Chapter 10 Frankie
Chapter ten
Frankie
By the time Mason walks back into the dining room, the pie is sliced and Leah’s just started plating up when Lulu spots him and grins.
“Well, look who survived,” she drawls. “We were about to send a search party.”
Logan leans back in his chair. “Thought maybe you’d fallen in. That guest bathroom is dangerous. The wallpaper alone could kill a man.”
“They’re hydrangeas,” Leah says, carrying over two plates. “My favorite.”
“It’s very… floral,” Logan replies, catching the candied pecan Lulu tosses at him and popping it into his mouth. “You good, bro? Look like you saw a ghost.”
My stomach flips. Mason’s eyes skate across the room and catch mine for a second. Just one, but it’s enough to remember the warmth of his hands on my hips. The way his voice dipped when he said my name.
He shrugs, casual as hell, and slides into the seat next to Herb.
“Alright,” Leah says, setting the last plate down. “Time for sweet and sour.”
There’s a collective groan around the table. Not because we don’t want to do it, but because we’ve done it every year we’ve all been together, and the tradition is now just self-inflicted pain with a side of whipped cream.
“For the newbie,” she adds, nodding to Mason, “we do this every Christmas. Everyone shares one sweet thing from the day, and one sour. Helps keep us honest.”
Tamara nods as Eli wraps an arm around her. “It started the year Mom and Dad died,” she explains. “When everything felt like shit, and Leah insisted we find one good thing anyway.”
My chest pinches, but I nod, remembering that very first Christmas years ago.
Rory’s eyes land on mine, and she smiles shrewdly. “Sour: Lulu and Logan won the snowball fight by cheating. Sweet: Leah’s pie.”
Logan lifts a hand. “Sweet: Lulu.”
“Aww,” Lulu coos, clutching his arm.
“In every, single, way.”
“For fuck sake, Miller!”
“What? Your sister is the sweetest.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “And you’re the sour.”
“And you’re an—”
"Elijah!"
“I’m not done,” Logan continues, taunting Eli for being scolded. “Sweet runner up: the look on your face when that snowball hit your ear. I should’ve filmed it.”
“You’re one sentence away from being smothered in your sleep.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” Lulu says, snuggling into Logan. “Mom just bought new sheets.”
Laughter bubbles up around the table, so light and easy. For a moment, I let it wrap around me, softening the ache that always finds me at this time of year.
Tamara takes a breath. “Sour’s obvious. Mom and Dad not being here. It doesn’t get easier, it’s just… different. But my sweet? This. All of you. Being in a house full of laughter again.”
She looks toward me. “And my baby sister coming to join us, just like old times.”
Everyone turns to me, and I blink hard, pushing past the lump.
“Same sour,” I manage to say. “Always will be. But the sweet’s being back here, seeing you all. Laughing and feeling like I belong somewhere again.”
“You’ll always belong with us, Franks,” murmurs Leah, her eyes glassy. “Tom and Catherine are here too, in spirit.”
Tamara squeezes my hand under the table at the mention of our parent’s names, and I squeeze back, letting it anchor me.
“Guess I’m up,” Mason says, clearing his throat. “Sweet’s dessert. I mean—” he gestures at the plate, “—this pie might change my life.”
Laughter ripples again, but it dies quickly when his smile falls. “Sour’s similar, especially this time of year. My dad used to do a roast every Christmas. The whole deal, with stuffing, crackling, homemade rolls he’d always burn.”
He gives a short laugh. “He died a few years ago, and I guess… working holidays just became easier. Being at the station meant I didn’t have to think about it too much.”
The room quiets, and for once, I don’t want to fill the silence. Because yeah, I feel that.
It doesn’t fix anything, not the way my chest still tightens when I think of my parents, or the way the air still feels thinner around this table during sweet ’n sour.
But it shifts something, just a little. Enough to remind me that maybe grief doesn’t make you special—just human.
When I glance up, he’s looking at me, but not with heat or flirtation or the crackling kind of pull that’s been making my knees weak.
It’s quieter than that, as if he’s seeing straight inside me.
I look away as Leah claps her hands. “Right, I’m packing up leftovers for the boys at the station. Mason, you’re on tonight, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Seven-to-seven.”
“Perfect. You’ll get the rest of the turkey and three desserts. Don’t let Beck eat all the pie again.”
“No promises.”
I push my chair back, suddenly desperate for air. “I’m gonna head, too. It’s been a big day.”
Tamara frowns. “You sure? Don’t wanna stay a teeny bit longer?”
“Yeah.” I smile softly. “I just need a bit of quiet, that’s all. I’m only ten minutes away.”
“I can take you,” Mason offers, already half-rising from his seat.
But before I can decline, Herb waves a hand. “Nah, I’ll run her. Easier for you to head straight to the station. Weather’s packing in quick—snow’s getting heavy, and I reckon you’ll have a few callouts tonight. Always do.”
The lights overhead flicker again, and we all glance up at the soft dimming, before they return to full brightness.
“See?” he adds. “Wouldn’t be Christmas without the grid throwing a tantrum.”
“Been worse,” Leah says, collecting plates. “Remember the year we lost power and Eli tried to warm the pie with a hairdryer?”
“It worked,” Eli says.
“It did not.”
Herb turns back to me. “Just flick us a message when you’re tucked in for the night, alright? Wanna know you’re safe, or Leah’ll make me come find you in a blizzard at 3a.m.”
I chuckle. “Will do.”
The drive to the cabin is short and silent, apart from the hiss of slush beneath the tires and the old Christmas jazz station Herb insists on playing.
The cabin’s tucked just past the cemetery, which I do not love, but it’s cozy enough from the outside. Herb waits until I’m safely inside before backing down the drive, headlights vanishing into white.
Inside, it smells faintly of cedar and clean linen. I quickly get unpacked, then take a look around.
The place is small. Just one bedroom, a bathroom and an open-plan kitchen and living area. There’s a wood burner with two armchairs on either side, and a scraggly little artificial tree in the corner. A note sits beside it.
If you’re feeling festive, we left a few decorations for you to unpack! — The Harrisons.
I stare at the note, then at the box of baubles. Then back at the tree.
Feeling festive? Absolutely not. The only decorations I’ve unpacked are my vibrator and sparkly butt plug, which are currently perched on my bedside table for later.
Instead, I kick off my boots and call Everett. He answers on the second ring, already mid-eye roll.
“Oh thank god,” he says. “Please tell me you’re calling to save me.”
“Still at your parents’?”
“I’m being held hostage. My aunt just asked when I’m bringing a nice girl home.”
I snort. “Oh no.”
“I told her I’m still narrowing down the field. She thinks I’m a monk, I think I’m gay. It’s a whole thing.”
“Do monks usually have septum piercings?”
“Frankie. I’m on the edge.”
He rants, while I laugh and listen. It’s a bit of normalcy, but my phone battery’s tanking fast, and I cut the call before it dies completely.
“I’ll text you tomorrow, Ev,” I promise, grabbing the charger and plugging it in while I make myself a peppermint tea.
They only have ridiculous Christmas-themed mugs in the cupboard. Of course. Of fucking course.
Leaning back against the countertop, I stare at the fireplace and decide a cozy fire would be heaven right now.
I set my mug down, pad over to the wood-burner, and flick through the laminated binder of instructions. Twenty minutes later, there’s a crackling fire and a warm blanket wrapped around my shoulders.
The snow outside is relentless; thick and fast and blurring the world white.
I tuck myself tighter under my blanket, and sit on the rug in front of the fire, watching the amber glow dance along the walls. For a moment, I almost feel peaceful.
Almost.
Eventually I stir, reaching for my phone to text Herb and Leah—only to find it still dead.
“What the…”
I tap the screen. Flip the charger, then try another socket. Nothing.
With a frown, I go to turn the lights on. I’d enjoyed sitting in just the glow of the fire and snow, but now realize there’s no power. It must’ve gone out somewhere between making tea and making a fire.
Maybe I should care more, but the fire’s warm, the snow’s a hush against the windows, and for the first time in days, my thoughts aren’t racing.
I close my eyes, and slowly sink back down onto the rug, unsure how much time passes as I watch the flames dance in the hearth, enjoying the heat licking my face.
My head starts to droop, and I let it, until headlights suddenly slash across the front window.
I jump as a door slams, and boots crunch against snow.
A firm knock hits the door, and I sit bolt upright, heart leaping into my throat.
“Frankie?” a voice calls. “It’s me.”
Mason.
I scramble to the door and crack it open, blinking against the snowstorm and the man standing in it. His cheeks are flushed, snow dusts his shoulders and his chest rises with every breath misting the cold.
“You didn’t check in.”