4 francesca
“I’m so sorry, honey,” Gram says for what must be the twelfth time since I got home.
Figuring out Medicaid and Medicare is like trying to decode a foreign language, and somehow I messed something up. The medication wasn’t covered this month, and nearly all the money we had went to paying for it- which is what set Gary off last night.
“Gram, it doesn’t matter,” I say, keeping my voice light. “You need your meds. I’ll go to the library tomorrow and get the paperwork sorted. It’s fine.”
She purses her lips, shaking her head. “You shouldn’t be taking care of me like this. You should be having fun. Being a teenager. Running around with one of your boys. Or all of them.”
She wiggles her eyebrows, and I laugh despite myself.
“Gram,” I say, pushing her chair into its usual spot in front of the TV. “They’re just my friends. And I’m sure they’re running around with plenty of other girls. Besides- hanging out with you is fun.”
“If you’re going to lie to me,” she says, “at least bring me a drink while you do it.”
I smile and head into the kitchen, already bracing myself for the sad little inventory I know I’ll find. I pour a glass of weak lemonade.
“Well, hello, boys!” Gram calls out, and I smile again.
I think she likes them almost as much as I do- maybe more, since she doesn’t carry around the messy emotions I do.
Gratitude tangled up with guilt, attraction I don’t quite know what to do with, and the quiet disappointment of knowing it won’t lead anywhere.
“Come on in, Jeopardy is about to start,” she says.
“It’s not the same without Trebek,” Christian says.
“What the fuck is a Trebek?” Jamie asks.
I laugh as I walk back in just in time to see Christian smack Jamie on the back of the head. “Watch your mouth.”
“What are you guys up to?” I ask, handing Gram her drink.
“Heading to the store,” Christian says. “Seeing if you wanted to come.”
“Oh- yeah, thanks. Give me just a second.” I duck into my bedroom for a hoodie.
I could walk to the store, but carrying more than a bag or two is hard. And when Christian’s with me, he insists on paying, which means I can get more than ramen and milk. He says it’s only fair since he eats dinner with us most nights, but it never really feels fair.
But not much in my life does right now.
I lift the corner of my mattress, checking the small stash of cash hidden underneath. Emergency money. What’s left after Gary.
I let myself feel it for just a second.
How fast everything fell apart. Mom getting sick. Then dying. And after that… everything shifting, everything narrowing, until our whole lives revolved around Gary and whatever version of him walked through the door- wired, strung out, or coming down hard.
I let the mattress drop and glance at myself in the mirror.
I wince at the reflection. At least it’s not a black eye this time. Just a bruise blooming purple along my temple and cheekbone. Easy enough to hide. I shift my hair to cover it.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t here last night.”
Christian’s voice startles me. I turn to find him leaning in the doorway.
“I went for a run and I- ” He pulls off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose.
He’s upset. I’ve learned his tells over the years. He runs his hand through his thick, dark brown hair or pulls his glasses off to either aggressively clean the lenses or, like now, he massages his nose like he’s getting a headache.
He does it a lot around me. Because I’m pretty sure I’m a constant headache.
“It’s not your fault,” I say. I walk over and take his hand, giving it a squeeze. “But thank you for caring. And thanks for the store. I was about to make dinner out of Ritz crackers and pickles.”
He grimaces. “That’s awful. Pickles are disgusting.”
“Watch it,” I say, poking him in the chest before dragging him back toward the living room. “Pickles are beloved in this household.”
Jamie’s in the chair next to Gram, both of them staring at the TV.
“The Orioles! It’s the fucking Orioles!” Jamie yells.
“You didn’t answer correctly,” Gram says, smacking his arm. “You have to say, ‘Who are the Orioles.’”
“That’s bullshit.”
His eyes flick to us- and drop to our still-clasped hands.
I let go immediately. “Any requests, Gram?”
“Vodka and a cigar?”
I roll my eyes at her. The truth is, knowing her, that actually is what she would request if there was the slightest chance we’d get it for her.
Outside, we pile into Christian’s car, me in the front seat. I used to try and sit in the back but it always resulted in a time-wasting standoff that I always lost.
“So,” I say, twisting around in my seat, “why are you coming to the store with us?”
Jamie shrugs. “Why not?”
“He moved in with me,” Christian says.
“Wait- really? Why?”
“I felt too far away from you, babe,” Jamie says, winking and giving me one of his rare smiles, which makes my brain basically short-circuit.
Jamie looks scary. Like, genuinely intimidating.
He’s tall and strong in a way that makes most people around him look small.
He has dark hair- so dark it’s almost black- but the lightest green eyes.
They are ridiculous, like what I imagine sea glass to look like.
He’s covered in tattoos. They climb up his neck and disappear beneath the sleeves of his shirts.
He looks like the kind of guy your mother would immediately tell me to stay away from. He curses like it’s punctuation and always has this expression like he’s two seconds away from getting in a fight.
But I’m not scared of him. Not even a little.
And when he smiles- which isn’t often- the crooked grin does stupid things to me. Like suddenly I forget how to act like a normal person around him.
Which is exactly why I hold my hand up for a high-five.
“Neighbors,” I say brightly.
He rolls his eyes, but there’s a smirk there as he slaps my palm.
The movement shifts my hair.
His gaze catches on my temple, and everything changes. His jaw tightens. “Motherfucker.”
“It’s okay,” I say quickly, pushing my hair back into place. “I’m okay.” I give them a hopeful smile, like maybe if I look convincing enough, they’ll believe me. Like maybe if I believe it, it’ll become true.
Christian parks and finally turns to face me.
“Francesca,” he says quietly.
He’s the only one of them who uses my full name. I used to hate it, convinced it sounded old-fashioned and heavy, like something that belonged to somebody else.
But when he says it, it sounds beautiful. Familiar. Like something that finally fits. Like it belongs to me after all.
And maybe, a little, to him too.
“It’s not okay. It’s never been okay.” He exhales. “He’s got us over a barrel. Any one of us would bust in there and take you out of it if we could. You know that, right?”
My eyes burn, but I won’t let myself cry. I stopped crying over Gary a long time ago.
“Yeah,” I say, nodding. “I know.” I force a small smile. “It’s not forever. Right?”
Christian takes a breath, then looks back at me, his brown eyes sharp behind his glasses.
“It’s not forever,” he says quietly. “This won’t be your life forever. I promise.”
His voice fades, and the tears threaten again.
They tried.
The first time he hit me, Jamie went after him, beat him so bad I thought he may kill him. Gary threatened cops. We threatened back. Nobody followed through. Because we all knew how it would go.
If I called- if I actually reported him- I wouldn’t stay here. I wouldn’t stay with Gram. I’d end up in the system somewhere, and she’d be stuck here alone with him. I’d lose her… and them.
So we don’t call.
We just… manage it.
Christian reaches over and cups my jaw, his thumb warm against my skin, and for a second the world narrows to just that. I soften into it without meaning to.
The constant tension I carry fades, just a little.
We hold each other’s gaze too long- until Jamie clears his throat.
“Let’s go. I’m fucking hungry.”
~
In the store, Jamie stares at the apples like he’s never seen one before.
“There are two kinds,” he says. “Red and green. What the fuck is all this?”
I smile and reach for a produce bag, but Christian beats me to it, pulling one down and handing it to Jamie.
“She likes Gala,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket.
I blush, stupidly pleased that he knows.
“Ryan wants a movie night,” he says, then looks at me. “Burgers?”
“Sure,” I say, smiling.
“Sorry, babe,” Jamie says, popping a grape into his mouth. “Gotta work.”
Christian makes a quiet sound of disapproval.
“Oh, fuck you,” Jamie snaps. “Sorry we didn’t all inherit a business empire we can run from the couch, your highness. Last I checked, my money pays for Frankie’s shit same as yours.”
I freeze.
The warmth drains out of my chest, replaced by something cold and heavy.
I look down at the cart, full of groceries I can’t afford. Food they’re paying for.
Like I’m a kid. Like I’m a charity case.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice shaking. “I’m- I need…”
I turn and hurry out of the store.
Outside, I lean against the brick wall, pressing my hands to my eyes. I’m fighting the tears and trying to breathe and I don’t know if I’m hyperventilating or having a panic attack or just breaking down emotionally.
I don’t even know why- it’s not like it some surprise that they pay for things for me. Like, all the time. But hearing it laid out like that just hit me with anger and sadness and… shame.
That’s what it is. Shame. I’m ashamed this is my life. I’m ashamed this is what our friendship has become.
Jamie gets to me first, gripping my shoulders. Not rough. Firm.
“The fuck was that?” he demands.
“I just needed air,” I say, sucking in breath.
“Francesca,” Christian says gently, disappointment thick in his voice.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out. “It’s just… It’s not fair. I don’t want you to have to do… any of this for me.”
He steps closer. “Hey. It’s not a big deal. You’re in a tough spot- we can help, so let us.”
“It’s not fair,” I repeat. “I should be helping more- ”
Every time I bring up getting a job, Christian shuts it down. Says I need to focus on school, that they’ve got it. That friends help each other out.
“I shouldn’t have said that,” Jamie says. “I didn’t mean it.”
“But it’s true-”
“Hey,” Christian says softly, tipping my chin up and wiping my tears away. “If I needed help and you could give it, would you?”
“Of course,” I say. “Anything.”
“Then let us do the same.”
I blink for a moment, just trying to get the damn tears to go away. Finally, I nod, swallowing hard. I take a breath. “Sorry. And… thank you. For everything.”
Jamie drags a breath through his teeth. “You don’t need to thank us. Just don’t fucking run from us, Frankie.”
Then he turns and walks back into the store.
I look at Christian and mouth sorry.
“It’s okay,” he says, holding out his hand for mine. “Just don’t fight us on this. We want to help.”
And that’s the problem.
I need their help. Desperately.
But somewhere along the way, I developed deeply embarrassing, wildly unrealistic crushes on all three of them.
So now it isn’t just that I need them.
I want them too.
And that feels like asking for far too much from anyone.
~
We all go back to my place after the grocery store.
I try to teach Jamie how to peel potatoes for fries, but he’s hopeless with a peeler and quickly gives up, deciding instead to keep Gram company.
Christian’s out back, starting the charcoal. For a moment, everything feels normal- peaceful. Happy.
I’m suddenly lifted off the ground, arms wrapping tight around my waist from behind. The smell of clean laundry and a familiar, minty scent hit me, calming the rush of panic.
“Ryan! Oh my god, put me down!”
He laughs and sets me back on my feet. His hair is still damp from his post-practice shower, dark blonde and curling slightly at the ends, and he’s wearing a sweatshirt from the college.
“What’s for dinner?” he asks, his arms still loose around me, his chin brushing my shoulder.
“Burgers and fries.”
“Yum,” he says, finally letting me go before heading into the living room to join Gram and Jamie.
We eat on paper plates, me sandwiched on the couch between Christian and Ryan, while Jamie sits next to Gram’s wheelchair. He always brings a kitchen chair and sits next to her. She wouldn’t admit it, but I know Jamie’s her favorite.
“Can we watch something from this fucking century, please?” Jamie groans.
“Oh, shush,” Gram scolds.
He rolls his eyes and flops back into the chair. “Whatever. Start the damn movie.”
Gram smiles as I turn on Dirty Dancing. We’ve been slowly working our way through what she calls “the classics.”
“Buckle up boys,” Gram says, rubbing her hands together. “We’re about to go crazy for Swayze.”