26 Francesca
I never really let myself think about what coming back would look like. It hurt too much, so I stopped imagining it altogether.
I told myself there was nothing left to come back to.
And after those first few days- feeling Christian's anger, seeing how broken Jamie was- I became even more certain of it.
I definitely never imagined this.
Forgiveness. A clear invitation to stay here again. Restart my life here.
My eyes sting.
I look down before they can see it.
“Well,” I say, huffing out a shaky laugh. “This has been... a lot.”
The understatement of the century.
I glance between them.
Apparently, no one is going to address the fact that I just also admitted I was in love with all three of them.
Which is fine.
More than fine, actually.
I don't think I can survive another emotional conversation today.
“I think I need a little time,” I say. “A little more time, I guess. To figure out what I want to do.”
My gaze lands on Ryan. He’s giving me that small, steady smile of his, warm and patient.
“Yeah,” he says easily. “Of course.”
Christian clears his throat and pushes away from the counter.
“I’m gonna finish mowing the yard,” he says, giving me a quick nod before heading toward the back door.
Then it’s just the three of us.
Jamie still looks exhausted despite barely being awake an hour. He catches me watching and flashes me one of his grins.
“I’ll see you later, Frankie girl, okay?”
The nickname steals the air from my lungs.
He used to tease me with it until I told him I hated it, so he stopped. Then one night, walking home from one of Ryan’s baseball games, it slipped out again.
He apologized immediately, but I told him I missed it, that it felt like a special name, just between us.
But he never called me it again. And maybe I’m reading too much into him using it now, but it feels different. Hopeful, maybe?
He pushes off the counter and walks by me, down the hallway, leaving Ryan and I alone in the house.
“Come on,” he says taking my hand, and leading me back to the other side of the duplex. At the front door, he pauses.
“I’ve got some errands to run- grab some things from the apartment. I’ll see you later, okay?” he says lifting my hand to his lips.
I walk inside and the silence stretches, pressing in until it feels like too much. I need to do something. So I decide to start cleaning.
I grab a trash bag and start with whatever’s closest- old mail, empty packaging, things I don’t have to think about too hard. Anything to keep my hands busy, to keep my mind from circling back to the same thoughts over and over again.
I don’t know if I’m staying here, but no matter what, this place needs to be cleaned out. And I’m not going to make this another thing Christian has to deal with.
The longer I work, the clearer it becomes. I don’t want to leave. But a part of me feels like I should - like I’ve already done enough damage just by showing up again. Like maybe the kindest thing I could do is walk away before I make it worse.
That thought makes my eyes sting and my chest ache.
I move through the rooms, and it feels like I keep bumping into ghosts.
I find one of Gram’s sweaters draped over the back of a chair, and it stops me cold.
It still smells like her, faint but unmistakable and I press it to my face, breathing it in.
I stay like that, my face in her sweater, until the scent seems to fade, then pull it away and fold it carefully instead of tossing it aside.
My mom’s room is the same. I immediately pile up anything of Gary’s to throw out, but then I open a drawer and find a tangled mess of things- hair combs, half-used notebooks, her reading glasses.
I sit on the edge of the bed, turning each item over in my hands, trying to place the last time she might have touched it.
The sadness in here is less sharp- but still present.
I keep getting pulled under like that. One small thing at a time. All these pieces of a life I walked away from- one that doesn’t quite feel like mine anymore.
And no matter how hard I try to focus on anything else, my thoughts keep circling back to them.
All three of them.
I know, somewhat frustratingly, that I’m still in love with them.
Not in the way I was at seventeen, but in a different, quieter way.
I don’t think anything will ever be the way it was. Too much has happened. Too much has changed.
We aren’t those people anymore.
But maybe that’s okay.