Chapter 20
Frankie
Isleep hard but still wake up exhausted. Can’t remember the last time I slept past five a.m. but the sun’s peeking through the blinds with a wicked glare. I check my phone. Eight am.
Reckon I’ve got years of missed sleep to catch up on.
I doubt the proper exhaustion and the weight in my chest stopping my breath will end anytime soon.
To make things worse—I’m a bit of sadomasochist, apparently—I open my text thread with Cal from last night and read through each message again.
Like I need a reminder of what I’ve left behind.
It was sweet of Cal to check on me. Very on brand. But I’m not sure how to take it. He wanted me to go to keep his family out of my mess of a life, but I don’t think he realizes my life will always be messy. His texts make it harder to walk away without looking back.
While I’m reading them again, dots appear. Disappear. Reappear.
Then a message.
Could we FaceTime later? Junie wants to talk.
For a second, the weight in my chest releases, then reality sinks in, bringing the weight crashing down harder.
I already miss Cal.
Not just Cal. Junie, too. Her laugh. Her hugs.
If I see her smile again, it’ll only make this separation harder. And if there are tears involved, I’ll go running back. Because right now, hiding out at the Holloway ranch feels like a better option than facing the demons I’ve left behind here in LA.
But there’s no way those demons won’t follow me. I text back…
I don’t think that’s a good idea.
An eternity passes before another message appears.
Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.
No worries
I reply, then set my mobile aside and exhale. I did the right thing. Just because I can’t make myself get out of bed doesn’t mean I regret my decision. Doesn’t mean I’m rehashing everything Piper said last night, either, wondering if she was right.
Today is just a good day for a lie in. That’s all. That’s what this is. The lie in I’ve been craving for years.
Even on Mondays off, I don’t stay in bed. I go for a drive, maybe a run. On occasion, a surf. I used to be a pro at giving myself time off to relax. The irony is, when I escaped LA for Serenity Cove, I forgot how to be still. I had to keep running—keep moving—to feel safe.
Now the only place that feels safe is right here in this bed, underneath the duvet, curled up with a pillow.
Just as I close my eyes, someone knocks on my door. “You up, Frankie?”
I want to say no, but “yeah, Arch,” is what comes out, so I sit up and prop the pillows behind me.
Archie peers in. “Ready to ring She-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named?”
I look at him, blink, then laugh. “Not wasting any time, are you?”
“Early bird and all that,” he says, already dialing as he walks toward the bed, which I haven’t attempted to get out of yet.
He looks and sounds so much like our dad right now, I can’t help teasing him. “Good on ya’…Malcolm.”
Archie’s eyes dart from his mobile to me with a flicker of surprise, but he stuffs his mobile in his pocket and returns my smirk.
“What’s the wave like?” I ask, suddenly feeling the pull of the ocean again. “We could catch a few, then call Sybil,”
“Already checked. It’s mush.” He gives me a cutting look, like I’m an idiot for thinking he wasn’t one step ahead of me, then sits on the side of the bed. “Good thing, too. We’ve got a huge order at Bombora. I really shouldn’t blow off work.”
I pat his knee. “Ah, look at you, adulting.”
“Don’t remind me,” he huffs. “Will you be okay here alone? I’ll try to dip out early.”
“No worries. It’s all good.”
Archie studies me, seeing right through my lie. He’s not wrong either. After years of spending most of my time outside work alone, the prospect of doing it for another day feels a bit depressing. Even with a good book.
“Rhys and Stella are on holiday; Britta’s at work, but Dex said he’d stop by if he got a chance. His new coach isn’t as lenient as his old coach.”
“His old coach was a bit of a loafer,” I tease.
Archie coached Dex to a surfing world championship.
“Nah. Yeah. Good riddance to that guy. He never could’ve got Dex to the Olympics.”
We grin, reflecting the same smile back to each other.
This is home, right here. Joking with Archie, giving each other crap like proper siblings and friends do.
“As long as Bran doesn’t show up, I’ll be fine. Probably stay in bed and read.” I swat his knee then unfold my legs and roll out of bed. “Lemme pee, then we can ring Sybil.”
When I get back, Archie’s flipping through my book.
“You better not have lost my place.” I take it from him as I climb back into bed.
“Looks like one of those Bridgerton books.”
“Similar, but Georgette Heyer is the original queen of Regency, after Jane Austen, obviously.” I flip through until I find my spot, then dogear the page and set it on the bedside table.
“Jane Austen I’ve heard of. The rest was gibberish.” He takes out his mobile, then freezes before reaching for my book. “Who did you say wrote this?”
“Georgette Heyer.”
He holds up the book, then orders his mobile to look up Georgette Heyer and Alison Fisher. A few seconds later, he’s grinning. “I knew I’d seen this cover and heard that name before.”
Archie hands me his mobile, and I read the headline on the screen. Alison Fisher & Fisherlight Films option rights for Georgette Heyer novel.
“Oh my…” I scroll through the story, reading pieces to Archie.
“She’s producing and directing Frederica!
” I scramble to my knees, my voice getting louder and louder.
“She describes the script as a ‘smart, feminist-leaning, character-driven, Regency romcom.’” I lower the mobile to look at Archie.
“I would love to be in this. Alison Fisher? Frederica? That’s my dream. ”
“You should ring her! I told you a year ago she was asking about you.” He takes his mobile from me, smiling wide.
“Pshh. I can’t just ring Alison Fisher, and I doubt my agent’s interested in doing anything for me. I’ve been dodging his calls for years now.” I come back to earth, sit back and pull my knees to my chest.
“Try Juan,” Archie answers with a shrug.
My old hair stylist, Juan, gave Archie the message he passed along to me about Alison asking about me, but that was a while ago.
I never responded. Not because I didn’t want to work with her, but because I was afraid being in the public eye again.
After being attacked in the press and online—largely by Malcolm and his allies—I was afraid of what people would say and print about me.
So, I hid. I dodged. I ran. Just like Piper said. And I may have thrown away the chance of a lifetime because I did.
I chew the corner of my lip and slide a lock of hair between my fingers.
The ends are dark from when I first dyed it before leaving LA.
I found a girl in Serenity, who was the best stylist in town.
And for a small town, she is fantastic. She kept it looking good for the times I wasn’t hiding under a wig.
But she’s no Juan.
“Go see him,” Archie says, reading my mind. “You know he’ll fit you in, and he’ll give you all the info you want.”
“I’ll think about it. At the very least, I could reach out to my agent.” I let go of my hair and stretch out my legs. “We should call Sybil so you can go.”
Archie checks his watch and nods. “I’ll cover the cost, if that’s your hesitation. I owe you for getting me into him when Piper dyed my hair purple.”
I snort and tug on a curl again. “Does it look that bad?”
Archie shakes his head. “It doesn’t look bad. Just doesn’t look like Frankie.”
Then, to change the subject, I nod toward the mobile. “Go ahead, ring Sybil. Let’s get it over with.”
He dials, pushes speaker, and we wait for it to ring.
“She may not answer. It’s three a.m. in Brisbane,” I say.
“She’ll answer. Robots don’t sleep.”
The words are barely out of Archie’s mouth, and we have to hold back our laughs when Sybil does, in fact, answer. Not with a hello. Just a crisp, “Archibald. Thank you for returning my message.”
“Hello, Sybil. Frankie’s here too.” Archie’s eyes dart to mine and he swings his arms in a robot motion.
I slap my hand over my mouth to stop my giggles. On Sybil’s end, what I think might be a stunned silence follows before she says, “Hello, Francesca.”
“Hello, Sybil.”
“Nice to hear your voice again.”
She surprises me so much that I lie and return the compliment. “Yours too.”
“I would have called you myself if I’d had your number,” she says. “Or if Archie had been willing to give it to us. Mr. McVey wasn’t our first choice.”
I curl my fingers around the corner of the duvet.
“We’re curious about what Dad wants,” Archie says before I can ask how they found Bran and why they thought it would be a good idea for him to find me.
Another pause follows, broken only by a beeping in the background. It’s not like Sybil to tiptoe around something. Efficient is her factory setting.
“One moment, please,” she says finally.
There’s a muffled sound and a soft click that sounds like a door closing before I realize that the beeping I’d heard in the background had gone quiet before.
“Mr. Forsythe isn’t well,” Sybil says, her robot voice cracking like there’s been a glitch in her system.
Archie and I glance at each other, and I lean closer to the mobile on the bed between us to ask, “How not well?”
“Cancer,” she answers. “Of the stomach. His doctors are here now, administering chemotherapy.”
Archie drags a hand through his hair. I lean back against the headboard. No one wants to hear the word cancer, but I’m not sure if it’s the word that hits me hard or the fact Malcolm is the one suffering from it.
“You’re with him?” Archie asks.
“Yes,” Sybil answers.
“I thought he was in L.A.”
“He is. We both are.”
Another glance between Archie and me. Sybil is Malcolm’s right-hand robot, but she doesn’t usually travel with him. She manages things at home in Brisbane while he jets around from business to business. Girlfriend to girlfriend.
“Is he in hospital?” Archie asks. “What stage is he?”