Chapter 6
Chapter
Six
FRANKIE
Isat in my car long enough for the heat to make the steering wheel too hot to touch.
My hands shook anyway, so it didn’t matter.
I wasn’t crying—I’d done that already, the whole drive past the lake and beyond to where the addresses grew farther apart and people had cattle or horses instead of front yards and sidewalk.
Despite the suffocating heat, I’d kept the windows down and the radio turned all the way out. I needed something to drown out the mangled version of Katy Perry that went more, I kissed my brother and I liked it…
I probably would have kept driving clear out of the state if the fuel light hadn’t dinged to warn me I was dangerously close to empty. If only it knew. The little gas station had a tinny speaker blasting out a country song about all the things the country singer’s man had done wrong.
Having ignored my phone for most of the past couple of hours—or however long it had been—I groaned at the sheer volume of messages on the screen. The tags from social media were blowing up my phone too. It was all kind of nauseating. I just swiped all of them clear.
I thought about calling Mathieu. God, I wanted to.
His voice had that soft, low steadiness that could make chaos sound like something manageable.
But I couldn’t do it. Not now. Not with my life suddenly turned into a soap opera even bad TV writers would have cut for being “too much.” He’d ask what was wrong, I’d tell him, and then what?
Would he try to fix it? Then I’d have to explain that this wasn’t fixable.
Or worse, would he tell me this wasn’t the issue I was making it out to be? Yeah, no I couldn’t even begin to entertain that idea. I scrolled to his name twice. Hovered my thumb over the call button. Didn’t press it.
I didn’t want to be comforted or confronted. I wanted to scream.
So I called Rachel instead.
Rachel had become something of a personal smoke detector over the past couple of years—the one who always smelled trouble before it caught flame.
She’d been the one to tell me last spring, flat out, that the guys weren’t protecting me because they cared.
They were protecting me because they’d already decided I was a prize no one else was allowed to touch.
She said it over coffee like she was commenting on the weather, then tipped her cup toward me and said, “Wake up, Frankie. You’re a person, not property.”
As much as I’d hated hearing it, she’d been right. Now, she was my only neutral territory left.
She picked up on the third ring, her voice thick with what sounded like sleep and irritation. “If this isn’t about a dead body or free concert tickets, I’m hanging up.”
“It’s worse,” I said.
That woke her. “Frankie?” Her tone shifted—still sharp, but alert. “Where are you?”
“In my car.”
“Are you crying?”
“Not… currently.” My throat was raw, though, so it wasn’t exactly convincing.
There was a pause on the line. “What happened?”
I laughed, a short, broken sound. “How much time do you have?”
“For you? All day. Talk.”
So I did. I told her everything—at least the parts I could manage without hyperventilating.
About Maddy and Eddie. About the you’re my father reveal that had detonated in the middle of our kitchen.
About Archie. About dating invites and making it clear he was interested in me and me…
me I wanted to entertain that idea. Now I wanted to scrub my own skin off.
When I finished, there was only silence. Then, “Holy shit.”
“Yeah.”
“Holy—Frankie. What the actual hell.”
“Right?”
Another beat of silence, then she said dryly, “You know, most people just find out their parents are secretly romance readers or have a gambling problem. You always have to outdo everyone.”
“Glad I could keep it interesting,” I muttered.
Rachel let out a low whistle. “So let me get this straight, your mom lies your whole life about who your dad is, your dad turns out to be Archie’s dad, and you and Archie—”
“Don’t say it.”
“—kissed.”
“Rachel!”
“I’m just clarifying the trauma, hon.”
“Thanks, that helps so much,” I said, pressing my palm to my forehead.
Her voice softened, though her words didn’t. “Okay, look. First thing, none of this is on you. You didn’t know. Neither did he. So you get to stop blaming yourself right now.”
I didn’t answer.
“Frankie,” she said firmly. “You hear me? This is not your fault.”
“I wanted to kiss my brother,” I whispered, and hearing it out loud again made my stomach turn. I’d imagined more than just kissing him. I’d pictured what it would be like to…
“No. You wanted to kiss your friend. Biology dropped the bomb later. These are not the same thing.”
“I can’t even think about it without wanting to crawl out of my skin.”
“Yeah, well, skin crawling’s an appropriate response to this level of family drama.” She sighed, and I could hear her getting up, probably pacing. “Your mom really hit you?”
Why was she focusing on that? “Hardly the first time.” Honestly, that part wasn’t even that important.
“Jesus Christ.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re not fine, Frankie.”
I stared out the windshield. The sky was a painful washed-out blue, cars drifting by, the world looking insultingly normal. “I don’t know what I am,” I admitted.
There was a rustle, like Rachel was grabbing her keys. “Text me your location.”
“No, Rach, you don’t have to—”
“Too late. You sound like you’re about to drive off a bridge. I’ll meet you somewhere. Food, caffeine, damage control. You’re not doing this solo.”
A lump formed in my throat. “You really don’t have to.”
“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why I’m coming. Tell me where you are or drop a pin. I don’t care which. If you make me look for you…”
A wet laugh escaped me at the way her voice trailed off on that threat. While she didn’t tell me what she would do, I had zero doubt that it would be suitably terrible. I was talking to Rachel after all.
When I hung up, I just sat there for another minute, staring at my reflection in the rearview mirror. My eyes were red-rimmed, and hair a mess. I looked like the ghost of someone whose life had just imploded.
I started the car anyway.
The air conditioning roared to life, cold and merciless.
I tried to focus on driving, on stop signs and turns, but the word brother kept sliding into my head like a knife between ribs.
I thought about Archie’s face, how he’d looked at me, how I’d savored his determination when it came to telling me how he felt.
When it came to protecting me… How he’d held me when we danced at the party where so many other things had gone wrong.
I gripped the steering wheel tighter.
Rachel was right—I wasn’t fine. But at least with her, I didn’t have to pretend to be. For now, that would have to be enough.
An hour later, I pulled into the sprawling parking lot of Jax Mart, a gas station so massive it could have hosted a small music festival in the snack aisle.
The sign out front was a monstrosity. It was a neon-armored platypus wearing a trucker hat and a badge that read "Welcome to the Jaxton Family!
" He looked like he was ready to sell me a tactical flashlight, a twelve-pack of beef jerky, and a tiny air fryer all in one breath.
Even from outside, the place smelled like sugar, motor oil, and fried everything.
My car was sandwiched between a lifted pickup and a minivan plastered in “I brake for possums” stickers.
People streamed in and out of the building like it was a mall on Black Friday.
Inside, it had everything: snacks, t-shirts, hot food, merch, a small army of bathrooms, and even a corner labeled “Grooming & Grace” with hairbrushes, perfume, and travel-size deodorant.
It was the kind of chaotic consumer temple that made you forget what planet you were on, let alone what problems had gutted your soul that morning.
I splashed water on my face in the bathroom, wiped away the last of the tear-stained trails on my cheeks, and took a deep breath. Three of them, actually. I even smoothed down my hair, tied it back like that would hold me together. A little war paint of lip balm. My armor.
Rachel texted:
Where are you? I’m in front of the peanut brittle wall. And yes, that’s a thing.
I found her exactly where she said, holding a giant cup of slushie and wearing black combat boots, ripped jeans, and a tank top that read GIRL GANG OR GO HOME.
Her dark hair was in a top knot, sunglasses still on inside, and she had one eyebrow arched like she was about to punch a situation in the throat.
As soon as she spotted me, the slushie went into the cart, and she was moving toward me like a missile. Before I could brace for it, she wrapped me in a hug so fierce, it cracked something open in my chest.
And just like that—all the stupid work I’d done to put myself back together—gone.
My face crumpled against her shoulder. My throat clenched. “Shit,” I whispered, as my arms wrapped around her and the tears started all over again. “I thought I was done crying.”
“You’re allowed to cry, you lunatic,” Rachel said, voice rough with something she’d never call softness but couldn’t quite hide. “Your whole life just turned into a Jerry Springer episode, and I’m pretty sure there are laws against kissing someone you maybe share a bloodline with.”
I laughed. Or sob-laughed. Which somehow made it worse. I ended up hiccuping into her shoulder.
Rachel didn’t let go.
She just held on tighter, like she could physically keep me from shattering into a million pieces in the middle of the Platypus Kingdom.
“I’m so screwed,” I whispered.
“Nope,” she said. “They’re screwed. You’re just the poor kid who got stuck with this flaming dumpster of a backstory.”