Chapter Thirty-Three New Normal
Chapter Thirty-Three
New Normal
Frankie
The cubicle walls are beige. Not cream, not tan—beige. Like someone took the color of sadness and slapped it on particleboard.
I stare at my computer screen, where spreadsheet cells blur together in neat little rows. Column A: Account numbers. Column B: Transaction dates. Column C: My will to live, slowly draining away.
“Frankie?” My supervisor, Janet, hovers beside my desk, clutching a stack of invoices. “Can you reconcile these by end of day?”
“Sure.” I take the papers without looking up. More numbers. More beige.
Janet walks away in her sensible shoes, and I go back to typing. Click, type, click, type. The rhythm that used to soothe me now feels like a metronome counting down to my death.
My phone buzzes with a text from Tessa.
Tessa: How’s the dream job?
Frankie: Living the dream. If the dream involves slowly losing your mind in a fluorescent-lit prison.
Tessa: That bad?
Frankie: I just spent twenty minutes entering data about toilet paper purchases for a law firm.
Tessa: Glamorous.
I set my phone down and rub my temples. This is what I wanted, right? Stability. Predictability. A job where the biggest surprise is whether the coffee in the break room is slightly less terrible than usual.
So why does it feel like I’m suffocating?
At lunch, I sit alone in the break room, picking at the turkey sandwich I brought from home while my coworkers discuss their weekend plans. Concerts in the park. Beach houses in the Hamptons. Wine tastings up in Beacon. Normal people doing normal things.
I think about Charles. The way he’d hum off-key while doing the crossword. How he’d get excited about stupid things like finding a good liverwurst sandwich.
How he’d look at me like what I had to say mattered.
“You’re new, right?”
I look up. David from HR is standing there with a sad desk salad, smiling hopefully.
“Sort of.” I’ve been here for a week. In cubicle time, it feels like three years.
“Mind if I sit?”
I gesture to the empty chair. David settles in, adjusting his tie. He’s nice. Safe. The kind of guy who probably has a 401(k) and sends his mom flowers on Mother’s Day.
“How are you liking it so far?”
“It’s great,” I lie. “Very . . . structured.”
“That’s what I love about it. You always know what to expect.” He takes a bite of lettuce. “I heard you used to travel a lot? For work?”
“Something like that.”
“That must have been exhausting. All that uncertainty.”
Uncertainty. Like it’s a disease.
I think about waking up in Provence, not knowing what Charles would want to do. Maybe we’d explore a market. Maybe we’d sit by the pool all day, reading. Maybe Hayes would show up and turn my world upside down with a single look.
The uncertainty was the best part.
“Yeah,” I tell David. “Exhausting.”
That night, I’m sprawled on Tessa’s couch, still in my work clothes, when she arrives home from her gallery job. She takes one look at me and opens a bottle of wine.
“That good, huh?”
“I’m fine.”
“You look like someone ran over your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Exactly. You’re too sad to even get a dog.” She pours two enormous glasses. “Talk to me.”
I take a sip. It’s the cheap grocery store wine that I’ve always thought was fine. Now it tastes like cardboard compared to the vintages Hayes used to order. Everything tastes like cardboard now.
“I miss them.”
“Charles?”
“Both of them.”
Tessa sits beside me, curling her legs under her. “Have you talked to either of them?”
“I’ve texted Charles. And he calls sometimes. Checks in.” I don’t mention that I can hear something different in his voice lately. A tiredness that scares me. “Hayes . . . no.”
“Do you want to?”
The question hits me like a slap. Do I want to talk to the man who made me feel like I mattered, then treated me like a one-night stand? The man who looked at me like I hung the moon, then couldn’t get away fast enough after he got what he wanted?
“It doesn’t matter what I want.”
“Bullshit.”
I turn to stare at her. Tessa doesn’t usually call me on my crap this directly. It’s a little jarring.
“You’re miserable,” she continues. “You’ve been miserable since you got back. Maybe it’s time to stop pretending you’re fine.”
“I am fine.”
“You’re working a job you hate, living on my couch, and you’ve been wearing the same bra for three days.”
I look down. She’s not wrong.
“That’s just . . . practical.”
“That’s depression.”
Before I can argue, my phone rings. It’s Charles.
I almost don’t answer. But it’s late for him to be calling, and something about the timing makes my stomach clench.
“Hey, Charlie.”
“Frankie.” His voice sounds thin. Fragile. “How are you, sweetheart?”
“Good. Great. How are you?”
“I’ve been better.” He pauses, and I hear him breathing carefully. “But I’m okay.”
He’s lying. I can tell by the way he’s choosing his words too carefully.
“Charles.”
“I’m fine, Frankie. Really. Just . . . miss having you around.”
The words hit me like a punch to the chest. I miss him too. Miss everything about that ridiculous, wonderful routine we built together.
“I miss you too.”
“Listen, I want to invite you to a little gathering this weekend. Fourth of July party at my house. Nothing fancy, just family and friends. I’d love it if you came.”
That’s the Winters Estate. Hayes’s parents.
Which means Hayes will be there. One would assume, anyway.
My heart does this stupid fluttering thing that I immediately squash.
“I don’t know . . .”
“Please, Frankie. It would mean a lot to me.”
There’s something in his voice. Something that sounds like he needs this more than he’s letting on.
“Okay,” I hear myself say. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Wonderful. I’ll text you the details.”
After he hangs up, I stare at my phone.
“Well?” Tessa asks.
“I’m going to a party.”
“What kind of party?”
I drain the rest of my wine. “The kind where I’ll probably make a complete ass of myself.”
“Sounds perfect.” She grins. “What are you going to wear?”
“A paper bag over my head?”
“Frankie . . .” She chuckles and tosses a throw pillow at me. “I’m thinking blue. Brings out your eyes.”
I groan and sink deeper into the couch. In three days, I’ll be in the same room as Hayes Winters again. The man who kissed me like I was oxygen and he was drowning, then left like I was nothing.
This is either going to be the best decision I’ve made in months, or the worst.
Knowing my track record, probably the worst.
But Charles asked. And when Charles asks for something, I can’t say no.
Even if it might destroy me.