It’s Just Dinner
it’s just dinner
DAPHNE
There are three universal truths in life: Death, taxes, and the knowledge that you’ll always find a stray chin hair on the way to an event. Now I’m sitting in the car with my magnifying mirror and a pair of my pointiest tweezers trying to dig it out of my face.
“Daphne, did you hear what I said?”
Phoebe’s been trying to give me a pep talk for at least 5 minutes now and somehow I keep managing to find new ways to distract myself.
“I did, I promise!”
“Damien’s worried about you.”
“Worried? Why is he worried?”
The moment I texted to ask if Phoebe could help to get some eyes on Frankie’s book, she hopped straight to the inevitable questions, starting with ‘who the hell is Frankie.’ Coming clean about everything put Phoebe into mom mode, which means now she’s deeply invested in making sure everything’s going right in my life.
“Oh, let’s see, your breakup with Cole—”
“Dealt with. I blocked him on everything.”
“I know, baby, but that doesn’t stop him from taking public shots at you.”
“Let him. I don’t care what he thinks he has on me. The more shit he talks, the more my stream numbers go up.”
People get curious when there’s drama, and even though I haven’t put out an album for two years, my last single just hit the Billboard Top 100 again. He’ll probably be doing me a favor.
“Well there’s Joe’s passing,” she continues. “And the bar? And before you say anything, I know I’m not your mom, but I have known you for almost 20 years. You can’t pretend this isn’t a lot of pressure.”
I really don’t see how it’s such a big deal. Hux has been working on the PR since Frankie and I were photographed in Seattle a few days back; we’re gonna make it look like we’re just dating for now, because… well, there’s really no better way to spin it.
“Look, I really do appreciate the concern, but it’s not that complicated. Frankie helps me with the bar situation, I help him with his publishing career, win-win!”
“I looked him up. He’s got an interesting publishing history. Pretty well-written, too.”
“So?” I ask. “You’ll meet with him?”
“I’ll read what he’s got, and if it’s good we can set something up. No promises, but at the very least I can get it in front of Janis.”
“Thanks, Pheebs.”
I end the call, immediately diving back into my struggle with the singular hair on my chin. It takes a few minutes, but when I finally manage to grab that coarse little tree trunk and yank it out by the root, it feels like a lifetime achievement.
“Finally! Fuck!”
I quickly dab some concealer and powder on the wound, fire up the engine, and head toward Frankie’s place.
The drive is short, and I’m a bit surprised to catch myself smiling in the rearview as I pass bustling restaurants and cafés.
There are a few new businesses, but for the most part everything in Emerald Bay has stayed pretty much the same.
I guess for the first time in my life I actually appreciate that.
Turning the final corner I spot Frankie’s house, a stunning mid-century two-story with big front windows and a flat roof.
The only thing missing from the picture is his discarded green bike tossed haphazardly onto the front lawn.
Instead, it looks like he’s replaced it with a big blue motorcycle, which he’s carefully parked in the driveway.
It doesn’t surprise me that he got right back on a bike after what happened. I always felt like he wouldn’t let anything beat him.
I park the car and glance at myself in the mirror one final time, shaking out my curls. It’s supposed to just be dinner, but when he was tying me up the other night at the club, I felt something I hadn’t felt in years:
Danger, excitement... and a familiar fire, even if only briefly.
“Strictly business, Daph. Don’t let your hormones cloud your judge—”
My phone buzzes.
UNKNOWN NUMBER
Are you kidding me? Him??
A screencapture of the HotGoss article pops up right after the text.
I have to have blocked this asshole at least three fucking times now, but he just doesn’t give up. Huxley said it’s pretty easy for someone to spoof a number, all they need is patience plus about twenty minutes on YouTube, and Cole is nothing if not a devoted douchebag.
I hit the block button and pray that this is the last time I have to deal with this petulant little manchild. I want to tell him to go fuck himself with a chainsaw for harassing me like this, but he’s just going to use it as ammunition. I’ll be all over his socials, painted as the villain.
By the time I look up from my phone, Frankie’s on the front porch. He’s in a white dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up to show off his tattoos, and clutched in his hand is a big bouquet of yellow and white roses.
“Goddamn...”
But before I can even think about climbing out of the car, he’s already jogging down the front steps.
“Welcome to Chez Hughes, Miss Carmichael.” He beams, opening my door for me.
“Such a gentleman,” I chuckle as he hands me the bouquet. “Frankie, these are gorgeous, thank you.”
He’s blushing a little. I always used to love when he blushed, because the tips of his ears would go bright red. It was cute then, and it’s even cuter now.
“Come on inside. There’s a big glass of chardonnay waiting for you.”
“You got my favorite? Wow, I really picked a great fake husband.”
I close my eyes for a moment as he leads me inside, taking in the sweet yet delicate scent of the roses. They remind me of my mom’s garden in the summer.
Once we’re through the front door I’m immediately hit with a strange blend of nostalgia and unease.
The house looks oddly familiar, and yet…
doesn’t at the same time. There are more pictures on the walls, mostly photos of Frankie and his friends over the years: camping trips, pool games at the Hi-Dive, and a great one of him standing next to a tall guy in a cowboy hat.
The two of them are grinning as they flip off the camera.
“Very classy, Goldilocks,” I mutter under my breath.
“That’s my buddy Roman.” He beams, following my gaze. “We took that the night he graduated from culinary school. Believe it or not, that’s just how he dresses.”
“I had no idea you rolled with cowboys.”
I take my time as we walk down the hall, looking at the little snippets of my best friend’s life.
Everything I missed. Some new people float in and out, but as he ages more and more a consistent crew seems to take shape.
Near the end of the hall I spot a particularly lively photo, with a purple-haired woman clinging to the Cowboy, and pressing a big kiss onto his cheek.
Both of them are dressed up in those giant banana costumes you only see during Halloween.
“That’s Imogen. Roman’s fiancée.”
He points to another couple dressed as Lydia and Beetlejuice.
“Abi and Logan. They’re married.”
“Adorable.”
“And those two there are Piper and Jay.”
A woman with long black hair stands next to someone I could only describe as the human version of a golden retriever. He’s got a big, dorky smile on his face, eyes closed and everything. They’re dressed as Fred and Wilma Flintstone.
“You seem like a tight-knit bunch.”
“Yeah, they’re pretty much family at this point. You’ll probably meet all of them sooner or later if you stick around long enough.”
Sadness creeps up into my chest. He made an entire life here, and it breaks my heart that I haven’t been around to see it.
But I had dreams that were bigger than Emerald Bay could hold.
“So, you mentioned chardonnay?”
“Yeah!” He grins. “In the kitchen.”
I follow him past the big staircase that we used to slide down inside of sleeping bags, and the little storage closet that I accidentally locked myself in twice during hide and seek.
And then as we reach the kitchen, I hear music.
Bon Iver.
“The tunes are a little different than I remember.”
It’s absolutely up Frankie’s alley. The guy always loved Snow Patrol, Dashboard Confessional, and Alkaline Trio growing up. Bon Iver just feels like a natural evolution for him.
“Yeah, well, I can’t belt out Celine Dion quite as well as you and mom could.”
My jaw drops when we step inside the kitchen.
Gone is the blue and white checkered linoleum floors and the ‘country flair’ decor his mom loved.
He’s replaced it with dark wood floors and sleek marble countertops.
But it’s the little orange cat perched in the windowsill and looking over the backyard that really gets my attention.
“Is this the cat you mentioned? Bugsy?”
“In the flesh. Meet the lady of the house.”
“Oh my god!” I creep toward her, sticking out my hand as she immediately turns her attention to me. “Hi, sweetheart!”
“She wandered in here one day and never left,” Frankie says as he pours us two large glasses of wine. “Got her microchipped and everything.”
I give Bugsy a few head scratches, gazing around the rest of the kitchen. Frankie’s even put up some of his mom’s smaller paintings in here, including my old favorite: a little tree frog surrounded by greenery.
“You really did a fantastic job, Philippa would have been proud.”
“Thanks. No disrespect to mom, but I wanted something that didn’t look like a Pottery Barn show room.”
“Aww, so, the old metal rooster’s gone?”
“He lives in the basement now, keeping an eye on all the monsters.”
He offers a wounded smile.
Maybe you never really get over a loss like that. To carry on through that kind of pain, especially with the accident? I don’t think I could have done it.
We both take big gulps of our drinks.
“Wine’s good.”
“I’m glad. It was five dollars.”
“Wow!” I laugh. “Big spender! And you’re cooking, too? You’ve changed so much!”
When we were kids Frankie’s culinary skills extended about as far as boxed mac and cheese and Hot Pockets.
“Yeah, Roman gave me a crash course, actually. It was fun.”
I follow him to the stove, leaning up against the counter while he works on two big, beautifully marbled steaks, soaking in butter, garlic, and what I’m pretty certain is rosemary. The smell makes my stomach snarl.
“He’s the culinary cowboy, right?”
“That’s him. Used to be a professor, actually, but he found his true calling.”
“Oh! So that’s why he quit?”
He smirks.
“It’s… complicated.”
“Right.” I nod. “So like our situation complicated, or…”
“A different kind.” He swirls his wine. “Although speaking of us, I was actually hoping we could talk more about this whole marriage thing.”
I set my glass down on the counter and clear my throat. It’s gonna be strictly business, just like I told Phoebe. I’ve already planned everything out.
“I’m thinking we have a private ceremony at the courthouse next week. I asked, and the clerk said they could stay after hours so that we can sign the paperwork, as long as they have a bit of notice.”
“I can pick up the marriage license,” he offers. “It’s on my way to work.”
“Sure. That’d be helpful. Hux and I tend to get photographed.”
The last thing I need is for Cole to know what we’re doing here.
“And what about your living situation? I’ve got a spare room if Violet needs it, and I’m happy to sleep on the couch.”
“The bar’s being renovated, but not the apartment. I don’t want to cramp your style.”
Frankie stares at me, his eyes dancing all over my face. It’s hard not to blush.
“Can I ask you something?”
He sounds so serious all of a sudden.
“Shoot.”
“Why didn’t you ask Huxley to do this? I mean, you’ve got a kid together already.”
Sometimes I’m afraid I’ve trapped Hux, and that he’s too good of a person to say something about it. Sometimes I worry there’s nothing he’d say no to.
“He’s seeing someone, and he really seems to like her. I didn’t want to fuck that up. Besides, we’d have to stay married for a year, and I don’t know if he could handle that much of me again.”
Frankie nearly spits out his wine.
“A year?!”
Shit!
Mayday!
“I forgot to mention that.” I squeak, taking a step backward. “Sorry.”
Damnit, that’s was kind of an important fucking stipulation in the deal. Me and my swiss cheese brain. I can’t hold on to a memory for shit sometimes.
Frankie blinks, looking more bemused than anything.
He’s never going to agree to this now.
“Jesus. Okay, uh…”
“Does that change things for you?” I ask. “Because I could go the PR route with an actor or something, I don’t want you to—”
“No, no, you don’t have to go through that kind of trouble. That just kind of locked in the next thing I wanted to talk about.”
His expression softens, but the rock in my gut doesn’t.
“Which is?”
He takes a deep breath.
“Our relationship.”