Three days till sunset
Hello everyone! Here's my story for @schnarfer, @whocaresstillthelouvre, and @mothandpidgeon 's Magic Number Writing Challenge! I've struggled to write it, but this idea got stuck in my mind and wouldn't let me rest, and now I'm excited to share it. I hope anyone who gives it a chance will enjoy it.
I don't usually get inspired by songs, but Al thought of this one, Pushing It Down and Praying by Lizzy McAlpine. It fits so perfectly it needs to be included in the post. Thanks for sharing your thoughts with me, and helping me boost this story. You're amazing! And thanks to my lovely friends @thundermartini and @joelmillerisapunk for always being so supportive, and to @encasedinobsidian because your writing has caused some of this🤭
This gorgeous moodboard belongs to @almostfoxglove. You gifted it to me ages ago for your Thank You Boards milestone celebration, and I finally got inspired to write this.
Masterlist// AO3
pairing: Frankie Morales x fem! able-bodied reader summary: The clock is ticking, the time to ponder is almost consumed, and a decision must be taken. word count: 3700 tags/warnings: 18+ mdni, angst, reader is married, emotional and physical cheating, mentions of smut (oral and unprotected PIV), mentions of conceiving attempts, no body description other than having hair and wearing a dress, no use of Y/N.
Dividers by @saradika-graphics
To anyone peeking from the outside, this is an image of perfection: a man and a woman on this occasion, sharing the lull of the early hours. A couple sitting in front of each other in quietude, with a table set for breakfast, eating their first meal, bathed in the golden hue of the morning sun streaming through the kitchen window.
He's dressed in one of his many suits. Dark blue with a pressed white shirt, a grey tie, and a pristine pair of black leather shoes. With his dark hair slicked back and face shaved. He's professional and sharp. Thin but muscular with a strong jaw and high cheekbones. The opposite of her softness. Her curves. The pyjamas she's still in -the oversized t-shirt with a faded print of Queen and a pair of Cookie Monster pants- and her mussed up hair barely contained in a bun.
A morning like any other. Of him, James, the man who put a ring on her finger, about to leave for work, while she enjoys a later start, the comfort of working from home.
That is not true, though. This portrait is covered in fractures, disjointing the fantasy. Tiny fissures sprinkled on the surface that run deep, widening, and snapping beyond repair.
Before, it was easy to fit in for her. A routine ingrained in her brain. A fixed list of bullet points to follow, numb. Sleepwalking through the motions. And not to disrupt, cause trouble, or signal a difference. Stress what has changed and put a bullseye on her forehead.
But now, it doesn't look the same. It doesn't feel the same. The light is wrong, dim, dull as the coffee in her mouth. Bitter. Mocking, making it hard to swallow, to breathe, to exist under the oppressive judgment of the tickling clock on the wall, by the movement of its needles since she woke up at dawn. And the seconds slip from her fingers, flying away and bringing the end closer.
James is the only one talking, between bites of his eggs and toast, between sips of his coffee, untroubled, telling a story about Liam, his best friend, and the new secretary, the prissy one, per Liam's words, who hadn't appreciated his compliments, his recommendations to highlight her figure by wearing a shorter skirt. Oblivious to her agony, to how her body is sitting on the chair, but her mind is miles away, not eating, staring into the abyss, focused on what today means for her, the weight it has.
It's the deadline, the number three, the third day of no contact, of silence between Frankie and her since he told her he was leaving, going back to Florida. Breaking the fantasy, ripping it with reality, shattering the bubble they had created these past three months, forcing her to face the truth and choose.
She had never been one to fantasise as a teenager, to covet a grand life in a big city like New York or LA, and be surrounded by lavishness and luxury. A job she liked, a comfortable house full of memories, and someone to share it with. A family. Goals, perhaps smaller but not less worthy or meaningful, or hard to find.
Meeting James, she wouldn't say it had been a mistake, but it had been no blessing, a happenstance occurring when it shouldn't have. At one of her hometown dinners - with a white apron tied to her hips and a tray full of dirty dishes between her arms. Working as a waitress to support herself and her studies. Free of debt, thanks to the money she got for selling her childhood home. Overwhelmed by her grief, the recent loss of her mother. Lonely, isolated, a shadow of herself trying to reassemble the fragments left of her and find her path after the decision she made two years ago; leaving university to come back home and take care of her as she battled cancer.
He had been sweet and generous, a wave of fresh air, a newcomer following a job offer. A couple of years older than her, what she believed was good for her. An excuse to fold herself into a box that fit him, withdrawn and cling to his attention. Ignore her need to discover her identity and accept his advances and ring, say yes at the courthouse despite Mrs. Morales' concerns and the absence of love. Driven by a sense of care and attachment, by the petrifying fear of ending up alone in the world.
Contentment had been easy to find, filling her days with her job and husband, seriously thinking about suppressing her doubts and acquiescing to James' wishes to have a baby till the woman that had become a second mother to her had suddenly died. And her son had returned, causing a ripple, awakening something in her that she hadn't been able to muffle. A lust, a yearning, an ache clawing its way through her ribs and demanding to be released, discolouring the mirage of her marriage.
"Sweets," James calls her again, dragging her gaze from the mug in her hand. He's looking at her expectantly, hints of kindness mixed with impatience for her answer.
His irises are a sea of blue and green with a hooded shape. Beautiful and alluring. Cold and distant if compared with the ones she longs for. Not big and round. Not pools of warm dark chocolate, sweet and consuming, ones that always see.
Always seeking her while talking, washing dishes, fucking. Reading her like an open book, making it impossible for her to hide, in a way no one has ever done, aware, versed in her body language, how her words can conceal more than they tell, and how her silences don’t mean she has no more to say.
“That was harassment, James.”
"It wasn't that bad. Liam was flattering her.”
He brushes away her opinion, standing and moving before she can rebuke him, not that she tries. Conscious it won't change a thing when Liam is involved, and the attitude he flares in James, one she hates, disrespectful, and oblivious; it's so close to the surface.
“I’ll see you later.” His farewell is a peck on her cheek. It's no more than a graze, a habit, an action done unconsciously, an afterthought bereft of significance, of intent, “You know, maybe last night was the one.”
His excitement, the hope he distills, the childlike wonderment for this next stage in their marriage, slices her, rubbing salt in the wound, the lies about to spill everywhere. She shuts her eyes to contain the flinch coiling in her muscles, obscuring his mouth, hiding the smirk she hears in his voice - pleased, probably recalling their last fuck in a completely opposite way than she does - while her lips remain pressed in a hard line. Frozen until the front door closes, welcoming the stillness and how it envelops her, infusing air in her lungs and allowing her to breathe.
Leaving the dishes in the sink, she begins her journey, climbing the stairs -nails sketching a path along the walls, reaching the bedroom and traversing it towards the ensuite bathroom. Her movements are instinctual, turning the shower on and letting the steam flood the room as she stares at herself in the mirror. At the tiredness in her reflection, the melancholy haunting her like a curse, cracking the blister pack and swallowing the contraceptive pill without blinking, without an ounce of guilt.
The idea of children had always been abstract, a possibility that could materialise in her future once the right person to share the responsibility was next to her. She still doesn't know if she wants them. If she's the reason, the source of the problem, or if it's James, the belief of him not being a present father, only in the picture for the fun parts. Or if it's the dreams that have resurfaced. The boy and the girl, who sometimes is beside him, both with brown eyes.
The water is boiling when she steps in, a tad too hot to be comfortable. Washing her husband's touch, wishing it would erase the images too. The wrongness clinging to her bones. The memories she had used to evade reality and her true feelings.
His natural musk. Headier. Darker. With hints of vanilla and cedarwood, a beacon of safety for her to land. His weight, heavier than she's used to, caging her underneath. His hands, calloused and not silky, big and rough - always ready to catch her, to cradle and care for her. Firm and gentle, twitching in objection when witnessing her making herself small. Always encouraging her to grow, not conform, and strive for what she wants - what she deserves. His broad torso, his hips pushing her thighs apart. His strength. His scruff. His mouth, plump lips desirous to worship her. His aquiline nose. His soft belly. His girth -filling her to the point of brim, almost too much, ruining her for anybody else. Frankie's. His obsession with her pleasure, of tasting it with his fingers and tongue, having her moaning and shaking, a mess of lust, unashamed and greedy, fluttering around him before daring to acknowledge his own. Claiming her, embedding himself in her, carving his ownership with every nuzzle, every kiss, and thrust of his hips.
She remembers perfectly the last spell they had stolen.
Replay it in her mind as vividly as if it were happening anew. As painful as it had been -caught unaware, even when his mother's house stood empty and sold, and the renovated airstream left no excuse for him to stay.
The smell of sweat, the scent of sex permeating the air, the passion traversing their naked bodies as they cuddled and his seed dripped from her. Their clothes on the floor, forgotten, ripped in a frenzy, their entwined fingers resting on his stomach after christening the camper. She can taste him on her tongue, sense his heated skin glued to hers, and the sheets rumpled around her feet.
“Hey,” he clears his throat, breaking the hush, a tender nudge that makes her raise her head from his neck and look at him. “I have to tell you something.”
His serious expression - the sorrow tormenting him stops her. Souring the atmosphere, the endorphins unleashed, silencing her humor, the quip about to slip from her teeth and pushing her worry to the front. “What is it?”
“I’m leaving.”
“What?”
She sits on the bed, recoiling from his touch. Surprised, rigid, ready to jump, gripping sheets to her breasts to hide, feeling exposed, unwillingly vulnerable while his hand draws a trail. One last caress across her spine before landing on the mattress, respecting her demand for distance.
“Santi can’t spare me anymore. He needs me back in two weeks. I'm driving back. And I… I thought about making a little road trip out of it.”
“Is this a goodbye then?” she asks, a huff of resentment peeking at him over her shoulder, witnessing the hurt in his gaze, his defeat as he pinches his nose.
“I hope not.” His lips curl, bleeding with sadness, unshed tears of anguish, gazing at her as if committing her to memory, damned to lose her. “I love you, Princess."
The quiet stretches, spans, as her chest heaves. Not ready to hear those words, too weak for their pressure, the hope infused with terror they carry, “Don't say that.”
"I loved you when I was a kid." He doesn’t stop, sitting next to her. He holds her wrist, bringing it to his face. The tip of his nose touches her first, slowly, drawing a caress, and pressing his lips into the center of her palm, a brush of gentleness before easing her hands to his torso, above his heart, pleading, "And I love the woman you've become. I love you, and I want you to come with me."
"And then what? We live happily ever after?” It’s no more than a murmur, barely a whisper voicing forbidden questions. Shaking, feeling his heartbeat, at tempo with hers, galloping against his ribs in anxiety.
"Why not?" The tears rolling down his cheeks pair hers perfectly, "We'll argue and hurt each other, but we can make it."
"I can’t just leave."
"You can. It's that easy." He tightens his hold - a delicate squeeze, subtle but powerful, showing his conviction, tethering them together, "I want to be a family with you. It can be just the two of us. Growing old together. We can get a dog or cat, or both. I don't care. I just want you."
She doesn’t answer him, severing the contact. Overwhelmed, driven by her instincts, her need to run and breathe. A knife plunging into her soul as she gathers her clothes without sparing him a glance, dressing as fast as she can. Leaving this haven on wheels, the promise from Frankie to honor her space, wait, and come for her to ask one last time her only companion.
He had appeared out of nowhere after years of absence while she crested a new wave of grief, different from her mother's but equally hitting.
Her bond with Maria had not been a substitute for what she had lost but a balm keeping her from drowning as she went from daughter to caregiver. Filling a void as they grew closer, and she helped her cope with the loss of Frankie as he fell prey to the drugs.
In her memories, he had been that boy -gangly limbs and energy out of place. Eager and impetuous. Not the man that came back. Still with the same curls in his hair, the same warmth in his irises, and the same blush on his cheeks when she teased him. But broader and quieter, solemn in his confidence, with crinkles that spoke of a troubled past and a swagger that made her core pulsate with desire.
Stepping into old patterns, remembering the friendship that had begun in childhood; best friends living on the same street had been easy, a habit so ingrained it came unconsciously despite the time apart. Helping each other with the sorrow, the regrets seizing them. All the ‘I should have’ they hadn't done. Her guilt for not being enough and Frankie's shame for not mending the relationship with his mother sooner - for planning to visit during the summer and not earlier and turning the recently renewed phone conversations into one last visit.
They found reasons for the memories to bring smiles and not tears as they reconnected and got to know each other again, confessing the whys and the motives behind their actions as they discovered the old airstream that had taken them on so many adventures, forgotten in his mother's back garden. Not everything, but enough to understand, forgive, and heal, feel giddy and excited as they renovated it, making it theirs, learning to trust again as they went through Maria's belongings, and some of them found a new place inside the camper.
The sex hadn't taken much longer, unstoppable, like being teenagers again, exploring their first love, falling for each other more and more with every moment spent together, reigniting an old flame, a fervour growing anew, unbridled between heated looks and lingering touches -caresses of intimacy, raw and passionate, feeding the never-ending hunger.
She goes through the motions, finishing the shower and towelling her skin, questioning and doubting every conversation, touch, and secret shared -roaming the bedroom like a ghost with wet hair and a clean set of comfortable clothes.
Is he her doom?
Her salvation?
Or the right person at the right time?
Is she worth it?
Will she be enough?
Will it last?
How can she leave all she knows behind, her safety, for a chance, for the unknown when the fear is rooted so deep that trying to cut it away seems impossible?
When she doubts she's re-enacting the steps she took with James and folding herself into another box under a different name?
When the dread of recreating a story that never got to be anything, of chasing the fleeting echo of an almost that had ended up in heartbreak, the naïveté of their first love, believing it strong enough to withstand everything but started to wither as soon as the miles grew between them, is so vast?
The glow from the nightstand halts her spiral -the necklace shaped like a bee. Crafted from gold and amber. The family heirloom encasing a drop of the sunset Frankie gifted her. It stands as a lighthouse amid the storm. Offering a way back, igniting a spark to remember why he's worth the risk.
The laughter he brings, the joy, the excitement to hear about his day and share hers with him, text silly things through the day, and share their dreams and worries. The possessiveness he rises for his body, his time, his attention, the jealousy when it's not directed at her.
He’s worth it.
And she deserves to be happy and not just content, feel the bliss flooding her veins - the love powerful enough to become physical. The kind that scares and can be tempestuous. The kind that gives courage and is nurturing, brimming with lust and desire, that teases, and is patient, respectful, and understanding. The kind that takes root in the soul and never stops growing, that wants to be shouted from the rooftops and is found in small gestures.
The kind that she has for him. Undeniable. Bestows him a crown, a title. It's been him since they met.
Clasping the necklace around her neck is like fastening a shield, a cuirass, to ground her as she starts to pack essential items and treasured belongings; pictures of her childhood, some of her clothes, a jumper Maria knitted for her, the sundresses she hasn't worn in years -with bright colors and tiny flowers.
The rest is replaceable.
She writes a note -short, a few lines, an apology with an offer to call soon and explain if he wants to listen- leaving it in the foyer, folded and sealed with her ring. And opens the door, crossing the threshold to stumble into her husband, both speaking in chorus.
"Where are you going?"
"What are you doing here?"
"I told you this morning. The dinner with Evan and his wife,” he states, glancing at her, exasperated but curious.
She stares back, quiet, keeping track, observing him connect the dots, the realization sinking in his expression. Her old sundress, the bee resting on her neck -not the diamond he gave her on their first anniversary- her bare finger, and the bags she’s carrying.
"But we’re trying for a baby?”
It’s no declaration of adoration, no plea for her to stay, barely a reason, an excuse with no fight or conviction, cementing her determination.
"You are,” she admits, aware that she will hurt him - watching him flinch and his expression cloud- but needing to say it out loud and be honest.
She gazes at Frankie, standing, as he vowed, beside his truck with their future attached to the back. He won’t get closer unless she calls, aware that she must confront James alone, on her own terms.
"Are you leaving me for him?" James sneers, angry, looking in the same direction as her. “Don’t expect me to welcome you back when you end up alone.”
He departs, enraged, done with the discussion -with her. Pushing her, shoving his way inside the house while she keeps her eyes fixed on Frankie, grounding herself as the door closes with a loud racket behind her.
There’s no grand finale, no poignant argument, just the resolution of a decision taken long ago, a myriad of details ignored, allowing them to divide and end up unfixable.
She exhales, taking his lashing, not letting it hurt her, and savours her freedom, the excitement bubbling under her skin, grabbing her bags and walking toward Frankie, her future, eager and ready.
He meets her in the middle, bearing most of the weight, not muttering a word, guiding her towards the truck. He's fast, precise, a man on a mission, storing her things on the truck's bed and signalling her to sit inside.
They drive in silence, lost in their own minds, until a red light forces them to stop after a few streets.
"You ok?"
She nods, focused on the road.
“Princess,” he murmurs, concerned, a request for her voice, bending towards her, beckoning her to do the same, cradling her jaw. He's firm, ensuring her attention and belief in him as he kisses her cheek. Slowly. It lingers, so different from the one she had received hours ago. Flooded with intent and reverence. With love.
She stares at him, relishing in his handsome countenance -flawed and perfect. Hers. Urging her finger to soothe the frown, the lines appearing between his brows at her hushed inspection, the question in his gaze, caress it till it disappears, let the others join its travel, down to his hair, burning them, taking his weight as he melts to the touch, humming, pleased. Unlocking the chain seizing her, squashing down her will, giving her the last push.
“I love you,” she enunciates, loud and clear, memorizing how his expression changes and turns radiant, his lips extending into a grin, besotted. And his eyes crinkle in joy as if she's given him the moon.
“I love you too,” he whispers, pressing his lips against hers. It's sinful, brimming with hunger, intoxicating, teasing, with Frankie's tongue tracing them, begging for more, till a klaxon spooks them, breaking the magic, making them sit properly as they laugh.
He doesn't wait. He offers her the map as they move again, wriggling his eyebrows, ecstatic, blissfully happy as she is, thieving a giggle from her. Uncaring if she gets them lost, wanting it, welcoming it as a part of their adventure. "Let’s get lost, baby."
She can see their trip -the camper, the roadside dinners, and homemade food, laughing and flirting, parking in the middle of nowhere, and sharing their bodies under the moon.
They won't drive much, the sun is setting, painting the road with orange hues and shadows, and she's getting peckish.
Opening the map, she beams at him, "Let's get lost."
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