Chapter 18 Frankie
Frankie
If I had that across the street…
The door clicks softly behind him, and just like that, the bubble breaks. Or at least it feels like it might’ve with how he just left the room.
Dad adjusts the angle of the phone, his face steady and practical. “So, with the weather clearing, do you think you’ll head back here?”
The question is simple, with an answer that was easy two days ago, but now it sticks in my throat like syrup.
I open my mouth, ready to say yes, of course, but the words dissolve.
Because going home should feel like a comfort, and all I can think about is the tug of the man in my kitchen, like he belongs there.
And the idea that he’d be alone on Christmas. That’s what really breaks my soul.
“I… I don’t know yet,” I admit.
Ivy leans forward, her grin sharp as ever. “No wonder you don’t sound in a rush. If I had that across the street, I’d drag my feet too, and I’ve got a husband.”
I chuckle weakly. “Jones is a lucky guy.”
I scramble for something to balance the moment, to answer the question I know they’ll ask again. “I have to work the day after Christmas Day, but I could call around to see if someone can cover me so I can stay longer with you guys?”
Their smiles light up the screen, and for a second, I let myself breathe. We sign off with promises and reminders—Dad telling me to keep an eye on the roads if I fly, Ivy blowing me a kiss through the camera. Then the call ends, and the silence left behind feels louder than their chatter ever did.
I swear there were sounds from the kitchen when I wrapped up the call, and I wonder if he’s here, listening.
I know what I should want to pack and get home as soon as the first plane leaves.
That was always the plan, but there’s something else I want too, and that’s to stay right here, where the storm gave me something I hadn’t realized I’d been missing.
I push to my feet and go to my kitchen, only to find it empty. Sam isn’t here anymore, but my back door is unlocked.
On the counter, a plate waits under a layer of foil.
I peel it back, and a puff of warmth greets me, along with the scent of butter and pepper.
Scrambled eggs, toast cut neatly, and one strip of bacon curled into a crooked little heart, all make my mouth water.
My fingers hover above the plate, not touching yet, because if I do, I’ll ruin something, and the illusion of what we’ve done will shatter.
Did he hesitate before walking out, debating whether to stay?
Is he coming back? Should I cross the street, knock on his door, and thank him?
I guess if he wanted thanks, he wouldn’t have left.
I eat standing up because if I sit, I’ll start convincing myself it means more than it does.
Then, before I can think better of it, I head upstairs, drag my duffel out from under the bed, and start throwing clothes inside. Maybe I’ve overthought everything. Maybe it was just kindness. Maybe I’m just the crazy Christmas lady across the street.
Sam
I’m a coward for slipping out, but I didn’t want her to feel obligated to make me more comfortable because she knew I would hear it. If she wants to go to her parents, then it’s no business of mine. The last thing she needs is blurred lines here.
My place feels colder than it did yesterday, the storm’s grip finally loosening but leaving everything feeling like a soggy sleeve of a jumper.
I pause at the window just long enough to see her through the glass, her silhouette moving around upstairs.
She’s probably packing, getting ready to see her family.
Good. That’s good.
I force myself up the narrow attic stairs; the wood creaking in protest under my weight, and settle at the desk that feels familiar and yet not, for how little time I’ve spent here.
Powering up my computer, within minutes, the same blank document glows in front of me.
I focus on the rhythm of keys under my fingers as I type out the title to an idea I had this morning.
Better to lose myself in a world where I control what happens.
The slam of a car door breaks my rhythm. I glance out just in time to see Frankie climb behind the wheel, the storm almost reduced to dirty slush at the curbside. My hands hover over the keys, frozen as I watch her pause before putting her keys in the ignition.
Something that feels too much like hope stirs in my chest, fragile and reckless. For a second, I think she might change her mind. Then the engine roars to life, and that hope gets crushed as quickly as it came. This is better, I tell myself. She doesn’t owe me anything.
I slip my headphones on before the disappointment can sink too deep, before the silence of the house reminds me what I already know: I will be spending Christmas alone again.