Chapter Three
FRANKIE
It took me no time to spot Turner downstairs.
He sat on a stool at the empty bar, like a beacon in the middle of a sea of alpine fixtures and upholstered seats.
It had taken me hours to work up the courage to leave the safety of my room. By the time I finally slipped out of the Inn’s robe and into a pair of leggings, an off-shoulder knit sweater and my busted-but-loyal Doc Martens, the sun had already set.
I’d feared I was too late. That, despite it being early in the evening, and with no motivation to leave the Inn given the harsh weather outside, he’d called it a night.
A part of me had hoped he’d called it a night.
That way I wouldn’t have to go through with my plan. Come downstairs. Talk to him. Say thank you for the chocolates. Tell him we can’t be friends.
He was there, though. In a fresh, cream-colored knit sweater, instead of the faded evergreen flannel, and the same dark, worn jeans, body angled slightly to the side to accommodate his knees.
I probably should have noted the emptiness of the bar, considering a book convention was about to place take place. Shouldn’t this spot be already bustling? Maybe, but it seemed irrelevant when all I could do was scream at my heart to slow down as I made my way to him.
Turner’s hair looked mussed, unruly in that way that makes you wonder what’s in that person’s mind.
The break-up? Our meet ugly? The sleeves of his sweater were rolled up his arms in a sloppy way.
As if he’d done so distractedly. That was unlike him.
Turner moved through life with intention.
He reached for the glass in front of him, letting his hand fall when he found it empty.
How long had Turner been here?
Long enough to down a whole pint of beer, at the very least.
I wondered if he’d been waiting for me, making time.
But just as the thought came and went, I deflated.
My body remembered what usually followed that kind of speculation.
It wasn’t fair to our friendship, because it had been a great one, but I’d been disappointed so many times. Especially towards the end.
Long before that, I’d find solace in the mere fact of seeing him.
Having him. Knowing I was somewhat special, even if it wasn’t quite like I wanted to be.
I was the one person he’d confide in with the stuff that really bothered him.
Just like I was always the first one he showed fresh tattoos to.
My body seemed to remember that too, because my gaze was already searching for them.
There was the black cat, taking up the inside of his forearm. And the tiny, yet recognizable, loaf of bread that had always made me chuckle. There was the moth too, batting its wings over the back of his hand, his first tattoo and to this day, my favorite. But oh. There was also new ink.
Turner hadn’t always told me about the meaning behind his tattoos, like the moth’s, as much as I’d asked him a million times, especially about that one. But they would always, always, signify something.
New ink meant new landmarks for Turner, and I didn’t know what that dagger meant. I hadn’t known that dagger had been there to begin with.
My stomach sunk with sadness.
Turner’s head turned over his shoulder, as if he could really sense when I was laser-focused on him. His eyes widened when they met mine, and he shot off his stool so fast he almost knocked it to the floor.
“Hi,” I said, coming to a stop beside him. “Again.”
That familiar set of brown eyes roamed all over my face, then down to my boots, and up the length of my body. “You’re really here.”
“I am. I was looking for you, actually. So, unless you’re already done hanging out at the bar and heading upstairs, I’d love to grab a drink with you and chat. If you’d like.”
His arm shot around me immediately. A stool scratched against the floor. “Have a seat. Please.”
A rusty-sounding laugh left me as I planted myself on top of it. “This is new. I don’t think you’ve ever pulled a chair for me. In fact, I do recall you doing the opposite.”
“Are you saying I’ve never had manners?”
I shrugged a shoulder, watching giddily as a glint of amusement entered his expression. “I’m saying I might occasionally experience tiny episodes of PTSD where chairs and music are involved. At the same time.”
Turner sighed. “I was a dumbass who should have been more careful around you.”
“Hey, it was two dumbasses, if memory serves. And you’re obviously past that. Ric, on the other hand? He tried to pull this shit on me last Christmas. Nana almost throttled him with a kitchen towel.”
Turner frowned, as if the thought was unpleasant instead of funny, like I intended. “Let’s not talk about Ric,” he said. “Ric’s not here. We could talk about anything else. Or … We could just chat. Like you said.”
That had been a little rambly, especially for Turner. But could I blame him? Reunions could be awkward. And my heart was up in my throat because of how close he was standing.
“Deal,” I agreed. “Are you not sitting with me, though?”
“I’m good here.”
“Drinks, then,” I said, bringing my eyes up from a long stem rose that was peeking out of his sleeve and signaling at the bartender. I knew that one. He’d gotten the rose after moving out of Marcia’s. It meant new beginnings. The bartender approached right away. “I’ll have a Negroni, please. And—”
“I’ll have the same,” Turner finished for me. “So make that two and add them to my room tab, please.”
“Thank you,” I said, just as the man stepped away. I turned towards Turner. “I remember you being a die-hard beer guy. Craft. Micro-brewery if available. But the Negroni suits you, I think.”
He pursed his lips for one distracting instant. It made his moustache move with them. It was unfair how good it looked alongside the mullet he was sporting. “How so?” He asked. “How does it suit me?”
“Because it’s not as mainstream as a G&T, but still bitter. Because it’s rich in flavor and depth—so you kind of never look back once it hits you the right way. It’s a drink you return to. Solid.”
Surprise and something else, something I couldn’t put a name to, poured into his gaze.
“That made a lot more sense in my head,” I explained, flushing a little. “I guess it’s hard to put into words. Even for a writer. Or especially for a writer. Anyways. It just feels like someone like you would pick a drink like this one. That’s all.”
“I think that’s a great way to put it. Although I wouldn’t really know. I only ordered it because I wanted to try something you love.”
Heat blossomed, smack center of my body. “How do you know I love it? I could have blurted out the first thing that crossed my mind.”
“Your lips.” His hand rose—that beautiful moth flying—then his index pointed at the right side of his mouth. “You bothered your bottom lip right here, with your teeth. You do that when you’re ordering something you’re looking forward to.”
My mouth parted.
I tried to speak but nothing came out.
I hadn’t been expecting him to say that. The fact that he had felt … like whiplash.
Thankfully, the glasses were set in front of us, providing the perfect excuse not to entertain the feeling. I snatched my Negroni and took a slightly longer-than-necessary swig. But hey, I’d take the liquid courage.
“How are you, then?” I asked him, setting the tumbler back on the mahogany surface. “How is everything, besides the personal news we don’t need to bring up? How’s work? How’s Portland? How are you doing, in general?”
Turner’s sip was a lot more careful than mine, and when he set his glass down, he did so with a frown.
“Not good?” I teased. “Or not in the mood to answer my battery of catch-up questions?”
“The drink is exactly as you described,” he responded, returning his eyes to me. “To a tee. It’s probably the best thing I’ve had in a while, too.”
I laughed. “So that’s why you’re frowning?”
“I’m frowning because now I’m pretty sure I’ll always think of what you said whenever I have one of these. And I still don’t know whether that’s a good or a bad thing.”
My heart went ba-boom in my ribcage.
Turner 2 - Frankie 0.
This wasn’t a game, but I was definitely losing.
I tapped my tumbler against his, the clinking sound of the glass too loud in the empty bar. “Well, cheers to broadening your drinking horizons.”
“Cheers,” he repeated, although unlike me, he didn’t move to raise his drink to his lips.
Ignoring the burn of the alcohol I was drinking a little too fast, I shuffled in my stool, straightened my back, and went back to a safe topic. “Tell me about The Midnight Baker.”
His answer was short. “The bakery is doing well. It keeps me busy.”
“You’re doing that thing with your voice. You’re being humble.”
He let out a sigh. “And I have a waiting list now. Of potential clients.”
I raised my brows, the happy kind of surprised, then gestured with my finger for him to keep going. There was more. “And?”
“And those potential clients are across state, not just in the Portland area.”
“That’s incredible,” I said, and I goddamn meant it. “Amazing, actually. I always knew you’d get there, though. I never doubted that.”
His expression brightened for a moment, but it didn’t last long. It went … all down and musty quickly.
“What’s wrong?” I asked, concern swinging in. “You don’t look like all of this is necessarily good news. I mean, it is, but it also comes at a cost, I imagine. The amount of stress it can bring to grow a business that started small and local must be harrowing. Is that what you’re struggling with?”
Turner’s shoulder shrugged in a non-committal way. Then, he averted his gaze, putting an end to the topic.