Chapter 26 #2
Why had he kept those photos?
Why had he kept those photos in that box?
“Frankie.”
Her mom’s voice snapped her out of her walk-down-memory-lane investigation.
She turned and found her mom staring at a wall, pale as a ghost. The angle of the open door was blocking what was on the wall.
Frankie stepped around to see what had caused all the color to drain from her mom’s face.
When she did, she felt her breath catch in her throat.
The painting she’d done her first summer in New York, for which she was awarded the Homiens Art Prize was hanging in the center of the wall.
She’d sold that to a private buyer after she graduated.
As her eyes scanned the rest of the wall, time stood still.
The wall was covered—literally covered, floor to ceiling—with her art.
Not just the work she’d posted online or sold on Etsy during college.
Her high school portfolio, the painting of the red bicycle she’d made in eighth grade, and the pencil sketches she’d done by flashlight in elementary school she was supposed to be asleep.
There were even finger paintings she’d signed with only an FC in the corner before she’d been able to sign her full name.
There was a wonky rainbow with a smiley sun at age five.
Beside the rainbow was a crumpled, coffee-stained comic strip she’d made for a San Francisco Halloween contest she lost when she was ten, a memory she’d convinced herself didn’t matter.
There was another painting she distinctly remembered tossing in the trash after a particularly awful high school breakup freshman year.
A charcoal self-portrait she’d given up on and crumbled up right before she’d taken her driving test. A canvas from what was referred to as her “dark period,” which she’d sworn never to show anyone, because she’d spent the entirety of junior year convinced it was “embarrassing and derivative.” Liam had all of it. Every single piece.
Frankie’s mind spun as she took in the meticulous way each piece was arranged—not just hung but curated.
Grouped by mood, by era, by color palette.
Someone had put serious thought into this.
There were little brass tags under them, the kind you saw in museums, with titles, her name, and age: “RED Bike Costas, F., Age 13.” “Rainbow, Found in Trash, Costas F Age 5.” “Cloud of Clowns Costas, F., Age 7.” “Untitled, Found on Lawn, Costas, F., Age 5.” “Heartbreak, Found in Trash, Costas, F., Age 15.” “Charcoal Portrait, Crumbled in Couch, Costas, F., Age 16.” “Comic Strip, Found in Trash, Costas, F., Age 10.”
There were even pictures she’d taken when she dabbled in photography, birthday cards she’d made for Liam, and pressed leaves she’d painted when she was experimenting with textures and then shoved in the garbage, convinced they were failures.
Some of these she thought she’d lost in the shuffle of moving to New York, changing coasts and had grieved quietly alone in the aftermath.
It was a lifetime—a literal, physical timeline—of her wildest, most mortifyingly raw, and proudest work.
She didn’t even know she was crying until her mom reached for her.
“Frankie,” her mom whispered, stroking her hair, “did you know he had these?”
“No.” Frankie shook her head, not understanding why he hadn’t told her. “I don’t…how? I threw half of these away. The rest I sold…to other people. Some of these are from San Francisco. Some are from New York. I—I don’t understand.”
How could he have all this, not show her, and not talk to her the past twenty-four hours?
Frankie’s mom pulled her into a hug. “He’s clearly a fan.
He was always taking care of you. Making sure you were okay.
I remember seeing him going through the trash once, I asked him if he needed something.
He pulled out one of your paintings, and he said, ‘No got it.’ When he left for college, he asked me to make sure if you threw anything away, to put it in his room.
” She looked up at the wall and shook her head.
“But I never thought… I don’t know what I thought… but I never thought…”
“Cora!” Theia Joanne’s voice carried down the hall. “You’re up! You can’t be late to your own wedding!”
Frankie’s mom grabbed her hands and pulled them up under her chin. “I can stay. We can talk about this. I don’t care about being late. They can’t start without me. You are the most important thing in the world to me.”
“No.” Frankie shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m just…” She took in a shaky breath and forced herself to smile, not sure exactly what she was. “I’m good. Go.”
“Are you sure?” She squeezed her hands.
“Yes. I promise! Go. I’ll be right there.”
Frankie could see that her mom didn’t want to leave her, but honestly, she wanted a few minutes alone.
“Really, Mom. I’m good,” Frankie assured her once more.
This time, her mom nodded and released her hands.
“Okay, but if you need me, just—”
“I will.” Frankie nodded.
Her mom hugged her tight, kissed her on her forehead, and left Frankie in the room alone.
Frankie’s heart hammered in her chest as she ran her hand along the bottom row, pausing at the painting of the red bicycle.
She remembered how proud she’d been of that piece.
She also remembered how devastated she was when she saw the second-place ribbon.
The moment she saw that ribbon, she looked at the piece through the lens of it being too childish and too simple.
When she got home, she buried it in the back of her closet.
But here it was, spotlighted and beautiful, with a little brass plate beneath it and a spotlight over it, like it was a masterpiece.
She wanted to laugh and cry at the same time.
Her body hurt—in her bones—she ached to see Liam.
To thank him. To yell at him. To bury her face in his shirt, to feel his arms wrap around her as she melted into his strength, stoic and solid, letting her press all her wild feelings against him like she was the last ship in a storm and he was the only dock left in the world.
She wanted to tell him she was furious at him for sneaking this into existence and not telling her, and that she was grateful, and she wanted to make a joke about it to lessen the blow of the vulnerability she felt.
Most of all, she wanted to know why he had disappeared, why he was avoiding her, and what he would think of her seeing all of this—her entire artistic life mapped out in color and charcoal and memories—without him being there to explain it.
Not knowing what else to do, she took a shaky step back and reached into the pocket of her robe for the only lifeline she had left.
She set it to video and recorded a slow, panning shot of the entire sunroom, narrating as she went with a forced, high-pitched “What the actual fuck?” and a running commentary explaining a quick few-second story behind each painting.
She finished with a close-up of the little brass tag on the red bicycle painting, and the camera caught the tremble in her hand.
Then, with a practiced thumb, she texted the video to Zee, who was at Brewed Awakenings nursing a macchiato with Shane Fox,—yes, that Shane Fox, the Oscar-winning starlet who once played Marilyn Monroe so convincingly that she was awarded an Oscar and Golden Globe for her performance.
Shane was a Hope Falls local now, having fallen hard for one of the firemen while prepping for a role, and Zee had worked with her on a number of shoots over the years, from Harper’s BAZAAR to Vogue to Vanity Fair.
He texted Frankie earlier that he was meeting her for a photographer-slash-caffeine-sherpa catch-up.
Zion fancied himself a life coach, and honestly Frankie couldn’t argue with the fact since he’d been hers for the past decade.
She wasn’t sure she would have survived New York, or her relationship with Tristan, without him.
Actually, that was probably why it had lasted as long as it had. Most of her needs were met by Zee.
Within seconds, Zee’s reply came in, starting with a string of exclamation points and a GIF of a raccoon clutching its heart.
Zion: OMG. Is that ALL your work?!
Frankie could picture him at Brewed Awakenings, showing Shane the video while explaining the situation.
Zion: This is INSANE. Like a literal museum. I’m jealous. Why has no one ever made a shrine for me?!
Before Frankie could respond, another message came through.
Zion: Shane and I are in agreement…Most. Romantic. Gesture. EVER!
This time Frankie was able to respond.
Frankie: But where is he then? I didn’t see or hear from him yesterday or today…
Zion’s reply was immediate, he must be doing voice to text because there was no way that he was typing that quickly.
Zion: Do not spiral. I repeat, do NOT spiral, please.
He probably just—IDK—needed time to finish the last phase of his master plan.
Or maybe he’s picking up something for the wedding.
Or maybe all hot doctors are required to brood by law.
Whatever it is, until you speak to him, Shane and I both forbid you to spiral.
Frankie slid down the bookshelf, settling in a crisscross applesauce position, and leaned her forehead against the glass window, the coolness shocking her back to the moment.
She watched a squirrel scurry across the grass, its tail a fluttering question mark against the bright blue sky.
She wanted to believe Zee, she really did, but her stomach gnawed at itself with the certainty that something was wrong.
That just like the first time they’d almost had something, he’d bailed.
Maybe she was fundamentally unlovable in the only way that mattered.
She didn’t want Shane to think she was, in fact, spiraling, but at this point, she honestly didn’t care. She needed her bestie, and if an Oscar winner thought she was pathetic, so be it.