frankie,” he says, a subtle shift in his voice that borders on sarcasm. You can hear a short, frustrated huff of breath through the receiver.

You continue your interrogation as a wave of fear nearly paralyzes you. “What about Ben? Has he talked to him recently? I know he had a fight last weekend…”

“No.”

“Santi…”

A heavy silence stretches between the two of you for an agonizingly long time before you finally break it.

“He stopped talking to me,” you admit, your voice trembling ever so slightly as you fight a losing battle to keep yourself together.

Santiago softens slightly at that. “Since when?” he asks gently.

“Since he left after staying and taking care of me when I was sick from…the plan B. I haven’t heard from him at all.”

“I see,” Santiago pauses for a moment, the faint static of the line filtering through the phone. “Well, he didn’t show up last Friday and none of us have heard from him.”

You sit up straighter, your grip on the phone tightening. “No one has heard from him…?”

“No. You know how he gets sometimes, though. All broody and shit.” He says it so calmly and nonchalantly, but your stomach suddenly feels sicker. Frankie not talking to you was one thing…but not talking to the men he has considered his brothers for nearly two decades was another matter entirely.

“I caused this,” you whisper in a fractured voice. “It’s my fault.”

“Your fault…?” he asks, concern and confusion lacing into his words. “What do you mean? What's your fault?”

“When he left my apartment, I tried telling him,” the confession starts pouring from you and you are utterly helpless to stop it. “I tried telling him I’m in love with him, Santi. I couldn't even get the words out before he stopped me. He told me that he'd be a shitty friend if he didn't take care of me, because I was practically his sister.”

“What…?” He suddenly shifts from concern to a stunned anger that radiates through the phone. “He said what?”

“He disappeared right after that. I ruined everything.” A few tears fall down your face and you quickly wipe them away with the back of your hand. “I was such an idiot for thinking he felt the same way.”

“I’m sorry. Fuck, I’m so sorry.” Santiago murmurs. “But don’t you fucking dare say that about yourself. If he doesn’t feel the same way, then he is the idiot. His loss.”

“That’s sweet of you to say,” you say with a sad smile. “Thank you, Santi. I’ll be there tomorrow.”

“Good.” He hesitates for a moment. “Can’t wait to see you,” he adds quietly, almost as if he is afraid to say it.

“I can’t wait to see you, either. I’ve missed you guys.”

His voice comes through much quieter. “Yeah…” He lets out a small sigh. “We have missed you too. See you tomorrow. Text me if you need me.”

“Always.”

You quickly hang up and hold your phone with trembling hands. After a moment, you click on Frankie’s contact listing and your thumb hovers over the ‘call’ button. You debate on tapping it. But when you think of how no one has heard from him and he didn’t go to the bar last week, you have to make sure he is okay. If he doesn’t reciprocate your feelings, fine. But you have to know if he is okay. You have to. You click to dial his number and bring the phone to your ear. The shaking in your hands becomes violent as you hear the line trilling through the speaker.

After several rings, the call goes to voicemail.

You hang up and immediately dial again.

This time, it goes to voicemail after only two rings.

He declined the call.

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Friday is off to a terrible start.

You wake up to a horrifying wave of nausea the moment your feet touch the floor, your stomach churning violently as a cold sweat breaks out across your forehead.

“Oh, God…” you groan, one hand flying up to cover your mouth as you run to the bathroom. You drop to your knees and throw the toilet lid up just in time to fully empty your stomach contents through waves of violent heaving and gagging that leave you gasping for air afterward. You flush the toilet and close the lid, resting your burning face on the cool porcelain surface. You have a terrible sense of déjà vu from a few weeks ago, except this time you’re alone.

You stand up on weak and shaky legs that can barely support your weight as you carefully walk back into your bedroom. You force yourself to get dressed for work, ignoring the date on the calendar.

Sarah texts you right as you arrive at the office.

Sarah💜: Want to have lunch together? Miss your face.

A genuine smile breaks out over your face as you text back.

Fuck yes. Noon okay?

Sarah💜: Yes! Thai work for you?

You scrunch your nose in disgust at the thought, excess saliva immediately filling your mouth.

Sounds good. Meet you there!

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The morning goes by at a torturously slow pace. Once it is a quarter to twelve, you head out to your car to drive to the Thai restaurant just down the road from the office. Once you pull into a parking spot and kill your car’s engine, waiting for Sarah, your phone buzzes loudly from its spot in the cup holder. You see it’s a text from Santiago.

Santi: Will called Fish last night and talked to him. Said he was fine and should be there tonight. Thought you’d want to know.

You stare blankly at the text for what feels like hours, the words blurring together as your thoughts race as wildly as your thudding heart.

Last night. Will talked to him last night. For a moment you feel a profound rush of relief knowing Frankie is okay before it twists into an ugly knot of anger deep in your chest. He purposefully ignored your call and sent you to voicemail, yet he happily talked to Will on the phone?

What the fuck is his problem?

The sudden honking of a horn shatters you from your spiraling thoughts and you jump in your seat. You look over to see Sarah parked next to you, waving with a puzzled expression on her face.

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“So you looked more than a little upset when I pulled in,” Sarah observes a few minutes later, sliding into the vinyl booth by the front window inside the restaurant.

“I was,” you sigh, sitting across from her and slumping forward on the table.

“You still haven’t heard from that dickhead?” Her dark blue eyes narrow sharply and she purses her lips in restrained anger.

You shake your head. “Not even once. I actually tried calling him last night…he declined it. But apparently he talked to Will.”

The waitress comes by and drops off two laminated menus with a smile. You give her a stiff, acknowledging nod in return.

“What the actual fuck??” Sarah responds furiously, her light blonde hair spilling from behind her shoulders and falling around her face as she leans in closer to you. “I can’t believe the way he’s acting! Who does that to their best friend?”

Before you can formulate a response, the waitress walks in quick strides past your table carrying a tray with Tom Yum Goong. The heavy, fragrant scent of lemongrass and seafood is so overwhelming that you immediately cover your mouth as your stomach starts to churn.

“Hey, are you okay…? You look really pale…” she stops mid-rant, leaning further back in the booth as she studies you with a look of concern.

“Yeah. Sorry,” you say measuredly, taking short, shallow breaths through your nose. “Just…the stress of all of this, I guess. You know how sick I get when I’m stressed.”

Sarah nods in understanding. “I don’t need to tell you I have the obvious urge to kick Frankie’s ass for all of this.” She pauses as the waitress comes by and you both order- you hope the Pad Thai and Cha Yen will settle well on your sensitive stomach-and Sarah orders a Café Yen and Khao Pad.

Once the waitress leaves, Sarah leans back in. “None of this makes any sense. You’re going to confess your feelings, he panics, and hits you with the sister line?”

“I think the obvious conclusion is he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“That’s absolute bullshit,” she insists. “I told you before how obvious it is that he is in love with you, too. There’s gotta be more to this.”

You sit in quiet contemplation for a few moments, your fingers tracing over the grain of the wooden table. “Santiago and I have been closer lately,” you mention casually, neglecting to explain exactly why that is.

She raises an eyebrow at you. “Aren’t they really close...? Maybe Frankie is jealous, thinks you’re into Santiago?”

“They are, but I doubt Frankie would think that, or even care. Not when I’m basically his sister, apparently.”

“I don’t know, it’s a very real possibility…” She watches as the waitress sets your drinks on the table. Once you’re alone again, she smirks. “And what’s the deal with Santiago, anyway?”

“He is just a friend,” you answer as you drop the straw into your glass and take a sip of tea.

“A friend like me, or a friend like Frankie…?”

“Sarah, come on,” you groan, leaning back into the booth and shaking your head.

“It’s a valid question! I mean, I’ve seen him before. He’s nice, respectful, and he is hot as fuck. If Frankie is going to act like an immature asshole and ignore you, maybe you should just move on.”

“You aren’t really suggesting I date Santiago, are you…? The man Frankie considers his brother?”

“Why not? Since you’re his sister,” she says sarcastically, using air quotes, “he should be perfectly normal about it.”

You look down at the table, rolling the paper wrapper from your straw into a tight ball between your fingers. The sudden, awkward memory of waking up in Santiago’s bed flashes in your mind, as well as the image of him standing naked in front of you. You feel your face grow hot and you clear your throat.

“Santiago is a friend…and I mean a friend,” you state firmly, refusing to meet her gaze as you look at your glass of tea. “But enough about all of my drama. How are things with you?”

“Well, I do have great news,” Sarah takes a swig of her coffee and rests her arms on the table. “Aaron and I are about to start IVF!”

“Are you serious?!” Your eyes widen in excitement. “Oh, my God! That is incredible!”

“I know it’ll probably be a long and difficult road, but I have faith!”

“Sarah!” You reach out and hold her hand. “I am so happy for you. And I’ll be there for you every step of the way; anything you need. You will be such an amazing mother, and no one deserves this as much as you do.”

“Stop. You’re going to make me cry,” she laughs, her eyes tearing up as she squeezes your hand. “And for the record, you will be an amazing aunt.”

“It would be an absolute honor,” you say with a slight hitch in your voice as you try to hold your own tears back. “I need constant updates. I hope you don’t mind.”

“I’m going to tell you everything!” she grins. The waitress stops by the table to drop your food off and you pull your hand back as she sets the bowls down.

Once she leaves, you let out a laugh. “I promise that I will teach him or her how to ride a bike since you never learned. I don’t want my future niece or nephew crashing into a mailbox, after all.”

Sarah laughs even harder. “You won’t ever let that go, will you?” She grabs her fork and takes a bite.

“Never,” you respond with a solemn nod before laughing again, secretly hoping you can keep your food down.

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By the time Friday evening rolls around, you get ready to leave for the bar. Normally you feel excited to catch up with the guys and...of course...to see Frankie, but tonight you have a storm of emotions at war with each other, the turmoil nearly unbearable as it weighs down every muscle in your body.

You’re nervous. You’re hurt. You’re confused. And, most of all…you’re angry. He abandoned you after you were finally brave enough to tell him how you feel, to take that emotional leap after seven years. And in your most vulnerable moment, he completely crushed you and seemingly ended your friendship without a single conversation. He refused to answer your call when you were worried about him. But he answered Will’s call.

You take a deep breath, swallowing down a wave of nervous nausea, as you head out.

The bar is the same as always; raucous, stuffy, and filled with the smell of cheap beer and cigarettes. The booming bass from the jukebox vibrates the scuffed floor underneath your feet as you weave your way to the same booth in the back you always sit at.

You immediately spot Will, Ben, and Tom, already halfway through their first round of drinks and laughing. Santiago is on the outer edge of the seat across from them, silently sipping his drink.

Frankie’s spot in the middle is empty.

“Hey, look who’s here!” Will calls out to you as you approach them, causing Ben and Tom to turn around and Santiago to look up. “We were starting to think you abandoned us,” he chuckles light-heartedly.

“No, never,” you manage a small smile as Santiago scoots over and you sit down. “Things have just been crazy busy. It’s so good to see you guys, I’ve missed this.”

“It’s not been the same without you,” Tom says as he takes another swig of beer and slides one your way. “You keep these assholes in line.”

“Definitely not the same,” Ben agrees, his blue eyes sparkling even under the dim neon lights. “Missed you, beautiful.”

You smile before your gaze falls on Frankie’s empty seat. Your chest immediately aches, and you’re angry at yourself for it.

Santiago is watching you carefully, his demeanor completely different after your confession last night. He shifts his weight, his arm resting heavily on the back of the booth behind your shoulder.

“It’s okay, Starshine,” he murmurs, looking down at you with a reassuring smile. You nod, leaning your head over on his shoulder as you take a deep breath in and let yourself relax.

"You got here just in time," Tom chuckles, gesturing over at Ben. "Benny here is telling us about the absolute freakshow at his gym today."

“I swear to God, you can’t make this shit up,” Ben grins, leaning forward over the scuffed wood of the table, fully engrossing himself into the picture he weaves. “Coach brings in this new dude for me to spar with. The guy is built like a fuckin’ tank, right? Has this thick ass neck but a tiny little goatee.”

Will lets out a snort in his beer as he shakes his head. “How quick did you get knocked out?”

“That’s the thing!” Ben laughs animatedly. “He wanted to get a few rounds in with the heavy bag. He hypes himself up, goes for a roundhouse kick, but hits too low. He slips and falls face first on the gym floor. Out cold.”

Tom bursts into a booming laugh, nearly spilling his beer. Will howls, leaning over and slapping his hand on the table.

“You’re kidding?!” You ask with a snort, the mental image Ben just painted giving you a welcome distraction as you hold the beer without drinking it. Santiago chuckles lightly as he scoots closer in to you.

The bar door suddenly swings open, and when you look up all of the oxygen leaves your lungs in an instant.

Frankie.

He walks in, scanning the room, before his gaze falls at the table.

And then on you.

He stares at you with a burning intensity as you continue leaning on Santiago, the hard clenching of his jaw apparent even from a distance. He walks over, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his khaki pants. The residual laughter at the table suddenly dies in the surrounding air as everyone stops and stares up at him.

Frankie looks completely, utterly wrecked. His face is pale, completely devoid of its usual color. His signature cap is pulled down low but does nothing to hide the dark, bruising purple under his eyes, a clear indicator of his lack of sleep. His patchy beard is uncharacteristically unkempt, and his entire body goes rigid as his gaze drops to Santiago’s arm around you.

Up close, you see a look on his face you have never seen before. The easy-going smile he usually wears around you is gone, along with the soft look in his dark eyes when he calls you Biscuit. This is a raw and visceral anger, one masking a pain so deep it sharpens his features into something harsh and unrecognizable.

Will, Ben, and Tom scoot down and Frankie sits on the opposite side of the booth, on the very edge as if he isn’t committed to staying long.

“Sorry I’m late,” he sneers as he glares at Santiago. “But I see everyone is already comfortably settled in.”

You feel Santiago tense underneath you and you move your head off his shoulder, sitting upright in a poor attempt to diffuse the situation.

“Um…all good, man,” Will says, his gaze shifting back and forth between them. “You okay..?”

“I’m great, thanks for asking,” Frankie leans back, his eyes still locked on Santiago.

The heavy silence and tension in the air is suffocating, and you start to shake as a rush of adrenaline floods your veins.

“I’ve got you, Starshine,” Santiago whispers under his breath, leaning closer in to your ear. Frankie watches, his hand on the table balling into a tight fist.

“What’s the big secret?” He asks sarcastically. “Why don’t you share with the rest of us, Pope?”

“Shut up, Fish,” Santiago warns. “You need to relax.”

“Relax? Nah, I’m good. I was curious, though, when you were going to tell the rest of us about the two of you.”

Your eyes widen fractionally and you look over at Santiago. Will, Ben, and Tom exchange uneasy glances as they look at all three of you.

“What, that we are friends? Sorry you haven’t figured that out in the last seven years,” Santiago laughs derisively, and Frankie quickly stands up.

“Oh, no, this isn’t friendship…is it Pope? It goes beyond that,” Frankie’s voice becomes louder and more aggressive and you shrink down in the booth, paralyzed.

“Why the fuck would you care if it was?! She is just your sister after all, right?!” Santiago shouts back, slamming his hands on the table. The chaotic noise of the bar seems to fade as the outburst at the table catches the attention of everyone nearby.

Frankie stills, his eyes wide, as he looks directly at you with too many emotions to name.

“You told him that…?” He whispers, his voice cracking.

For a split second you soften..before your anger comes back and you can't hold it back anymore.

“Yeah, I did! You fucking abandoned me! I even called you last night because I was so worried when I found out no one had heard from you…I thought you were fucking hurt, or even dead! But you ignored my call. You declined my call!” You don’t even recognize your voice as every emotion you have felt and held back since the moment he walked off your porch comes out at once. "Seven years of friendship didn't mean a fucking thing to you if you could throw it away so easily!"

Frankie just stares at you, a look of raw agony in his dark brown eyes, and you see tears fill the waterline of his eyes. Without another word, completely depleted of all of the anger he held just moments ago, he walks out of the bar.

Santiago doesn’t move, while Will, Tom, and Ben are rendered speechless.

You watch Frankie leave as your own tears burn at the back of your eyes, wishing you could go after him...but you have nothing left to give. 

By the time Monday rolled around you felt back to normal, but he insisted on staying a few more days…just to be sure.

He makes you your favorite tea, steeping it an extra minute so it's extra strong, and adds in a splash of unsweetened vanilla almond milk. Just the way you love.

He brings you breakfast in bed-fluffy, golden scrambled eggs topped with cheese, extra crispy bacon-and he even runs to the store when he sees you’re out of potatoes to make you hash browns.

All of it makes something in your chest tighten and twist as it eats away at you, silently torturing you. You come close to blurting out the truth on more than one occasion just to selfishly finally feel some much-needed relief from keeping this secret locked inside.

Would Frankie still be doing all of this if he knew you and Santiago had fucked?

Your agonizing thoughts consume and occupy every space of your mind. You hate to admit that part of you hopes he would care, because maybe it would mean your feelings are reciprocated. That maybe Frankie saw you as more than just a friend. But at the same time, conflicting and warring together, is the thought that if Frankie did actually feel the same way, he would be hurt. The thought of hurting him was enough to destroy you in a way you could never be put back together again.

Yet if Frankie was truly indifferent, and your feelings all of this time had been unrequited? You can’t even stomach the thought without feeling a fresh wave of nausea grip your stomach in a painful vice.

You find yourself constantly replaying the moment he cupped your face, the way he brushed your hair behind your ear, and how it felt like he wanted to kiss you. The way he read that poem and spoke about it afterward like it meant something, the implication sitting underneath the surface…it felt real in a way that couldn’t be written off as wishful thinking. And you want to finally tell him the truth that has lived in your heart and soul for every day for almost seven years-that you are hopelessly in love with him.

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You sat on the couch together Monday night, less space than usual between you, after putting a DVD on.

“You know, I haven’t seen Airplane! since I was a kid,” Frankie said as he put a bowl of popcorn in his lap, grabbing a few pieces and popping them in his mouth.

“What? Surely you can’t be serious?” You grinned as you held the remote out, flipping through the DVD menu until you reached ‘play’.

“I am serious. And don’t call me Shirley,” He quoted back without missing a beat as he grabbed another handful of popcorn and tossed it in his mouth, a brilliant smile illuminating his face as the crinkles by his eyes deepened.

You both burst out in a fit of laughter as the movie started to play. Frankie’s hand flew up to his mouth as he nearly spit his popcorn back out, leaning over the bowl as his shoulders shook from the force of his laugh. As your giggle faded, you watched him with soft eyes, struggling to even look at the TV. You subconsciously moved closer, your knee barely grazing his.

For a brief, fleeting moment, you almost told him.

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On Tuesday morning, you woke up early. You brewed a pot of coffee and poured a cup for him. You carefully walked into the living room and put the mug down on the coffee table.

You found Frankie still sound asleep on the couch, a hand tucked securely under his pillow. His lips were slightly parted with a light snore slipping out between each soft breath. One dark curl, in particular, was rebelliously flipped outward and rested just above his eyebrow. He must have sensed your presence because soon he started to stir, one eye squinting up at you.

“Morning, Biscuit,” he said in a husky, deep voice laced with the remnants of sleep as he saw the coffee and smiled tenderly up at you. Your stomach flipped and your heart leapt into your throat as you smiled back. The thought of waking up to that voice and that face every single day for the rest of your life immediately flooded your mind.

You almost told him then.

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On Tuesday afternoon, you and Frankie went out to eat, sitting at an outdoor patio table at your favorite fast-food restaurant to enjoy the exceptionally warm and sunny day.

“The burgers here are so fucking good it’s actually stupid,” Frankie groans happily as he leans forward in his chair and takes another huge bite, ketchup dripping down his chin and sticking to the thick, wiry hairs of his patchy beard.

“Right?!” you mumbled, your mouth full, as you dug through the bag of fries on your tray. You swallowed the bite of burger and immediately let out a sudden, loud fit of laughter as you pulled a fry out from the bottom of your bag.

“Holy shit, look how big this fry is!” You exclaimed, holding it out and turning it around in front of him in amused wonderment.

“Damn, you hit the jackpot!” Frankie grabbed the fry to examine it for a moment. “It’s almost twice as wide as your face!” He leaned forward and held the fry out in front of you, jokingly measuring the length of it in comparison to your face, and his fingers brushed slightly against the corner of your lips.

You almost told him then.

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On Tuesday night you stood at the bathroom sink as you brushed your teeth, freshly showered with your hair still dripping wet, leaving droplets of water on your thick cotton robe.

Frankie knocked on the door, the sound echoing through the walls.

“Come in,” you mumbled, spitting out the excess toothpaste that filled your mouth into the sink right as the door creaked open.

He walked in, wearing dark blue, plaid patterned pj pants and that faded Fleetwood Mac shirt he’s had for years. The one that’s so well-worn it has a small hole on the seam of one shoulder and another at the bottom of the hem, but he refuses to get rid of it. It’s his favorite and yours, too.

His hair was slicked back, still slightly damp from his own shower, and he set a small, square container of floss on the edge of the sink.

“You ran out,” he explained as you turned the sink on to rinse your mouth.

“Fuck, I forgot to grab it…” You picked up a hand towel folded haphazardly on the sink and wiped your face. “Thanks, Cat.”

“Anything for my Biscuit,” he gave you a lopsided grin as he left, closing the door behind him with a faint click.

Before he shut the door, you almost told him.

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You woke up Wednesday morning lying flat on your stomach, groaning slightly as you blindly reached for your phone on the nightstand. Once you made contact with the cool glass you wrapped your fingers around it and picked it up, blinking rapidly as your eyes adjusted to the light to check the time- 7:43 a.m.

You see a text notification and unlocked your phone with a click, opening up the texting app and expecting the message to be from Santiago, or maybe even a few messages in the group chat you have with the guys.

Your eyebrows instinctively rose when you saw it was Frankie.

You clicked on his name, opening the long texting thread between you.

Cat🐱🐠: Look what I just found! 😂

Underneath the text, sent a mere twenty minutes prior, was a meme.It was a still image from Airplane!, of Dr. Rumack, with a thought bubble to the side of his head that read ‘Who am I kidding? Deep down inside, I’ve always been a Shirley.”

You let out a loud snort as you rolled over onto your back and started typing.

Are you really texting me from my living room?

He immediately starts typing back.

Cat🐱🐠: Yes. Yes, I am.

You dork.

Cat🐱🐠: It seemed imperative to share as soon as possible. What better way than to have it there and ready when you woke up?

Cat🐱🐠: Are you hungry?

Starving.

You waited a minute for Frankie to start typing, but then your bedroom door creaked open.

“Want pancakes?” He stood there against the doorframe looking at you with those soft brown eyes.

You looked up, a wide smile on your face.

“Yes, with…”

“Blueberries,” he interjected, smirking with a gleam in his eyes.

You simply nodded, watching him turn to leave.

As you heard the sound of a pan being placed on the stove and bowls being pulled down from the kitchen cabinets and set on the counter in preparation of breakfast, you look down at your text thread, still open.

You looked at the meme, chuckling again, before you glanced up at his contact photo; that picture of him leaned over laughing on the couch during Ben’s birthday party.

I love you, Frankie.

You typed the words that have sat uselessly behind your lips for nearly seven years, the ones you’ve been too afraid to say out loud…just to see them. To let yourself imagine for just a fleeting second…

You erased the message, leaving your phone by the pillow as you left to make breakfast with Frankie.

----------------------------------------------------‐---------------------------------------------------

By Wednesday evening, Frankie starts to leave. He stands on your porch in front of the door’s threshold with his duffel bag hanging loosely at his side.

“Are you sure you’re okay? I can stay longer….” He offers, rubbing the back of his neck.

You want to tell him yes, that you want him to stay, but you don’t.

“I’m feeling much better, honestly. Plus, I gotta get back to work tomorrow.”

“Right, right.” He straightens upright and runs a hand through his messy curls.

“Thank you for taking care of me, Cat,” you say sincerely, reaching out and gingerly placing your hand on his arm. His gaze meets yours, and you feel that same shift you felt when he read you the poem.

There have been so many moments in the last seven years where you wanted to tell Frankie that you were in love with him. Hell, there have been so many moments in the last few days you wanted to tell him. But you'll never know what things could be like if you don’t say it, if you don’t try. And maybe every day can be like this past week has been if you do.

This is it. This is the time.

You swallow hard, your heart thudding so rapidly in your chest you can see each beat around the border of your vision.

“Frankie, I have to tell you something,” you begin, your voice audibly trembling. “I’m in…”

His eyes widen as he rapidly searches yours, and a look of panic floods his features as he seems to realize what you’re about to confess to.

He interrupts you.

“I really should get going. And no need to thank me for taking care of you; it’s no problem. I’d be a shitty friend if I didn’t. I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.”

The second those words leave his lips you pull your hand back, a bit too abruptly, as if that simple touch, that connection, burns your skin.

Sister.

Your breathing shifts, fracturing into quick, sharp inhalations and shaky exhales. You stare at him, wide-eyed and completely frozen in place, as your heart stutters painfully in your chest.

Never, in seven years, has Frankie referred to you as his sister. Not even once.

“S-sister…?” you finally blurt out, your voice pitching so high it cracks. You search his eyes in desperation, hoping to see something…anything…that tells you it isn’t true. It can’t be. But Frankie’s expression is neutral, entirely devoid of any signs of conflicting emotions.

“Are you feeling sick again? You look pale,” Frankie frowns, reaching his hand out to touch your forehead but you take a rough step backward, moving just out of his reach before he can get too close, to put as much distance between you as physically possible. His hand hovers awkwardly in the empty space between you for a moment before slowly dropping back to his side.

“I’m fine, Francisco. You can go.” The words come out rough, calloused, as you cross your arms over your chest and bite the inside of your cheek to suppress the tears that threaten to fill your eyes.

You see the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, the shadowing over his gaze. It looks like he wants to say something, a muscle tightening in his jaw, but he simply nods instead.

Frankie steps off your porch and walks to his truck, opening the door and falling into the seat. As he starts his truck, you watch him, your hand gripping the front door so tight your knuckles blanch pure white. He backs out of the driveway and drives off without a single glance at you.

You slam the door with an echoing thud, and the tears that immediately follow threaten to pull you under and drown you. At this point, you think you would welcome such a fate.

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You show up at the office the next morning looking perfectly composed. On the outside, you look polished and professional; a façade that no one else would be able to see through.

On the inside?

You feel dead. Completely dead.

You stop by the break room to get a cup of coffee, grabbing a mug from inside the top cabinet and absent-mindedly pouring from the carafe. You hope to muster enough energy to get through the day because you are sure you didn’t sleep a single minute all night. You tossed and turned from side to side, struggling to find a comfortable position, but it was useless anyway when your mind was in so much turmoil.

You ended up spending most of the night looking through photos of you and Frankie together, as well as texts you’ve shared, all the while silently chastising yourself for doing so.

'I mean, you’re practically my sister, after all.'

His words have not stopped echoing through your mind since the moment he spoke them into existence, cruelly mocking you and shattering every hope and dream you have held for the last seven years. No, not just shattered…dead.

You spent seven years longing after Frankie, wistful and hopeful, but ultimately too afraid to put yourself out there. What if you had misinterpreted his friendship? What if it was unrequited? What if you just lost his friendship and subsequently all of him afterward?After the past week, and the moment that really emboldened you-when he looked at you in that way like he wanted to kiss you and talked about that poem…you were finally brave enough to tell him. But you couldn’t even get the words out before he put up a wall between you. One that confirmed your biggest fear; it was all in your head this whole time.

And then today was the first day he didn’t text you good morning.

“Hey, good to have you back!” A loud, booming voice coming up from behind you startles you, causing you to near tip your mug over. “Feeling better?”

Before you can even turn around, Alex appears at your side with a bright smile, leaning casually against the counter.

“Hey,” you manage a small, cordial smile as you reach past him and grab the creamer sitting out, pouring a splash into your mug and grabbing a stirrer, swirling it through your coffee. “I am better, thanks for asking.”

Alex, who sits across from you and is five years your junior, is the ideal co-worker-friendly, enthusiastic, competent, and eternally cheerful. At over six feet tall, with a warm olive complexion, light hazel eyes, and side-swept, jet-black hair, he is traditionally handsome. To most, he would be eye-catching. But to you? He isn’t Frankie Morales.

Normally you enjoy the casual morning chats at work in the break room, but the exuberant energy he exhibits is far too much for your nervous system this morning. Truthfully the last thing you feel like doing right now is socializing in any capacity.

“Glad to hear it,” he responds, taking a sip of his own coffee. “We have been struggling without you. Did you have one of those bugs going around, or something?”

“Yeah, something like that,” you mutter, tossing the coffee stirrer into the trash can.

“Well, hey…tomorrow is Friday. Got any weekend plans?”

Your hand stills, mug halfway to your lips, at the question. You have never, in seven years, missed out on a Friday night with the guys. Even once you were no longer active duty, instead taking on a new position as an OSINT Analyst, the camaraderie and strong bond you had forged with the men you’ve always considered your brothers was sacred.

Until you fucked up, and fucked Santiago.

And stupidly fell in love with Frankie, who doesn’t even love you back.

How can you possibly go back to the bar and sit there at that same table, drinking beer and shooting the breeze with them after you drunkenly fucked Santiago? And Frankie didn’t take the blonde from last week home…but what if he takes someone home tomorrow night? He’s a grown man who can make his own decisions, and if he wants to take someone home he can, as he painfully pointed out to you.

You can’t handle that thought anymore.

“No, no plans,” you reply as you turned around, your hip resting against the corner of the counter. “I think I'll stay home and rest. How about you?”

“No plans here, either. But, hey…if you decide you want to do something, maybe I could take you out for coffee?” Alex propositions, and your eyebrows raise slightly in surprise.

“Oh..um. Maybe. It depends on how I’m feeling, honestly. I’ll let you know,” you say measuredly. “But I better get back to work. I have so much to catch up on, you know.”

He gives you a nod and a bright smile as you walk out and head back to your desk, gripping your mug tightly. You sit down in your chair with a heartbroken and exhausted sigh. Before you even look at your computer you grab your phone and see no new notifications. Still no text from Frankie.

You open up your text thread with Santiago and type a quick message.

I’m not gonna be able to make it tomorrow night. I hope you guys have fun.

You click your phone off and force yourself to work.

Data evaluation. Intelligence reports. Briefings. Zero focus.

You are on autopilot for the duration of the day, unable to fully concentrate. Your vision blurs at the edges and the words on the papers in front of you bleed together. The rest of the day is slow and torturous, and the ambient noise of the office- the clacking of keys on keyboards, the hum of constant chattering, and phones ringing-is nothing short of irritating.

Once it hits 5, you can’t leave fast enough. You head out to your car, grabbing your phone before even touching your keys.

No text from Frankie.

Your heart sinks as you sigh, opening up your latest notification.

Santi: Are you okay? Is something wrong? Is it lingering side effects from the plan B?

You debate on what to write back, eventually settling on a safe excuse.

I feel like I’m coming down with something. But I’m okay. Thank you for asking.

You head home, exhausted and emotionally spent.

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Friday morning finds you no better: in fact, you feel even worse.

You think you managed to sleep an hour or two, at least.

Your heart sinks a little further when you see there’s still no text from Frankie. You briefly consider texting him, but you change your mind, deciding against it. What would you even say?

Sister.

You keep hearing the word over and over and it feels more poisonous each time. It sits like a dead weight in the center of your chest, sharp yet aching at the same time.

You open up your contact list and click on Sarah’s page, dialing her number. You turn on your left side in bed, holding the phone to your ear. After two rings, she picks up.

“My God! You’re alive?!” She exclaims jokingly. “I haven’t heard from you in over a week!”

You let out a faint chuckle. “I know, I know. I’ve been the worst at communicating lately. But things have been…crazy. How are you?”

“Good, just busy. Work has been crazy. Apparently everyone in town needed their dogs groomed during the same week,” she laughs, and you can hear a cabinet door shutting. “But you said things have been crazy. What happened?”

“Frankie came over last weekend and stayed for half of the week,” you say carefully, rolling over onto your back and looking up at the ceiling as you debate on what to divulge. Sarah has been one of your closest friends since Kindergarten and you know she can keep a secret, but telling her what happened with Santiago feels wrong.

“Seriously??” She asks, a hint of excitement shifting her voice to a higher pitch. “Tell me everything!”

“I drank too much last weekend and things got kinda weird. He was worried and came over to check on me. When I got sick, he decided to stay and take care of me. He even made me breakfast in bed, brewed my tea the way I love, read me poetry…”

“Shut up, that’s so fucking sweet!” Sarah interjects, the sound of coffee pouring into a mug faintly filtering through the receiver.

“I finally decided to tell him how I feel.”

“What?!?” She practically screams into your ear, causing you to instinctively pull the phone away for a moment. “Wait, what did he say?!”

“Before I could even say it, he interrupted me and said I was practically his sister.”

The line suddenly goes so silent that you pull your phone back for a second again, this time to make sure the call didn’t disconnect.

“He. Did. Not.” She snarls, huffing into the phone.

“He did. And he hasn’t talked to me since he left Wednesday.” Your voice cracks a bit as you struggle to keep yourself together.

“That fucking dick! He is such a liar!” Sarah rants, abandoning her coffee as she paces back and forth in the kitchen.

“I don’t think he was lying. He knew what I was going to say. If he felt the same way, why would he say that?”

“Because he is a fucking COWARD!!” She shouts as she continues to pace. “I don’t know what his dumbass reasoning for lying is, but I’ve been around the two of you enough to see it. If that’s how he looks at his sister? That’s fucking illegal.”

You can’t help but laugh at that. “I don’t know, maybe we're both wrong.”

Sarah snorts. “Please. If, somehow, we were wrong and Frankie isn’t in love with you I’ll eat my fucking shoes.”

You laugh harder. “I love you.”

“And I love you. I gotta go, but if Frankie needs his ass kicked you know I’ll happily oblige.”

You hang up, still laughing to yourself, now feeling better prepared to handle the day. Thankfully it's almost the weekend.

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The bar on Friday night is busier than normal; the music is more shrill and the people are louder.

The usual table that you always sit at with the guys is filled...with the exception of your empty seat. Will, Ben, and Tom are chatting away, obliviously laughing at a joke Ben told that neither Santiago or Frankie hear.

“So she really isn’t coming tonight?” Will asks, glancing across the table at Santiago.

“No. She said she thought she was getting sick,” Santiago replies so quietly his voice is barely audible over the loud chatter and laughter surrounding them. “I’m texting her now to check on her. Might stop by her place after this.”

Frankie hadn’t said a single word all night as he sat slumped over his beer and staring off at nothing in particular. When Santiago grabs his phone and starts texting you, however, Frankie suddenly snaps into focus. A scowl appears on his face as he watches him.

“You two are getting really close,” Frankie utters with a roll of his eyes, taking another swig of beer.

Santiago’s eyes drift up to him, one eyebrow cocked. “I don’t know what you mean, man.”

“Yeah, you do,” Frankie asserts sharply, the tension radiating off of him in waves. “You show up to her place to bring her medicine and tea, and now you’re suddenly texting her all the fucking time.”

“What are you trying to say, Fish?” Santiago leans back in his chair nonchalantly. "I can't text a friend? Or help her when she's sick?"

“You know exactly what I am saying,” Frankie grits out, his voice suddenly lower and less controlled.

The two of them glare at each other in a silent challenge.

“Whatever the fuck you guys are doing, you can stop.” Tom barks out, sensing the growing hostility between them starting to escalate. “Right now.”

Santiago looks back at his phone and continues to text you, a small smile on his face.

Frankie straightens upright, his shoulders and back tensing as he watches intently, his gaze shifting from Santiago to his phone.

“What are you saying to her?” He demands, his ire clearly rising.

“None of your business,” Santiago retorts without looking up as his phone chimes with a text notification.

Frankie’s brows furrow and his nostrils flare as he grips his beer bottle so tight it nearly shatters in his hand. He can't take another second.

“Fuck this. I’m out.” He stands up abruptly, nearly knocking his chair over, as he reaches in the pocket of his jeans and tosses a set of crumpled bills onto the table. Santiago watches him with a hardened stare. Without another word Frankie grabs his jacket off the back of his chair and walks out of the bar, slamming the door open as he goes.

Will, Ben, and Tom look at each other in quiet bewilderment as Santiago stares ahead, a muscle feathering violently in his jaw as he grips his phone tighter.