Chapter Seven
FRANKIE
I’m walking through the front doors of the grocery store, mentally ticking off items I’d like to buy for tonight’s dinner with Addison, when a body steps into my path. I scowl when I focus on the ruddy face of my least favorite person, Derek, the owner of our local grocer.
He steps into my space, far too close for comfort, and I try not to inhale the reek of cigarette on his breath and clothing. I take a step to the side, attempting to go around him.
“Excuse me,” I say, trying to be polite.
Derek crosses his arms and steps in front of me again.
“I don’t think so. You’re not welcome here.”
“Excuse me?” I say again, this time meeting his beady eyes with my own surprised stare.
“You heard me. I have the right to refuse service to anyone.” He points to the sign on the sliding door behind me. “And I’m refusing service to you.”
“This is the only grocery store in town,” I say. I cannot believe the nerve of this guy.
He shrugs. “Not my problem.”
I look around, not wanting to cause a scene, but there’s literally nowhere else to buy groceries unless I want to drive an hour to the outskirts of Phoenix. I shake my head.
“Come on, man.”
“ You are not welcome here,” he says, then takes a menacing step closer and slowly raises his arm, pointing behind me at the doors. “Get out.”
There’s no one around to witness this incident, which is shocking considering it seems there’s always someone gawking and waiting for the next piece of gossip.
Myself included, though I can safely say this is not information I’ll be sharing with anyone.
I don’t need or want the embarrassing attention it would bring.
I shake my head again and turn, deciding today is not the day to make a scene.
I’ve had issues with Derek for over a year now.
It started with him asking me where I source my specialty coffee beans, which I declined to tell him.
I did a lot of work curating the perfect coffee blends, and I won’t let an entitled man take advantage of that.
He didn’t like that I wouldn’t tell him, of course, and I think that’s what set him on this journey of destruction.
He’s one of those men who can’t handle being told no, and when I didn’t back down, it set him on the war path.
Since then, he’s tried to get my business shut down for a number of reasons: not being open during during proper business hours, claiming poor customer service and discrimination, reporting Roasted for cleanliness concerns… all were dismissed because he’s a blithering idiot just making shit up.
This is a new low, though. I wish he weren’t so hellbent on making my life miserable, but I don’t regret standing up for myself.
If he continues to deny me entrance, I’ll…
Well, I’m not sure yet. Talk to the sheriff?
Take it to the town council? I don’t know, but for now, I need to figure out what I can scrounge up from my pantry.
I decide on spaghetti. It’s nothing fancy, but I know Addison likes lasagna, and spaghetti isn’t too far off that.
I have some fresh herbs and mushrooms to add to the sauce, but when I go to prepare the garlic bread, I realize that not only do I have no fresh garlic, but I’m down to the dregs of my garlic powder.
“Great,” I mutter.
I stomp into my shoes and run next door, figuring Mrs. Langdon, the crotchety old lady who owns the bookstore, has some I can borrow.
I knock on her backdoor, hoping she can hear it, and soon enough she pulls aside a vomit green curtain to peer out the window.
Seeing it’s me, she scowls, then opens the door.
“Hi Mrs. Langdon,” I say. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I was wondering if you had any garlic I could borrow?”
“Garlic?” she says, narrowing her eyes at me and then darting her gaze in the direction of the grocery store. It’s only a few blocks away, so her confusion makes sense.
I sigh. “Yeah, it’s a long story. But if you have any, I’d appreciate it.”
She harrumphs and gestures me inside as she shuffles down the hall.
I step in and close the door behind me, then peek around at what I can see from the entry, hoping for a glimpse of her two cats.
They’re finicky little beasts, but one of them let Everly pet it once, and I’ll never hear the end of it if I don’t even up the score.
No such luck though, and soon Mrs. Langdon returns with a container of garlic powder and a clove of fresh garlic, pressing both into my hands.
“That bastard still giving you trouble I take it?” she grumbles.
I freeze, my hands still outstretched.
“How did you know about that?” I ask, shocked, because I haven’t said anything to anyone about Derek’s behavior.
“I’ve got eyes,” she says, her voice defensive, as though it should be obvious. “I know everything that goes on in this town.”
“Right,” I draw the word out, still not seeing how she knows so much when she spends her days shuffling between bookshelves.
“Well go on, then.” She shoos me toward the door, effectively dismissing me. “Though I’m not sure garlic is the best choice if you want her to stick around…” she mutters under her breath, her voice trailing off as she wanders back down the hall, assuming I’ll let myself out.
I gape at her back. How does she know about our date?
Then I look down at the garlic in my hands, wondering if she’s right .
Addison
I text Frankie that I’m here and they throw the back door open, ushering me inside and up the stairs to their apartment loft on the second floor. They have a record playing soft jazz in the corner, and it smells divine up here. Like lasagna, actually, and my mouth waters.
“Dinner is almost ready,” they say, then I catch a slight cringe as they continue. “Spaghetti and garlic bread.”
“That sounds great!” I don’t know what the cringe was about, but I love spaghetti and garlic bread.
“Make yourself at home,” Frankie says, gesturing from the kitchen. “Bathroom is back there.”
I wander into the living area, which is open to the kitchen, and start poking around. They have floating wooden shelves filled with books along one wall, and I grin when I see an entire shelf of spicy pirate romance novels, followed by another shelf of queer romantasy.
“See anything you like?” they ask, and I can hear the grin in their voice.
“How many can I borrow?” I say with a grin, pulling a pretty lavender book from the shelf to read the back.
They laugh, and I continue perusing, looking over the random knick-knacks, candles, and a few plants set in front of the corner window.
They have a couple pillows on the couch that look out of place.
They’re fuzzy and look incredibly soft, but don’t match the rest of Frankie’s decor.
I pick one up and fluff it before setting it back down.
“I got those for Everly,” Frankie says, and I glance up in question. They seem to hesitate a moment, then shrug. “She likes them.”
My brows pinch, as that seems a bit strange, to have special pillows for a friend who doesn’t live with you, but then I realize, and nod in understanding.
“Her anxiety,” I say, and Frankie nods, a look of relief on their face.
They must not have known how much Everly has told me about her mental health.
She mentioned to me when I was having a hard time that certain textures, especially blankets and pillows, help when she’s feeling out of sorts.
It’s sweet that Frankie has them here for her.
My heart swells with affection and gratitude.
We sit down to eat and I can’t help the moan that slips out when I take my first bite of pasta. It’s delicious, with mushrooms and fresh basil in the sauce, and the perfect amount of garlic and cheese.
“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful of noodles. “I have no manners but this is so good, Frankie.”
They grin. “I’m glad you like it.”
I try to stop myself from eating too much, but I still end up feeling like a beached whale by the time we’re done.
“I tried to hold back,” I say with a groan as I sink into Frankie’s couch. “Clearly it didn’t work.”
Frankie laughs and flops down next to me, angling their body so our knees touch.
My phone has been vibrating in my pocket all through dinner, and it goes off again now, only this time you can hear it rumble against the couch beneath me.
“Ugh,” I say, leaning into Frankie so I can pull it out. I glance down, and all the tension I’ve been trying to leave behind floods back into me. My shoulders lock up and my jaw tenses.
I have notifications from both Sabrina and Benji. Multiple of them. So many that it doesn’t even show me previews of all of them.
“What the,” I mutter under my breath, my eyebrows drawing in with concern, a heavy dash of confusion muddling my thoughts.
“What’s wrong?” Frankie asks. “Who is it?”
“My exes,” I mumble, unlocking my phone to click through the messages.
I check Sabrina’s first, and they start out tame enough.
The usual pleading for forgiveness, asking me to give her another chance, telling me she wants me back.
As I scroll down, though, she starts sending pictures.
Selfies of her wearing increasingly less clothing, a missed video call notification and her scolding me to pick up, a blurry image of her and Benji making out.
And then the messages turn mean. Telling me I’m stuck up, a rich bitch, that I need to put out more and be open to exploring things if I expect anyone to give me a chance.
I can feel my face heating up, embarrassed and ashamed even though Frankie can’t see the messages. There was a time when I thought she was it for me; when I thought we were perfect together. Turns out, I didn’t really know her at all.
I click out of Sabrina’s thread, not having read the last ones, and check Benji’s.
At first, his are similar to Sabrina’s, with words of how much he misses me and wants me back, then trying to convince me to join a threesome with the two of them.
When I scroll past a missed video notification from him too, with an all caps message to “PICK UP” followed by another missed call, his messages also turn mean.
He calls me names, tells me I’ve never been worth it, that I’m a mess and a failure, that I’ll never find someone better than either of them.
I don’t realize my eyes are filling with tears until I blink and one runs down my cheek.
Frankie, who had been giving me space, hears the tiny sniffle I try to hide, and when they whip around to face me, their face turns to a mask of horror.
I don’t blame them. Benji and Sabrina are right—I am a mess, and far more trouble than I’m worth.
I’ve always been told I’m overly sensitive, and this is the perfect example.
Not wanting to face Frankie’s rejection, or disgust, or disdain, I quickly stand and turn to leave.
Before I so much as get a foot away from the couch, though, Frankie follows and their arms are around me.
They pull me into their chest, arms circling my back, one cupping the back of my head to pull it down to their shoulder and the other squeezing tight.
I don’t know the last time I was hugged like this. Maybe eight years ago, before my parents died? A sob hitches in my throat, and Frankie murmurs into my ear.
“It’s okay, sweet girl, let it out.”
So I do. I snot-cry into their shoulder, my chest caving in with the hurt that I’ve been pushing away and ignoring for months.
I don’t know how long it lasts, only that my tears eventually dry and my throat feels raw and I have a massive pile of tissues next to me on the couch that we must have sat back down on at some point. I pull back and wipe my eyes .
“Better?” Frankie asks.
I nod. “Thank you.”
“What else can I do?”
“Maybe just some water or tea, and I’d like to wash my face, if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
Frankie shows me to the bathroom, snagging a washcloth from the linen closet and grabbing face wash from the shower, then promising to have tea ready before they step out and close the door behind them.
I take a deep, shaky breath, only belatedly realizing I left my phone on the coffee table.
I’m glad I don’t have it in here with me, though I do worry about what else they’re sending.
I take a few minutes to freshen up before wrapping all the tattered pieces of my courage around me and stepping back out into Frankie’s apartment.