by Robin Hill
Despite my desire to sleep, I stay awake for the drive.
“Traffic is at its best this time of day,” CJ tells me.
His eyes meet mine in the rearview mirror and I manage a smile.
Rural becomes urban, and homes become buildings as we close in on the airport. Anxiety builds inside me at every turn, and by the time we pull onto the tarmac, I’m ready to crack. My stomach is a tangled mess of nerves and it has nothing to do with flying, only flying away.
“We’re here,” CJ says as he puts the car in park.
I turn to look out my window and I see a small jet, dark blue and silver with burgundy trim.
Of course.
It’s like this whole trip has turned into a bad movie playing in reverse. The same driver, the same car, the same plane.
So I take the same seat by the window because why not?
God, this sucks.
My finger hovers over Jane’s number for a while before I press Call, and any semblance of calm I possessed crumbles the second she picks up. My voice breaks as soon as I say her name, and then I completely fall apart.
“Frankie? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”
“I’m coming home,” I say, choking out the words. “You were right about me. Wrong about him.”
There’s silence on the line, then a sigh.
“Oh, Frankie. Fuck. I’m so sorry.”
“I thought things were changing. I thought…” I wipe my eyes beneath the lenses of my sunglasses. “No. He said friends, and I should have listened.”
“You aren’t friends,” Jane says. “You never were.”
“Then why did he insist on calling us that?”
“I don’t know, sweetie, but my guess is…he had to.”
I stare out the window as CJ’s SUV rolls out of sight. “Why do I feel like this? It hasn’t even been that long.”
“It doesn’t matter how long it’s been,” she says. “Love happens when it happens. Some people fall in love; some people start out that way.”
And some people refuse to love at all.
CHAPTER 14
Love Street
Darian
A sigh of relief gusts out of me when I pull into Drew’s driveway and notice his car’s missing. God bless him for having a real job that he actually goes to, unlike me. Amanda can be trying at times, but she deserves a goddamn medal for the way she covers for my sorry ass.
I cut the engine and grab my phone from the console. Francesca’s nonexistent texts and voice mails sting like a fresh wound doused in alcohol. My own absurdity makes me laugh. Why the fuck would she call me?
She wouldn’t. You made sure of it.
I glance at the bottle of Macallan 18 in the passenger seat. “Actually, dousing a fresh wound in alcohol sounds like a damn good idea,” I mumble as I scroll through my phone.
I find a string of missed texts from Drew, and I think it’s safe to say I’m on his shit list. His last text in particular sends a two-fold stab of guilt to my chest.
Drew: Motherfucker. Just friends, my ass.
Yeah, well, not anymore.
Darian: Hanging out at your place. We’ll talk tonight. Bring steaks.
After the accident, Drew’s place became my sanctuary. I’d lived in a hotel for months. Room service and On Demand movies had replaced family dinners and bedtime stories with my daughter. It was the worst kind of lonely, and it was self-inflicted. I’d pushed everyone away. Gloria was patient for a while and gave me space, but Drew wouldn’t let up. He’d show up at my hotel at six o’clock every goddamn day with a six-pack of beer and takeout. It’d taken me two weeks to realize he wasn’t going away, so I started coming here—earlier and earlier each time until it was just expected I’d be here when he came in from work.
I step inside and lock the door behind me. The familiarity of this place goes a long way to propel me from my funk. Leather, dark wood, stainless steel—despite his penchant for chick flicks, or maybe because of it, Drew’s place is almost masculine. He prefers remote controls to knickknacks and Kandinsky to Monet, but he burns fucking man candles. I hated the damn things when I was here all the time, but right now, the lingering scent of vanilla bourbon is a welcome change from honeysuckle.
I walk straight through, out the back door and across the yard, then plop my ass in one of the two Adirondacks on the dock. I slip on my sunglasses and stare across the sun-drenched canal as I untwist the cap off my bottle of scotch. I welcome the burn of that first shot as it slides down my throat and the numbness that builds with every one that follows. The noise in my head begins to dissipate and I relax for the first time in days. Tension slips from my shoulders at the sounds of seagulls crying overhead, the cover on Drew’s boat flapping in the wind, and…
Drew’s voice as he comes up behind me on the dock. “Hey, man, what happened?” he asks, the wood creaking loudly beneath his feet.
Fuck me.
“Nothing happened. She went home.” I glance over my shoulder at him.
He’s Mr. Professional in dress pants and a button-down while I’m Mr. Slacker in board shorts and a tank. He takes a long pull of water from the bottle he’s carrying; I take a long pull of scotch.
“I needed to get out of the house. That cool, or are you still pissed?”
Drew drags the second Adirondack across the wooden slats of the dock and my face twists in a grimace at the sound.
“I’m over it,” he says, stopping to study me. He finishes off the last of his water and tosses the empty bottle over my head. “You look like hell. No fun kicking you while you’re down.”
“Thanks.” I take another swig of my scotch. “Why are you here? Don’t you have a day job?”
He laughs. “Don’t you?”
“Touché.”
He sits down with his ankle crossed over his knee, his fingers steepled and resting on his calf. “My best friend texts me that he’s hiding out at my place when he’s supposed to be doing the dirty with his smokin’-hot, extracurricular, twenty-something friend. I’m a grief counselor. You’re obviously grieving. I am working.”
“I’m not fucking grieving,” I say as I pass him the bottle.
He takes a long look at the label and then shakes his head. “Whatever, man.”
“It was time for her to go and I didn’t want to drag it out. I hired her a car and a plane. I’m not a total asshole.”
He chokes on a swallow. “You didn’t even take her to the airport? Shit, Dare, what happened?”
“What do you think happened?” I hold out my hand.
He tosses back another shot, then hands me the bottle. “Why won’t you just admit you’re in love with her?”
My jaw clenches. “Give up, Drew. It’s the other way around.”
“Jesus, Darian. You are an asshole. Let me guess. She fessed up and you sent her packing?”
Let’s not forget the part where I yelled at her.
I take a drink. “I didn’t send her packing—exactly. Like I said, it was just time. Things were about to get complicated.”
“About to?” Drew says with a laugh. “Do you hear yourself? Things got complicated the moment you met her. You haven’t so much as looked at a girl in five years. Then all of a sudden you’re besties with one? When did you fall for her, Dare? Was it love at first sight or did it happen after you fucked her?”
My fist strikes the arm of the Adirondack a little harder than I intend. “I didn’t fall for her,” I say bitterly. “I’ve been in love once in my life, and you fucking know it.”
“You wanna know what I know?” Drew says, bending toward me. “I know I’ve kept my mouth shut for far too long. It’s been ten years, man. Ten fucking years. If you want to throw away all the good shit that happens to you that’s your prerogative, but don’t sit there acting so fucking oblivious. Your actions affect other people—innocent people. Open your goddamn eyes.”
I put the bottle to my lips and slowly tip it back, dousing my anger before it detonates. Drew doesn’t deserv
e it.
She didn’t deserve it either.
“I didn’t get to meet the lovely Francesca,” Drew says as he sinks back in his chair, “but even I knew she was in love with you. She had to be.”
“How so?” My voice is quiet.
“Because she followed you here. She stayed with you here despite that bullshit friend thing you laid on her. Girls hate that, by the way.”
“It isn’t bullshit.”
“It’s just a word, Darian. A label. Let it go because it is bullshit.” He smooths his hand over his cropped hair. “Whether you want to admit it or not, what you had was a relationship, not a friendship. Can’t you see what’s going on here? You’re so full of guilt over Julia you had to label this thing with Francesca just so you could rationalize it.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“Is it? Can you honestly look back on the past few weeks and mean that? Casual sex, fuck buddies, friends with benefits—whatever you want to call it entails late-night booty calls and occasionally hanging out. Not”—he waves his hand in front of me—“whatever it is you two were doing. You chased her home from Austin. You took her to SoBe. Dare, you took her to your fucking island.” His arm falls limp. “It’s okay if you have feelings for this girl. You’re allowed to move on. Julia—”
“That’s enough, Drew.”
“Would have wanted you to.”
“Enough!” I shout, my hand clenched tight around the neck of the bottle. “She’s gone. They’re both gone. Let it go.” I take a long, numbing swig.
“Okay, you win. Waving the white flag.” Drew stands, pries what’s left of the Macallan from my grip, and lets out a pained sigh. “What a waste,” he says, hugging the bottle to his chest. “All right. Get off your stubborn ass and ride with me to the store. We’re gonna need more scotch.”
The blanket I drag over my eyes does little to dull the sharp pain slicing through my skull. We polished off the scotch rather early and then I went to beer. No wonder I feel like hell. My empty stomach churns at the memory, and I carefully sit up on Drew’s couch, squinting as my eyes adjust to the light.
My headache dampens my senses, but the faint smell of food cooking lures me to the kitchen. I go straight for the ibuprofen Drew keeps in the cabinet above his sink and toss it back with a handful of water. Then I see the bacon. God bless him. Drew’s famous BLT is worth every bit of the hangover I have to endure to get it.
“I don’t deserve you,” I say as the door to his garage swings open.
“No, probably not.” Drew comes in carrying a twelve pack of bottled water and tosses one to me over the island. “How are you feeling?” he asks, sounding fucking sprightly.
“Worse than you from the looks of it.” My voice comes out rough and gravelly. I open the bottle and take a long pull before speaking again. “You seen my phone?”
Drew sets the water on the counter and then picks up a package of sourdough. He loads two slices in the toaster. “I skipped the beer last night,” he says, grinning, “and your phone’s on top of the fridge.”
“Uh…why?”
“Because as much as I want you to call Francesca and put an end to this bullshit, last night was not the time, and you, my friend, were adamant.”
Oh God, I remember.
I was desperate. I just wanted to hear her voice. Even if all she had to say to me was Fuck off.
My head falls back. “You are a good man,” I say, reaching for my phone.
The weight of Drew’s stare is heavy as I glance at the screen. No new messages. I try to keep my expression neutral, but I’m not sure I succeed. Her absence is pervasive. I feel it in my bones.
What did you expect?
The bread pops out of the toaster and Drew goes back to building my sandwich. “Why don’t you call her now?” he says. “It’s almost noon, and you seem sober enough.”
I slide my phone in my pocket and lean against the fridge with my arms and ankles crossed. “I don’t want to call her.” I sound petulant.
Drew smirks over his shoulder as he opens a jar of mayonnaise. “You sure wanted to last night.”
“I also wanted to buy a yacht and move to Zimbabwe last night.”
“Yes, yes, you did,” he says, bent over the counter, laughing. “And you were adamant about that too.” He pushes my plate toward me on the island. “But eat first. You can sail to Africa later.”
I take a huge bite of my BLT and my eyes roll back in my head as the salty bacon and requisite Brie attack my hangover. “Why aren’t you eating?”
Drew snickers. “You might not remember, but I made a pretty big breakfast last night. Then you passed out, and I ate for two.”
“I remember you taking too fucking long.” I wolf down the rest of my sandwich and carry my empty plate to the sink. “Shouldn’t you be at work? Did you get fired and forget to tell me?”
“I thought we could do some fishing.”
His smile is suspicious and I know better than to trust it.
“Good try,” I say, digging my keys out of my pocket.
“What? You’re leaving?”
“It’s past noon; you never fish this late. So just spit it out so I can go home and enjoy my hangover in peace.”
Wearing a stiff smile, he links his fingers behind his head and casts his gaze at the ceiling.
“I’m not calling her,” I say. “You need to let this go.”
“I can’t let this go.” Drew drags his hand down his face and then turns to me.
His eyes are heavy and red, and I can feel the pain they’ve held for me all these years. I wonder what it’s like to stand by while your best friend withers away, knowing there’s not a fucking thing you can do about it.
“You’ve been given a second chance,” he says. “It may be nothing or it may be everything, but I can’t just sit here and watch you waste it.”
“Yesterday you said it was my prerogative.”
“And yesterday you were being a douche.” He shrugs. “But last night…when you talked about her, even when you complained about her…you came alive. You’ve made some fantastic mistakes over the years, but pushing her away might be your biggest one yet.”
My hand closes in a tight fist around my keys. “That’s far from my biggest mistake.”
“Dare, come on,” he says. “It was an accident. One of these days, you’re going to have to accept that.”
I grab my sunglasses off the counter and slide them on. “Annie would have been fourteen tomorrow,” I say, my voice thick but quiet. I draw in a deep breath. “Fourteen. Is that dating age? Probably not to Julia.” I let out a small, hollow laugh. “She’d have said eighteen, I’m sure. Maybe thirty.”
“Jesus. I’m sorry, man. I forgot.”
“Don’t be. I forgot too. I mean, I knew it was coming, but then”—I shake my head—“I got preoccupied.”
Drew’s hand closes on my shoulder and I turn around.
“I tried to make her fit, Drew, but I can’t. I can’t have them both.”
“You’re right,” he says gently. “You can’t have them both. So let yourself be happy with the one you can.”
It was the band’s manager, Rick, who first told me the plane had gone down. He couldn’t be sure it was our flight, but he was confident my family and I weren’t on it. It appeared Global Records had saved our lives that day.
I’d been cruising down the interstate with our demo cranked at full volume so I hadn’t heard my phone blowing up on the passenger seat. It was the blinking blue light that finally caught my attention. I turned down the music and glanced at the screen. I’d missed seven calls from Rick. I answered on the eighth.
“Oh thank God,” he said.
I remember thinking his voice sounded strange, like he was both panicked and relieved at the same time.
I don’t remember anything else.
My mom used to say the best memories were often the most painful in times of loss, and I went to great lengths to bury mine. Anyone who says you ca
n’t avoid grief doesn’t know how to do it properly. The trick is to stay focused; one false move and everything goes to shit. The label was my focus. Francesca was my one false move. I brought her into my life without thinking it through, and now I can’t think of anything else. I shouldn’t be thinking of her at all. I shouldn’t be missing her, especially today.
It’s been almost twenty-four hours since I left Drew’s, and every single one of them has felt endless. I can’t concentrate enough to work and I can’t relax enough to sleep. I lay in bed most of the night just waiting for the sun to rise, but it’s nearing ten a.m. and I’m still here.
At fifteen past eleven, the strong scent of garlic seeps through the air-conditioning vents in my room. It isn’t the first time Gloria’s lured me to the kitchen with food, but it is the first time I’m annoyed by it. I specifically remember telling her not to worry about me until Francesca went home, and she has no way of knowing—
“Drew told her.” His name elicits an eye-roll as I pick my jeans and T-shirt up off the floor and put them on. “Drew, Drew, Drew.”
“You look pitiful, mijo,” Gloria says to me as I enter the kitchen. She’s standing over the stove, wearing the same vintage floral apron she’s worn since I was a child. It used to be red, but it has since faded to an orangey pink.
“I feel pitiful. Thanks for noticing.” I give her a quick kiss on her cheek. “What are you doing?”
“Making you homemade tomato soup,” she says. “What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I mean, what are you doing here?”
“Oh, that. I talk to Drew.” She holds up a spoonful for me to taste.
“Needs citrus,” I say, reaching around her for the fruit bowl. I grab a lemon and quarter it on the cutting board by the sink. “Did you call Drew or did Drew call you?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, I suppose not.” I heave a sigh. “I’m fine, by the way. I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”
“Is that so? A minute ago, you were pitiful.” She wipes her hands on her apron as she turns around. “Now go sit so you can eat.”
I watch Gloria move around the kitchen with effortless grace. She ladles soup into two large bowls, tops them with a squeeze of lemon, and then pulls a tray of grilled cheese sandwich triangles out of the warmer. A smile breaks across my face as she slides the tray toward me.