a03 link here
Summary:
You move back to your childhood home in Florida to care for your ailing mother, only to find the past waiting for you in every room. Your always kind older cousin Santiago refuses to let you disappear into the sadness, pulling you into his world without hesitation. But Santi's world involves Frankie Morales; your cousin's best friend and the boy who broke your heart decades earlier. Thrust into each other’s orbit again old memories make their way to the surface, blurring the line between hatred and desire.Because the boy you learned to despise is the man you can't seem to forget.
THIS STORY IS ON A03
tags: Friends to Enemies, First Love, Childhood Friends, Brother's Best Friend trope kinda, Angst, Smut, Flashbacks, First person POV, Protective Frankie, First kiss, parent with terminal illness, HEA.
notes: This is it! The final chapter (not including epilogue). This has been a very emotional journey in writing and I thank so many of you for sharing this with me. Your comments, your experiences, your support, all of it means the world to me.
The reason this chapter actually came out so quickly is because I was BLOWN AWAY by the long, thoughtful comments and re-blogs and just general support. So thank you, this is proof that your contributions make a difference!
Now, let's finish this story, shall we?
WARNING: EMOTIONAL CHAPTER.
"Drink some more water."
"If I drink any more I'm gonna piss my pants," you grumble.
Hilary is there at your shoulder, shaking her head at you. She arrived five minutes ago smelling of cigarette smoke and mint gum. Frankie didn't re-join her in the room and you're too embarrassed to ask why.
“So can I leave?”
"Doctor just told me you have to be here overnight for observation," she sighs, sinking into the chair next to the bed.
"Fuck."
You're in a hospital gown, propped up in bed with a cup of warm jello next to you. This whole day has been a barrage of nurses and doctors to take your vitals, blood, to give you stitches and x-rays.
"I don't need to stay here overnight," you croak. "I'm perfectly fine."
"You don't look fine."
"It's just a sprain."
"And a possible concussion."
Your shoulders lower. "I'm sorry, Hil. As if you didn't have enough to worry about with Mom."
Hilary gives you a rueful looks, shrugging. "I like an interesting life. Besides, Mom is fine. She was just sleeping when I left."
You nod guilt and fatigue fighting a battle within your body. You lower the back of the bed slightly, sighing.
"I can't believe some asshole blasted through a stop sign," she says before she clicks her tongue.
"I don't have the best luck," you say blinking up at the ceiling.
You can feel your sister's eyes on you, the sound of gum snapping against her teeth.
"Did you get to tell Frankie everything or...?" She trails off.
You shake your head. "No time."
"But you're gonna, right?"
You exhale slowly, thinking about it.
A part is terrified that maybe Frankie is seeing someone, or at least interested in someone else. That lipstick tube you found at his place still rattles around in your head. There’s also the chance that if you tell Frankie how you really feel about him, that he'll reject you outright. Any relationship or friendship the two of you were embarking on will be decimated.
And yet…
"Yes."
“What exactly are you hoping to get out of it? A relationship?”
There's a part of you that worries this confession will be a selfish act. That it will drudge up bad memories for Frankie. But you know he deserves the honesty, the clarification. He’s owed that much even if it ends with him banishing you from his life.
“Whatever he wants,” you say. “But mostly, I think I just want to apologize to him. He deserves that much.”
You watch as Hilary picks at her ragged nails with the chipped black polish.
"Did you ever think of reaching out to Frankie before? Like, in the years you weren't talking?"
You think back to the intervening years. To the times between bouts of hurt and sadness. To the moments when you craved being back in his arms and in his life.
"Yeah."
She looks up at you, eyes red rimmed and exhausted looking. "Why didn't you?"
"I was too afraid."
"Yeah. That's what I figured." She seems more contemplative than usual and you're about to ask if she's alright when she jerks her chin up. "Justin called when I was heading over here."
You push yourself up in the bed, stunned. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"Is this the first time he's called?"
"It's the first time I've answered." Hilary shifts in her seat, legs crossing. "He wants me to give us another shot," she mutters.
"What did you tell him?"
"That I was open to it," she says, eyes stuck on the ragged edge of her nail. "That I missed him."
You try not to look too hopeful. "What changed your mind?"
Hilary glances at the door, as if she is expecting to be interrupted. A beat passes before she worries her bottom lip with her teeth.
"I see how much you and Frankie care for each other even after all this time," she offers. "Even after the misunderstanding and the hurt."
You're quiet, eyes bouncing between hers when she lifts her gaze your way.
"It made me miss Justin."
This is a new Hilary sitting next to you bed. The bricked wall behind her stare is lowered, her eyes shiny. You've never seen this reaction in her and it warms your entire body to see it.
"Because you love him," you grin.
She slumps back against the chair, arms crossing as she rolls her eyes aggressively at you. But there's a small tug to one side of her mouth.
"Stop being so fucking annoying."
The two of you giggle gently before a calm silence settles. Beeps from machines and far off cries from other patients are heard faintly.
"Are you going to give him another shot?"
Hilary shrugs. "Maybe."
She stays until the doctor comes in to give his overview, and as she leaves you inwardly beam, soul lightening at the realization that while Hilary has been coming to rescue you, maybe you've been able to impact her in some small way.
THEN
"I miss her," Hilary murmurs, eyes half closed on a warm August night. She and Santi sit on her front porch, iced tea sweating in mason jars between their thighs, a cigarette smoldering in an old glass ashtray.
"Me too."
Santi is back before being deployed to a part of South America he can't tell anyone about. He and his team are after some big drug kingpin.
But right now as he sits beside his cousin, Hilary feels like they're kids again. It reminds her of secretly smoking cigarettes at the baseball field after school; shitty ones Santi stole from his father's room.
"I mean, even though she annoyed the shit out of me, the house just feels wrong without her," Hilary sighs. "Mom's always wasted and I should move out but rent is so high everywhere and ..."
Hilary draws her legs up to her chest, propping her chin on her knees and exhaling through her nose. Santi looks her way when she trails off. He's always been a good listener and in the years without you being at home, he and Hilary have grown a bit closer.
"I don't know what I'm doing, Santi," she says quietly rubbing at her eyes with her knuckles. "I feel like I keep fucking up."
He shakes his head, dark hair falling into his eyes. "Hil-"
"The most lucrative thing I've done in the past five years is have a slip and fall case at Walmart that paid out."
Santi is quiet, watching her carefully. Hilary isn't like you, she doesn't enjoy affection. She's a cat personified; only interested if you ignore her.
"I mean, I haven't even been in a functional relationship. Just one night stands or tindr."
Santiago shrugs. "That's pretty normal."
"For you" she says snidely.
With anyone else she'd have to edit herself, but Santi isn't easily offended. He just smirks, chuckling a bit to himself.
"I'm so proud of my sister starting her life over there, but sometimes it just reminds me that I'm a huge loser."
"You're not-"
"Santi, c'mon," she says through a puff of smoke. "Look at my life. I'm not exactly enviable."
"From where I stand you're gorgeous, smart as hell, devoted to the people you love -'
"It doesn't matter," Hilary interrupts, wrinkling her nose. "Love. Stability. That kind of shit is for someone else. My sister, maybe. Not for me."
Santi leans back in his chair, eyes distant.
"Ever thought of talking to Pip about all this?"
"No," Hilary replies. "Never."
Hilary brings out another cigarette, puffing away thoughtfully as her cousin looks onto their empty street. He twists his neck to scan her closed body language.
"We're not the kids we were, Hilary," he says. "You can change your future."
"Easy for you to say," Hilary scoffs, taking another puff. "Golden boy Garcia. Everyone in town talks about the big fancy job you have. How you're out there making a difference in the world."
He has the good grace to look a little embarrassed, face pinking slightly at the cheekbones.
"Plus Frankie flying all over, now. Where is he these days? Still in Argentina?"
"As far as I know."
Hilary just sighs, shaking her head slightly. She can't imagine a world in which she has that sort of freedom. She isn't sure she even wants it. Maybe it's just the security she craves.
"You ever hear from him?" Santi asks, taking the cigarette and stealing a puff before handing it back her way.
"Frankie? No. Not unless he's in town. Sometimes he'll drop by for a beer but..." She trails off, shrugging.
"He ever talk to you about your sister?"
Hilary's attention which had been divided between her cousin and her thoughts now focuses in on his words. "No. Why?"
"I think he's in love with her."
Santi shuffles his feet against the wood porch, the toe of his boots tapping as he considers.
"I thought they had something going on back when they were younger," Hillary acknowledges with a nod. "But I don't think there's any love left on either side, now."
"I don't know about that," Santiago offers, eyes hooded from fatigue.
Hilary tilts her face his way, brows rising.
"What do you mean?"
He shifts from the seat, standing to go lean against the porch railing. He takes his time stretching before he swivels to face her, keeping his voice low.
"We were deployed together a few years ago and Frankie was stabbed pretty bad."
"He mentioned that, yeah. They had to medi-vac him out of there."
Santi nods. "Yep. He was losing a lot of blood, and, honestly, I was really scared for him, Hil. I thought it was over for him. But all he kept saying over and over was your sister’s name. Even when we were helping get him out of the compound, all he kept saying was that he needed her."
A thoughtful said silence settles between the two of them, iced distant as they both take in what this could mean.
It's no secret that Hillary is aware something happened between Frankie and her sister. The feelings that Frankie wore on his sleeve that evening he came with flowers. She doesn't know what happened between her sister and Frankie, and their relationship isn't in a good enough place for her to reach out to her sister and ask.
Santi leaves a short while later with a wave, promising he'll try to call more often. Hilary doesn't believe him, but she smiles and waves back anyway.
Her mom is passed out, snoring in front of the television when she comes inside. An empty gin bottle is tucked between her hip and the cushion. A smoldering cigarette rests between her nicotine stained fingers.
Hilary quickly plucks it, extinguishing it on the nearby ashtray.
"Time for bed, mom."
Her mother makes no attempt to wake and Hilary gives a dark groan when she sees a large damp spot on the lap of her mother's pajama pants. The sharp stench of urine hits her nose and she recoils.
"Christ."
This has been happening at least a few times a year now and each time is humiliating. Her mother is too drunk, unable to be roused tonight and Hilary gives up with tears in her eyes.
"Fuck this."
She decides to check out the new pub that opened in town a few months ago. Apparently it has cheap drinks and plenty of pool tables. When she gets there it's only half full, mostly with tourists that wear fanny packs and sunburn painted noses.
Her phone beeps as she heads to the bar. She pulls it out; internally sighing when she sees it's her boss at the hospital.
Need you in for a double tomorrow. Start is at six. I'll be there.
She pockets her phone, eyes shutting as she lowers her head. Why does it feel like she'll never escape this life? This depressing, endless-
"Hi there."
Hilary raises her eyes at the soft voice, meeting gazes with the man behind the bar.
He has sandy brown hair and a thick beard. His eyes are a deep hazel, one slightly lighter in color than the other. He blinks before serving a shy smile her way. "What can I get you?"
"Whatever's on tap."
"Be right back."
She shrugs off her jacket, her tight tank top pulled low. Several men walk by and she recognizes them as stoners she went to high school with.
They wear clothing stained with paint and sawdust, their hands dirty from day labor. One of them winks when he passes - Danny.
"Here you are."
Hilary turns back and is struck that the handsome bartender looks at her face instead of her tits when he slides her drink across the glossy bartop.It makes her linger a bit longer there instead of snagging one of the empty booths. She takes a sip, eyes trained on him. The beer is shit, but she doesn't tell him.
"Thanks."
"Anything else I can get ya?" He asks her eagerly "Peanuts? Pretzels?"
"Sure. Pretzels."
She watches him move to the other end of the bar, opening a new bag and pouring them into a small bowl. He brings it back to her proudly, like a cat with a dead mouse, and again his eyes don't stray from her face.
"Here you are."
"Thanks."
She takes another sip of the soapy tasting beer, hiding a grimace. She finds she doesn't want him to move, she enjoys his calm disposition.
"Where's your accent from?"
The man chuckles. "Oh shit, you can hear one?"
"Yeah."
"Canada. Nova Scotia."
Canada? Hillary doesn't know much about the country, but she knows that it's supposed to be cold.
"Why'd you move here?”
"I wanted a change of scenery I suppose. The sun helps."
"And you chose the asshole of America?"
The man laughs and when he does Hilary observes that his nose crinkles in an incredibly endearing way. He's about to say something else when a group of tourists catch his attention, requesting some drink Hilary has never heard of.
He moves over to them and Hilary rubs at her temples, head still pounding. After her talk with Santiago, her mom and that work text she's feeling very vulnerable, and irritated because of it. She hates this feeling of being exposed.
She should just turn her phone off and let herself fully unwind. But she can't, fingers pinching it from her pocket as she begins to type hurriedly.
Do you ever talk to Frankie?
Her sister doesn't respond right away. It's at least 3 minutes of nursing her beer until she sees her phone light up.
No.
Her sister isn't exactly loquacious over text, but she's definitely not normally this brusque. This is a no-star conversation. Hilary pockets her phone and throws back her beer. On tottering heels she moves from the stool and towards the bathroom.
She looks at herself in the mirror, sees the smudged, eyeliner and the tired expression she wears. She wipes at her makeup, trying to look presentable. On her way out she brushes against a tall guy waiting for the men's room. His familiar cologne makes her tense up.
Danny.
He's got a new snake tattoo around his neck, and several markings along his knuckles but she'd know him anywhere. She gives a silent bid to the universe to go unnoticed by him. But of course he spots her when their shoulders graze; an oily grin spreading over his face. He eyes her slowly, like a predator finding prey.
"Hey Hil. Long time no see."
"Hey, Danny."
She goes to move past him when he blocks her way. He smiles, body language open.
"I didn't know you came here."
"First time." She speaks sharply, to the point, eyes not meeting his.
She wants him to know he's inconveniencing her but he's oblivious. Instead he gives her a wolfish grin.
"The guys and I are heading to Lovett's place after the next game."
"Cool."
"You wanna join us?"
"I'm good thanks."
"C'mon, Hil," he entreats, fingers attempting to slide up her bare arm. "Could be fun. It sure was last time."
She slept with Danny and a friend a few years back during a Halloween party. When he suggested a threesome she was up for it, if only to keep the good vibes going. She was buzzed from the punch and good weed her friend Penny passed around. She regretted it the next morning, but the damage was done.
Now Danny stands there staring at her with a look that makes her flesh crawl.
Hilary cringes, steering away from his touch. "No thanks, Danny."
Again she attempts to move around him and again he blocks her. She clenches her teeth in frustration.
"C'mon doll." He motions to the guys around the pool table who are watching the exchange. "My friends wanna meet you. I told em all about you."
Hilary feels her stomach sink when he says that. She can only imagine the things he's told them about her, the details of their encounter. She sneaks a glance at the men gathered around the pool table. They're smirking at one another, chalking the ends of their pool sticks.
"You don't have to put on the sweet and innocent routine for me," Danny croons, face nearing hers. "We both know how wet you get when you're double teamed."
Shame heats her cheeks, humiliation causing her to remain rooted in place.
"You looked so good that night," Danny whispers against her ear. "Like you were made to take two cocks at once."
The scent of his cheap cologne mixing with the stale alcohol restarts her body. Her hands curl into fists as her eyes pierce his face and she speaks between gritted teeth.
"When a guy's dick is small it makes it easier. And from what I recall, you weren't exactly packing."
The amusement is gone from Danny's face and he backs off, an ugly sneer crossing his face.
"Fucking slut."
This doesn't faze her. She's been called worse by better. Hilary just rolls her eyes, making her way back to the bar.
"See you, micro-dick."
He hisses something at her back, but she's already across the floor seating herself back on the bar stool
"You're back."
The handsome bartender looks relieved when she settles back into her stool and motions to her empty pint glass.
"Another one?"
"Sure."
Why not. It's only $4. With enough of them maybe she'll get a good buzz. One that ensures she can forget her shitty life for a bit.
Like mother like daughter.
Her heart pounds at the interaction with Danny, face warm when she hears the murmurs and ugly chuckles coming from the pool table.
The Canadian bartender brings her back another pint glass and stands looking at her for a moment too long. Like he’s trying to memorize it.
"You were gonna tell me why you picked Florida," Hilary prompts him, feeling the cool beer flood her mouth.
He leans onto his forearm, a playful smirk on his face. "I kinda just threw a dart at a map."
"You fucking didn't."
He laughs, and his nose scrunches again. Hilary grins at the sight of it.
"I did. I'm kind of a nomad. I like going from place to place."
"Sounds nice ... Kinda."
"Not a traveler?" He asks, starting to wipe down the nearby pint glasses.
Hilary ponders this. If anything, she should want to travel the world, to move from place to place. But there's something about being settled in one spot that makes her feel safe.
"I like being in one spot, I think."
"Mhm."
She watches as he continues to dry the pint glasses, a small little smile tugged to one corner of his mouth. He smells good, like fresh soap and clean laundry.
"So you didn't follow some girlfriend out here then?" She says lightly, eyes tracing over his biceps.
"Nope. No girlfriend. Haven't had one of those in years." He looks at her with seriousness. "How about you?"
"Nope, never had a girlfriend," she quips.
He laughs, a rich, echoing sound. "I meant boyfriend... Husband..." He trails off and Hilary is delighted to see his face flushing.
"Nope. Haven't had one of those in a long time either,” she murmurs before taking another long sip. This beer is weak. She'll need at least four to even hope for a trace of a buzz.
The two share a small smile before several voices call over to him from the far end of the bar.
"Yo, can we get some actual service?"
"Shit. Sorry."
He excuses himself with a look of regret before moving his way towards them. Hilary scratches at the coaster under her glass and looks at her phone as it beeps. She sighs when she sees her sister's text.
Why are you asking me about Frankie? No reason. Santi brought him up and it made me think of you. Ok. How's Mom?
This is usually the topic of conversation Hilary and her sister dance around. Pip likes to check in over text, and Hillary thinks it's because it makes her feel as if she's doing her daughterly duty.
She's fine. Same as always. You? Got a new apartment. Two bedrooms and a view of the needle.
Hilary reads the question she'll never ask; if she'll be in the neighborhood. Two bedrooms means a guest room for visitors.
Thoughts of going to Pip's Seattle home and seeing everything that Hilary could never hope to accomplish doesn't sit well with her.
Hilary stares at the message for several moments before she heads outside for a smoke. She needs to clear her head.
The rough brick bites into her jeans as she leans against the building, lighting her cigarette and looking into the parking lot.She looks at the message from her sister again before she pops the cigarette into the corner of her mouth, texting back quickly.
Cool.
She watches a couple moving from the pub towards the car. They laugh together, their bodies close, arms tangled. She feels a strange pain of longing, not for the sex they'll inevitably have, but for the closeness, the ability to be with another person and feel completely safe.
"Can I bum one?"
Hilary looks over her shoulder to see the Canadian bartender headed her way, hands in his jean pockets.
"Don't you have to work?"
"I'm on break."
Hilary digs into her purse, producing a cigarette and her lighter, handing it his way. He takes them with thanks, popping the cigarette into his mouth and lighting it. The end flares orange in the darkness.
"Don't worry I wasn't running out on my tab," she murmurs, scanning his large forearms covertly as he returns her lighter.
He removes the cigarette and blows a tendril of smoke away from her.
"Already settled."
Hilary stiffens, eyes casting to the front door of the pub where inside guys like Danny and his friends are playing pool. Undoubtedly he did it to fuck with her.
"I'll pay it myself. You can refund him."
"Him?"
She tilts her head in the direction of the pub with a scowl. "The guy with the neck tattoo."
"He didn't pay for your drinks."
"Who did?"
The man swallows, voice a little quieter. "Uh, I did."
She narrows her eyes. "Why would you do that?"
He continues twisting his cigarette. "Dunno. Felt like it."
Hilary doesn't like stuff like this: men who pay to play. Ones who think that once the drinks are bought she owes them something in return.
"I'm not going to fuck you just because you bought me some shitty beer," Hilary snaps, exhausted from the day, from her life, from gross men. "I'm not some whore-"
"Whoa, whoa," the man replies, hands held up, palms facing her. "That is not... That's not what that was."
"What was it then?"
"You just seemed like you were having a hard night," the guy shrugs. "Guess I wanted to cheer you up." He pauses, blinking slowly as Hilary stares at him. "You really think our beer is shitty?"
A soft, surprised huff escapes her at the question and the man seems delighted by her response. Her anger ebbs in the face of his levity, her shoulders lowering.
"What's your name?" She asks after a beat.
"Justin. Nice to meet you," he says, extending his hand to shake hers. She stares at it a moment before moving towards him.
His brows rise when her fingers move to grip the back of his neck, dragging his mouth to hers and kissing him fiercely. His hands rest respectfully on her hips, a small gasp escaping him when she begins licking into his mouth. The sound thrills her.
He tastes like Guinness, that sweet rich chocolate aftertaste making her heady. And when she pulls back from him, he's staring at her with a dazed, half smile as if he's drunk on her.
She grins up at him, feeling her heart trip.
"I'm Hilary."
The following morning the doctor confirms that you don't have a concussion; the wound on your head is healing just fine and you can be discharged as soon as you’re dressed. As you’re leaving he hands you a prescription for painkillers and tells you that you're good to get back to life.
That's exactly what you plan on doing.
You feel lucky in so many ways. That crash could have ended much worse. That is the thought which takes your breath away. You could have gone to the grave never letting Frankie know the truth. Never letting him know you never stopped loving him.
When you return home via cab the first thing you do is throw yourself into the shower and scrub every inch of hospital air off of you.
Shortly after, with Rosalita at your side, you kiss your mother's weathered brow, looking at her serene face as she rests in bed. The sunlight is streaming over her face, casting her in a warm marigold glow.
Rosalita’s weathered hands come to rub at your back in soothing circles. “I am so glad you are safe."
"Me too."
You feel safer being in this room with Rosalita. You feel emboldened enough to reach forward and squeeze your mother’s limp fingers resting on her coverlet. You look over at Rosalita as you do this, eyes worried.
"She's doing okay?"
"Yes."
Your mother twitches slightly in her sleep, fingers curling around yours for a fraction. You smile at her, liking to imagine that she's giving her own kind of confirmation.
Afterwards you move into the kitchen to find Hilary chopping veggies before dumping them into a fragrant and bubbling crock pot.
"Justin will be here tomorrow," Hilary informs you casually when she sees you watching. "He likes chili."
You lean against the door frame, trying not to look like the cat who got the cream.
"He does, does he?"
"Yes," she replies primly, ignoring the grin you shoot her.
"Good," you answer with sincerity. "I'm looking forward to meeting him."
"He's looking forward to meeting you too," she says, starting to dice the onions.
Her response is uncharacteristically warm, even sincere. You wonder if Justin is actually excited to meet you. In the end it doesn't matter. Does it? You're happy to see your sister happy. A chirp sounds on your phone, an alert.
"My cab is here."
Hillary pauses and looks up from the cutting board, her kohl-rimmed eyes slanted your way.
"Frankie?"
You nod, taken aback by the toothy smile she sends you.
"Finally."
THEN
It's late and Frankie's house is pitch-black. The alarm clock beside the bed ticks. The tap in the kitchen drips slowly like it always has.
Frankie lies on his belly with his arm slung over your middle. His face is half smudged into his pillow, his pouty lips slightly parted. You rest facing the ceiling, having just woken up desperate for a glass of water.
The two of you had a great afternoon of talking and having fantastic sex and talking some more. It seems like you two can't stop finding things to talk about. At home things are so quiet with Hilary and her monosyllabic way of speaking and your mom's absence.
But here with Frankie his house is full of words and laughing. He makes noise when he cooks, pots and pans banging, the radio playing in the background, his humming when he washes the dishes. And even when the two of you do find yourself in quiet moments, it's rarely uncomfortable. Sitting, staring at the stars, playing cards, passively watching television, all feels comfortable.
It's just hard when you know you should leave for home. When the hour is late and you don't want to be caught by your mom. You hate leaving because Frankie gets this pinched look on his face; this raw expression of naked anxiety.
Despite being an independent guy, Frankie doesn't want to be left alone here. You wonder if it's the ghost of his parents in every room or the way the house feels so oppressive in its stillness. Whatever it is, you find yourself sleeping over most nights. Preening under the relieved smile he gives you, snuggling against his chest, wrapped tightly in strong arms, his husky voice at your temple.
"Night, baby."
You always rush home before dawn, crawling back through your bedroom window just in time to exit for breakfast. You think Hilary might suspect, but if she does she never rats you out.
You watch Frankie a little longer this evening, his golden skin painted silver in the moonlight. He looks so innocent like this, so sweet. You smile, fingers tracing along his cheek until he flinches and your recoil.
"Don't leave," he mumbles.
You frown in confusion before you realize he's still asleep and must be dreaming. His leg twitches under the sheets, brows saddling.
"Pip," he whispers worriedly. His arm wraps tighter around your middle.
"I'm here," you whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his mouth. "I'm right here, baby."
You've never called him baby to his face. Always too shy, even though it's passed his lips several times before.
"Don't.... "' he groans, eyelids twitching. "Just stay...."
"I am staying," You assure him, peppering his face with light kisses. "I'm not going anywhere."
He settles immediately, brow smoothed, worry fleeing from his handsome face. He goes slack with deeper sleep, his breathing slow once more. You kiss his eyelids lightly, snuggling tighter against him. You watch him sleep, your heart swelling in affection.
"I'll always be here, Frankie."
Its late afternoon when you arrive at Frankie's and despite knowing exactly what you want to say, you're still shaking as you walk up the steps to his house. You knock with a trembling fist, breathing heavily through your nose. You wait a minute.
Then two.
Where is he?
It's then that you turn to scan the front yard and notice his truck isn't in the driveway.
He's not home.
Crestfallen, you give a small cry, head bowed against his front door. Suddenly insecure thoughts go through your head.
He's with someone else. A woman. One who didn't inadvertently break his heart. The one who left the lipstick tube.
Or maybe he's hurt. He's been in an accident and you'll never see him again.
Or he's g-
"Pip?"
Your heart lurches as you hear his familiar raspy murmur, spinning around to see Frankie exiting his truck. In your fearful delirium you hadn't even heard him pull up.
"Frankie," you manage in a choked whisper.
He walks over to you quickly, keys in hand, a worried look on his handsome face. He scans your face, eyes bouncing. "Are you okay?"
"You weren't home," you murmur by way of explanation.
"I was at the flight school," he says. He readjusts his hair under his hat without thought, a trait you've always loved, will always love.
"Flight school?"
"First day back. I'm officially teaching again."
"That's amazing," you say with a beam. Pride fills you. "I'm so glad."
Frankie steps closer, so tall you have to tilt your head up. "Pip, why are you here? Is it your mom?"
"No. No it's..." You realize you don't want to have this talk here on his doorstep. "Do you have a minute?"
"Of course."
Frankie isn't expecting you there on his doorstep. He assumed Hilary would have texted him when you got out of the hospital. He wanted to be there for you, maybe even bring you flowers. But now you're here and you look so anxious that it makes his guts churn. He opens the door but before he can usher you inside he feels your fingers move to gingerly rest on top of his forearm.
"Why didn't you stay that day?"
"When I took you to the hospital?"
You nod, looking anxiously up at him. Frankie blinks, his hand still resting on the doorknob.
"Because Hilary wanted to stay with you and Rosalita wasn't able to come to your mom's right away, so I went and stayed with your mom until she got there."
You take a deep, steadying breath. You're satisfied with his answer, he thinks.
"Is that what you needed to talk about?"
"No. It's something else," you inform him, mouth thinned. "It's important."
"More important than going home to rest?"
"Yes."
He swings the door open widely, large hand raised to gesture for you to walk inside but you're already moving past him into the house.
He watches the way you move through his home as if it's second nature, as if you always belonged here. Longing hits him strong and acute as he thinks of you bleeding in his truck, at the thought he could have lost you in a completely different and much more awful way.
He follows you to the living room, watching as you pace a moment. Your eyes move to his fireplace several times before you give a small sigh and march over to it. He watches curiously as you reach for a small gold tube he's never noticed before. You look at it for several moments before you turn around to look Frankie square in the eye.
"I need to know if you're seeing someone." Your breathing is elevated, eyes bright. "Even if it's casual."
Frankie steps closer to you, puzzled."What?"
"Are you seeing anyone?"
Frankie is at a loss. None of what you're saying makes any sense. He watches your feet shuffling along his carpet, anxiously awaiting his answer.
"That's what you came over to ask me?"
You shake your head before brandishing the tube for his inspection, fingers shaking.
"Whose lipstick is this?"
Frankie squints at the slender tube between your shaking fingers. He didn't even realize it was lipstick. And you got it from his fireplace mantle?
"No clue," Frankie finally says with a shrug.
"It's been here a long time," you say, holding your breath.
Frankie thinks back to any group gatherings he's had here in the past few months.
"One of Santi's girls probably left it here after poker night. I'm always finding their shit here."
"Really?"
"Really. Last time I found an earring by my sink."
“So you’re not seeing anyone?”
“No.”
He watches relief bloom on your face. The sight makes his heart trip delightedly. Even with a bandaged head you're still luminous.
"That's...good," you say almost to yourself as you place the tube back onto the mantle. “That's really good.”
"Why?" Frankie asks lightly.
You pause before suddenly looking away shyly, lashes lowered like you're embarrassed.
"I thought you might be casually seeing someone."
You are embarrassed. Frankie feels the hitch to one corner of his mouth.
"Were you jealous or something?"
It's said with levity, but he's not joking, he's desperately hoping. Because if you're jealous that means something.
You give him a challenging look that he knows too well. He's about to be told in no uncertain terms that you're never jealous. That you had no reason to be. But then you straighten, head held high.
"Yes. I was jealous about you being with someone else."
He's embarrassed at how quickly his pulse quickens. His insides feel hot, body on fire for you.
"You were huh?" He's smiling wider now, dimple popping. "Thought you hated me," he says with another light chuckle.
His voice is too breathless when he says it, embarrassing himself. He tells himself it's just an observation about your past animosity. But he's suddenly nervous because you don't seem angry or defensive like he's used to. You're looking at him in a completely new way, soft eyes and open body language.
"I never hated you," you finally say with a trembling chin. "Even when I wanted to."
The amusement flees from his handsome face, leaving only open curiosity. "No?"
You scan his eyes before motioning to the couch. You give a soft grunt as you drop onto a cushion, looking utterly exhausted.
He joins you on the couch cushion, big hand spanning over your kneecap and squeezing gently. He can't help it; he needs to touch you in some way. When you don't pull away he simply rests it there.
"Frankie... I-"
His heart is thumping steadily, but it picks up its tempo when you look up at him with such sad eyes. "Pip what's wrong?"
You don't look away from him, even though you seem to be in some sort of internal anguish. It makes him long to pull you into his arms, but he remembered what happened last time. How you ran from him and he doesn't want to put that pressure on you.
"You've been visiting my mom for months. Cooking and cleaning and spending time with her."
Frankie feels his breathing stutter, thrown at the sudden change in topic.
Did Hilary tell you? Or maybe your mom?
He supposes he was just hoping the secret would remain one. He thought maybe your mom might say something, unable to remember it wasn't meant to be shared. At the time it hadn't seemed like a big deal, but then again Frankie never imagined you and he would be getting closer this trip.
"Uh, yeah," he mutters.
"Why did you do it?"
His face goes pink; he can feel the heat crawling up his throat. He rubs at the back of his neck, voice quieter.
"I was on suspension because of the coke," he mutters, "I had all this extra time on my hands and Santi and Hilary mentioned about your mom and I figured it was a no-brainer. I always liked your mom, she was always nice to me."
You stare at him as you digest what he's telling you.
"You did that even after I treated you so horribly for so long?" You whisper, eye line wet.
"Not your mom's fault."
Frankie wonders why all of this is coming out. Was it the accident? Maybe you do have a concussion after all.
"Why didn't you tell me?"
"We weren't really talking, Pip," he says to his feet. "I mean, until this visit I don't remember the last time we had a civil conversation."
Before Travis' party, he thinks bitterly. Before everything was ruined.
He releases your knee, moving to rest against the back cushion of the couch. You nod, blinking the tears away as quickly as possible. Frankie stares at you for a long time, body tensed.
"I tried reaching out to you before," Frankie admits. "Not about your mom, but to check in."
He feels like this is a time for confessions, so he doesn't hesitate in sharing this. He waits patiently for you to formulate your response.
"When?"
"Around your graduation I tried calling your dorm but some guy answered," he mutters. "And you were in the background talking about going to bed..."
You flinch, clearly recalling the moment.
"That was just some guy from a party my roommates threw. I asked him to sleep over-"
"I don't need to hear this-" Frankie interrupts. He doesn't want to know the details. Hearing this is just making him feel worse.
"But I couldn't do anything with him," you finish in a rush as you look up at him with wide imploring eyes. "I couldn't because I just kept thinking about you, Frankie."
Now Frankie is thrown, eyes snapping to focus on your face. You look sincere, but that's not possible.
"What?"
"Every time he touched me all I could think about was how it felt when you touched me. And I realized how he felt wrong when you always felt right.”
Frankie's taken aback by your candor. But also uncomfortable. You don't know what this conversation is doing to him. Your eyes go impossibly soft at the edges, matching the gentle murmur of your voice.
"It's always been you, Frankie."
Now he feels cold seeping into his bones, his expressive face gone neutral.
"Not always, Pip."
He goes to stand, but you cling to his forearm, wrapping your own arms around his elbow, keeping him in place on the sofa next to you.
"Wait! That's what I'm trying to explain," you beseech him. "Please, Frankie, you have to listen. That night at Travis' party-"
"Stop, please," he says with a pang in his chest because in the years that followed your betrayal, he was plagued with the question of why you did what you did.
He always wanted to know why your cruelty had reared Its ugly head that night. But now affronted with the choice to hear it, he suddenly doesn't want to. He doesn't want to go back to that ugly time. He doesn't want to remember another man's hands on you.
Again he tries to pull away from you but you still haven't let go of his arm, you're pressed up so close to him he can smell the floral of your shampoo. And he's weak because he can barely move in the face of your nearness.
"Frankie, please, just sit there and don't talk for five minutes. No, not even five. Just two."
He watches the shaky breath you take in, voice coming out in a rush and he relaxes back, dark eyes narrowed on you. He'll hear you out.
"That night at Travis' party I thought I saw you and Christy having sex in his parents room."
The wind is knocked from him. "What?"
“You remember you told me Travis’ parent had a waterbed? That you wanted me to meet you up there?”
“Yeah.”
"Well I went up there and I see these two people, Christy and some guy. They were going at it and I couldn't see the guys face but I could see he was wearing your hat."
At this you make a vague motion to the Standard Oil cap Frankie now wears. Absently he touches the brim, eyes wide as your voice hitches, going low.
"I just... I assumed the worst."
Frankie is quiet, his body gone still. His ears are ringing. Something feels like it's taking over his body, something that protects him when he feels his most vulnerable.
"Is that why you..." Frankie flinches. "You kissed him?"
"Yes."
Your face drops to your hands as you shake your head. Mortification is clear in your body language.
"I feel so stupid. I don't know how I could have ever thought you would do that to me."
"So all this time..." Frankie whispers, the puzzle pieces connecting. "You thought I cheated on you that night and that's why you've been so cold to me since then."
"Yes."
"So you didn't hate me all this time," he says slowly, he needs to understand fully, he needs the clarity.
You shake your head slowly from side to side, gaze not leaving his.
"I couldn't ever hate you, Frankie," you admit in a shaky voice. "I was in love with you."
Frankie thinks back to his time in service, when the flash bangs would go off and leave the room and his ears ringing. This moment is similar to that, that same slightly unreal sensation that makes him feel off-balance.
"You loved me," he whispers.
"So deeply that when I thought you cheated on me I was devastated," you say with a flinch. "I was heartbroken."
He remains gaping at you.
"You loved me," Frankie repeats quietly.
"Yes." Your voice is trembling. "You're the only man I've ever truly felt like myself around. No one compared to you, even at their best."
You hear the small hitch to his breath, but you're unable to stop.
"I've always loved you and I'm so sorry for what I did. For never talking to you. For Travis. And even though I know you can't love me after how I've treated you all this time, I just needed to tell you how much you mean to me. I need you to know I always have and always will love you."
There, the final truth is laid at his feet and Frankie knows he needs to say something, but his body and brain aren't in agreement. Instead he lurches from the sofa, shaking off your loosening grip. He can't even look at you right now.
He moves from the room in a hurry, feet carrying him to the bedroom, your watery gaze on his back.
You watch as Frankie moves from you and into the bedroom, the pain in his face unbearable. But that's nothing compared to the brutal stab in your sternum at his rejection.
I’m too late.
You whimper, eyes closing as tears rush down your cheeks. You're so fucking tired of crying but you can't stop.
You can hear rustling in his bedroom, drawers being opened. A sickening drop goes to your stomach as you think of him packing up your hat and telling you to leave his home. Erasing every part of you that existed here.
You're confused when he reappears still wearing his hat and a tense look on his face. In his hand is a yellowed envelope that he extends your way, eyes trained on your face as you stare at it.
You stand, wiping your eyes with the back of your arm. "What is this?"
"It was the first letter I was going to send you when I left back for basic." He exhales slowly as he passes it to you. "I wrote it before the party. I wanted to give it to you right before I left."
"Why?"
"Remember you were giving me shit about writing you bad letters the last time? I figured I'd start out with a really good one."
You hold the envelope in front of you, tracing your fingertip along the scrawl of your name over the front. "You kept it?"
He rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "Felt weird to throw away."
You scan his face. "Do you want me to read it?"
"Not right now."
"Okay." You blink up at him. "Why not now?"
"Because the things in that letter are the same things I've wanted to tell you for years." He steps forward and you watch as his biceps curl, big warm hands cupping your cheeks. "But I want to say them to your face first."
His dark eyes trail along your face, transfixed. Like he's finding new details he'll commit to memory. Your hands fly to his wrists, holding loosely as you marvel up at him.
"You are the most singular woman I've ever met," he says. "You're funny and sexy and thoughtful. You're kind and you're brave even though you don't believe it."
Shame floods you at the praise. After everything you’ve put him through?
"Frankie, no," you say shaking your head. "I'm horrible."
Frankie ducks his head, finding your eyes, his own are warm and honeyed.
"You gave a boy you didn't know a hat, just because you thought it would make him feel better," he says, stroking your cheek with his thumb. "You scaled a tree to save his kite; you stayed with him when he lost his parents even after everyone left."
Tears spill over your cheeks when his voice gets thick with emotion.
"One thing I didn't put in the letter is that I love you," he says, raspy voice wavering as his dark eyes scan yours. "I have loved you for years and years and I'm going to keep loving you until the day I die and I needed to tell you that to your face."
Your eyes glisten as your hand finds your sternum, flattening your palm over it as you try to quell the thunder of your heartbeat.
"You loved me back then?"
"Of course I did," he says through a wet chuckle. He brushes the hair back from your damp eyes. "How could I not?"
"Because I'm stubborn and I jumped to the wrong conclusion and-"
Your eyes blink brightly up at him, trying not to cry when you see his eyes are shiny.
"You trusted me to save you from that tree. To carry you when you were hurt," he says in that familiar low rasp. "You gave me your first kiss. Your first time. You've done nothing but show me love and trust from the first moment we met. How could I not love you? How could I love anyone else?"
And Frankie Morales, the boy who didn't even cry at his parent’s funeral suddenly can't hold his tears back from you. They slide down his face no matter how much he tries to blink them away.
"I'm sorry," you choke out at the sight of them. "I'm so sorry, Frankie,” you hiccup a cry. "We had this perfect, beautiful thing and I ruined it."
"Oh, baby, I-" he cuts himself off, strong arms pulling you into him.
You sob brokenly against his throat, arms tightly gripping him like he's the guiding light in a storm. You sob for the years missed. For birthdays and Christmases you didn't spend together. For lazy mornings in bed and his shitty French toast you never experienced. For the years of amazing sex and time spent laughing you were robbed of.
And when you're finally finished crying, when your body feels it might turn to dust, you realize Frankie's still rocking you in his arms, his mouth pressed to your hairline.
"You didn't ruin anything," he assures you in a rumble you can feel through his shirt. "I'm here. You're here. We're here together. We got here."
Your arms are sealed around his waist, fingers lacing at the base of his spine. You have this crazy thought that if you don't hold him tightly, if you don't cling to him, he'll float away, gone forever.
"I don't want you to leave," you whisper brokenly into his shoulder. Your chin is quivering when you speak.
He makes a noise in his throat, sadness? Disbelief? Whatever it is, he holds you closer, like he's trying to physically move the love from his body to yours.
"You're the love of my life," Frankie says in a hoarse voice. "And I'm never leaving you again."
Those words break through the terrified crystallization of your fears, sending the shards falling away, forgotten. Frankie is the warmth, the sun melting them until you're freed from their oppressive hold.
You feel the motion of him removing his hat, tossing it onto the coffee table. You raise your face to his and your lips are parted to reply to him when Frankie's plump mouth presses to yours.
You kiss tenderly, lips damp, tongues searching. It's like the kiss from not so long ago but magnified now that your feelings have been shared. And it's just right. That same sensation of homecoming and safety and desire all wrapped up in one. The kiss that every other was compared to.
"I missed you," Frankie murmurs between sighs, eyes closed. "I never stopped."
"I never stopped loving you, Frankie."
Your mouths meet again. Desire surges through you, arms scrabbling to wrap around his neck, mouths kissing furiously as his banded arms hold you against him. Your core pulses with a deep need as the kissing intensifies.
You coo when Frankie begins lowering you both to the couch, his heavy body resting lightly over yours. He groans against your jaw, voice husky between tender nibbles and wet kisses against your neck.
"You still smell the same."
You feel the deep grind of his pelvis against yours and you moan into his mouth. It seems to echo like a plucked violin string, plaintive and mournful.
"I need you," you murmur, tongue coming to flick gently under his upper lip. The intention is clear, your body melded to his.
Frankie's eyes are like glossy black marbles when he pulls back. He's flushed; his dark curls have fallen into his forehead. He's never looked sexier.
"You might be disappointed," he says, thumb grazing your jaw. "I was recently told I have a dad bod that peaked in basic."
Frankie laughs lightly, a tinge of insecurity at the edges.
You hate that you put it there.
You push him back slightly so that you can sit up, eyes dragging around his handsome face.
"You know why I said that?"
He shakes his head, jaw tensing in embarrassment. You move off the couch, dragging him to a stand before your hands go to the hem of his t-shirt, eyes heavy as you gaze at him.
"I said that because Benny caught me staring at you that day at the beach," you admit, helping to peel the T-shirt from his body. "And I was staring because you looked so fucking good."
Frankie flushes delightedly at this, hair fluffed from the removal of his t-shirt and hat. Your ankles cross as you move a slow circle around his body, fingers trailing over his pectorals, feeling the rise of goose flesh under the pads of your fingers.
"You were standing there with no shirt, the sun on your skin," you recall with a sigh. "And I was hypnotized."
You come to stand in front of him once more and Frankie watches you take in his broad, muscled shoulders, the thick biceps and tensed belly.
"Because you're still so perfect," you whisper in quiet awe.
He gives a shy shake of his head, about to speak, to deny this, when your finger slowly presses against those plump lips you adore, urging him to remain silent. You want to show him that you're not just saying this. That your desire has not waned in the slightest. That in your opinion he's only gotten more attractive, more masculine, more sensual.
You lean forward and kiss his collarbone, just because you can. Then you move to the base of his elegant neck. His skin is warm; he smells the same as he always has. Old spice, laundry, fresh sweat.
Frankie.
He makes a soft purring noise in the back of his throat, head tilting back to give you better access. Your nose glides along his throat, inhaling both him and the memories of your combined youth. You suck a soft bruise into the skin just below his jaw and are rewarded with a deep, reverberating groan.
You love every part of him, from his body to his mind. His compassion and even his temper. You love it all because it is all of him, every piece of him a gift you want to cherish properly.
You kiss down his warm torso, body trembling under your lips. He's so eager, so needy. You feel it pressed against your belly as you descend.
Your lips move over the firm swell of his belly, leading a trail of kisses to the top of his hips. You both shiver excitedly when your lips move lower, to where his bronzed flesh disappears under his jeans.
Your eyes shift now from his skin and back to his face. He's breathing through his mouth, eyes trained on you when you slowly sink to your knees, hands on his belt buckle. You unhook the button of his jeans, drawing down the tongue of the zipper without thought.
He goes to speak, but you're already bringing him out of his boxers and into your waiting palm. He's warm, thick and throbbing in your eager hand.
"So pretty," you say looking at it with devotion as you begin to stroke slowly. "I almost forgot how pretty."
He hisses as you thumb the damp slit. His fingers reach out to graze your cheek, thumb wiping away a stray tear you didn't even know was there. Your eyes are on his, glued, fascinated.
"I never forgot how pretty," he murmurs.
The heat of his gaze and the touch of his fingers on your cheek make you feel shy. You remind yourself to stay on task when his eyes go unfocused.
You stroke slowly, eyes on his, watching when those dark lashes begin to flutter before squeezing shut.
"You're shaking, Morales," you tease, your movements increasing in pace, watching the pleasurable disbelief cross his face.
His brows saddle as you tighten your fingers upon your descent, enthralled to see how his hips buck in response before his legs wobble.
"Can you blame me?" he grunts, hands at his side in useless fists.
You gaze up at him, tongue coming to lick the rosy head of his cock, delighted when it twitches at the contact.
"Jesus, Pip," he groans, eyes pitched black.
You continue smirking as you take a long, languid lick along the underside of him, never breaking eye contact. He stares down at you in awe, fingers twitching.
You lean forward, lips parting as you take the head of his cock into your scorching mouth.He makes a muffled choking noise, one hand continuing to cup your cheek, feeling the architecture of your jaw as you widen your mouth to accommodate him.
His eyelids flutter again as you flatten your tongue, tasting every inch you urge him to feed himself further into your mouth.
"Baby, you're killing me."
You hide a grin as his head tilts down again, chin propped on his sternum so he can watch everything you're doing.
He shudders as you swirl your tongue around the ridge of the head, savoring the salt and scent of him. He groans under his breath, fingers coming to tangle in your hair and you whine around him at the pleasure his grip sends skittering through your body.
"God, look at you," Frankie groans, mouth trembling. "Still the most beautiful woman I've ever seen."
You increase the suction, tongue flickering against the sensitive underside in the way you can remember he loves. He arches his back, his hips canting instinctively again before he stops himself.
"Wait, Pip, wait," he whispers, his voice ragged and broken.
You pull off of him in confusion when he begins to curl over, hands warmly squeezing over yours. You give a look of concern up at him which is wiped away you see the open need in his expression.
"I need to feel you first."
You give a small giggle of surprise as he reaches down, pulling you into his strong arms as if you weigh nothing. He holds you in a bridal carry as his mouth finds yours, kissing you deeply.
"Can we keep going in bed?" He rasps against your lips. "Like that first time?"
You beam at him, arms wrapping around his neck as he moves to walk you both over the threshold of his childhood bedroom.
"Yes."
Hours later the two of you sweaty and grinning under the covers. Its dark now, both of you lost track of time after your third orgasm. The window is cracked open a fraction to let the night air in.
"Like we never skipped a beat," you pant, burrowing against him.
"I dunno about that," Frankie says, flushed and impossibly happy as he kisses your forehead. "I feel like it was even better than before."
"Yeah?"
"I mean, it was pretty amazing when we were kids but this? Next level."
You give a soft laugh of surprise. "Next level."
"Mhm."
"You're right," you agree after a moment's sincere consideration.
"Finally, you admit I'm right about something," he teases. The corners of his mouth curve into a gentle smile, the kind he saves just for you.
"Don't get too used to it."
You press a kiss to his chest, letting the moonlight paint his golden skin silver. The window is slightly ajar, the sound of cicadas chirping in the distance.
Despite the satisfaction and relief of knowing Frankie feels the same way about you, an ache remains under your ribcage, prompting Frankie to tap your chin gently with the crook of his forefinger.
"What is it, baby?"
"How can you forgive me so easily?" You whisper, eyes limpid.
"I'm not big on keeping score," he shrugs, smiling indulgently at you. "And you're here in my arms. I don't need to over think it."
You grin back unsteadily at first; unsure if this free flowing kindness is to be believed. But again your brows saddle.
"We could have been like this the whole time," You say, brushing the curls from his face. "I just think about the years we lost-"
"We're here now," he interrupts before you can begin any further self-flagellation. "And that's all that matters."
You bury your face in his neck, happy tears wetting his skin. His lips find yours once more and for a glorious moment it feels like nothing bad will ever happen again. All that exists is joy and togetherness and safety here in the harbor of Frankie Morales strong arms.
Beep.
Beep.
Your phone beeps and vibrates, drawing your attention over to the side of the bed. Your reach down to retrieve it from the back pocket of your denim cut offs.
Frankie watches you read the text, brows knitted when you give a soft gasp. He jerks up in bed when you hurriedly start to get dressed.
"Baby, what is it?"
"My mom," you say with a crazed look in your eyes. "We need to get back right away."
He doesn't hesitate, simply tugs on his jeans, T-shirt and hat before he ushers you into his truck. He holds your hand the entire way from the truck and across the threshold of your childhood home.
"Hey," Hilary says in a quiet voice as you both enter the house. Her eyes are red-rimmed, face blotchy. But when her eyes move between the two of you and your linked hands, you see a softness to her expression.
"About damn time, Fish."
Frankie ducks his head shyly in reply.
For a strange moment you feel like this is all a dream. Frankie, Hilary, your mom. Like the world is hazy and not quite solid under your feet.
Rosalita is there at the doorframe of your mother's room. Her eyes are wet when she looks between your sister and you.
"It is time, my dears."
She doesn't say anything more, she simply steps back into your mother's room.
Frankie squeezes your hand gently and you drop it only so that you can take Hilary's. Her fingers wrap tightly around yours as you feel Frankie's warmth at your back.
"I'll be in the kitchen if you need me" Frankie murmurs gently, kissing your cheek and moving back into the other room.
You can hear the quiet, agonized breathing of your mother and the sound terrifies you into taking a step back. Hilary notices, the big sister in her causing you both to stop just outside the door.
"I can give her a message from you if you don't want to come in" Hilary offers.
Up close you can see her eyes are swollen. You see the fatigue etched into the lines around her eyes and mouth. You see the sister that has always protected you, even when you didn't realize it.
But she doesn't need to do that anymore.
"I'm okay."
You enter into the room with Hilary, the two of you coming to stand at the side of the bed, both staring down at the placid face of your mother. Her rasping breath rattles in her narrow chest, her eyes closed, mouth parted.
You watch as Hilary leans forward and presses a kiss to her forehead before her mouth moves to your mother's ear and she whispers something. You'll never know what she said that night, and you'll never ask.
When she rights herself, you can see the tears that have flooded her face. She wipes them away before looking at you expectantly.
And despite the fear you've felt at being left alone with your mother, suddenly, it's all you want. A peaceful send-off.
"Can I have a minute alone with her?" You ask your sister quietly.
Hillary's surprised, but she nods."Of course."
She squeezes your shoulder as she leaves, closing the door gently behind she and Rosalita.
You look back to see your mother's breathing is labored, her face waxen. And this is when you want to leave, to rush from the room where it's bright and safe. You want to escape the hard things, just like when you flew to Seattle, when you started over, when you left.
But as you take your mother's hand for what will be the last time; you do it because for once, you are choosing to stay.
Me when Pip and Frankie reunited
dividers by @saradika-graphics
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