by Robin Hill
“Yellow?” A smile tugs at his lips. “I can definitely see you in yellow.” He turns the laptop to face him. “Let me try.”
I remove my feet from Darian’s lap and stand. “Good luck finding a used one. I’ll get you some coffee.”
A few minutes later, I return with Darian’s favorite May the froth be with you coffee mug. He tilts his head to show me the phone at his ear while silently mouthing that he’s almost done. Retrieving my laptop, I sit back down and take a sip of my Diet Coke, my eyes scanning the screen as he finishes his call.
“I’m sure it’s nothing, Amanda,” Darian says. “Don’t listen to him; he’s full of shit. … I’ll talk to Cade. … Yes. … Fine. … I’ll let you know.”
He sets his phone on the table, then shoves a hand through his hair.
“Cross to Bear Cade?” I ask, propping my bare feet on the edge of my chair. I wrap my arms around my legs and rest my chin on my knees.
“Yeah, but it’s nothing. Typical industry bullshit.” He cocks his head at me. “That was Amanda.”
“I heard.”
“I don’t remember setting ‘Evil Woman’ as her ringtone. Know anything about that?”
I shrug. “Not a thing.”
His lip curls up in amusement as he returns his attention to the screen. “Are you dead set on yellow?”
“Anything’s better than what I’m driving now, so I guess not.”
He takes a sip of his steaming hot, frothless coffee. “If a yellow one exists in Florida, I know someone who can find it.”
I fix him with narrowed eyes. “You can help, but I’m serious about wanting to do this myself.”
“I get it,” he says with a sigh. “I don’t like it, but I get it.” He pushes back in his chair. “I have something I need to take care of, but I shouldn’t be long.”
“Are you leaving?”
“No. Just need to get on my computer for a minute.”
I reach across the table for his hand. “You never told me how your meeting went yesterday?”
“You didn’t ask.”
“I’m asking now.”
“It was very uneventful.” His eyes rake over me. “Why?”
“Because I’m interested,” I say slowly, “in what you do. You can talk to me about your day, about work. I want to know.”
He gives my hand a squeeze. “There’s nothing to talk about.”
I purse my lips.
“Francesca, I promise. I lead a very boring life.” His cheeks flush pink. “Work life. My personal life is quite thrilling.”
“Good save.”
“All right,” he says, getting to his feet. He stares at me for a moment, then smiles. “What’s your favorite smell?”
“Smell?” I cough a laugh. “I don’t know…fresh cut grass? Apple pie? Gloria’s lasagna?” I sit back, arms folded across my chest. “What’s yours?”
“Honeysuckle,” he says. “What else?”
The next morning, I have two sausage biscuits wrapped and ready to go by the time Darian makes it downstairs.
“We’re having breakfast together,” he informs me as he grabs a couple of plates. “If you’re going to get up with me this early, the least I can do is eat with you.”
“I’m fine with coffee,” I say while trying to stifle a yawn.
“You hate coffee.”
“I like Gloria’s coffee.”
“Café con leche,” Gloria says, rounding the corner with an empty laundry basket.
My heart warms to see her, small with soft curves and rosy cheeks that practically glimmer in Darian’s presence. He bends when she nears him, accepting a kiss on his cheek.
“Morning Glory,” he says, smiling. “Hungry?”
“Oh, no, mijo.” She pats her plump belly. “Just came through to let you know I’m here.” Her kind mocha-colored eyes find mine, and a grin lights up her face. “It’s so nice to see you again, Miss Frankie.”
“You too, Gloria.”
Her smile melts into giggles as her gaze darts between me and Darian.
“You have a good day, mijo,” she tells him and then starts down the hall. “Miss Frankie and I will be just fine.”
“Is she always so stealthy?” I ask Darian once she’s out of earshot. Heat crawls up my neck. “What if we were…”
Darian laughs. “Maybe we should get her a bell.” He bends to kiss me goodbye. “See you tonight.”
Gloria barrels back into the kitchen the second Darian leaves. She comes at me with outstretched arms and a smile that extends the width of her face. A happy sigh gusts out of her as she takes both my hands in hers. She studies me for several long seconds before pulling me into a hug.
“Oh, mija,” she says, and joy wells inside me at the term of endearment. “I’m so happy you’re here.”
She squeezes me tighter than I would have thought possible. I squeeze her right back.
“Me too, Gloria. Me too.”
Finally, she lets go of me and leans sideways against the island, her forearm holding up most of her weight where it rests on the granite. Her cheerful expression slips from her face like a mask, leaving behind pinched lips and a furrowed brow.
I straighten, squaring my shoulders, even though I know her sour look isn’t meant for me.
She blows out an exaggerated breath. “That boy was plumb miserable without you.”
I snort. “Well, I was…um…plumb miserable without him too.”
As quickly as the light left her sweet face, it returns, and her animated limbs carry her around the island. She pushes herself onto a barstool, and when she pats the spot beside her, ordering me to sit, I do.
“Now that that’s out of the way,” she says, giving my shoulder a squeeze, “we have business to discuss.” She swivels in her chair until her knees face my thighs. “I don’t want you to worry about me, mija. This is your home now. If there’s something you want to do, you do it. What’s left, I do. Sí?”
I nod, her reassuring smile putting me at ease.
“We’ll figure it out,” she says. “Just like I did with Darian’s mama.” She sandwiches my hand between both of hers. “And, mija, if you want me to step aside, I do that too.”
“Gloria, no. I don’t want that. Honestly, I don’t know what I want. But definitely not that.” I exhale deeply. “This is all very new.”
“Then we play it by ear.” A sly grin unfurls on her face. “You know what else we can play?”
I laugh. “Cubilete?
“Yes, mija. Cubilete.”
I Can’t See Your Face in My Mind
Darian: What’s your schedule look like next week?
Evelyn: I’m open.
Darian: Want to grab lunch on Tuesday?
Evelyn: Tuesday’s perfect. Francesca coming?
Darian: I don’t think I’m ready for that yet.
Evelyn: When and where?
Darian: I’ll text you.
Frankie
“Well? What do you think?” Jane says after showing me the latest mockup for my new website.
My hand rests lightly on the mouse as I click through the new design. “Jane, I love it. The service boxes are perfect.”
“Yay! I’m so happy. I wanted virtual boxes that would coincide with the physical boxes you’re already selling. And I included the link at the bottom in case potential customers want to—wait for it—go outside the box.” She laughs at her own joke and a smile breaks across my face.
“It’s great,” I say. “Thank you so much for doing this. I’m excited.”
I hear Jane’s sliding glass door open and close, followed by the familiar screech of that stupid lawn chair she loves so much. Like nails on a chalkboard, I used to tell her. My heart pangs. Suddenly, the sound is comforting.
“You sure you want to go nationwide?” she asks, settling into the chair until the squeaking stops. “You’ve only ever done local.”
“I’m not local anymo
re.” I stand from my desk and pad to the foot of the bed. “I know as much about Omaha as I do Miami,” I say. “I’ll be fine. I rarely do weddings. Office and birthday parties make up the bulk of it.” I pace back and forth, dragging my bare feet through the thick carpet. “How hard can it be?”
“Speaking of birthday parties…”
Here we go.
“What do you two lovebirds have planned?”
I stop pacing and lean against the dresser, bracing myself for what I know isn’t going to be the most pleasant conversation. “I’m kinda skipping my birthday this year.”
Her chair squeaks. “What? Frankie, no! We’ve been through this. I thought we were past it.”
I turned twelve exactly one week before the plane crash, and on my thirteenth birthday, it felt wrong to celebrate.
“Really? We’re not going to do anything?” Jane asked, plopping onto my bed. “Your dad will never go for it.”
“That’s why we’re not telling him.” I sat down beside her. “And we’ll do stuff. We’ll eat brownies and watch scary movies.”
But the truth was, I didn’t want to do either.
“Not tell him? Are you crazy?” Jane fell back against the mattress. “He wants to throw you a party.”
“And I don’t want one. I’m thirteen. He can’t baby me forever. He’ll understand.”
Jane scoffed. “You are crazy.”
She was right, though. Dad didn’t understand.
“Earth to Frankie. Are you listening to me?”
“Yeah, sorry. I’m here.”
“We’ve celebrated your birthday for the last three years,” she says, determined. “You’ve had fun; I know you have.”
“This year’s different.”
“You can’t skip your birthday.”
I groan in exasperation. “I can and I am, Jane. Darian’s still adjusting to all this, and with the anniversary of the crash coming up… I think he has enough on his plate without having to worry about my birthday.”
“Wait, you’re not even going to tell him? Seriously?”
“It’s the tenth anniversary,” I argue. “The tenth.”
“Which means he’s had ten years to get used to it.” She heaves a sigh. “Do you ever think that maybe he’d like the distraction?”
Are there distractions when you’ve lost everything you love?
“We’re going to have to agree to disagree,” I tell her. “And as my BFF, you have to respect my wishes and let this go.”
Silence.
“Jane?”
“What?”
“You have to let this go. I was having a really productive day and I don’t want that to stop because of all this birthday bullshit.”
“All right, fine. Letting it go. For now…”
I laugh. “I’d expect nothing less.”
When the call ends, I set my phone on the dresser and sag against it. Despite the smile on my face, my bones ache from missing her. We’ve gone months without seeing each other before, but we were separated by jobs and school and obligations. Being separated by miles is harder to take.
You’ll feel better when you’re settled…and settled people don’t live out of their luggage.
My gaze veers to the corner I’ve claimed as my own. The corner that houses my suitcase and duffel, both open and bursting with clothes and shoes and whatever else I managed to stuff inside. I tried to keep it neat, but after a couple of days, I gave up.
With a resigned sigh, I push off the dresser and cross the room to my mess. I dig through it, gathering as many pairs of shoes as I can carry, and take them to the closet, only to stand in the doorway and stare at the lack of space.
How can I unpack if there’s nowhere to unpack?
After rearranging Darian’s shoes closer together on the shelves, I manage to make enough room for three pairs of mine. I choose the few I wear the most, then reluctantly return the rest to my corner.
The dresser drawer, plus the two-foot section of closet Darian gave me the last time I was here, are still empty, so I fill them with as many everyday items as I can. Everything else will have to remain packed, at least for the time being. Not wanting the daily reminder that I’m still technically living out of a suitcase, I lug it to the bed, intent on hiding it underneath. But the mattress is low and my bag is wide and neither want to cooperate.
With my butt on the floor, fingers gripping the carpet, I press the soles of my feet into the side of the suitcase and push…and push…and push.
It won’t budge.
Leaning forward, I curl my fingers around the bedframe, feet still flat against the side, and try again. As soon as the edge clears, I know I’ve got it. With a firm grip, I push like I’m birthing the damn thing, and it finally, finally makes it under. The force knocks me back, and I lie sprawled out on the floor, unsure whether I want to laugh or cry at my predicament.
You’re living out of a suitcase you won’t even be able to access.
Laughter wins, rising in my throat until it catches on the lump forming there. I swallow it back and stare at the ceiling until my eyes begin to sting.
Frustration flares in my chest. “This is so fucked up.”
It’s only stuff, Frankie. This is still new and you’re just homesick.
I allow myself a few minutes to wallow in self-pity before I get up and dust myself off. I mean, really. If I want to feel settled, I should consider buying a dresser and then a car.
With my suitcase now hidden under the bed, I pick up my empty duffel, roll it as tight as I can into a cylinder, and use the straps to tie it together. I find a spot on the top shelf of Darian’s closet just large enough to house it—a spot where it can easily be retrieved by a tall person. I am not such a person. Holding it like a football, I take a step back and toss it. I miss, and the bag’s left dangling half on, half off the shelf. I jump up to grab it, realizing a bit too late that the strap is caught on a heavy as fuck wooden box that comes crashing down on top of me, cutting my arm before it bursts open on the closet floor.
“Son of a bitch!”
I stretch my T-shirt sleeve and hold it over the gash that’s beginning to bleed. Fuck, it hurts. It hurts to the point of being comical. Glancing down at the culprit, the rolled-up duffel, which would have easily fit under the bed, I begin to laugh. I laugh until I can’t breathe, until I’m hunched over the mess with my fingers wrapped firmly around my throbbing arm.
“Jesus, Frankie. You’re losing it.”
My gaze slides from the bag to the box and my laughter stops. “Shit.”
The scattered contents come into focus and my body tenses. Pictures of Julia and Anabel. Letters addressed to Darian. Letters addressed to Daddy, a heart pendant, a small silver spoon…
What have I done?
The lump in my throat falls to the pit of my stomach. I drop to the floor, not wanting to look but unable to look away.
Pictures. Trinkets. Letters. Jewelry. Julia. Anabel.
Darian’s most personal possessions. His most private possessions.
“Fuck!” I shout, grabbing at everything and nothing in my rush to refill the box. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!”
“Francesca? You okay?”
Fuck!
Darian’s voice hits me like a blow to the chest.
“I’m fine,” I call to him, pushing the words through my dry, scratchy throat. “I’m okay, I just”—dear God, please stop him—“dropped something…”
His feet pound the stairs, and I know I’m too late. I fall back on my heels, not daring to turn around when I hear him enter the room. The door makes a faint thud as it bumps against the side of the dresser and I flinch.
“Shit, baby. What—” His words break off as he nears me. And though I can’t see him, I can feel his abrupt stop, his scorching gaze on my back. “What are you doing?”
And suddenly, it’s March, and I’m in the pantry holding a Minnie Mouse PEZ dispenser.
I clutch my injured arm. “It fell,” I say, barely a whisper.
“Baby,” he says, and his tender tone makes me want to cower. “Please get up.”
Tears collect on my lashes. “I’ve got it.”
“No, I need…” He lets out a long breath. “I need you to get up. Now, Francesca. Please.”
I stand slowly and take a step back.
“Your hand,” he says.
My what?
I look down at the picture of Anabel wedged between my fingers.
Oh God.
He takes it from my grasp.
“Darian…”
“Just go.”
I take another step, my heart crumbling as his eyes burn through the image of his little girl.
“I’m so sorry, Darian. I was trying to put the bag—”
“I need to be alone,” he says, kneeling. “I just—I need you to leave.”
“I didn’t mean—”
“Francesca, please!” His rising voice breaks, and he falls forward, catching himself on the carpet. “Please, just leave.”
I make it as far as the landing before a muffled cry sounds from the closet. My body stills. Time seems to stop while I stand there, frozen in place, one hand wrapped tightly around the banister, the other still gripping my arm. My instinct is to go to him, comfort him, but I know that’s not what he wants.
Just leave.
I take off in a sprint, and I don’t stop until I’m in the backyard, curled in a ball on the poolside lounger. The tears that have plagued me all afternoon break free, and I let them fall, hoping they’ll wash away this awful day.
Jane said loving Darian wouldn’t be easy, but she was wrong. He’s easy to love. It’s watching him hurt that’s hard, and knowing I caused it makes it so much worse. Albeit by accident, I uncovered a bomb. Another one. How many more await me?
I cry until my eyes drain and dry, and then I shut them. I shut out everything but the sound of wind chimes blowing over the patio, and it isn’t long before that fades too.
The lounger shifts beneath me, and I wake to Darian’s worried expression and gentle fingers as they gingerly lift my shirtsleeve and roll it up to my shoulder.