Chapter 25
TWENTY-FIVE
Waylon was still trying to catch his breath when his brain, fogged with post-orgasmic bliss and saturated with the taste of her on his tongue, finally caught up with the weight of what they’d just done.
I didn’t put on a condom .
No thought. Just raw instinct and heat.
“Shit,” he muttered.
Frankie stirred against his chest. “What’s wrong?”
“God, Frankie. I’m so sorry. We didn’t use protection.” He kept his voice low, apologetic. “I’m clean, I promise. I get regular check-ups and I always use a condom. I didn’t even think. I was just...lost in you.”
She lifted her head, blinked at him, then gave him a soft smile. “It’s okay.”
“It’s not. Dammit, I should’ve stopped. That was reckless. Are you…do you use birth control? I don’t want you worried about?—”
“I’m not worried about anything.” She kissed his shoulder, then rested her chin on it. “I haven’t had a period since chemo. It just...never came back. They said it wouldn’t right away. That it might not ever, actually. ”
His heart twisted.
“So, you don’t have to worry about me getting pregnant,” she added gently. “I can’t.”
Waylon didn’t know what hurt more—that she said it so matter-of-factly, or that she was trying to reassure and comfort him.
He cupped her face. “Hey. I don’t want you worried about me. I just didn’t want you to be upset.” He clenched his eyes shut. This was coming out all wrong. “I’m sorry. That must be just…awful.”
“If all this has taught me one thing, it’s to let go of the things I can’t control. Maybe one day I’ll get pregnant and have kids, maybe not. Maybe I’ll adopt.” She gave him a mischievous smile. “Maybe I’ll be the cool auntie to a friend’s kids and spoil them rotten, then hand them back.”
Waylon chuckled. “You are something else.” He stroked her face.
“I should have thought about protection, too,” she said. “But, I know I can’t get pregnant, and as for ‘being clean’ as you put it.” She held his gaze. “I trust you. You’d never hurt me.”
God. Her raw, naked trust in him killed Waylon.
She doesn’t know who I am. What I can do. What I have done .
Her eyes softened. “We’re good. You’re good. And I’m not mad. I promise.”
For several minutes, they just lay there, skin to skin, hearts beating in sync.
Finally, Waylon whispered, “If it had happened, if you’d gotten pregnant, I’d do the right thing.”
Frankie’s regular breathing told him she was asleep and hadn’t heard him.
But he knew it was true. If she’d told him she was going to be a mother, he wouldn’t walk away. And he wouldn’t just be a name on a check once a month, or show up only at holidays with awkward smiles and empty promises. He would be there in her life and the life of their child every single day.
As he listened to her breathe and smelled the rosemary in her hair, he realized that if she never had a baby—if that door stayed closed forever—he’d still want to wake up next to her. Still want to hear her laugh. Still want to be the one she came home to.
Every damn day.
Waylon had expected Derek to make a move by now.
The asshole had been served two weeks ago—by Ben, no less. According to Ben, it took Derek a moment to realize what hit him. He took the papers with a smug little smile, then realized what they were when Ben told him he’d been served. That smug smile had snapped clean off his face. Derek had acted confused. Then pissed.
And now—quiet.
No calls. No texts. No late-night drive-bys or surprise pop-ups. No inappropriate mail.
Nothing.
Waylon’s brothers were taking turns keeping an eye on Derek, but he only went to work and back home. Not even a grocery trip, just deliveries. No eating out or seeing anyone, either.
Waylon’s guard wasn’t completely down, but Frankie had relaxed enough to breathe again. She was still staying with Waylon. They’d been back to her house—together—to pick up some more of her things. His previously empty bathroom looked like a lived-in, his-and-hers now, with fancy shampoo and conditioner in the shower, and face cream and make-up cluttering the counter around the sink.
Which didn’t bother him in the least.
They’d fallen into a comfortable routine. Frankie gave him shit every time he gargled and made fun of his cowlick every morning. He dished the teasing right back at her. And then he surprised her with scuba lessons ahead of their trip to Hawaii.
Scuba lessons he’d arranged before she’d pulled out the lucky coin.
When Waylon had held up the bag of quarters, he’d held his breath, hoping Frankie wouldn’t notice. As she dug around, her expression went a little funny.
She knows. She figured it out .
But she went ahead and picked out a coin. Her smile said it all.
“Where are we going?” he’d asked.
“Hawaii. Yes!” She high-fived him. “I can’t believe it!”
He could. Because he’d gone to three different banks trading out quarters for the Hawaii coins. He didn’t have quite enough to feel like fifty states, so he’d told Shane what he was doing and his brother had come through with the rest.
So, from that point on, they ate together, cleaned the apartment together, slept together, went to scuba lessons together. Things actually felt…normal.
Normal enough that Frankie had gone out with Wren, Rochelle, April, Ellie, and Arden to look for a dress for the dinner Frankie had promised Waylon. It was someplace fancy, that was all he knew, and on Halloween night.
Elias gave him shit about it at work. “Do you have to get a costume?”
“Nope. Just wear something nice, I guess.”
“Told you at the last wedding, you shoulda just gone ahead a bought a tux instead of renting. Save you money in the long run.”
Waylon only grinned. The first time Elias joked about it, Waylon felt annoyed. But now? The man had a good point, dammit.
Waylon ended up not buying or renting a tux after all. Frankie told him it was fancy but not tux-fancy. He did own a suit or two, and he cleaned up well enough, he thought. Frankie, however, looked drop-dead gorgeous in a cobalt-blue dress and matching heels.
The ma?tre d’ met them at the door and walked them down a long, dark hallway that made Waylon feel like he was about to get mugged. He took them to a table toward the back of the tiny dining room, maybe fifteen, twenty tables total. No one was eating yet. The meal would start once everyone had arrived. Family style—if that family’s last name was Addams .
When everyone was seated, waiters brought everyone a sheet of paper with the menu on it. Waylon couldn’t make heads or tails of the course descriptions, which were written as haikus.
“Uh, Pixie? How are we supposed to eat something called, ‘Crimson leaves retreat. A crow laments the twilight. Salt remembers flame’? If they’re suggesting I eat crow?—”
“Dude. You tried to feed me an MRE.”
“It didn’t have actual crow in it.”
“Shhh!” She pointed at a man dressed in chef whites, who’d just stepped out of the kitchen.
“Welcome to Liminal, friends, and happy Halloween. I asked each of you to submit an essay about one thing you feared when you requested a reservation.”
Waylon was appalled. “An essay? You did actual homework to get a reservation here?”
“Shush!”
The chef continued. “After reading your essays, I’ve created a multi-course meal for you tonight. There is a course specifically inspired by each story, answering your fear with hope. It is my hope that you enjoy this tasting menu.”
Then the chef encouraged everyone to taste the menu itself.
“Wait, what?”
But Frankie had already taken a photo of the menu, and then taken a bite out of it.
“Edible paper,” she said, munching happily. “You should try it.”
“I’ll pass, thanks.” He set the menu aside.
“Pfft. No sense of adventure.” Frankie rolled her eyes.
The waiter eyed the menu but left it there when he brought two plates to their table. He set the first one down in front of Frankie. Only, it wasn’t a plate but some sort of flat stone. It was unlike anything Waylon had ever seen. He got out his phone and started typing.
Is this the food, or some sort of centerpiece for the table?
When Frankie’s phone buzzed, she raised an eyebrow at him and read her screen.
The waiter placed the second ‘dish’ in front of Waylon. He sent he a second message.
I got a rock.
Frankie’s eyes widened at the Charlie Brown Halloween reference and she rolled her lips in to keep from laughing.
Ignoring their antics, the waiter announced, “First course. Ocean’s brittle kiss. Ashes of squid, whispers roe—Petals judge your soul. A puffed rice brittle dusted with powdered squid ink, topped with roe and flower petals.”
“Thank you, it looks amazing,” Frankie said, trying her best to stay composed.
Waylon was already typing.
Crispy rice cereal in ash, with fish eggs and compost. Got it.
She read his text. He didn’t think her eyes could get any wider, but nope, they were now defying physics. Also, her face was about the color of the rose petals on their plates. He composed and sent another text.
Nothing says “fine dining” like squid ash and judgmental petals.
Frankie bit her lips so hard, he was afraid she’d draw blood. Her thumbs flew across her screen and his phone buzzed.
I kind of hate you right now.
I’m not wrong.
Oh there is SO much wrong with you, mister.
Wait. Is THIS the course he made for YOU?
No. They’re supposed to tell you which one is yours.
Just wait til the next dinner I feed you.
I’m scared.
Nothing should scare you after this.
Just eat.
Waylon looked around to see how everyone else was handling the thing on their plates.
Am I supposed to pick this up and stuff it in his face like a nacho? Because I got nothing else.
Frankie simply smiled and folded her hands on the table, the wench. She wasn’t about to give him a clue.
“Fine.” He picked it up and popped the whole thing into his mouth and chewed.
And dammit, didn’t it figure that it tasted good?
Really good.
He couldn’t begin to describe the flavor except to say it put him in mind of taking a bite out of a clean ocean wave, one that had a light, crispy texture. Solidified foam, maybe. No, the lightest, crispiest pork rind ever, even though it didn’t taste anything like that.
Did you just close your eyes ?
Shit.
Maybe.
“Mmm-hmm, you did,” she said out loud. “You’re enjoying yourself.” Then with more grace than should have been humanly possible, she broke off a piece with the side of her fork and popped the bite into her mouth. Her eyes closed. “So good.”
“It’s okay.”
“You are such a liar.”
The next course was some sort of paper-thin sliced white root vegetable layered with perfectly round green leaves shingled over some kind of cream-looking sauce with little orange dots of oil in it. He was too busy studying it to catch the waiter’s description. By the time he looked up, the guy was walking away.
“What is this?”
“He just told you.”
“Sorry, I was too distracted by the dots. What are they made of again?”
“Taste it and see.” She dipped her spoon into the cream and captured a few. She brought the spoon to her mouth and sipped. Her expression remained totally neutral.
Not fair .
“Fine.” He gave her a tight smile and dunked his spoon in. Flavor burst across his tongue.
“Fuckin’ A. This is incredible.”
She giggled.
The next course arrived. A single scallop sat dead center on a dark blue slab of slate, surrounded by what looked like tiny orange pearls and micro greens that would’ve felt right at home in a dollhouse garden. Waylon listened to the waiter’s description.
“Lone scallop awaits. Pearls weep, sprouts whisper secrets. Love, plated in fear.”
Because nothing says romance like edible existentialism.
Frankie fought back a smile. “You’re ruining the vibe. This is art.”
He stabbed the thing in the center with his fork, ready to stuff it all in his mouth at once, but Frankie was staring at him as she cut hers in half. He picked up his knife and fork and stuck his pinkie out, which made her snort-laugh. He sliced the scallop in half and popped it into his mouth.
A pause.
Then another.
Frankie stared at him. “Well?”
“I think my tongue just proposed to the edible existentialism.”
Frankie snorted louder. The couple at the next table flinched. She covered her mouth with her napkin, shaking with silent laughter. Then she picked up her phone and typed:
You’re such a dork.
He smirked and, pinkie extended again, sipped his wine in victory.
It was getting late and the waiter still had not told Frankie one of the courses was hers. She looked anxious, as if she were afraid she’d been left out.
“There’s still a couple left, Pix.”
Then the waiter approached their table, smiling. “This one is yours.”
He set a flat chunk of concrete down. Other pieces of what looked like thin, broken concrete lay on a burst of greens and tiny flowers poking up through the fragments.
“Winter’s heart still aches. But beneath the cold concrete. Green dares to return.” Then the waiter bowed his head and left.
Frankie silently studied her plate with a bittersweet smile. She looked up at Waylon through her eyelashes .
“It’s a sidewalk in spring,” she said. “Life returning.”
His heart stuttered. “Breaking through, no matter what.”
She looked like she was about to say something, but then she picked up a fragment of concrete and bit right into it. She chewed it with a grin. “Meringue. Very delicate, especially for something that’s supposed to be tough.”
Just like you, Pixie.
After the actual concrete slabs were cleared away, Waylon had no idea what was going on. A half-dozen waiters appeared carrying two balloons each and went around the dining room handing them out to each guest.
Frankie, however, looked on with ecstatic anticipation.
“Wow. If I’d known you liked balloons so much?—”
She waved at him, shushing him. “Just wait!”
“The hell?”
A waiter arrived at their table with the last two helium-filled balloons. “If you would be so kind as to wait until the chef has addressed the room, you may then enjoy your dessert.”
“Sure, as soon as you bring it out,” Waylon said, which earned him a good-natured smirk from the waiter before he turned on his heel and walked away.
Waylon looked at Frankie, who by now was positively dying.
“What?”
She pointed at the balloon. “Beefcake, that’s dessert.”
Dessert? Waylon frowned as he studied the balloon floating over his head. The string was not cotton, but some sort of…God, he had no idea what the string was made of.
“I’m not eating a latex balloon, Frankie.” Then again, he’d just eaten concrete.
“Right. You’re not.” She gave him a full-toothed smile.
“Dear friends.” The chef had returned. The entire wait and kitchen staff flanked him. “It has been our pleasure delighting you tonight. I hope you’ve experienced the kind of wonder only a young child possesses?— ”
“Yeah, like wondering how I’m gonna hide an uneaten balloon under the edge of my plate.”
Frankie mock-frowned as her eyes danced with joy.
“—so with no further ado, please enjoy being a child again.” The chef started making his rounds from one table to the next.
While Waylon looked on, Frankie and every other person in the room pulled their balloons down and bit into them, sucking in the helium.
“Just do it, you big goof,” Frankie said, her voice higher than Mickey Mouse’s. She broke into squeaky laughter like everyone else in the room. Then she started chewing on the string. “Caramel apple taffy.”
“When in Wonderland,” Waylon mumbled before he bit into the side of his balloon and inhaled.
“Whoa, it tastes like fruit. And I sound like a munchkin.”
Frankie lost it. She bent in half with laughter.
She’s the woman from the bus.
He knew it. Knew it.
The earbud’s in my winter coat pocket.
It had to be. He’d played with it all winter and didn’t remember ever taking it out.
Frankie had worn that coat several times now, and never said a thing about it.
Maybe it’s not there.
More likely, he was wrong about the bus.
“Frankie, did?—”
The chef had made his way to their table. “Frankie, I hope you’ve enjoyed your meal.”
The guy had memorized every guest’s name. Classy move.
Frankie smiled while blinking back tears. “Very much. The course you designed for me was perfect. Thank you, Chef.”
Those unshed tears told Waylon this must have been one of the adventures she’d thought about while going through chemo. Wondering if she’d get to experience it .
And she’d taken him with her for this moment. His heart felt like bursting.
The chef turned to Waylon. “And you, Dan?” he asked. “Everything to your liking?”
Dan?
Frankie’s spine straightened so fast her chair squeaked. Her smile froze and she looked like she’d been stabbed through the heart with an icepick.
Waylon blinked. “It’s Waylon.”
The chef blinked back. “Ah, my mistake. Apologies.”
“It’s all right, Chef,” Frankie said quickly. “Last minute substitution.”
He bowed. “My apologies again, Waylon. Frankie, it was an honor.” He lifted her hand and kissed it, then floated off to the next table.
Waylon looked at Frankie as unease creeped into his gut. “So. Dan?”
She was still watching the chef, a look of shock mixed with devastation on her face.
He tried again. “Were you dating?”
Frankie blinked. “Who what now?”
“Were you dating Dan ?”
Her attention snapped back to him. She scoffed. “No.”
“Who’s Dan then, if not your boyfriend?”
She shook her head.
“Come on.” He gave her his best, boyish smile, the one that had charmed women right off the dance floor and into his truck.
“Waylon. I mean it. I don’t want to talk about it.”