Chapter 14 Frankie #2
There are women around, milling in clusters. But one of them—a blonde in a fitted cream parka with perfectly curled hair and lashes that could sweep snow—is all over him.
She places a hand on his arm, and leans in when she talks. He doesn’t step away, or seem to flirt back, but he does say something that makes her laugh.
My chest squeezes painfully tight.
“He looks busy,” Tamara says. “We should go say hi later.”
Or not.
“Super busy,” I mutter. “Fending off the town’s entire dating radius.”
Tamara’s mouth twitches. “I recognize her, actually. Candace, I think? Or Cassidy. She works at the vet. Single for a while now.”
“Good for her,” I say flatly, even as the ache claws under my ribs.
“You okay?”
“Fine,” I lie. “Just cold.”
I look down at my phone again. No new messages or voice notes, just the same haunting silence.
Ana’s voice echoes in my head, quiet and cruel in its accuracy.
If he wanted to reply, he would.
Tamara gives me another look, but before she can dig deeper, we’re ambushed by Logan, Lulu, and Eli, who skate to the edge of the path and stop with a flourish, snow spraying.
“Frankie!” Lulu calls. “Come fall on your ass with us!”
“I’m good, thanks.”
Eli frowns. “Come on, it’s tradition.”
“My tradition is not concussing myself in front of an entire town.”
Logan tilts his head. “Wait, do you seriously—”
“She tried once,” Tamara offers, grinning. “Fell in the first thirty seconds. Took out a group of Girl Scouts and a snowman.”
“That snowman had it coming,” I deadpan. “Judgy little bastard.”
“Come on,” Lulu coaxes, gliding effortlessly backwards. “We’ll hold your hands.”
“Yeah, that’s what the Girl Scouts said.”
While we’re bickering, a ripple of cheers breaks out around the ice. I turn, and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Because the Maplewood firefighters are heading onto the rink.
They’re in skates, most of them already gliding to the center with sticks in hand.
The crowd’s going feral, whistling and calling out names, even though no one seems entirely sure who they’re playing. Some kind of community all-star scramble. It doesn’t matter, though. The optics are insane.
“Love how they still do this little town hockey match every year,” Tamara says. “Even if the firefighters usually win.”
Of course they do.
Mason hasn’t seen me yet, he’s too busy strapping on gloves—which is when the blonde reappears. She’s in skates now, too. Pale pink ones with sparkly laces.
She skates confidently out toward him, and does that whole oops-I’m-off-balance act as she reaches for his arm. He catches her instinctively, and she laughs, then says something that appears to require her hand on his chest, too.
A flush climbs up my neck, hot under the collar of my coat.
“Frankie?” Tamara asks, but I don’t answer.
Because with perfect timing, Mason looks up. He scans the crowd, eyes sweeping past booths and families and familiar chaos, until they land on me.
He stills, then his whole expression shifts.
The forced smile drops in favor of a genuine one. His face lights up, and he lifts a hand to wave, taking half a step forward like he’s about to glide over the ice to me.
But the ref blows the whistle, the game kicks off, and the blonde’s still laughing as she links her arm through his.
And me? I’m already turning away.
I make up some excuse about needing to get back to the cabin, hug Tamara quickly, and ignore Eli’s teasing about dodging the rink again.
Then I head toward the parking lot, phone still stubbornly silent in my pocket, and decide to stop at the cemetery before I go back to the cabin. I’m leaving in the morning anyway.
Might as well say goodbye properly.
***
The cemetery is quieter than the lake by a mile. No music, no shouting children, no whir of skates on ice—just the branches creaking and the soft hush of winter settling over everything.
I know the way by heart. The little incline at the back corner, the rusted bench someone tried to paint over. The way the maple branches always look barest above their stone.
MONROE Thomas. Beloved husband, father, and coach.
MONROE Catherine. Adoring wife, mother, and teacher.
Their laughter filled the room, their love filled our lives.
Even now, reading their names feels like touching a bruise.
I make my way forward slowly, and then I stop. There are fresh flowers in the holder.
White lilies and a few sprigs of soft greenery, with winter berries.
Not from me, I haven’t visited yet this trip yet. And definitely not from the Parnells—Leah does extravagant wreaths, not understated bouquets.
Glancing around, I half expect to see someone else visiting, but the cemetery is empty.
Maybe it was someone else in town. I wouldn’t be surprised, Maplewood has a long memory and a soft spot for tragedies that happen too young.
“Hey.” I kneel, brushing snow from the base of the stone with a gloved hand.
“I’m sorry I didn’t come sooner,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.
“I kept thinking I would. That I’d bring cider or light a candle or something.
But I’ve been avoiding it, because thinking about how much I want to talk to you about stupid things still really hurts.
Not even just stupid things, about real things.
About—”I swallow. “—who I’m becoming and whether you’d even recognize her. ””
My throat tightens as it always does here. I take a breath.
“I hate that you’re missing everything, and I hate that I’m here and you’re not. And I hate—” My voice breaks. “—I hate how fucking hard it is still.”
Wind whistles softly through the branches, and I tuck my face into my scarf, eyes burning.
“I met someone,” I say softly. “You’d hate that I’m opening with that. Mom would tell me to list my accomplishments first, then bring up the man.”
My lips twitch.
“And Dad would pretend not to care, but then interrogate me about his retirement planning.”
The ache behind my ribs grows sharper.
“I don’t know where it’s going,” I admit. “And I’m scared to want anything as much as I want him. But he makes me feel like I’m not broken, or too much, or somehow failing at joy. He makes me feel like maybe I could belong again. To something, or maybe someone.”
Tears rise again, hot and uninvited, and I press a hand to the cold stone.
“I miss you both, so damn much. Even on the days when I pretend I don’t.”
I bow my head, still kneeling, until the cold finally pushes me to stand and leave before I unravel completely.
But something glints near the next row of headstones—a faint shimmer of silver against the dull grey.
Curiosity and the need to do literally anything except cry drive me toward it.
It’s a phone, half-buried, screen dark, case scuffed along the corner. I crouch down to grab it, brushing it off.
The lock screen flickers awake with the movement and a photo fills the screen. It’s a scraggly tabby cat, looking particularly homicidal in a Santa hat. And next to her—Mason. Grinning like an idiot.
He must’ve dropped it here at some point. I look down at the gravestone behind it, trying to piece this together.
Marcus Fletcher, 1959–2022. Beloved husband, father, friend.
“Oh,” I whisper, as something wobbles loose inside me.
The flowers in the holder are a match, they're just a larger version of the festive ones I saw at my parents’ grave.
My eyes sting first, then my lips tremble.
I hesitate, then crouch down awkwardly, phone still clutched in my hand, unsure what the hell I’m doing, but doing it anyway.
“Well,” I murmur, clearing my throat. “Hi. Um. I’m Frankie. Your son misplaced his phone.” A nervous laugh slips out as I waggle it like he can see it. “Shocking, I know, given he’s basically an every-day hero. But organization skills? Debatable.”
The words feel ridiculous, but they tumble out anyway.
“I, uh… I met him before I met him, if that makes sense. Online voice messages that got very—Ah, you probably don’t want to hear that part.” I wince. “Sorry. You’re dead, you can’t disapprove of me.”
I shift, my voice softening.
“He’s good,” I say quietly, licking my lips. “Like, actually good, in the type of way you can’t fake. He’s been hurt, and it sits in his voice sometimes, but he still shows up for people… And I think he might’ve saved me from something I didn’t even realize I needed saving from.”
My lip wobbles, but I bite down on it.
“He makes me feel like maybe I could matter to someone again, maybe my heart could… and maybe I’m not as unloveable as I sometimes convince myself I am.”
A tear slips down and I swipe it away quickly.
“So if you’re taking requests,” I whisper, “keep an eye on him, okay? He’s doing the best he can, but he misses you. And if he’s falling for me, could you do me a solid and give him a sign I’m falling for him, too?”
The air stills around me and I turn the phone in my hands.
“I’ll get this back to him,” I say, lips twitching. “Promise I won’t keep it and read all his texts, even though the temptation is very real.”
I rise to my feet slowly.
“I should go before this becomes a full-blown breakdown in front of two separate gravestones,” I mutter, gently tucking the phone into my coat pocket.
“My Mom and Dad say thanks for the flowers.”
Then I wipe my damp face, turn to leave, and stop cold.
Mason is standing a few feet behind me. His cheeks are wind-flushed, but it’s his eyes that freeze me in place.
So glassy and wet and devastating.
And he’s looking at me like I’ve just reached into his chest and handed him his own heart.