Beach Reads Box Set

by Madden-Mills, Ilsa

  “Frankie.” The plea in his voice draws my gaze. I couldn’t look away if I wanted to.

  “After I say what I’m about to, I want to hear your honest feelings on it but…not now, if that’s all right. I was hoping you’ll give it a bit of time to sink in first.”

  I wrinkle my nose. “That’s not generally how I work, Zenzero. I don’t have tons of filter between this and this.” I point from my temple to my lips.

  “One of the many things I like about you.” He grins. “But I think what I have to say might leave you a bit…shocked. It will at least buy me the few precious seconds it will take to walk through your house and get in the van. And I’m going to do that. Because I am a coward.”

  I swallow in nervousness, clenching my hands into fists, as an odd current of fear and unease rolls through me. “You’re about the least cowardly person I’ve ever met, but okay.”

  Ren exhales heavily. “So. Once I say it, I’m going to leave. And when you’re ready—if you’re ready—tell me, and we’ll talk.” He glances up to the night sky, like he’s searching the stars for something mere earth can’t give him. But then his gaze drops once more to me, a tender smile warming his face.

  “First. I never wanted to keep this from you, but I-I didn’t know what else to do but stay quiet when it was impossible. And then, when I knew you were leaving, I wanted to wait until you left the team, but I don’t know what happened except on the beach, last night, something feels like it’s changed, and now I can’t. I can’t contain this anymore. It needs to be said.

  “I want you to know, if you never want to hear about this again, I will respect that. I won’t make it uncomfortable. I’ll be professional at work and leave you alone. Okay?”

  Is this how you let someone down easy? Seems like an odd way to do it. I search his eyes. “Ren, I’m so confused.”

  He makes a sound of unease and rubs his forehead. “Yeah, I’m realizing that. Which…I don’t know if that makes this easier or harder, but here goes.”

  Standing tall, throwing his shoulders back, he huffs a breath and stares intensely down at the ground. Until, finally, he peers up at me through thick lashes and holds my eyes. “The woman I’ve been waiting for…”

  My stomach drops. That’s how he’s going to do it. Tell me about her, and like a bucket of ice water, douse every spark of lust between us.

  I feel sick with sadness already, knowing that once I know who she is, this tiny moment I had with him—stolen kisses, heated glances, the soft whispers of tangled fingers, palm to palm—has to end. Because I am many things—obsessive, fastidious, blunt, and short-tempered—but one thing I am not, and never will be, is the other woman.

  “That woman, Frankie,” he says. “It’s you.”

  It’s you.

  Two words. Missiles, tearing through my heart, landing on an earth-rattling boom.

  Ren’s right. I’m speechless. And long before I once again locate my body in time and space, Ren’s gone from my yard, leaving me blinking rapidly into the middle distance while my brain tries to process the words it just heard.

  It’s. You.

  Wandering shakily into the house, I slowly sink to the ground, as my breath comes short and quick.

  Countless moments with Ren flash through my mind, painted in a new, weighted, gloriously terrifying light.

  I’m the one he’s been waiting for.

  I’m the one he’s wanted.

  My throat is bone dry. I grab the counter and hoist myself upright, fumbling for a glass from the cabinet, filling it with filtered water, and draining it. Setting down the tumbler, I’m met with my reflection in the window above the sink. I hold her gaze, staring at her shocked features.

  She’s never felt so many conflicting emotions at once, and it shows on her face. Hope. Terror. Joy.

  It’s been so long since I embraced the part of myself that aches to come to life when Ren’s near. The one that laughs and jokes, that hugs hard and kisses deeply. The one that cries at sappy movies and throws open her heart for those she loves. The one that believes someone could love her without one day resenting her, without seeing her laundry list of needs and hurdles as burdens but rather as beautiful parts of what make her her.

  Because I know that having arthritis, being autistic, does not make me less whole or human. It doesn’t make me wrong or broken. It makes some things in my life more challenging in ways, yes, and maybe I don’t represent the “norm,” but I can be someone who surmounts obstacles without it meaning there’s something fundamentally lacking in my makeup.

  Problem is, that truth has been harder to hold on to when I let people in. Because then my sensory limits, my unexpected emotions, my easily tired body, my unfiltered mouth, are part of the package deal with me, and apparently, they wear out their welcome. Everyone—my family and childhood friends, my one college boyfriend—everyone, except for Annie and Lo, who I have loved and let in, has ultimately come to resent me.

  So, when I moved away and started my life fresh, I told myself I simply wouldn’t love or be loved that way, not anymore. Because each time I let someone in and they show me I’m not worth the work, it’s become more painful, more difficult to bounce back.

  “What are you going to do?” I ask my reflection.

  For so long, my way of life has worked for me. It’s comforted me to guard my emotions, be sensible with my heart, practical with my actions, controlled and ordered. Being safe allowed me to move beyond the pain of my past.

  Silence fills my home. A weighty emptiness spills into its corners, as stark and illuminating as the moon outside. An uncomfortable question burrows deep in my chest and pricks my heart.

  What if the life I’ve built, the one that was supposed to free me, has turned into a prison after all?

  18

  Ren

  Playlist: “Saturday Sun,” Vance Joy

  I woke up convinced last night was a dream. But then I rolled out of bed and passed my laundry hamper on the way to the bathroom, freezing as I noticed muddy paw prints and grass stains coloring the knees of my suit pants. And it all came rushing back.

  Forcefully.

  I told her. I really told her. I listened to an overwhelming intuition, an undeniable voice inside my head, telling me I should.

  Because despite my brain-bruised fog the other night, I knew I remembered that I didn’t just hold Frankie’s hand, Frankie held it back as she whispered something that I couldn’t remember but whose sound I remember. She sounded sad. Hopeful. Tender.

  Knowing that she’d kissed me, the way we talked on the beach, the care in her touch in the hotel. Then everything she said that night over takeout—my brothers said if that wasn’t a woman who has feelings for you, they didn’t know what was.

  I couldn’t stand the thought that Frankie might feel something for me and be in any doubt that I felt the exact same for her, too. The deception’s benefits no longer outweighed its risks.

  So I told her that I wanted her. That I’ve wanted her. For years. Her eyes widened. And stupidly, I stood there for five eternal seconds, hoping maybe she’d leap into my arms, laugh wildly as we kissed under the stars.

  Instead she blinked. And swallowed. Slowly.

  So I left and hyperventilated while I drove home. Then I took enough Zzzquil to fell a horse and end the misery of consciousness for a few hours.

  Now, as I walk into the practice facility, my stomach’s in knots. I barely managed a protein bar for breakfast and forwent my normal iced coffee because my heart’s flying just fine on its own without the help of caffeine. As I stroll into the practice facility, I have to take deep slow breaths so that I don’t break out into a panicked sweat.

  “Morning, toots.” Mildred smiles over her half-moon glasses from the practice facility’s front desk.

  “Morning, Millie.” I set a piping hot to-go cup on her desk ledge. “The usual.”

  She snatches up her coffee, popping off the lid and taking a long, savoring whiff. “Ah, that’s the s
tuff. How much do I owe ya?”

  “You always ask that, and I always tell you the same thing.” Double tapping her desk, I start walking away.

  Millie grins. “You’re a good egg, Ren.”

  Before I can answer her, a new voice cuts across the space. “Zenzero.”

  I spin around.

  Frankie.

  How is she lovelier every time I see her? What is it about her practice day outfits—slouchy hoodies and fitted joggers, the long trail of her dark ponytail—that gets to me? Is it that when she’s dressed this way, I imagine I’m seeing her soft side, the tender, walls-down woman I’ve glimpsed so rarely beneath that power-suit, buttoned-up front?

  “Hi,” I whisper.

  She smiles, and it hits me square in the chest. Her smiles are few and far between. Each one’s a victory.

  “Hi,” she says quietly.

  Swallowing thickly, I scrub the back of my neck. It’s so silent in the entranceway, you can hear the faint echo of the guys’ voices all the way down at the other end of the building.

  Clearing her throat behind a fist, Frankie walks closer to me. “I was wondering if you were free to get lunch after dry-land and ice time this morning?”

  My stomach clenches. I search her eyes, but they’re unreadable. Is this lunch to let me down easy? Or…could it possibly be to tell me what I’ve only spent years hoping I’d hear? I want you, too.

  “Sure,” I finally manage. “Name the place.”

  “I’m not picky. You choose.”

  A wistful sigh interrupts us. We both turn and look at its source.

  Millie blinks innocently behind her glasses. “Don’t mind me. Just isn’t every day you see young love—”

  “Oh, we’re not—”

  “It’s not that—”

  Frankie’s and my words tumble over each other. We stop at the same time, a mirror of blushing cheeks.

  “Right,” Frankie says quietly, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Lunch.”

  She walks past me, leaving me alone with Millie, who’s suddenly very absorbed in something on the computer screen.

  “Mildred.”

  She squints at the screen, avoiding my gaze. “Yes, dear. How can I help you?”

  I lean my elbows on the desk ledge, lowering my face until she’s forced to meet my eyes. I know they freak some people out, especially when I don’t blink. They’re Mom’s eyes. Pale and silvery. They’re an unexpected pairing with my hair. A little unnatural. A lot intimidating.

  Millie looks me in the eye and swallows with a loud gulp. “I’ll mind my own beeswax from now on.”

  “Excellent.” Pushing off the desk, I call over my shoulder. “No more meddling, Mildred. Not with dropping confidential Club activities, ‘check engine’ lights or spark plugs, or hotel room arrangements, or you’re walking your way to next Club meeting.”

  She cackles. “We both know you’re too much of a softie to ever follow through on a hard-hearted threat like that, but nice try, toots.”

  She’s right. And sometimes I wish I wasn’t so damn predictable.

  * * *

  “What are you getting?” Frankie stares at her menu, biting her lip. “Too many choices.”

  I glance up from my phone, where a meme that Andy was delighted to notify me went viral plays on a loop in my messages: me eating ice, right as I get my shot off. The goal I scored when 27 tripped me. It has Frankie written all over it. She makes these from time to time, and they always take off.

  “Francesca.”

  “Hm?” She finally glances up. “What? I’m trying to decide between burgers here, Bergman. Heh. Get it? Burgers. Bergman.”

  I flip my phone around so she can see the meme.

  She has the courtesy to blush, the tips of her ears turning bright pink. “Oh, that little old thing.”

  “Oh, Frankie. There is nothing little or old about this. In fact, it’s quite fresh and large. So much so, one might call it viral.”

  “Give me that,” she mutters. Snatching the phone out of my hand, Frankie spins it in her grip.

  “Can’t be that bad…” Color drains from her face. “Okay. It’s that bad.”

  I bite my lip, trying not to give away that I really don’t care. Actually, I find it funny. Frankie didn’t just loop my epic biff, she added a tiny gif of an umpire and the words scrolling across the screen as he gives the signal: SAFE!

  It’s clever. I get why everyone loves it. I look just like a baseball player sliding into home plate. Except I scored a goal to win a playoff series. And hockey’s about eight hundred times more interesting and challenging than baseball. But I digress.

  Frankie swallows thickly, her fingers drumming on the table. “Ren, I’m sorry, I never—”

  I set a hand over her fidgeting fingers. My thumb gentles her palm, hidden beneath my hand, so no one can see the intimacy of that gesture. “I don’t care. I was just giving you a hard time.”

  When she blinks up at me, her lashes are wet. “I feel terrible. You said you were a huge nerdsmobile in school, which I can only assume means you got made fun of a lot—”

  “I mean, not a lot—”

  “And here I am, making something that got a laugh at your expense—”

  “Frankie.” I squeeze her hand gently, somewhat stunned by the emotionality of her response. The Frankie I know would have rolled her eyes and told me “tough nuggets.” “I seriously don’t care. I have a pretty nice life. If a few social media ploys happen to involve laughing at me, my love of the game and the lifestyle it affords me more than make up for it.”

  Finally, Frankie seems to relax. Her color comes back a bit in her cheeks, and her shoulders drop. “Okay.”

  “Good.” I let go of her hand. Taking a drink of water, I grin at her over my glass. “Plus, I did score to win the series. I mean that fall was practically heroic.”

  Her lips twitch. “Heroic. Yeah.”

  I break and laugh, lifting my hoodie to cover my mouth. Frankie’s face breaks into a wide grin that she covers with her hand.

  But not fast enough. For just a split second, I catch that bright, unbridled Frankie smile. And it’s worth every horrible meme at my expense that she could ever devise.

  As our laughter dies away, I notice there are a few people staring at me—us—all of whom are not so covertly taking video or snapping photos.

  Which reminds me of something. “Francesca.”

  She lowers the menu. “Søren.”

  I drop my voice and lean in. “I hope I’m not insulting your intelligence when I ask this, but you did consider that we’d be photographed, right?”

  “Yep.” She lifts her menu and goes back to reading.

  The waiter comes by, filling our waters. When he walks away, Frankie watches until he’s a decent distance from us, then lowers her menu.

  “What are a few more photos of us over lunch?” she says, sipping her water. “Whether it’s the truth or not, it’s what people think. Even Darlene bought it.”

  “She what?”

  “This morning she texted me to ask, telling me I could be honest with her, and I wouldn’t get in trouble. Apparently, she thought, especially after the press conference answer you gave, that you and I were a thing.” Frankie snorts, then takes a sip of her water. “She said it seemed likely from the photo. Hilarious, right?”

  Her words cut brutally. There’s my answer, quick and painfully swift. God, the disappointment.

  Frankie frowns as she takes me in. “What?”

  I rub over my heart instinctively. It does nothing to quell the ache in my chest.

  “Ren. Talk to me. Remember, I can’t…I am even worse than the average human at intuiting. But the nice thing about me compared to most people is that I have no problem being told how and when I get it wrong.” She leans in, sliding her hand toward me, halting halfway across the table. “Please.”

  I meet her hand so that our fingertips touch. “You just said the thought of us being in a relationship is laughable.�
�

  “I didn’t say that,” she says gently. “I said that deducing from a photo that we’re in a relationship is hilarious. Darlene of all people should know better than to assume that much from a paparazzi shot.” She tips her head, her eyes dancing over my face. “You thought I was saying I found the idea of us hilarious.”

  I slide my fingers further across the table, until they’re woven with hers. “Yes.”

  She squeezes my hand in her grip, making me glance up. “But that isn’t what I said. And if ever you meet someone who means literally what she says, it’s me, Zenzero.”

  “I understand. That makes sense.” I’m weathering a boomerang of emotions, but I try to smile and show her I believe her. Because I do.

  With a final squeeze, she withdraws her hand. “So. In the spirit of that, I’m going to be direct—”

  The waiter shows up again. Worst possible timing. Ever.

  I’m left hanging, the future of my love life discarded to place a lunch order. It’s not entirely surprising. Food is serious business to Frankie. Turning, she tells him what she wants, snaps her menu shut, and sets it in his arms. I order, too, and we both watch him until he’s gone, leaving us alone in our secluded corner of the restaurant.

  “You were saying?” I offer. Trying desperately not to sound…well, desperate.

  “Right. I have some questions and concerns. First, what do you want from someone when it comes to having feelings for them?”

  “Well, I’m not talking about someone, Frankie. I’m talking about you.”

  She bites her lip. “Yes. That.”

  “That?”

  “Just—” She waves her hand impatiently. “Talk. Elaborate.”

  “Well, if you felt how I felt, I’d want to date. We could keep it between us until you were comfortable telling other people, given work.”

  She nods thoughtfully, her fingers tangling in her necklace. “Ren, I’m attracted to you. I care about you, respect the hell out of you—” Frankie narrows her eyes. “What are you grinning about?”