Chapter Thirty-Four Fireworks and Pimples
Chapter Thirty-Four
Fireworks and Pimples
Hayes
The Hamptons estate looks like Martha Stewart threw up red, white, and blue all over my childhood summer home.
Mom’s outdone herself this year. White tents dot the manicured lawn like expensive mushrooms. String lights drape between oak trees. The pool sparkles with floating candles shaped like stars.
It’s perfect. Tasteful. Everything Mom prides herself on.
I hate every inch of it.
“Hayes, darling.” Mom glides over in a white dress that probably cost more than a car. “You look handsome. Where’s your date?”
“Don’t have one.”
Her smile tightens. “Well, that’s disappointing.”
“I’ll mingle,” I say, already walking away.
Dad’s holding court by the bar, telling some story about his drumming days to a group of politicians who are pretending to be interested. Senator Morrison laughs too loud at whatever punch line Dad just delivered.
I grab a whiskey and find a corner where I can watch without participating. It’s my preferred party position—close enough to seem social, far enough away to avoid small talk about the economy or my nonexistent love life.
“You look like you’d rather be getting a root canal,” Malachi says, appearing beside me with a beer.
“That’s because I would.”
“Come on. It’s not that bad. Your mom throws a good party.”
I take a sip of whiskey and appreciate the way it burns on the way down. “She invited half of Manhattan. Including the Ashworth girl.”
“Ah.” Malachi grins. “The one with the trust fund and the personality of wet cardboard?”
“That’s the one.”
“She’s over there, by the way. Talking to your mom about her charity work.”
I glance over. Victoria’s wearing a pink dress and pearls, gesturing animatedly while Mom nods with approval.
“Lucky me.”
“You know what your problem is?”
“I’m sure you’re going to tell me.”
“You’re comparing every woman to—”
“Don’t.” I cut him off with a look.
Malachi holds up his hands. “I’m just saying, maybe it’s time to—”
“There she is!” Charles’s voice booms across the patio.
I turn toward the French doors, expecting to see some family friend or political donor.
Instead, I see her.
Frankie stands in the doorway, wearing a blue sundress that makes her look like summer decided to take human form. Her hair’s shorter now, just brushing her shoulders, and she’s clutching a small purse like it’s an anchor.
My chest does this stupid thing where it forgets how to expand properly.
She looks incredible. Nervous as hell, but incredible.
“Well,” Malachi murmurs. “This should be interesting.”
Frankie takes a breath and walks toward Charles, who’s practically glowing with happiness. They hug, and I watch her shoulders relax slightly.
Then Mom descends.
I can see the exact moment Frankie’s walls go up. The way her grip tightens on that purse. How her smile becomes a little too bright.
Mom’s probably calculating seating charts and wondering if Frankie’s dress is appropriate for a Hamptons garden party.
Then Frankie opens her mouth.
“I’m sorry, I brought one more guest with me who wasn’t on the invite list. I hope you don’t mind.”
Mom’s face goes white. She’s mentally rearranging place cards and checking the caterer’s head count.
“It’s really best if you don’t bother saying hello,” Frankie continues, her eyes dancing with mischief. “Don’t acknowledge and don’t engage. In fact, I’m hoping he won’t be here long.”
What the hell is she talking about?
Then she bursts into laughter. “I’m kidding! The uninvited guest is the pimple on my chin.”
I nearly choke on my whiskey.
Mom sags with relief while Dad actually chuckles from across the patio.
No one has ever talked to my mother like that. Ever. Mom thrives on formality and social hierarchies. She lives for people kissing her ass.
And somehow, Frankie just charmed them both in under thirty seconds.
“Your sense of humor is lost on them,” I say when she eventually makes her way over.
She turns, and for a split second her mask slips. I see the hurt flash across her face. The way her knuckles go white again around that purse.
Then her armor slides back into place.
“Hayes.” Her voice could cut glass. “You look . . . well.”
“So do you.”
Understatement of the century. She looks like everything I’ve been missing without knowing it. Like the answer to a question I didn’t know I was asking.
We stand there, staring at each other while the party swirls around us. Weeks’ worth of things to say, and neither of us knows where to start.
“How’s the new job?” I ask finally.
“Fine. Boring. Everything I thought I wanted.” She pauses. “How’s . . . everything?”
“Fine. Boring. Everything I thought I wanted.”
A smile almost crosses her face. Almost.
“Hayes!” Mom appears with Victoria in tow. “Victoria is here, isn’t that great?”
Perfect timing.
Victoria extends a manicured hand. “Nice to see you again.”
I shake her hand briefly, my attention still on Frankie.
“Victoria was just telling me about a trip she took to Provence,” Mom continues. “Isn’t that where you were recently?” she says to Frankie.
“Yes, with Charles—we were near Nice and went on toward Marseille,” Frankie says, nodding.
“How lovely,” Victoria says. “There’s this darling little vineyard near Aix-en-Provence that makes the most divine rosé.”
I watch Frankie’s face carefully. She’s being polite, but I can see the irritation brewing behind her eyes.
“Excuse me,” Frankie says. “Speaking of Charles, I should find him. Make sure he’s not overdoing it.”
She walks away without looking back.
“Such a sweet girl,” Mom says once she’s gone. “Though I’m not sure she quite fits in with our crowd.”
“She doesn’t,” I say.
Mom’s smile falters.
I spend the next hour being the dutiful son. I chat with relatives, laugh at old jokes, pretend to care about Victoria’s opinions on modern art.
But I’m tracking Frankie the whole time.
She’s working the crowd like she was born to it. Making senators’ wives laugh. Charming my father with stories I can’t hear but wish I could. She fits in without trying to fit in, which is more than I can say for most people here.
“She’s quite the character,” Victoria says, following my gaze to where Frankie’s talking to Congressman Bradley’s wife.
“Yeah. She is.”
“I mean, that joke about the pimple? So . . . unexpected.”
Unexpected. Like it’s a bad thing.
“She’s honest,” I say.
“Oh, I’m sure she’s very nice. It’s just . . . well, she’s not quite what one expects at these sorts of gatherings.”
Something hot and protective flares in my chest. “What exactly do you expect?”
Victoria blinks. “I just meant—”
“Because Frankie’s the most genuine person here. She actually gives a shit about people instead of just pretending to for social points.”
“Hayes.” Victoria looks hurt. “I was just making conversation.”
I run a hand through my hair. “That was . . . sorry.”
But I’m not sorry. I’m pissed. At Victoria for her casual dismissal. At my mother for her social hierarchies. At myself for caring so much about what happens to a woman who probably hates me.
The fireworks start at sunset. Everyone gathers on the lawn, and I lose sight of Frankie in the crowd.
Victoria moves closer, her hand finding my arm. “This is magical.”
The sky explodes in gold and red and blue. Reflected in the pool, in the windows of the house, in Victoria’s perfectly painted features.
All I can think about is watching fireworks with Frankie somewhere quiet. Her head on my shoulder, making jokes about the shapes they make in the sky. She’s changed, or maybe I have. I can’t explain it, but Frankie has shifted from the annoying assistant to the person who matters most in the world.
“Hayes?” Victoria’s looking at me expectantly.
“Sorry, what?”
“I asked if you wanted to—”
Shouting erupts behind us. A crash.
I turn and see Charles on the ground, Frankie kneeling beside him.
Everything else disappears.
I push through the crowd, Victoria forgotten, my heart hammering against my ribs.
“Call an ambulance,” Frankie says without looking up. Her hands are on Charles’s chest, checking his pulse.
“What happened?” I drop down beside them.
“He just . . . collapsed. One second he was laughing, the next . . .” Her voice cracks.
Charles’s eyes flutter open. “I’m fine,” he whispers. “Just tired.”
“You’re not fine,” Frankie says firmly. “You’re going to the hospital.”
The paramedics arrive within minutes. Professional. Efficient. And terrifying.
As they load Charles onto a stretcher, he grabs my hand with fingers that feel too fragile.
“Take care of her,” he says quietly.
I look at Frankie, who’s climbing into the ambulance without hesitation.
“I’m coming with you.”
She doesn’t argue.
As the ambulance pulls away, I catch a glimpse of Victoria standing on the lawn, looking confused and abandoned.
I don’t give a shit.
Right now, the only thing that matters is the woman sitting across from me, holding Charles’s hand and whispering reassurances we both know she doesn’t believe.
And the crushing realization that I might be about to lose them both.