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The boyfriend act, part 32: "The one where time passes, part two" Pairing: Frankie Morales x F!reader SERIES MASTERLIST Buy me a coffee - Ko-fi

Chapter summary: Frankie’s return to Austin comes with its share of surprises and a few things that don’t quite add up. Somewhere out there, you’re making choices of your own. Or maybe not. Maybe they’re the ones making you. wc: 16k

A/N: I don't know why but tumblr didn't let me post this ugghhhh! Hope you enjoy this one. I know it was a long wait, so thank you for waiting! Please let me know what you think, your feedback is really important to me <3 love u and thank you for reading aaaaa 💕Don't forget to follow capuccinodollupdates for notifications!

Tuesday, September 15th

The faint press of tiny paws pacing up and down his chest dragged Frankie out of sleep, but he kept his eyes shut. Sunlight bled through his eyelids. Morning already; time had slipped past so fast he could’ve sworn he hadn’t slept at all.

Down the hall he heard footsteps. His mom’s voice floated in followed by a soft laugh as she headed downstairs. On the phone, of course; louder than necessary, that distinct cadence he could pick out anywhere.

He exhaled, rubbing at his eyes without opening them. Bingley kept kneading his chest, purring low and insistent, just like the same routine every morning when he wanted Frankie up. And if Frankie weren’t so damn hungry, he might’ve ignored him a while longer.

He’d gotten back to Austin yesterday on a short flight with Jamie and Bingley while Luna handled things in Boston. Mai and Benny picked them up at the airport.

The drive home was anything but quiet. Benny had the music up, talking nonstop about everything that had happened while Frankie was gone. He was careful, though, not to step into anything too personal or hard.

“Let’s grab something to eat tonight,” he had said when they pulled up to Helena’s place, hauling bags out of the trunk. “I’ll call the guys.”

Frankie’s stomach had dropped at that.

“Actually, I’m wiped. And Luna’ll be here in a few hours, so…”

“Oh, okay. Another time, then.”

He’d had to bite his tongue to keep from asking about you. For some reason, that felt like the one question he couldn’t afford to ask.

They unpacked as best they could, had dinner with Helena and Mai, and not long after, he and Jamie turned in.

Rough night. Frankie felt like he hadn’t slept at all. But he had to have, at least a little. His eyes burned and when he finally cracked them open, the light hit harder than it should’ve.

“What’re you doing?” he murmured, running a hand over Bingley, who’d settled on his chest like a loaf of bread. “You hungry? Want something to eat?”

Careful not to jostle him too much, Frankie pushed himself up and set the cat on the floor. Bingley immediately wove around his legs while Frankie fumbled around for something to put on his feet.

His room hadn’t changed. Posters still pinned to the walls, books and DVDs stacked on the shelves, framed photos lined up on the nightstand, and even the notebook he used as a sort of journal (not that he’d ever call it that) was still tucked beneath a pile of clothes in the bottom drawer. Helena had a way of keeping everything exactly the same while somehow keeping it clean and tidy.

Still carrying the weight of sleep (even after splashing his face with cold water multiple times) Frankie made his way downstairs, watching Bingley race ahead.

So dramatic and starving, apparently. Which was ridiculous. The cat was always well fed. Didn’t stop him from acting like he hadn’t eaten in days.

Yawning, Frankie shuffled into the kitchen and reached for the cat food. Helena was still on the phone, but she passed by long enough to give his back a quick rub before stepping away to finish the call.

“There you go,” he muttered, tipping a generous amount of kibble into Bingley’s bowl. The cat buried his nose in it the second Frankie pulled his hand back.

Outside the window, the morning was bright; early fall, soft and golden, quietly taking hold of every leaf in the yard. Out there, Bambi was sprawled beneath the wide canopy of a laurel tree, letting the sun warm her back.

This would be hard on her too. A different house, a different yard, a different stretch of grass to curl up on. Losing Henry had already hit Bambi in ways no one could understand. Frankie had caught her more than once lying at the foot of the couch where Henry used to sit for his naps. She’d settle there, really quiet, and sometimes let out the softest whine, he could almost mistake it for a snore.

She hadn’t been the same since he passed. And now this; another move, another shift. It was bound to shake her all over again.

He’d have to take her out more. Longer walks. Drive her out to the water. Help her get used to the neighborhood, the city. She was a really good dog.

Frankie yawned again. The clock on top of the fridge read 7:40 a.m. and he felt that unpleasant mix of hunger and nausea. He used to wake up like this all the time as a kid; queasy, stubborn, hating the way his parents insisted on breakfast. He usually wasn’t hungry this early, but they’d always said it was good for him. Never made sense to him. Coffee and a piece of toast would do just fine.

He poured the hot coffee into his favorite mug here, a blue one with a yellow rubber duck on it, and slid a slice of bread into the toaster. But the second that faint burnt smell started creeping out, his stomach turned again.

“What are you having?” Helena appeared in the doorway, crossing the room. Her hand settled on his forearm. “Morning. Sleep okay?”

“Not really.”

“Want me to make you something? Eggs?”

“I’m not that hungry. Thanks, though.”

“Oh, alright.” She stepped closer, her hand sliding up to the back of Frankie’s neck. “I’m just so glad you’re here. I really think this is for the best.”

Frankie gave her a small smile and a quick glance.

“Me too.”

“So, what are you doing today?” She grabbed a clean mug from the cabinet. “Going to see anyone?”

“I don’t know. There’s a few things to take care of here, and—”

“We’ve got it covered. It’s not enough to need more than the two of us, and the rest of the move won’t be here for a few hours.” She paused. “Does Santiago know you’re back?”

“Yeah.”

“And? The others?”

“They know too.”

Helena lifted a hand. “You know what? You should do something tonight. Get out, clear your head, have a little fun. Actually—” she stepped closer again, “I was thinking… maybe you could go see her?”

“Who?” he was playing dumb.

Helena raised both brows. Frankie let out a quiet breath. A beat passed.

“I just got here. And I’m not even sure she wants to see me.”

“And what happens if you try?”

“Mom,” he stepped back, the smell of burnt toast getting stronger by the second. “Seriously, it’s my first day back, alright? Just… let me settle in.”

“Okay, okay,” she raised both hands. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Forgive me for wanting my son to be happy. Your toast is burning!”

Hours later

Being back in Austin felt… strangely good.

Running out to the grocery store just for coffee and cookies. Stopping by the pet shop to buy Bingley a new bed, even though it was pretty obvious his favorite spot would still be Frankie’s bed. He found himself noticing all the tiny changes around the city, like that corner that used to be a bar now turned into a café, little shifts like that; they made it clear how much time had passed, even if it had only been a few months. Everything had kept moving without him. The city didn’t feel quite the same.

He’d missed his car, too. It had been sitting at his mother’s place all this time, only used here and there by Helena. He’d missed the seat, the feel of the wheel in his hands, the leather scent and even the cheap little air freshener hanging from the rearview mirror. Driving it again just felt good.

As he drove, the traffic light ahead pulled at something in his chest. He couldn’t ignore it. It turned red, and Frankie’s gaze drifted to the sidewalk across the street.

In the daylight, it looked like nothing. Just another corner. But at night, months ago, maybe a year, you’d stepped out of his car right there, furious, slamming the door after one of your many fights.

"You have no idea how I feel," you snapped, your voice trembling. He could remember it so clearly. "And why do you even care? It doesn't matter. None of this fucking matters."

Frankie shook his head. "I know how you feel. That's why I'm trying—"

"Trying what?" You stepped closer. "To fix it? You can't. I don't need anything from you. I don't need you pity, your useless advice. I know how this works. I know how people work. I'm good enough until the real thing comes along. That's all I've ever been."

“That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is, Francisco. Because I’m always missing something. Because there’s always something I don’t have. And I know, I know that’s just life, that’s how it is, someone always gets left behind, someone always gets hurt. But why does it always have to be me? Why do I always have to be the one to accept things as they are? Why am I the one who has to be mature, move on, be fine?”

Frankie exhaled. “You’re letting this define you.”

“I’m letting this define me?”

“It doesn’t mean anything,” he insisted. “He wasn’t for you—”

“It does mean something.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Yes, it does! And you have no idea what you’re talking about. You don’t know me, you don’t know anything about me or what I feel or what—” Your voice broke. “You don’t know anything.”

Frankie’s gaze stayed steady. “You’re just... numb. You think no one’s ever going to choose you because you’re in a bad place right now—”

“Shut up.” Your hands pressed against his chest again, lighter this time.

“I understand. I do—”

“Shut up.”

“Somebody’s going to!”

"Or maybe not!"

Frankie let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but there was nothing amused about it. He glanced to the side, then back at you, his jaw tight, frustration bleeding into his entire body.

"Okay," he said. "So what, then? You gonna spend the rest of your life wallowing? Feeling sorry for yourself forever?"

"You must have a lot of experience with that sort of thing, don't you? Feeling bad about yourself, drowning in your own misery. Being a complete fucking loser."

Frankie didn’t flinch. Didn’t so much as blink.

"Yeah," he said simply, like he was stating an obvious fact. He was. He was waiting for more, he could take whatever else you threw at him. He wanted you to.

Frankie’s chest tightened at the memory. Because he remembered all, all of it; the strain in your voice, the shine in your eyes, how impossible the two of you had been. He remembered the sting of your words landing where they knew they would hurt, and how hard he’d worked not to turn the car around and go after you once he drove off that night.

Even with that ache sitting heavy in his chest, he’d wanted to. Wanted to walk those three blocks to your place and apologize for how harsh he’d been that night. You had been too, maybe more than necessary, but those blows, all of them, had forced something to grow between you. Painful at first, so good later.

Three blocks. That was all that stood between you now. And if you weren’t home, you’d be at the bookstore. It was early, so you were probably working. Coffee in hand, like always at this hour. Ten in the morning; perfect time for a second breakfast.

Frankie drove on, his hands and feet on autopilot, and the scenery moved at his side until the park came into view, and a few meters later, a familiar facade. He stopped there, feeling his heart lodged somewhere in his throat.

Bill’s café was packed. From his seat, he could see the tables, the little plates scattered across them, but there were too many people inside to pick out a familiar face.

Oh, God. The urge to throw up hit him hard. His stomach twisted, nerves coiling tight, and he had to look away.

His fingers drummed against the steering wheel, off-beat and restless. He clenched his jaw so hard it clicked.

Fuck, what the hell was he doing? Be a fucking man!

He nudged the car forward, just a few meters, until he found an empty spot a short distance from your place. The second he killed the engine, the silence pressed in on him so loud it made his head spin. He tried to swallow; couldn’t. His throat had locked up.

Come on. What’s the worst that could happen? You tell him to fuck off?

He’d take it. He’d stand there and take it if that’s what it came to. You could tell him to fuck off as many times as you wanted. He’d let you. Gladly.

Drawing in a deep breath and holding it, Frankie shoved the door open and stepped out without even checking the street. A car could’ve come flying up behind him and sent him airborne, and he wouldn’t have noticed.

His head was buzzing with nerves; his brain completely short circuiting.

The second he caught sight of your front door, his heart stalled completely. Being here again felt unreal, too close to everything. To you. To Darcy. And right next to it, the bookstore stood open, exactly like he knew it would be.

Your place or the bookstore? Which door was he supposed to knock on?

Well. The obvious one.

Vandspell Books. The sign stretched above the entrance in elegant blue lettering he’d read a hundred times over. Frankie squeezed his eyes shut for a second, then moved. His hand wrapped around the handle, and with a steady push, he stepped inside.

Okay. The counter was empty. But the place wasn’t. Music drifted through the air really low; Streets of Philadelphia, Springsteen. Two people browsed through the universal literature section and a girl, no older than thirteen, had her head buried deep in the young adult shelves.

Frankie let out a shaky breath as his eyes swept over every corner and his lungs filled with that delicious mix of paper and coffee. Too many thoughts crowded in at once, impossible to hold onto just one. What was he going to do? What was he going to say? How the hell was he supposed to say it?

Before he could overthink it any further, he reached out and tapped the little bell on the counter, resting his hand against the wood as his body started to feel heavier by the second.

The door behind the counter creaked open. Frankie caught sight of a hand first, then he straightened abruptly and—

“Emma.”

She froze in the doorway, a half formed smile on her lips while her eyes widened just a touch. Like she’d seen a ghost and didn’t mind it one bit.

“Frankie?” She stepped forward, rounded the counter and pulled him into a quick hug that barely lasted two seconds. “What are you doing here? When did you get back?”

“Yesterday.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” He nodded, a little too fast. His gaze kept flicking from Emma’s face to the door behind the counter. Were you back there? Hiding, or—

“Wow. Will told me you were thinking about coming back, but I didn’t think it’d be this soon.”

“Uh, it was kind of a last minute thing.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” Frankie nodded, his gaze slipping past her shoulder for a second. “Yeah. Um… is she—” He hesitated, then forced himself to meet Emma’s eyes. “Can I talk to her? Is she here? It’ll just take a minute.”

“What?” Emma frowned.

“I know I probably don’t deserve it, but…” he shook his head, jaw tightening, “just a minute.”

Emma’s expression softened, her brows easing as she wet her lips.

“Frankie… she’s not here.”

He swallowed. “Oh. When will she be back?”

“No. I mean, she’s not here. Not in Austin.”

“What?”

“She moved to New York.”

The words hit fast, so fast it felt like all the blood drained straight to his feet, leaving him cold, still and hollow. His stomach twisted into a tight knot just as his throat right after.

Heat rushed to his face. “What? When?”

“A couple weeks ago.” Emma shrugged lightly. “July.”

“That’s—that’s, um—”

“You okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” he nodded quickly, already taking a step back. “You know when she’ll be back?”

“I’m not really sure. It was supposed to be temporary at first, but then a few things changed and—”

“Oh. Right.”

“I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

A ghost of a smile pulled at Frankie’s mouth.

“No. I didn’t. It’s okay.”

“You want me to tell her anything?”

Shaking his head, Frankie put a little more distance between them, like space alone could hold him together.

“No, it’s fine. Please don’t tell her I came by.”

Before she could answer, if she even did, he turned and pushed the door open just as fast as he had walked in.

He didn’t hear the door shut because his feet were already dragging him back to the car, clumsy and fast and off-beat. He yanked the handle, fumbled it, had to try again. Stupid feet. Stupid hands.

He dropped into the seat and turned the engine over. His eyes swept the street; it was empty. No traffic now, so he pulled out fast. And the apartment beside him sat empty; you weren’t there.

New York. You were in New York. You’d been there for weeks, which meant he’d been just a few hours away from you this whole time and never knew. One drive, one aimless walk, and maybe, just maybe, he would’ve run into you.

Not likely, though. New York’s too big for that kind of luck.

And Emma wasn’t even sure you were coming back. What the hell did that mean? Did it mean exactly what it sounded like? That maybe, just maybe, you weren’t planning on coming back to Austin anytime soon? Or ever?

Still, New York was a city that could swallow you whole. Frankie knew that much. You could build an entirely different life there. And yeah, there was a flicker of surprise at the thought of you doing exactly that. Just a flicker, buried under the bitterness starting to burn through his chest. Because there was something in that decision, a kind of fearlessness, you hadn’t had a year ago. And he felt it, clear as anything.

You used to hate flying. Hated the feeling of being suspended in the air for hours. You told him that once, long before you ever jumped out of a plane. You didn’t like being trapped inside a metal and plastic beast, but you loved the window seat; the bright, honeyed sunrise, and the way dusk turned everything pink before slipping behind the shape of whatever city lay below.

Crowds weren’t your thing either, and Frankie couldn’t help but wonder how you were handling a city that thrived on them. New York, packed wall to wall with people. Did you take the subway? Did the strangers you brushed past unsettle you, or did they amuse you? Did you still scrub your hands clean after touching railings and seats, the way you used to after touching just about anything?

What were you wearing now? Had your style changed? Your hair, was it still the same? Did you still write in that journal? Was there a new list, maybe, of things you wanted to do? A different one, meant for someone braver than you used to be.

Did you have friends? People to talk to? Someone new... Someone to love?

Oh.

Frankie felt sick.

His hands tightened around the wheel as he drove, mind racing miles ahead, building theories about you he had no business building. It was pointless, really. Because there was a version of you he didn’t know anymore. Just like you didn’t know about the new scars on his face, the glasses resting on his nose, or the way he’d taken to biking for hours or walking anywhere just to keep moving... there were things about you he’d missed, too. And he couldn’t stop thinking about all of them.

Frankie bit the inside of his cheek and a deep heavy sigh dragged through his chest.

Now that you were gone, what chance did he even have?

By the time he pulled up to Will’s place, it hadn’t been a decision so much as instinct. His body had taken him there on its own. The obvious choice, if he wanted answers to questions he wasn’t about to ask Emma. Easy.

He stepped out of the car, shut the door a little harder than he meant to, and made his way up to the porch; three steps, quick. His fist hit the door seven times. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. He coughed under his breath, covering his mouth with his knuckles.

“In a minute!”

Will’s voice carried from somewhere deep inside the house and the second Frankie heard it, something warm and sudden settled in his chest. He’d missed him. More than he’d realized.

He’d texted him the second Benny left the house the day before. Will, just like his brother, had wanted to throw some kind of dinner together to celebrate Frankie being back, but he’d given him the same answer: He was exhausted, had a few things to take care of first. Will respected that and promised no surprise plans.

Now Frankie glanced down at his shoes and realized he was wearing mismatched socks. Black jeans, straight at the ankle; no hiding it. One black. One red.

“Fish.” Will swung the door open, eyes going wide, grin even wider. “C’mere!”

He pulled him in without warning, wrapping him up in a tight, tight hug. Frankie returned it, arms sliding around his back, a smile breaking through before he could stop it. For a second, the tight knot in his chest eased, just a little.

Will’s hands pressed firm against his back, giving him a couple of rough pats, even shaking him once.

“Sorry, I’m a mess,” he said, pulling back but keeping a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “I fucking missed you. Jesus. Was out back. C’mon, get in.”

He ushered him inside and kicked the door shut behind them.

“Those glasses,” Will added, pointing at him. “Look good on you. Real intellectual vibe.”

Frankie laughed. “An intellectual? I look more like SpongeBob.”

“Hey, none of that,” Will shot back. “We’re not doing the self drag thing anymore, alright?”

Frankie huffed out another laugh and followed him out back in pure silence.

A wide stretch of concrete spread out under a solid roof, and parked right in the middle was a bright red Pontiac, clearly mid surgery, courtesy of Will. Both doors were open, and the scent of leather polish was delicious and strong in the air.

“Damn. And what’s this beauty?” Frankie dipped down, leaning into the car. The interior was in near perfect shape, just a few worn spots on the driver’s seat, nothing you wouldn’t expect from something that old. A Firebird Trans Am.

“Picked it up months ago. Benny and I,” Will said. “You like it?”

“Like it? What you think?” Frankie scoffed softly. “Feels like a toy. It’s unreal.”

“Yeah, guy had a whole garage full of cars just sitting there, going to waste. He passed, and his kid’s not really into old stuff, so…”

Frankie let out a low whistle, running his hand over the steering wheel, eyes taking in every inch of the dash. Then, through the windshield, he spotted another car a few meters ahead.

Parked in front of the Pontiac and hidden under a white cover cinched tight along the sides, the shape alone was enough to catch his attention, along with the sliver of wheels peeking out from underneath.

Careful, he climbed out and stepped closer. Behind him, Will wiped his hands on a rag that looked dirtier than he was, doing more harm than good.

Frankie didn’t care. He reached out, lifted the cover just enough to reveal a flash of glossy black paint, the front end gleaming underneath.

“Shit, what about this one? Is it yours too? Jesus, it’s gorgeous,” he said, peeling back more and more of the cover, his brain short-circuiting at the sight of it.

The Mustang Coupé was flawless; every angle, every detail. Exterior, interior, all of it. Frankie pulled the door open and leaned inside, taking it in with careful attention. The seats were unreal, preserved like time had skipped right over them. The dash was perfect, every control intact, the center console between the seats just as pristine.

He pulled back out and looked at Will, who stood behind him, still holding that rag in his hands.

“How much you want for it?”

Will smiled. “Not for sale.”

“I’m serious. Name a price.”

“Sorry,” he shrugged. “Not my car.”

“Benny’s?”

Will shook his head. “Nope. Not his either. But the owner likes strawberries. There’s a keychain hanging from the rearview mirror.”

Frankie frowned, confused, and slowly leaned back into the car. Just like Will said, the keychain dangled there; but it was flipped over, half hidden behind a pine shaped air freshener. He reached up, turned it between his fingers—

Two strawberries, hanging from thin strands of red, white, and pink beads catching the light.

In one quick motion, Frankie pulled himself out of the car and looked at his friend.

“Is it hers?”

“Yeah.”

“She’s driving again?”

“Yep. Picked it up a few weeks ago. Two grand, can you believe that?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“Nope,” Will laughed. “Same guy who sold me the Pontiac. He’s got a few more sitting in that garage. It’s insane.”

“It is, huh.” Frankie rested his hands on his hips, eyes fixed on the car. “Honestly, I never pictured her driving a Mustang. But… it makes sense.” He swallowed, a sigh slipping out as that familiar bitterness crept back into his chest. “So she just left it here and took off to New York?”

Will nodded, slow, tossing the dirty rag onto the Pontiac’s hood. “Santi tell you?”

“No. Emma. Though I don’t think she knew I didn’t know.” His jaw tightened. “Why didn’t anyone tell me? None of you said anything.”

Will exhaled. “I’m sorry. You sounded pretty stressed with everything going on in Boston. At least for me, I didn’t think it was something you needed to hear right then. Wouldn’t have helped.”

“So it was better for me to go see her and find out like that?”

“You went to see her?”

Frankie nodded, glancing down for a second. “Yeah. Not sure what I was expecting, though.”

“I didn’t know nobody else had told you. Thought Santi would.”

“Yeah, well, if I’m being honest, he doesn’t have to. She and I aren’t together anymore. And he probably still wants me the hell away from her.”

Will let out a breath. “Jesus, Fish. You know that’s not true, right?”

“I don’t,” Frankie shot back. “He sounded pretty damn serious about it, and he hasn’t said a word about it since. How am I supposed to take that?”

“He was mad. You hurt his sister, what did you expect? What would you do if Benny did that to Mai?”

Frankie shook his head, already knowing the answer. He’d do the same. Probably worse. More stubborn about it, too.

“Either way,” he muttered, “he made himself pretty clear. And he’s probably right. I’ll respect that for now.”

Will hummed. And Frankie gave a small nod, just to keep himself moving, and shut the Mustang’s door. The strawberries swayed lightly.

“So, what do you know about New York?”

“Uh… she left in July. She’s staying at her mom’s place since she’s in Europe right now. She was supposed to come back this month, but I don’t know. Last time Emma talked to her, she said she might stay longer. Something about this guy, Max, I think, I mean, huh— ” Will faltered, shaking his head a little, lips pressing tight.

Frankie felt his stomach drop clean out of him. The blood drained from his face just as fast.

“I mean... I think it’s more about something personal, really, I dunno,” Will went on. “Emma knows more than I do, honestly.”

Frankie tried to swallow, but his throat wouldn’t cooperate. Every muscle locked up, refusing.

“She met someone?”

Will went very still. “I don’t know if it’s that, Fish.”

“Who’s Max?”

“I just overheard Emma talking to her. That’s it.”

Frankie nodded, barely, as the air left his lungs in a long, hollow exhale. He didn’t breathe back in for a while. He was unable to. Like his body had forgotten how.

“Hey, don’t take my word for it. I could be wrong. I don’t know much, I’m just repeating what I heard and even that might be off—”

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” Frankie cut in, shaking his head again. “It’d be pretty damn naive of me to think things would still be the same after all this time.” It took everything he had to keep his voice from giving away his agony.

Will shifted, uneasy. Scratched at his beard, let out a breath, rocking his weight from one foot to the other.

“I’m sorry, Fish.”

Frankie nodded. Whether it was true or not, every cell in his body felt like it was shutting down a little faster.

Look at where you are now. Nine months since last December. Nine months of some of the hardest days he’d had. He couldn’t blame you if there was someone else in your life, but his head and his heart couldn’t quite make sense of it. Nine months was a long time. And nothing at all, at the same time. Another city, different people; someone else who might be close to you the way he had been less than a year ago.

“I mean it, don’t listen to me,” Will added quickly, the urgency slipping into his voice. He stepped closer, resting a hand on Frankie’s shoulder. “I can talk to Emma, see if there’s actually something there—”

“No. Don’t.”

“It’s no trouble. I can be subtle about it.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Frankie pulled off his glasses for a second, dragging a hand over his eyes. “Whether it’s true or not, it doesn’t change the fact that I came back too late.”

“That’s not true.”

“I lost her.”

Saying it out loud hit harder. A clean stab to the chest. Frankie swallowed it down, forcing everything back before it could reach his eyes, and slid his glasses on again.

Will didn’t say a word.

“And I didn’t lose her now,” Frankie went on. “Not in July, when she left for New York.” He shook his head. “No. I lost her in December, when I screwed everything up. And even if she comes back to Austin, what would she want with me?”

“Fish…”

“It’s fine.” He shook his head again, eyes burning. “I knew this could happen.”

Just not that it would hurt this much.

The what-ifs clawed at him; the idea of you not coming back, of you falling for someone else. None of it was certain. And maybe this was just Frankie’s worst instincts getting the better of him, dragging him under. But you were miles away now, in a different life, and everything felt too distant, too changed to hold onto anything hopeful.

Will didn’t speak. He just stepped forward and pulled him into another hug. And as Frankie let him, his eyes went glassy almost instantly. And he fought it, hard, swallowing it down, forcing his face into something steadier than what he felt.

It wouldn’t be the first time he’d cried in front of Will. In fact, Will was probably the person who’d seen it the most. But this felt different. He couldn’t afford to let himself sink too far into it, couldn’t let the heartbreak take over or it’d swallow him whole.

“C’mon,” Will said a moment later, giving him one last squeeze before pulling back. “How about we grab a couple beers and you tell me what the hell happened to your face?” He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

Frankie let out a small laugh. “Is it really that bad?”

“Nah. Just a few scars,” Will shrugged. “They look good on you. You look rough and sexy.”

“Oh, fuck off.”

At home, Frankie tried to slip in unnoticed. He nudged the door open, juggling everything he’d bought; the new bed for Bingley, a bag of treats, and a packet of cookies clamped between his teeth.

He made a beeline for the stairs as he heard Luna and Jamie’s voices drifting in from the kitchen where they were talking to Helena, and hurried to shut his bedroom door the second he was inside. Like a teenager sneaking in past curfew. Again.

Bingley was sprawled across his pillow, barely stirring until Frankie dropped onto the bed. One ear flicked. A lazy blink.

“Sorry. Am I bothering you?”

He reached out, brushing his index finger under the cat’s chin. Bingley’s eyes slipped half shut instantly, melting into it, entirely his.

Frankie had been thinking, before he walked into the bookstore… No. That wasn’t it. He didn’t know what the hell he’d been thinking. He was not thinking at all. What made him believe showing up like that was a good idea? If you’d been there, what would you have said? Wouldn’t it be a little strange, after all this time, him just turning up like nothing happened? What exactly was he supposed to show up with—what face was he meant to wear?

The last time you spoke on the phone, you told him you loved him. But you were drunk. You wouldn’t have called if you’d been sober. So that moment had to be handled carefully; Frankie couldn’t lean on it to keep the small flame of hope alive. It wouldn’t be fair to you or to anyone. It was a drunk call. Nothing more.

Because now you were in New York with Max whoever the hell he was and you were staying there, for reasons that had something to do with him or something else entirely. Yeah.

No.

This couldn’t be it. This couldn’t be all there was. Had he really messed it up that badly? Did it really take you leaving for him to understand just how thoroughly he’d ruined things?

Foolishly, Frankie had made the mistake of thinking you’d still be here. Not waiting for him, no. But here.

He could picture it: running into you after months apart, managing the mess in his chest, keeping things polite if that’s what the moment demanded. Making peace, somehow. Being your friend.

He’d hate being your friend. But he’d try anyway. Because he needed you like he needed air, and beyond that, he wanted you in his life. And despite everything Lucille had told him, he was willing to swallow whatever it cost him if it meant keeping you close.

But could he really picture it, being friends? Sharing places, afternoons, nights. Dinner out on Santi’s backyard or Will’s. Talking about nothing and everything the way the group always did, tossing in bits of news here and there. One day you’d show up with someone else, and something inside him would cave in. He’d accept it, though, what right did he have not to? He’d play it off like it was fine, like time had done its job and this is what friends do. Then he’d swallow it down, try to move on, maybe even find someone else. Except that part felt impossible.

That’s what a broken heart does, he thought. It convinces you there’s no one else who could ever take that place. Because you’re still in love and it’s hard to imagine a life that doesn’t include them. But time passes, and somehow, however unlikely it feels, you get through it. You meet someone new, and if you’re in the right place, you give it another shot.

That’s how it had been with Rachel. He’d thought he’d never get over her. That the pain had been so sharp it would leave a scar that never faded. He’d wanted it gone; cut out, shut off, erased.

God, he’d been wrong. Now he knew that had been nothing. Because this, this was deeper, heavier and worse. And he didn’t want to let it go. He was being a masochist; it hurt, and he didn’t want it to stop. If pain was the only way loving you showed up, then fine. Let it hurt for the rest of his life.

The rest of his life. Frankie believed he’d love you for the rest of his life. Whether you came back or not, whether you ended up together or not; you’d shown him a version of life so genuine, so tender he wasn’t the same man anymore. And to him, that was love; love doesn’t ask you to change, it changes you anyway.

But now, staring up at his bedroom ceiling, his heart was laying heavy in his chest. He let himself be selfish for a minute, wishing something, anything, would bring you back to Austin. Some outside force that would pull you in, close the distance between you.

It was selfish, and he knew it. But no one’s good all the time.

Where were you?

The question grew, inch by inch, until it filled his head. What were you doing? Who were you with? Were you happier there than you’d been here? Did those streets feel the way he imagined they would to you? You’d probably already checked off half the places from your favorite movies. He could picture it; there was a corner you had to have visited. Carrie’s stoop. The building from Friends. You, walking through Central Park, crushing yellow leaves under your shoes where they filmed When Harry Met Sally. He hoped you had.

After a beat, like he was giving the universe a chance to stop him, Frankie slid a hand into his pocket and pulled out his phone. He opened Google and typed slowly: Instagram.

He didn’t have an account. Hadn’t used the app either. Maybe once, back in 2013 before deciding it wasn’t for him. Still, it couldn’t be that complicated to figure out.

Except when he opened the page and tried to look around, he hit a wall. He needed an account. Or how else was he supposed to find you? Where was the search bar? Wasn’t there supposed to be a little magnifying glass somewhere?

Discover more in the app—Explore your interests and find… yeah, yeah.

Sign up.

Frankie sighed, stared at the blank fields, and typed in his phone number. Followed the steps one by one.

Username. Huh. His mouth pulled to the side. Should he just use his name?

franciscomorales this username is not available

Shit.

frankiemorales this username is not available

fishmorales this username is not—

“Are you kidding me?” he scoffed, shaking his head as he glanced over at Bingley. “Can you believe this? How many Fish Morales are out there?”

Bingley stretched his paws and yawned unbothered. Frankie smiled just a little.

Okay. Maybe using his name wasn’t the move. If he wanted to see how you were doing, he should keep a low profile. Blend in. Go with something random.

bingleythecat this username is not available

bingleyfrankie123 this username is not available

bingcatfishmorales this username is not available

catandfish777 this username is not available

bing.ley—

No.

He huffed under his breath. Think, think, think…

A grin tugged at his mouth.

chandlerbingley

Available. Of course that one worked, and not bingleyfrankie123. Yeah, sure. Made perfect sense.

He set up the account quickly, no fuss. No profile picture, no following anyone; just the bare minimum to get in. And the second it was done, he went looking for you.

He typed your name into the search bar, and your profile came up first. Frankie straightened immediately.

Top row: New York. The first post: a set of five photos. The city, a book, a coffee, and Mr. Darcy. Caption: everything I love

The next one: just you.

He went still.

You were sitting across a table, dinner laid out in front of you. A white—no... cream dress, fitted, soft glossy fabric, straight neckline, thin straps over your shoulders. You held a glass of white wine (maybe champagne) just under your chin, smiling, head tipped slightly to the side. Your hair was shorter now, brushing your shoulders.

You looked… beautiful. There was something in your smile, a little different, that made him smile too before he could stop himself.

He swiped to the next photo.

His heart stuttered. The smile slipped, gone in a second, and something heavy, too heavy, yanked at his chest, like invisible strings pulling him straight down to the ground.

A man filled the frame, smiling as he tipped his glass to his lips. White shirt, slightly undone. Blue eyes. A head full of golden curls, styled just enough for the candlelight to catch on the highest strands. He looked like he’d walked straight out of Gossip Girl; that show Mai used to watch. Frankie had caught it more than once while stretched out on the couch beside her. Yeah, a total Nate Archibald type of guy.

He tapped the tag and the username popped up over the man’s face.

maxdarligheld

Maximilian Darligheld. Storyteller NYC Art, people, and the space in between.

The profile opened, spilling into a grid of everywhere at once; art galleries, museums, sweeping, expensive landscapes, movie sets, events, parties…

Frankie felt it rise in his throat. He wanted to throw up. Actually throw up. All over the screen, until every last image disappeared.

He backed out of Max’s profile and went straight to yours. Drew in a breath just to keep from choking on it, but it didn’t help. The feeling was already there, building too fast and too tight, too desperate and sharp and hot with jealousy.

Jealous of whoever the fuck this guy was. Jealous he was sitting across from you at dinner. Jealous of what he might be to you.

And then the next photo, right after the first one, just a park; stopped his heart cold.

You and Max, grinning. You with your camera lifted, a coffee in your hand. His cheek pressed to yours, smiling like it meant something. And before he could stop it, Frankie’s vision blurred; his heart was already giving up on him.

You looked happy. Bright and fresh. There was someone beside you, his cheek against yours, and you were smiling.

This couldn’t be happening.

Jealousy hit first, again, harder. Then something heavier followed, it sank straight through his chest, melted it and dropped it to his feet. It hollowed him out. He felt like he was dying.

Frankie locked his phone and flung it across the bed, unable to keep staring at snapshots of your new life. He buried his face in his hands like that might hold everything together while it all came crashing down anyway.

Fucking glasses getting in the way; his tears hit the lenses, blurring everything further. He ripped them off and tossed them onto the nightstand.

He’d lost you. He’d lost you. He’d lost you and if he hadn’t yet, he would soon. It was only a matter of time.

“Fuck,” he exhaled, in the middle of a quiet sob and hating every second of this.

For some reason, he couldn’t breathe.

That night, somewhere in New York

Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale. Everything’s going to be fine.

The mirror in front of you was massive, polished so clean it almost felt like a portal. Your reflection glowed in it, softened by the soft golden light from the tall lamps around the room. Behind you, the wide window stretched out over Manhattan in a view you were getting used to, slowly, though it still managed to pull something out of you every time.

Some days, it felt like too much. Like today.

“You look gorgeous. Told you this was the one,” Alex said from behind you. She had a martini in hand, made less than five minutes ago, and was still in her pajamas like it wasn’t already five in the afternoon.

“I feel… off.”

“Why? It’s a beautiful dress. It fits you perfectly.”

She was probably right. It did fit perfectly. That wasn’t the problem. The problem was the girl in the mirror; she looked like someone else, and you weren’t sure you’d caught up to her yet.

Over the past few months, you’d worn more dresses like this than you had in your entire life before. Alex’s closet was endless, and you were the same size, which meant everything was fair game. Add to that the shopping sprees (too many to count) and yeah, your credit card had definitely been getting a workout.

She was a good friend, great company to have around. When you landed in New York in July, she was the one who picked you up from the airport. Nina, her mom, was a close friend of your mother’s and had already taken off for their grand European escape. But before leaving, she handed Alex a very strict to-do list, and right at the top: pick you up, give you your mom’s keys, and make sure you weren’t on your own.

It sounded like a chore, honestly. Or it would’ve been, if you hadn’t clicked almost instantly. But somewhere between the airport and your mom’s apartment, with both of you swapping stories about heartbreak, something just… stuck. She invited you to dinner that same night. The next day, you went to the movies. Then came drinks, a club, more restaurants, plans stacking up before you could even think to say no.

Alex’s dad, Grant, was loaded and well-connected and his name opened doors. Not exactly around much, though, and Alex knew how to cash in on that absence. Guilt came with perks, and she used them well. She moved through New York like it belonged to her, doors swinging open for her and anyone lucky enough to be at her side. And if there was one thing about Alex, it was this: she showed up. No questions asked.

“Got the good side from my mom,” she told you one night, after hours of talking about fathers and family trees.

Her dad wasn’t a bad guy. Just… not there. Work came first, always had, which left Nina and Alex somewhere further down the list. By the time Alex was a teenager and her parents finally divorced, it didn’t really change much. Grant had barely been home to begin with. The only difference now was that she had to see him at least four days a month; more than she used to.

Now Alex was twenty seven. She didn’t exactly have a conventional job, but she had a solid following on social media. She lived in a stunning, oversized apartment in Manhattan and spent her days altering clothes, customizing pieces in her home studio, and going out with all kinds of interesting people, mostly artists. Like Max.

Her inner circle, though, was small. Just two people really; everyone else came and went, more acquaintances than anything. Bruna and Max were the only ones she truly called best friends, and you’d met them within your first week in the city. Alex had folded you into the group like it was nothing, like it required no effort at all, and somehow, it didn’t. Even for you. You were usually slower to warm up to strangers, but this time… it felt different.

You wanted it to be different. You were a little tired of who you’d been. The quiet girl who stayed in with tea and a book, the one who didn’t go looking for anything because she claimed she didn’t need it.

That wasn’t true. Of course you needed something. Of course you wanted something. You wanted it all.

So from the moment you set foot in New York, you made yourself one promise: stop saying no every time Alex asked. And somehow, that’s how you ended up here.

Almost two full months in the city and you’d already checked off more than a few things from your mental list, only this version of the list felt different. Less about fear, more about you. Not about daring yourself to face heights or kiss strangers or swim naked or sleep in the woods.

You brushed a hand over your neck and shifted your hair over your shoulder.

“You think I should wear it down or tie it up?”

Alex pressed her lips together, tilting her head as she studied your reflection.

“I like it down. But tied up…” she hummed, “you could add a clip right here.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” She set her martini down on the glass table behind her and crossed the room quickly. With soft hands, she gathered your hair and pinned it up high. “Like this, see? Your face looks amazing. It brings out your cheeks, your eyes.”

You smiled, a little flushed. If there was anyone who could get that reaction out of you lately, it was Alex. She tossed compliments around like petals, completely unaware of the impact they had. You’d noticed, though; you saw it every time she said something kind to a stranger or a friend at a party, then carried on like it was nothing. A real talent. That, and the fact that she was stunning.

Barely taller than you, Alex possessed striking green eyes and skin like smooth olive silk. Her head was covered in tight caramel curls that remained perpetually perfect. And with a sprinkle of freckles over her bridge, a lone mark by her lips, and a beauty spot under her left eye, she embodied an effortless kind of beauty.

“I don’t want it to look like I’m trying too hard,” you said, frowning slightly. “I’ve got enough going on with the nerves.”

“You don’t need to be nervous. At all. If Max planned this, it’s because he knows it’ll go well. You just have to be you.”

“Hope that’s enough to make a good first impression.”

Alex laughed. “You’re such a good girl. Any parent would love you at their table.”

“Donovan’s not just any parent.”

“No, he’s Max’s dad. Which actually makes it easier. I’m sure Max’s been hyping you up non stop.”

“Then I hope I live up to it.”

She gave your hair a gentle tug. “Don’t say that again. If Max set this up, it’s for a reason. Trust yourself, especially tonight. Go to that dinner and just be you. And if you get nervous, look at Max, okay?”

You let out a short laugh. "And what is he gonna do? Save me from his own father?"

"No. But his face will probably make you laugh or something." Alex shrugged. "Besides, Donovan is actually a pretty nice guy."

"He intimidates me a little."

Alex chuckled at that. "Donovan intimidates even Max."

You offered a small silent smile, remaining still as she picked up a clip to style your hair. She worked with softly, gathering even the stray rebellious strands at the nape of your neck. And in the mirror, your reflection stared back in a sophisticated black dress. It hugged your frame before flowing gracefully to your knees. The neckline was draped, and the thin straps over your shoulders ended in fine dainty bows that trailed down your arms and back.

You had finished your makeup a while ago; concealer, blush, mascara, and a swipe of rosy gloss. Alex had added a touch of eyeshadow in soft pale tones that she claimed "deepened and defined your eyes."

"I need my earrings," you told her, touching your bare lobes as you headed toward the guest room where you’d left your bag.

As you walked, the click of your heels echoed against the polished hardwood and your stomach churned with nerves. The hallway was long and wide, and the silence was barely muffled by the decor lining the walls. It gave you too much time and space to think.

You found your bag on the bed and quickly fished out the earrings to put them on. Your phone lay right beside your discarded clothes. Your eyes locked onto it, then darted away, then back again, over and over, until you finally gave in and snatched it up in one sharp motion.

[Em]: getting ready for tonight?

Instead of typing back, you hit the call button and pressed the phone to your ear. You brought your free hand to your mouth, biting your nails; a habit you’d sworn to kick months ago. But some promises were easier to keep than others.

"Hey!" she answered immediately. "What’s up? Are you about to leave?"

"Uh, yeah. Max should be here any minute. We have to stop by his place first."

"How are you feeling?"

"Nervous, I think. I just really don’t wanna screw this up."

"You won't. If Max adores you, his dad will too. They say it’s genetic."

"I don’t know about that," you said with a weak smile, "but I know it might look strange, his son showing up out of the blue with a woman, trying to introduce me—"

"It’s not strange. It’s for a reason and you know it. Max wouldn’t be doing this for any other reason. Seriously, don't worry. You’re charming and smart and incredible and I’m not just saying that because I’m your best friend who loves you."

You pressed your lips together, a real smile finally breaking through. "Thank you, Em."

"No problem. You can call me whenever, even tonight."

"You still at the bookstore?"

"I am. And you… have you talked to Santi?"

"Not today. Why?"

"Oh, no reason. What about the others?"

Your hand moved to your forehead, and you absentmindedly scratched your temple.

"Them neither. Why? Did something happen?"

A brief silence hung on the other end of the line.

"Nothing," Emma said, clicking her tongue. "I was just wondering. Will was asking about you."

"Oh. Okay."

"Max is here!" Alex’s voice drifted down the hallway, in a hollow echo.

"You have to go?"

"Yeah, Max is here. I’ll text you later, okay?"

"I’ll be glued to my phone all night, alright? And call me if you need anything."

"I will. Love you."

"Love you too. Good luck!"

Max Darligheld was, without a doubt, the kind of man made for a perfect romance story. A very specific kind. Power dynamics. Rich and poor. Boss and employee. The CEO the heroine ends up falling for after being thrown into his orbit; casual work encounters that turn into late-night drives, accidental intimacy, moments where they really see each other. Where she realizes that oh, he’s not just rich and a little arrogant. He’s thoughtful. Gentle. And, of course, there’s a shadow there too. A hidden past. Some tightly kept secret or a wound that never quite healed. Whatever it is, it explains the distance, softens the edges, makes it easier to forgive whatever came before.

Max is, unquestionably, that type of man.

Born into wealth and into a family of prestigious professionals, Max possessed every single characteristic that would make you sigh. Almost as tall as a doorway and with a look that was rough and delicate at the same time, he drew eyes wherever he walked. His versatility was a natural talent; at first glance, you might think he was just any rich kid. But a minute later, you would realize he wasn't.

Extremely intelligent and polite, Max had received the best education possible and had made the most of it. And it was no wonder; with the imposing figures of his parents following him like a shadow, it’s an understatement to say he had felt somewhat pressured and that he still feels it from time to time.

He wasn’t a psychologist, writer, and editor like his father. Nor was he an architect like his mother. No. He had navigated a diverse mix of professions and had exploited his connections to their full extent, carving out a successful career as an art curator and narrative director. Between that and his social circle, it was fair to say he was quite popular. But his talent stood on its own; you don’t get that far on nepotism alone.

He was the perfect muse. You could come up with hundreds of stories centered around men like Max. Love stories, sad stories, dramatic stories. The very architecture of his being allowed for it.

And yet, he wasn’t the one you were writing about.

“My dad thought it’d be better to have us over at the house,” he said now, seated beside you in the back of the car. Adam, the chauffeur, was driving slowly through a bit of traffic. “More intimate than a restaurant. And my mom had a bit of a headache.”

“You sure this is the right moment?”

“He wanted to meet you, so yeah. And my mom always has a headache. She’s probably already taken something and is fine.”

You nodded and turned your gaze toward the window, resting your chin on the palm of your hand.

Max’s warm hand on your leg made you look back at him.

"Do you wanna know what I told him about you?"

Your eyes widened dramatically. "God, no."

“I told him you’re interesting. And pretty.”

“Max, shut up.”

“And talented. Though that part didn’t need much explaining.”

You shook your head.

“And funny. You know how hard it is to find someone talented and smart who isn’t completely eaten alive by their own ego? In New York, of all places?”

“You’re laying it on way too thick, and I get it,” you said, resting your hand over his on your thigh. “You’re trying to calm me down. Don’t. Nothing you say is going to unclench my muscles. I know what I am. No need to sugarcoat it.”

“Do you, though?”

“Yes, I do,” you raised your brows. “Trust me, I’ve had plenty of time to figure that out this past year.”

“And what are you?”

“Right now?”

Max’s mouth tipped into a smirk. “Yeah. Right now.”

“Right now, I’m a girl who’s both starving and nervous. Terrible combo, by the way.”

“Oof.” He frowned. “Yeah, we can’t have that, can we?”

You rolled your eyes and looked back out the window.

Yes. Max would make the heart of any woman with a bit of sentimentality in her blood race. It wasn’t just that he was rich or handsome or any of those things; it was him, purely him. His way of being, his kind and honest character, how genuine he was and how little he seemed to be fazed by the pompous world that surrounded him.

He knew exactly how to stimulate a person's mind; he knew how to stimulate yours. Since you had met him, he had led you to experience art like never before. Access to museums, concerts, theater, sets for all kinds of productions. When you were with him, your mind was in constant motion.

The perfect muse.

"And why did you decide to kill him?"

Donovan Darligheld was quite direct with his questions. Though this one didn't take you by surprise.

In photographs, you had seen him as a serious and somewhat dark man, with piercing, deep blue eyes. Black hair that was beginning to fade into gray and not a single smile to be found. He seemed calm, incapable of letting himself be carried away by trivialities. But in person, he was a very, very different thing.

"Excuse me?" You nearly choked on your wine.

In front of you, Max raised his eyebrows, looking rather amused, and to your right, his mother Delora tilted her head with curiosity. She was a beautiful woman; she had hair as red as fire, full of soft curls that framed a face so pale she occasionally looked like an apparition. Her eyes were green and deep, just like her son's. When she appeared in the hallway earlier, her figure had enchanted you. She looked like the Venus de Milo.

Donovan smiled ever so slightly. His mouth gave way to the brief appearance of a smirk.

"Why did you decide to kill him?" He narrowed his eyes a bit. "When you have a character like Miles, the most natural choice is often to let him live."

You looked at the plate in front of you, still half full.

"To be honest, I didn't expect it," Donovan added. "Given the way the story unfolds, I was almost certain that as I approached the final chapters, I would see just a bit more of his rehabilitation and his relationship with Alya."

You smiled slowly. "Was it disappointing?"

Donovan huffed a laugh. "Not at all."

"I think it was fair," Delora said, and your head instantly turned toward her. "Miles was a tormented man, and I believe he was doomed from the beginning. No matter the beautiful illusion love might have given him, his destiny was set. And when reading the first chapters, if you manage to read between the lines, it is beautifully foreshadowed; his constant death drive."

"I agree," Donovan added, looking at you. "And you did a beautiful job being subtle about it."

On the outside, you smiled politely. On the inside, you were climbing the walls.

Donovan Darligheld, author of many books, but especially The House of Cerberus (a book you had read more than four times, if you weren't forgetting a reread or two) had just complimented your work. And not just him, but his talented and brilliant wife as well.

Act like it's just another damn day, right?

"Thank you so much."

"But why?" he asked again. "Why did you decide to kill him?"

Miles wasn’t a wealthy CEO. Miles wasn’t the boss. Miles wasn’t the one with the upper hand in a power dynamic. Miles wasn’t a romantic hero. Miles wasn’t like Max, the perfect muse for love.

Miles was, above all things, a man tormented by grief.

You started writing about him two weeks before arriving in New York. You didn’t know why; it just suddenly felt like the right thing to do. The idea surfaced in your mind like a bout of verbal vomit: A man recovering from his addictions under the close watch of his father and sister.

Miles was an addict, and the onset of his addiction traced back to his adolescence, right during his time at the Le Rosey Institute. At seventeen, he and his closest friend, Vincent, had snuck out of school to see a band live, never knowing that that single event would change his life forever.

Vincent and he were more than friends, they were like brothers, forged at thirteen in the clinical chill of a Swiss boarding school. Miles’s father, Aidan, had shipped him off after the local boys back home had expressed their disapproval by shattering his jaw and claiming a tooth as a trophy. Aidan, perpetually busy and bewildered by a son who was as quiet as a grave and just as difficult to unearth, simply didn’t know what else to do with him. Vincent, conversely, was there on a whim; his parents had been seduced by a brochure promising to grind boys into disciplined men. Their beginning was a friction of personalities. Vincent was a professional clown, and Miles, nursing his bruised dignity, found him insufferable. But then came the woods. They discovered a hole in the campus perimeter, a green exit sign into the wild, and the rest is the usual debris of pure adolescence. By night, they were ghosts in the hallways, bribing guards with the casual cruelty of the wealthy. It began in the gardens; cigarettes and the thrill of outsmarting the unblinking eyes of security cameras. Soon, the mischief fermented. By seventeen, they had graduated to mushrooms and LSD, spending their Saturdays at underground raves curated by Andreas, a man who sold produce by the Stumarked church by day and hallucinations by night. For Miles, it was a long-awaited unmooring. Under the influence, his natural heaviness evaporated, replaced by a frantic, neon lightness. He squeezed every drop of ecstasy from those hours while Aidan remained blissfully ignorant, hearing only of the minor infractions. Until the wheels came off. January 20, 1996. The Prodigy played Splügen. They spent four hours on a train just to stand in the front row and breathe the same sweat-soaked air as the band. And the show was a riot of the senses. They threw themselves into the frenzy until Miles, lost in the mosh pit, felt his leg snap like a dry branch. Vincent, barely upright himself against the crushing tide of bodies, dragged him out of the chaos. At first, the pain was a distant feeling, muffled by the chemical haze in his bloodstream, and the reality didn't set in until hours later in a local hospital bed. When Aidan arrived, having moved with a speed born of fury rather than fatherly concern, he found a son who looked like a disaster he didn't understand: clothes in tatters, bones broken, and hair dyed a screaming, radioactive green. Vincent was hauled back to school in disgrace, and the fever dream finally broke.

With a broken leg, Miles was introduced to the world of opioids, and his life became a disaster until he was thirty, when he had his first overdose and Vincent found him convulsing in the living room. It was a constant ebb and flow, of being okay and being at rock bottom. But after that occasion, his family checked him into a rehabilitation center.

And years later, during the mandatory Friday dinner held every two weeks, where his father and sister made sure he was still staying clean, Miles met Alya.

Miles had been there for ten minutes, sitting still, trying to clear the fog from his mind. He spent most of that time negotiating with himself and trying not to reach into his pockets and run to the bathroom to swallow whatever was inside. He ordered a drink and prayed for anonymity, yet, to his own surprise, he was the first to speak.

Alya looked to her right. He sat on the stool next to hers, pressing a half-full glass to his lips. She watched a single bead of wine escape his chin and vanish into the hollow of his neck. He leaned against his own ribs, elbow on the bar; a relaxed pose betrayed by the slight tremor in his hands.

She studied his face, committing it to memory: he looked barely older than her, with short, messy brown hair and intense eyes framed by long, dark lashes. His lips were stained in red wine, shadowed by a soft mustache that sat splendidly above them. He looked like someone she knew, though the name wouldn't come.

Miles caught her stare. He tried not to feel self-conscious as his own eyes scanned her features too.

"You left him?" he asked.

"Left what?"

"Your date. Darko."

"No," she laughed.

"Well, you should leave. Go somewhere else. Anywhere else."

"No, I couldn't."

Her gaze dropped. Her bare ankle was touching his.

"You left him down there, all alone," he said.

Alya nodded.

"The process is halfway done then," he finished.

"No. I just came up for air. It’s too hot downstairs. I can’t stand the heating."

"I don't think you should stay either."

"That’s cruel."

"You have no idea."

"And you do?"

He nodded. He knew cruelty.

"Cruel is having dinner with someone and not leaving a single breath of space for them to speak. It’s very innocent."

"Why?"

"Because you aren't going to break his heart. He’s just going to go home and watch movies only he thinks he understands. Like Donnie Darko."

"You have very sharp ears, don't you?" Alya laughed, embarrassed. She rubbed her neck and looked at her glass. "Who should I run from, then? Him or you?"

She leaned toward him, as if they were sharing a secret that her date, Teo, might interrupt at any moment. Miles mimicked her, moving so close she could smell his perfume.

"Don't get me wrong. Your date was the only distraction I could find. To be honest, his monologue was much more interesting than the conversation at my table."

"What, is your date a disaster too?"

"You could say that."

Alya wanted to let out a long, heavy exhale, but she held it in. She realized she had been holding a lot of things in tonight.

"Doesn't she mind that you're at the bar, drinking alone?"

He shook his head. "I'm not alone."

"You know what I mean. Doesn't it bother her?"

"No. I'm not on a date. I'm with my family, and I doubt they’ve even noticed I’m gone. They’re too busy talking about more important things."

"Like what?"

"Economics, political scandals, the Right… I don't know. No one has asked me a thing in the last hour and a half," he lied, his eyes drifting away from her face.

Alya felt his gaze linger on her neck, and her cheeks flushed; not from shame, but from the sudden, sharp awareness of her own body.

"Is your family right-wing?"

"No. My father leans toward certain things, but he doesn't have political beliefs, not really. He thinks all politicians are wretched and it’s just about picking the best of the worst. My sister is the same."

"And you?"

"I don't discuss these things with my father. He has no patience for it. We differ."

"Sounds like a father."

"Yeah. We have very little in common. He has the mind of a business shark, and so does my sister."

"I imagine. So where did you come from? Assuming you aren't a shark like them, which I'm still not sure about."

Miles let out a laugh that vibrated against his glass.

"My mom, probably. She’s indecisive and not a shark at all. Maybe we’re something else. Octopuses," he noted, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

"Does she eavesdrop on conversations too?"

"What are you going to do when you finish that drink?"

"I don't know," she confessed, leaning her head on her palm. "Go back to him, I suppose. Do what’s necessary to get home as soon as possible."

He looked at her with genuine consternation.

"Don't stay with him. You have to leave. And if he sees you, just explain that it was never going to work anyway."

"How do you know? What if he’s the love of my life and I lose him because I listened to a stranger?"

"That man is not the love of your life. No one who knows that much about genital mutilation should be," he said, amused and bewildered by Teo’s earlier lecture on Les Cannibales du Pôle Opposé.

"Well, you don't know that. What if I'm a voyeur who enjoys horror? Or a fetishist!"

"Are you?"

"I could be. You don't know me."

"No, I don't know you. But he’s downstairs eating alone and you’re up here."

"Are you some kind of kinesthetic professional, or do you just like watching people?"

"I’m just good at reading people."

"So?"

"So what?"

"Read me."

Miles straightened up, the playful look vanishing. He tilted his head, watching her for a few seconds until she almost regretted asking. His eyes traveled down her body, stopping at her feet. He smiled, seeing her toes twitch with bottled-up energy; like those nervous kids and their restlessness that parents try to cure with soccer or karate, hoping the child will finally collapse into their pillow at night.

"You’re going to leave this restaurant," he said.

A fortuitous encounter, and a relationship as bittersweet as it was intense is born from that night. Miles is a ticking time bomb; Alya is one in her own way. Both go through different trials throughout the chapters and just when everything seems to be getting better between them and they finally seem to have made peace with life, Miles drowns one morning after trying to save his dog from a river's current.

Why did you decide to kill him?

Killing was a strong word.

"Can I be honest?" you asked, lowering your gaze slightly and directing it toward Max. He smiled in a comforting way and you knew Alex was right; looking at him would calm you down.

Donovan nodded. "I wouldn't expect you to answer any other way."

You swallowed hard, feeling the nerves in your stomach once again.

A few weeks ago, when Max read the first manuscript and suggested you let him show it to his dad, it seemed like madness to you. Madness, because it was so personal it felt more like a therapy exercise than anything else. Madness, because his dad was fucking Donovan Darligheld.

But he insisted, telling you that he saw enormous potential in the story and that if Donovan read it, he would surely see it too. Max was sure you had to do something with it, and that his dad could be the first step. So, you allowed him to send the first manuscript; one that wasn't even finished yet and, according to you, was a total disaster. But Max took it anyway. And a week ago, he called you, ecstatic, to tell you that his parents wanted to meet you.

"If you do it, I'm sure you'll be able to work on it together," Max had told you that afternoon, insisting that you accept the invitation. "My dad loves sad stories."

Sad stories. Was it a sad story?

"Well, to be honest, a couple of months ago someone I know almost lost their life in a similar way. And I only found out much later," you nodded now, feeling that instant pang of pain in your chest. "It really affected me, though I didn't realize it at first. How close I came to losing him forever. I spent a long time having nightmares about it, being afraid that something like that would happen again."

Donovan lowered his gaze slightly, nodding slowly.

"It might seem silly, since he’s alive," you continued, with a humorless smile, "but the feeling didn't leave me, and I didn't know what to do. I think I had to purge it, and the only way I found was to lose Miles. To feel that pain, that fear, and suffer through it in a fictional way. Writing about Miles dying, about that possibility… it helped me get through it in a different way."

Delora hummed. "Have you spoken with this person?"

"Only once since the accident."

"Well, I believe that's a valid answer," Donovan said. "And there are many different ways to navigate grief, whatever kind it may be. Most of the time, trauma is what fuels our work. I wrote Blue Tales after the suicide of one of my best friends."

Your eyebrows rose softly. "Oh, I really liked that one very much."

Donovan smiled. "Did you find it sad?"

"Quite, yes," you smiled shyly. "I cried a lot."

"I did too," he added. "And it was a valid way to purge the grief."

"And you are very good at it," Delora said. "I would really like to read the ending and discover what you'll do with Alya."

"I’d like to know that, too," Max said, tilting his chin up. "What happens after the grief?"

You smiled and shook your head, bringing your wine glass to your lips. Your cheeks burned intensely, and you felt a wave of embarrassment.

"I think it’s appropriate, then, to mention the reason for this dinner," Donovan suggested, looking at Max with a gaze so serious he almost seemed angry, though he wasn't. He turned toward you with a much softer expression. "Which is to discuss the possibilities for your book."

You said nothing. You couldn't. All you managed to do was look at him in silence and wait for him to say more.

"These last few months I’ve been receiving just a short amount of manuscripts, and I’m free to take on other projects," he continued. "Honestly, when Max told me about your novel, it couldn't have come at a better time. I was looking for something exactly like this."

"Oh."

"I think it has a lot of potential. Of course, there are some things to polish, but that’s only natural."

"Of course."

"But, if it sounds good to you, I would love to work with you and your book."

Sunday, September 20th

Frankie popped the trunk and lugged the heavy cooler out, easing it onto the pavement with caution. It was packed with a lot of meat and an uncounted hoard of beer cans. He nudged his glasses back up the bridge of his nose and slammed the trunk shut.

Instead of heading for the porch or knocking, he cut straight toward the backyard; Santi had already mentioned that’s where the crowd would be. And just on time, he was just heading for the wooden gate leading to the yard when Frankie stepped through. He stopped dead the moment his eyes landed on him.

“Am I seeing things, or is Fish at my house?” Santi broke into a wide grin as he closed the distance. Without a second thought, he grabbed the cooler from Frankie’s hands and dropped it to the ground. “C’mere.”

Santi pulled Frankie into a crushing, tight embrace, his hands clapping firmly against Frankie’s back and shoulders. In the huddle, Frankie caught the distinct scent of him; a specific mix of cologne, laundry detergent, and something else.

That was one of the things he’d realized since coming back: how his mind had a singular way of cataloging people through scents and sensations. Will, Benny, Santi; they each carried a familiar essence that made him feel instantly at ease. He figured this was what it felt like to finally be home.

"You look handsome," Santi said, guiding him toward the kitchen and bypassing the yard entirely.

“Why does everyone keep saying that? Do I look that wrecked?”

"I’m not kidding. Who else told you?" Santi set the cooler down and flipped it open. "You look good. Healthy. Even with the scars."

"Will says they’re sexy."

"They are." Santi straightened up, lining the beer cans on the counter.

Frankie leaned his hip against the counter and crossed his arms, letting his gaze drift down to his feet. Taking a step toward him, Santi caught his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake.

"Hey. You’re back."

Frankie offered a lopsided smile.

"We’ll head out in a second, but they’ve already seen you. I haven't," Santi added with a wink. "Talk to me. How’s the move? Everything okay?"

"All good. We spent all week getting organized, a bit of everything. Went to check out my place.”

“And?”

“Same as always, obviously.” He tipped his head.

“You gonna sell it?”

“That’s the plan. Don’t know if Lu’s gonna want it. I offered, but I think she’d rather stay with my mom. Jamie’s pretty happy there too.”

“And you?”

“I’m good. Don’t mind being there… though I wouldn’t hate a little more time to myself,” he said, huffing a quiet laugh.

“You been looking around?”

“Just online. Saw a couple houses I liked, not too far from here, and some apartments, but… I don’t know.”

Santi frowned. "Where do you wanna live? I mean, what kind of place are you looking for?"

Frankie bit the inside of his cheek and tilted his head back. "A house."

"Alright, what kind of house?"

He clicked his tongue. "I don’t know, a nice one. Not necessarily huge, but, you know, it needs space."

"Something like mine?"

"Sure," Frankie nodded, his eyes wandering across the walls and up to the ceiling. "My old place is fine, but it’s only two bedrooms. My family doesn't fit there. And besides... I don't want to go back to that house."

"You’re thinking about family, huh," Santi nodded. "So, this would be something like your forever house."

"I hope so. I’m not a fan of moving."

Santi laughed. "Well, take your time finding the right spot. It’s not a simple investment. When I bought this place it was a massive sacrifice in other areas, but I knew what I wanted for the future. I wanted room for myself and a family that I don’t fully have yet but I hope to soon. It felt a little crazy living here all by myself before Yov."

"Oh I remember," Frankie chuckled. "Your huge living room with just a single sofa sitting in the middle of the floor in front of the TV."

Santiago rolled his eyes. "I was planning things."

"A single sofa in the middle of the living room, a mismatched pile of glasses and somehow more spoons than forks."

"That was only week one," he grumbled, giving Frankie’s foot a playful nudge with his own. "And what about you, huh? What did you have when you moved to your place?"

"Me?"

"Yeah, you."

"Depression."

Santi choked back a laugh, looking away as he pressed his lips together in an amused grin.

"Well, you’d better not have that in your luggage when you move this time," he said, turning back to Frankie. "I’ll be coming over for an inspection."

"It won’t be like that, I promise," Frankie sighed. "I’m going to do things right this time."

He felt Santi’s eyes on his profile and tried to keep his expression from betraying his fear of messing up again. Because Frankie could plan and analyze all he wanted, but the doubt always remained; the nagging question of how easy it would be to hit rock bottom once more.

Honestly, he didn't think it would happen, or at least not soon. He had no desire to sink again and he didn't think he had an excuse for it anymore, either. Sure, there were things in his life that didn't bring him joy and situations he wished were different, but he’d made peace with the fact that sometimes things just don’t go your way. Even if you get angry, even if you feel like a petulant child throwing a tantrum. Sometimes, there’s nothing you can do. Other times, there is.

"I know things weren't exactly great between us before I left for Boston," he said then, still not looking at Santi. "And I really want to apologize for that."

"It’s okay."

"No, it really isn't," he said, finally meeting his eyes. "We’ve only talked about it on the surface, haven’t we?"

Santi gave a steady nod. He smiled softly.

Frankie knew the matter should have been settled by now. Santi hadn’t brought it up again, and they’d both decided to simply move past it after a brief talk months ago. But if Frankie wanted to do things right and start fresh in Austin, he had to make things right with everyone.

"But the truth is, I’m sorry. I messed up," he continued. "I couldn't handle it and I made bad calls. I never wanted to hurt her," he looked at him, "but I did, and looking back, it was so obvious that I would. I don’t understand how I did what I did thinking there wouldn't be consequences."

"Hey, we all screw up sometimes."

"I know, and I’ve screwed up way too many times, let me tell you that."

Santi tilted his head. "You? Never."

Frankie smiled and shook his head. "I’m trying to redeem myself, okay?"

"Okay, Arthur Morgan."

"I just want to make it clear, alright?" Frankie’s expression softened. "I’m sorry for treating her that way, I’m sorry I blew it, and I’m sorry I let you down, too. I promised you I’d look out for her, and I didn't."

"Frank, I’m gonna be straight with you, yeah? I always had the feeling you felt you owed me explanations about your relationship with her. More than what was actually necessary. All that hiding and the whole theater production with the fake date with Benny and all that," Santi grinned, "I won’t deny it was pretty damn funny, but it was unnecessary. If you’d just come to me from the start and told me what was going on, what’s the worst that could’ve happened?”

“You don’t realize how you come across, man,” Frankie said, shaking his head with a smile. "You were making double meaning comments and jokes all the time."

"I know. But I was just messing with you," Santi replied, reaching out to give Frankie’s arm abrief tap. "And yeah, sometimes I questioned whatever was going on between you two because I know you both so well. I’d never seen two people get along so poorly, can you blame me for having doubts when you suddenly started getting along?"

"We didn't get along that badly—"

"She threw a dart at your head, you slammed doors in her face. I had to step between you more than once just to keep the peace."

Frankie ducked his head, nodding. "Right."

"I was a little afraid you’d blow it so badly that I’d feel like I had to choose a side. And she’s my sister, you’re my best friend. No matter the situation, it was gonna be a mess."

"And was it?"

Santi went quiet, staring straight ahead. Frankie watched his profile in silence; those dark eyes were framed by lashes and heavy with thoughts he found himself wanting to uncover with more curiosity than was probably necessary.

"Don't worry about me," Santi said. “We’re good. Really. You’re not a bad guy. Not a bad friend, none of that. You just messed up. And I know I could’ve been a little rough about it.”

Frankie let out a humorless smile. “I had it coming.”

Santi scrunched his nose. “Eh. You were already in a bad place, and I didn’t help. There are better ways to handle things. I probably let my temper take over.”

“You don’t have to tiptoe around me or hold back just because you think I can’t take it, you know that, right?” Frankie said, raising his brows. “That’s what got to me half the time. Feels like, because of everything that’s happened to me, you and the guys pull your punches and it’s exhausting. You were allowed to be mad. You were allowed to be rough. You don’t have to apologize for that like I’m made of glass, Santi. I’m not. Yeah, I nearly died a few times, but so did all of you. So what?"

“I could say the same thing about you.”

Frankie laughed. “What?”

“Yeah. You leave things out. You twist the story, hide stuff, lie by omission just to keep people from getting upset. You did it with me about you and my sister, you did it with her about what happened with Rachel, and with Ben and Will, what, dozens of times?”

Frankie looked down. An involuntary slightly nervous smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

“You don’t have to filter things for us,” Santi added, giving his arm another light knock. “Not for us, not for anyone. You would’ve saved yourself a lot of trouble just being honest.”

"I know. But if you guys didn’t treat me with such kid gloves all the time, maybe I wouldn’t feel the need to soften things or leave stuff out. Not an excuse, but still.”

“Alright. Okay,” Santi nodded, locking eyes with him. “Deal.”

“What? You’ll talk to the others?”

“Nope. You will.”

Frankie smiled. “Alright. Deal.”

Santi extended his hand once more, but this time it was a peace offering. It was the official start of Frankie’s new life in Austin, packaged in five friendly fingers and a warm palm. He took it firmly, squeezing back as a wave of relief washed through him.

"I’m sorry," he said again.

Santi pursed his lips. "I told you, it’s fine. I’m not the one you need to apologize to."

Frankie felt a slight heaviness cloud his expression and tried to manage it as best he could. In his mind, facing you still felt far off, and he wasn't sure if you wanted that confrontation as much as he did.

“My wedding’s next month.” Santi let go of his hand slowly, near his stomach, giving it one last squeeze.

“I know.”

“I expect you to show up in a big way.”

“I will. I’m getting ready. Read all the instructions Will sent me.”

Santi hummed. "And what’s gonna happen then? You’ll have your room at the Commodore and so will she. I’m expecting a peaceful coexistence. And this isn’t me being intimidating or using double meanings."

Shit. Frankie hadn't given it much thought.

No, scratch that. He had. Way too much. Over and over again. But his thoughts had revolved around what you were feeling and his own insecurities. He hadn't dwelled on the fact that he’d have to spend two nights under the same roof as you; assuming, of course, that you wanted to stay there and not somewhere else.

Though that seemed unlikely. The Commodore had been a gift from Yov’s aunt and uncle, and the guests' stay was part of the package. Two full nights, between the rehearsal dinner and the post-wedding morning. Breakfasts, lunches, dinners... Frankie wasn't sure how much more was included in that stay.

"I’ll be cordial," he finally replied.

Santi arched his eyebrows. "That’s it?" A smirk played on his lips. "You’re not gonna talk to her?"

"I don’t know if she even wants to talk to me, at least not during your wedding."

"Why?"

Frankie sighed, wrinkling his nose slightly as he ran a hand through his messy hair.

"Well, nobody told me she’d gone to New York, either. Maybe she won’t even come back, right?"

Santi’s expression softened, and he nodded with a faint press of his lips. He shifted his weight, leaning his lower back against the counter at an angle toward Frankie.

"I’m sorry. I should’ve told you."

"It’s fine. I went to see her the other day and Emma told me."

"You went to see her?"

"It was stupid. I didn’t even know what I was gonna say," he said, shaking his head. "It’s probably too late anyway."

Santi went quiet for a moment.

"And what did Emma tell you?"

Frankie sighed. “That she might come back, but she’s not sure. Said it was something personal, didn’t give me much more than that.”

"She’s working on a book."

Frankie whipped his head toward Santi so fast he nearly gave himself whiplash. "What?"

Santi nodded. "Yeah. She had dinner with an editor who read the manuscript a week ago, and she landed a book deal. That’s why she extended her stay."

A massive grin broke across Frankie’s face. "That is fucking incredible. What’s she writing about?"

"No idea, she wouldn't tell me. But I know it’s pretty damn hard to connect with those people, so she was beyond excited."

"And how did she meet him?"

"He’s the dad of a friend of hers. Max."

The smile on Frankie’s face faltered just a bit. "Oh."

Santi nodded, immediately catching the brief, nearly imperceptible flicker of emotion that flashed through Frankie’s eyes.

"What? What’s up?"

"Nothing," Frankie said, shaking his head. He knit his brows together. "Who is Max, anyway?"

"Why?"

"I’m just curious."

"He’s a friend of hers, I already told you."

"I know, I know. But they seem pretty close, don’t they?"

Santi crossed his arms. "Really? And how would you know that?"

Frankie huffed a laugh. He gave a subtle shake of his head and adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose; a nervous habit he’d picked up recently.

"Frank."

"Will told me."

Santi frowned. "Really? Will told you they were close?"

"He implied it."

"That’s messed up. I’m gonna ask—"

"No."

"Why?"

Frankie sighed, dragging a hand through his hair again. His hands dropped to his hips, feet shifting restlessly.

"I saw him on Instagram."

"Instagram?" Santi arched his eyebrows.

"I just did a little digging, okay? I was curious. Will mentioned him and I needed to settle the doubt."

"I thought you didn't have an Instagram."

"I don't. I mean, I made an account a few days ago. But I don't use it."

"Jesus," Santi laughed, clearly savoring his friend's sudden nerves. "What’s your username? At least let me follow you."

"I don't use it."

“Yeah, yeah, what is it? Come on.”

Frankie rolled his eyes and took off his glasses. He rubbed his eyes for a moment, debating for a split second whether to be honest or not.

"Chandlerbingley."

Santi let out a loud amused laugh, doubling over slightly as he looked at him with wide eyes.

"Chandlerbingley? Could you be any more obvious?"

"What? What’s wrong with it? Every other username was taken."

“Alright, Chandlerbingley. So, what’d you find out, detective?”

Frankie shook his head, slipping his glasses back on. His gaze dropped to his feet, mildly grateful he’d at least managed to wear matching socks today.

"That I don't like Max, whoever the hell he is."

"And it’s not like you can do anything about it, right?"

"Now more than ever, no," he looked at him, humorless. “She’s got bigger things going on. I doubt anything involving me is useful to her right now.”

Santi sighed and clicked his tongue. "And do you think she’ll bring Max to the wedding?"

Frankie felt a wave of nausea.

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I’m messing with you."

"Well, don't."

Frankie looked out the kitchen window, watching Will, Ben, and Yov sitting around the table at the far end of the yard. None of them had gotten up or approached the house, likely knowing that inside, he and Santi were having a much needed catharsis.

"She hasn't mentioned Max to me much," Santi said then, instantly snapping Frankie’s attention back. "I just know he’s there and that the book deal happened because of him. He’s this guy’s son, and she met him through Alex, the daughter of one of my mom’s friends."

Frankie gave a steady nod, though the information didn't do much to change how he felt. Behind his eyelids, the images of your photos with him remained as vivid as a fresh tattoo.

"I get it."

Santi exhaled and pushed off from the counter. Behind him, the once-chilled beer cans weren't quite so cold anymore, and the cooler sat open at his feet, still packed with meat and everything else.

"But for now, let’s focus on getting you a place to live," he said, reaching down to grab a few packages. “I’ll give you the number of the guy who helped me with this house. I’m sure he can find you something you’ll like.”

Frankie let out a small laugh and moved to help him with the rest.

“Here’s hoping.”

Outside, the others only had to wait a few minutes longer. Santi and Frankie emerged shortly after, and while the conversation had eased his worries, Frankie couldn't shake that small, persistent doubt pulsing in his chest, constant and tireless.

But he wasn't going to interfere, not in any way. He knew the best thing he could do now was get his life in order; figure out work, actually commit to it. Find a place. Get his head straight. And if everything went right, he’d make it to Santi and Yov’s wedding next month, see you there; without wrecking his heart in the process.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

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