frankie belmont.
location — hiking trail ; avalon when — january 2nd ; 10:00am tagged — @georgecgraham
Frankie eyed the trailhead suspiciously. As evidenced by her brand new hiking boots, she wasn’t one for exercising. Not really. But it was a New Year, and she urged herself from familiar patterns, seizing her day off as an opportunity to get outside, to see some trees. Thrilling, she thought. Before she began her hike, Frankie settled on a bench nearby, stalling curating her music to motivate and fuel the work ahead when a luscious and gentle breeze whispered through the air. She tipped her head back to gather the waves of her hair into a braid, and as her sanguine eyes lifted, they tangled - remarkably - with George’s. Seeing him blew dust off ancient stories of untethering and loss, and her stomach turned. Stunned, Frankie pressed her boots to the earth and stood up, and, without intention, she found herself rushing in his direction to hug him, tightly.
When she was younger, Frankie had been like a cigarette, and Los Angeles had put her out in its discarded ashtray. She only ever wanted to bury memories of that city, all the self-doubt, anxiety, isolation, all of it that paired with her stay in its bounds, but George had been the exception. She still savored their nights poured over pizza and screenplays. He had been the only person to read her writing. The only one. But that had been years ago. After a beat, Frankie let somewhat of a girlish laugh leave parted lips, and she set him free of her embrace, before hardening her expression. There lived within her such a trifecta of emotion for treading behind her was an embarrassment that George had once seen her in a place so low, shock that he was back in Catalina at all, and, somewhere tucked away, the flutter of admiration for his creative soul and inventive mind. Where her dreams had never lived past the flurry of pages stored on her computer, George’s had surpassed something remarkable, to her. She was a teenager again stationed across from the blonde haired boy who always made her feel smart, and suddenly she found herself lifting a hand to punch his shoulder, fairly hard. “Ah!” She retreated, instantly doused in regret. “Sorry! God, why did I do that? I’m just– ah, are you good?” She pressed a hand to the inflicted area. “I’m just happy to see you. Obviously,” Frankie tailored uncertainly, flustered and castaway from her typical composition. “Hi! George! It’s been a long time.”
There was something centering about solid earth beneath feet, the rush of wind through trees, and the general absence of people that came when you were out hiking. He needed it, the rush of the holidays and of coming back home too much, his head aching for a moment of freedom and a bout of inspiration. Nature had always been a retreat, even if it was hard to come by in the sprawling metropolis of L.A. Perhaps that was partly why the city had never truly felt like a home, even if he’d been too haunted by old ghosts, too afraid of not making it, to even consider moving back to Catalina until now. It shouldn’t surprise him so much to find he’s not alone as he turns a corner towards the trailhead, although it’s the figure that meets him that truly startles him, almost as long forgotten as a ghost. Confusion mingles with a sharp sense of guilt, and lips almost part to say something before she’s barreling towards him, arms barely reaching out in time to meet her hug. There’s an unmistakable warmth of affection in his gaze as she pulls back, words at a loss before she’s suddenly punching him ( again, unexpected -- but perhaps slightly less surprising. ) Lips lift in a grin, that, at least, is familiar. “Mortally wounded, I’m afraid.” He teases, not skipping a beat before he’s clutching his shoulder and letting out a groan -- although his eyes give him away; dancing with humor and familiarity, attempting to ease past her obvious embarrassment and the impending awkwardness that could bring forth. “Mhm -- you always had a funny way of showing it. But it’s good to see you too, Frankie.” And it is, Frankie’s bright, enthusiastic spirit one that had become sorely evident was missing after she’d left L.A., silence unnerving when she’d been in his life for so long -- brimming with questions and ideas and creativity, always showing up with new films to discuss or script ideas or simply spur-of-the-moment visits.
The admission of just how long it’s been jolts him back to the present. He’d been half-tempted to forget the lingering regret that comes at the thought of her ( at least momentarily, ) the guilt too, although it’s hard to tell if there’s any blame towards him on her end. But perhaps that doesn’t matter because it’s still present in him. After all, he’d encouraged her talent -- her dreams. Only to leave her, alone and unprotected, in a city that was far too harsh and unforgiving to be named after angels. She didn’t need protection, he reminds himself, just support. Because despite Frankie’s unwillingness to share her writings with others, he’d seen her raw, undeniable talent. Had witnessed it in her writings, words that burst with life and creativity, painted entire worlds and seemed to speak even if they were only made out of paper and ink. Far better than that of any obnoxious film student who thought he’d become the next big thing just because he’d analyzed The Godfather. But L.A. had dimmed her light, threatening to extinguish it completely, and try as he might, he knew that leaving the place was perhaps the best choice for her. Which was why he'd never urged her back when he’d come back from a project only to find that she’d left, assuming that she might have a better shot at following her dreams in Catalina. “It has... and you’ve taken up hiking now?” A quizzical expression shifts over his features. How much else had changed? “After all my failed attempts at dragging you out, it seems. Or is this an in-depth character study for your next script?”
