Chapter 15 #2
“I’m stuffed,” she proclaimed. “You may have to carry me back to the truck.”
He indicated a passing boat filled with tourists. “Nah. I’ll just buy you a ticket on one of those and meet you down river.”
Playfully, she punched him in the arm. He caught her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles tenderly. Layne sighed at the romantic gesture.
“You certainly know how to treat a lady.” She hesitated. “You haven’t mentioned any of your exes. I’m not prying. I promise. But I am a little curious about who came before me.”
His gut tightened. “You know I’m a loner. Was a loner,” he corrected. “Living in the Bay is changing me for the better.”
She pursed her lips. “You didn’t just figure out how to kiss when I came to town, Keaton. Forget I said anything. I don’t need to know about your past love life.” She squeezed his fingers. “As long as I’m the only one in the picture now.”
He told himself he didn’t owe it to Layne to spill his guts, but he found himself wanting to share more with her about his past.
“Let’s go home.”
Keaton signaled the server and paid the bill, leading Layne back to the truck. Once they were on the outskirts of San Antonio and he was able to speed up and set the cruise control, he cleared his throat.
“I meant what I said before. I have kept to myself pretty much. Except in Jackson Hole. I had a girlfriend.”
“Keaton, stop. I was being nosy. I really don’t want to hear about an old flame. Whoever she was, she’s your past, the same as Jeremy is history with me.”
“No, I need to tell you about Frankie.”
He kept one hand on the steering wheel and captured her hand with his free one, drawing warmth from the contact.
“Frankie Fairchild—Francesca—was my same age. Barista by day, poet by night.”
“Was she published?”
“In a few obscure literary journals.”
“Was she any good?”
“I thought so. Frankie had a unique perspective. She looked at the world differently from most people. As a poet, she captured that point of view through imagery. Similes. Some of her stuff could get pretty dark, but I suppose that was her tortured poet’s soul.”
“I’m sure you were drawn to her because of her talent,” Layne said quietly.
He squeezed her hand. “In part. Frankie wasn’t what you would consider pretty.
Instead, she was striking, though. Large eyes.
A nose which was a little too big for her face.
Flawless skin. A wide mouth. Somehow, it all worked together.
She knew art. Literature. Foreign films were her passion.
I never could get past the subtitles, but she gobbled them up. ”
“What happened between the two of you? Is she the reason you left Wyoming?”
“You could say that.”
They rode in silence for a few minutes before he spoke again.
“We met the first week I moved there. I patronized the coffeehouse she worked at. I would take my sketchbook there. Sit and drink coffee, idly drawing, mulling over ideas. We got to talking. I learned she wrote poetry, and art seemed to give us something in common. Other than that, we were really different people.”
“How so?”
“She was outgoing. Yet fragile. She bruised easily. By that, I mean her feelings. I was quieter. Tougher, because of the way I grew up. She was vegan, and I love my meat. Frankie wouldn’t touch alcohol, while I enjoy a cold beer.
Yet she was easy to talk to. We struck up a friendship. It turned into something more.”
“Did you love her?”
“Maybe. I’m not sure now because of how things ended between us. I’d never been in love before. Never really dated much. The only person I had loved was Miss Peggy, and that was more a fierce devotion because I was so grateful to her for rescuing me. So yeah, maybe I loved her.”
Keaton glanced to Layne. “But it was nothing like what I feel for you.”
She swallowed. “This isn’t a competition.”
He looked back to the road. “I know. I just want you to know that even though I was with her about eighteen months—and the sex was great—I didn’t have the connection with her that I instantly had with you.
Yes, I think I loved her. But she poisoned the well of trust. Trust is everything to me, Layne.
There was no coming back from what she did. ”
Again, silence fell between them, with Layne finally breaking it several miles later.
“Did she cheat on you?”
“Yes and no. Not with a guy. With drugs.”
Keaton released her hand, raking his hand through his hair, needing to tell her about this part of his past without being swallowed up by it again.
“I’ve told you that my parents were drug addicts.
Drugs were their god and drove everything they did.
They brought a wedge between us. They were so absorbed in where their next fix was coming from that they severely neglected me.
I won’t go into any horror stories. Just know my life was no bed of roses.
They voluntarily gave up their parental rights—me, their own flesh and blood—because they couldn’t give up the high drugs brought.
Because of that, I knew I would never touch any drug.
Hell, I hate to even take a Tylenol if I get a headache.
I never wanted anything to be so powerful that it rendered me helpless.
I like being in control. I don’t want anything, especially drugs, to have control over me. ”
He paused. “I shared some about my childhood with Frankie. She seemed to be this straighter than an arrow person. Didn’t even touch wine. She was sympathetic. Said all the right things. She knew how anti-drugs I was.”
When he hesitated, Layne filled in the blanks. “She was an addict herself. A functioning one who hid her addiction well.”
Keaton nodded. “She was. I never knew it the entire time we were together and believe me, I was more than familiar with the signs. I never saw any needle marks. No constricted pupils or reddened eyes. Never had mood swings. Those were all things I knew. But there were more subtle signs which I just didn’t put together at the time.
She was thin as a rail. Never had much of an appetite.
She never seem to sleep much. Frankie was forgetful, but I chalked that up to her living in her head, thinking about her poetry. ”
“How did you find out?” she asked quietly.