Chapter Twenty-Seven
On Wednesday, I meet Frank at Gloria’s.
It’s a coffee shop on the other end of Gilmore’s downtown, a shoddy runner-up that pales in comparison to Wanda’s perfection. But Frank pitches it as his favorite spot in the neighborhood, and since he’s making the trek in from the city, I don’t fight the suggestion.
Simran wouldn’t hear of my turning down the date, especially once I filled her in on my day with Kush.
A good distraction to keep Kush off my mind, as she put it, and it’s not like I disagree with her logic.
Pursuing things with Kush is a bad idea, for a million reasons.
Not the least of which is the reality of his present disinterest. An alleged childhood crush bears no relevance to his current feelings.
His reaction following the party was crystal clear.
Plus, I can’t deny that I’m curious to see the story with Frank through, if only to check off my promise at the start of summer to get back out there.
I’d been excited about Frank when we first met, and even if nothing comes from today, I want to get comfortable dating again.
I’ve been far too closed off since Kamran.
This is what I tell myself as I wait on the white wooden benches outside Gloria’s. And wait. At last, sixteen minutes past the hour, when I’m considering just leaving, I spot Frank in the distance. He’s riding an electric scooter and is dressed in joggers, with a gym bag slung over his shoulder.
“Rani!” he says, still ten feet away. I rise to my feet as he parks and locks the scooter, trying to conceal how put off I am by his tardiness and mode of transport. “Sorry I’m late, traffic was crazy.”
My brows furrow, I’m confused by the suggestion that he scootered from Seattle. “Did you—?”
“Oh, I took the train to Gilmore,” he clarifies. “I meant traffic from the station.”
The station is a five-minute walk from Gloria’s, but I choose to let this slide. “Ah,” I say.
“It’s so good to see you,” he says, leaning in to give me a cursory side hug.
I return it with an uncomfortable back pat. “You too,” I say. He opens the door, and we enter the shop together.
“So, how have you been?” he asks as we step into line. “I feel like it’s been ages since I saw you last.”
I tilt my head, uncertain if he’s doing a bit or being earnest. Bewilderment rises when I determine it’s the latter.
“I’ve been good,” I say. “Super busy with work, but good.” I glance at him, wondering if he’ll address the elephant in the room, the reason it’s been ages since we last met. “How have you been?”
He does not. “Great,” he says instead. “Don’t have a ton going on, but it’s been nice to rest and recharge before school starts up again.”
There’s a beat. “Right,” I say. We’re called to the register, and I order a vanilla latte, the only sweet option on the menu. Frank makes a show of covering the six-dollar coffee, practically pushing me off to the side even though I’ve shown no resistance.
“I made you wait,” he says. “So don’t even worry about it.”
We walk around once we have our drinks. My latte feels watered down, more ice than coffee, but I sip it anyways, grateful to have something to busy my hands with.
Despite the bumpy start, I do my best to give Frank the benefit of the doubt and try to have a pleasant time.
I’ve committed to the next couple hours, so I might as well be a good sport.
As we chat though, I get the unfortunate impression that so much of why I was drawn to Frank at the party was due to being under the influence; everything seems more interesting when drunk.
Still, there are moments of levity in our conversation, especially when he talks about his sister, whose basketball team he coaches.
“We finally won our first game of the season,” he tells me. “We’re at a solid one-and-eleven record now.”
“Impressive,” I say. “That calls for a celebration.”
“I mean, the other team only had three girls show,” he says. “But the game still went to overtime.”
“A win is a win,” I say.
He laughs. “That’s what I said.” We’ve drawn close to the Gilmore city park in our walk, and Frank’s eyes brighten when he notices the public basketball courts across from us. “Hey,” he says. “Do you wanna play?”
My brows rise. “Like, basketball?” My distaste is clear in the question; I can think of nothing else I’d rather do less at that moment.
“Come on,” he says. “Caitlin Clark, right?”
The callback to our time playing pong at the party almost makes me smile in spite of myself. Frank’s slinging his gym bag around before I can reply. I wince at the embroidered Francisco Iglesias across the front pocket. It is a truly unfortunate full name. He pulls a basketball out of the bag.
“Wow,” I say after a bloated pause. “You came prepared.”
“I’m heading to a pickup game after this,” he tells me, and now the lazy outfit makes sense.
Any hope I had of having a nice time on this date (if it can still be called that) is rapidly going out the window, but I can’t figure out how to refuse the suggestion, so I follow after Frank to the courts.
My phone buzzes with a text from Kush as we walk: I can’t believe he’s dead. My lips quirk. It’s a true testament to the show that I have to reply: who? I’m so impatiently waiting for a reply that I don’t realize Frank has asked me a question.
“Do you wanna shoot for it?” he offers. We’ve reached an empty court, and he spins the ball in his hands as he speaks.
“Oh, all good,” I say, resolving myself to suffer through a couple rounds before inventing an excuse to leave. “You can have possession.”
A very haphazard game of one-on-one ensues.
I’ve shot around enough with Sanju and Nabhi that I can handle myself on the court, but my heart simply isn’t in it today.
At the least, Frank seems to be enjoying himself, showing off with various trick shots.
His close friendship with Steve is beginning to make sense to me.
“Frank,” I say after I catch a rebound. I hug the ball under an arm. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Shoot,” he says, smiling at his own joke.
“Did you ever text me after Simon’s party?” It’s my last little curiosity of the day, and it’s not as if I have anything to lose.
He stares at me. “Um,” he says, hesitating. “I guess it slipped my mind,” he says. He rushes to add, “But when I saw your profile, I knew I had to get back in touch.” He grins, dimples deepening. “And I’m so glad we made this happen.”
I already knew the answer, but now I’m feeling extra eager to leave.
“Same,” I say. I scan for an excuse as I dribble forward.
I’m still operating on a time-out, but Frank must think the ball is live again, because he rushes to play defense.
In my confusion, I try to slip around him and trip on my shoelaces.
They must have come untied without me realizing.
I catch my fall with my hands, but pain still shoots up my ankle. I attempt to stand and wince at the strain.
“Oh, no,” Frank says, hurrying to my side.
“Oh, no,” I hiss. I put my fingers to the bone and find it aches at the touch.
“Let me—” Frank says, helping me to my feet. “I’m so sorry, Rani,” he says. He wraps one arm around me, and together, we kind of waddle over to the side bench, pain spiking with each step.
Mild swelling has already sprung to the site of the injury.
Thankfully it doesn’t appear worse than a sprain, but I walked to Gloria’s, and it’s clear I won’t be able to walk back.
Frank volunteers to grab his scooter and bring me home, and while it’s a kind offer, I can’t fathom anything less desirable.
“I think I’ll just grab an Uber,” I say, and he nods, worry lacing his brow.
“Please text me,” he says. “Sucks we had to cut this short.”
“For sure,” I say, without a twinge of guilt for the lie.