Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
FRANKIE
The first thing I heard was meowing. Persistent, unbothered meowing — like a chorus of tiny, furry alarm clocks who’d decided I’d overslept their breakfast by approximately five years.
I blinked awake, the only light in the room the faint blue glow from the old digital clock on my desk. Rachel was still next to me, curled under the blanket, one arm flopped out like she’d lost a fight with gravity. Her hair, all wild and haloed, made her look unfairly peaceful.
I didn’t know what surprised me more, that she’d stayed over, or that I’d actually slept.
The apartment was still wrapped in that fragile morning quiet which encouraged me to whisper a “hush” at the cats. I eased out of bed, tiptoed past the pile of towels we’d sacrificed to my hair-dye experiment, and squinted at the faint purple glint catching the light in the mirror.
Huh.
It looked… good. Better than good, actually. The blonde on top caught the light like nothing had ever happened, but when I moved, little flashes of violet peeked through. My quiet rebellion was hidden under something soft and ordinary, like camouflage for the soul.
The cats, however, did not care about camouflage or emotional symbolism. Tiddles yowled like an old man demanding coffee. Tory darted between my legs. Tabby jumped up on the counter with all the grace of a bowling ball.
“Okay, okay,” I whispered, trying to shush them as I grabbed the food. “Breakfast before the neighbors report us for noise pollution.”
Kibble followed by wet food hit the bowls with its usual thunderstorm rhythm. For a second, everything felt almost normal, just our morning routine, no ghosts or guilt hovering behind closed doors.
Then I saw the fridge.
The note was still there, exactly where I’d left it the previous night. A magnet shaped like a strawberry held it in place like a dare. My stomach twisted, doing that slow, heavy churn that always preceded bad decisions or big truths.
I glanced toward my mom’s still closed bedroom door. No voices. No evidence that Maddy and Mr. Standish had magically reappeared in the middle of the night. Just silence.
Which should’ve been comforting. It wasn’t.
I stood there for a long time, hand hovering like I was afraid the paper might bite. It was ridiculous, really. It was just ink. Just words. But I’d learned that words, in the right handwriting, could split you open like glass.
Finally, I peeled it off the fridge.
Two sheets.
One in Maddy’s handwriting, one in his.
I read hers first, because I was apparently addicted to pain.
It was short. Brutal in that efficient, no-space-for-feelings kind of way.
Call me when you read this.
We need to talk. Immediately.
You owe your father an apology.
No “Love, Mom.” No “Hope you’re okay.” Just obligation disguised as authority.
My father?
My throat went tight. I could almost hear her voice, that snappish, high-pitched tone she used when she thought she was being rational.
I folded it before the words could keep echoing.
Then I looked at his.
His handwriting was neater, slower, like he’d taken his time. The comparison to Archie was right there, Archie might think fast on his feet and talk a swifter game, but he always took the time to dot his i’s deliberately.
He said he was sorry. That he hadn’t meant for things to happen that way. That Maddy could be impulsive — his word, not mine — and that she’d meant well, even if her way of showing it had been... off.
He wrote that he should’ve given me time. That he wanted to be part of my life but would wait as long as I needed. That none of this was supposed to feel like an ambush.
And maybe it was the exhaustion, or the morning light, or the fact that his words were actually kind, but I didn’t know what to do with any of them.
How do you process kindness from someone who’s also the reason your chest feels cracked open? I leaned against the counter, staring at the purple reflection in the toaster like it might have answers.
Somewhere in the middle of my foggy brain, a memory of Archie surfaced, his sly grin, the way he’d tossed me that half-wink at lunch, the sound of his voice when he told me I had “that look” again, like I needed to do something reckless.
If Maddy had ambushed me, she could do the same to him.
God, she would do the same to him. The realization hit like cold water down my back.
I needed to tell him. Before she did. Before Mr. Standish tried to “fix things” in his too-gentle, too-charming way—not that Archie ever referred to his father as possessing either characteristic.
I pushed off the counter, heart already drumming faster than it should’ve been for before six in the morning. I started the coffee, then detoured in to grab clothes so I could throw myself through a swift shower, after I tied my hair up, before I got dressed.
Rachel was still asleep, a faint snore escaping her open mouth. I would have laughed at her but I’d woken up with a bit of dried drool on the side of my mouth. Let her sleep without judgment, she’d more than earned it after coming to my rescue and sticking it out.
Me, though? I was already in motion.
Because if there was one thing I’d learned in the last forty-eight hours: silence didn’t protect you. It just allowed other people to write your story for you.
No way in hell would I let Maddy write any more of mine. Not again. Once I was dressed, I poured myself a coffee and opened my phone. It was still early for Arch, but I couldn’t push it off any later.
For a second, I just stared at the open message with his name at the top. There were a couple of messages already there from the weekend.
Frankie?
That was from Saturday morning.
I know you're mad. You have every right to be.
Just... check in, okay?
Even if it's just one word.
I need to know you’re okay.
And if you’re not?
I’ll fix it. Whatever you need—I’ll do it.
Just say the word.
Another from the afternoon. Then one from the day before.
I get it. You’re pissed. Call me.
Five minutes later, he added:
Please.
My chest ached at the please. Not talking to them had less to do with “punishing” them or even being “mad” so much as not knowing what the hell to say.
Right now, I was facing a similar choke. How the hell did I even open this conversation: Hey, warning, Maddy might be looking to drop an emotional bomb on you. Maybe just block her number.
Not like that wouldn’t generate a dozen questions. Throw in his naturally confrontational attitude, and he’d likely go find Maddy just to see what the hell she wanted.
Yeah. Not a good plan.
I downed half the coffee before I finally just stopped trying to find a way to sugar coat anything. This wasn’t news that could be dumped into a text message. We needed to talk, face to face.
Me:
Hey, I know it’s early, but can we meet before school? It’s important.
It went from sent to read in a blink. Then three dots popped up. They disappeared, then reappeared. Then stopped and my phone rang with Archie’s face staring up at me from the contacts.
I froze.
Of course he’d call. Archie wasn’t built for slow or subtle. Most of the time, he didn’t seem built for patience either. That last one I knew was a lie, because he’d apparently been waiting on me for four years.
That just made my stomach drop all over again.
“Frankie?” He sounded like he was half-asleep and half-alarmed. “You okay? What’s wrong?”
Just like that, my throat went tight all over again.
He’d tried to reach out to me all weekend and I hadn’t responded, but the minute I reached out to him—he was right there.
Immediately. I really was a shitty friend some days.
No matter what else went down, and based on the posts there’d been a lot of going down and bad decisions, we were supposed to still be friends.
I’d dropped the ball there.
But that soft panic edged by rough concern was a sucker punch. Telling him was absolutely the right thing to do, but I was going to be the one delivering the unexpected blow and I kind of hated myself a little.
Okay, a lot.
“I’m fine,” I lied automatically, which fooled exactly no one, least of all him.
“Frankie,” he said again, slower this time, gentler. “Talk to me. What happened?”
I closed my eyes, pressing the phone tighter against my ear, as if closeness could make it easier.
“I just… need to see you,” I said. “Before everything gets messy.”
A beat of silence. Then: “Okay. Ten minutes. Starbucks. If it’s crowded we can talk in the car.”
Before I could second-guess any of it, he hung up. I could almost picture him dragging on clothes and grabbing his keys. Somehow, I didn’t think he’d even pause to brush his hair.
I stood there for a moment, staring at the phone screen gone dark, with that nervous, electric hum beginning to slide under my skin again. Nothing had been the same since spring.
Nothing.
It was about to get a lot worse.
I headed back to the bedroom to nudge Rachel. With care, I gripped her shoulder lightly to give her a gentle shake. “Hey,” I whispered. “Rach?”
She stirred, stretching like a cat herself before squinting up at me. “What time is it?”
“Too early,” I said, trying to smile. “I’ve gotta go meet Archie before school.”
That woke her up fast. “Wait, now? Like, now now?” She rubbed at her face, already sitting up. “Do you want me to come with you?”
For half a second, I almost said yes, because the idea of facing any of this alone made my chest ache. But then I shook my head.
“No. This one’s mine,” I said quietly. “He deserves to hear it from me, not from a third party with an axe to grind.”
Rachel blinked, then gave a sleepy, crooked grin. “You’re sure?”
No. Except that it wasn’t a choice.
“Yeah.” I snagged my backpack that I had packed the night before, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “Just… lock the door when you leave, okay? Don’t feed the cats, even if they act starved. They’ve been fed, but they’ll lie, don’t believe them.”
“Copy that,” she said, already sinking back against the pillow. Then, softer, “Hey, Frankie?”
I turned in the doorway.
She gave me this small, lopsided smile. “You’ve got this. If you don’t, I’ll find you at school later and we’ll fix whatever you break, deal?”
Something warm flickered in my chest. “Deal.”
“Go kick emotional butt,” she mumbled, already half-asleep again.
I almost laughed, which was exactly the point.
By the time I was in the car, the laughter had faded into something else. Nerves, mostly, tangled with a kind of reluctant determination. The morning sun wasn’t quite on the horizon, it was still too damn early but the gray light of half-dawn was there.
I started reciting what I’d say to Archie, running lines like it was some impossible scene I had to get right.
Hey, just so you’re not blindsided, my mom’s probably on a warpath.
No. Too blunt.
So, funny story, my family drama’s about to intersect with your life again — sorry in advance?
Worse.
Look, I just didn’t want you to hear it from anyone else.
Maybe that one. Maybe.
Traffic lights blurred past faster than I expected. The drive felt both endless and instantaneous. I barely noticed turning into the Starbucks lot until I was already there, heart hammering like I’d sprinted the whole way.
Eight minutes flat. Not bad for a crisis commute.
Archie was already outside, because of course he was.
He liked to know everything and that often meant being punctual if not early.
He had two cups in hand, and just like I expected, his hair was disheveled and he was dressed in sweats.
He scanned the parking lot until his gaze landed on me, and then he was moving, arrowing straight toward my car.
He didn’t even glance back at the crowd inside. There was a line in and out, with more cars sliding into the drive-thru line while I sat there. His focus was locked on me, jaw tight, shoulders tense. Fuck, he was braced for the worst.
For one wild, split second, watching him cross that stretch of asphalt, I wanted to rewind all the way to last spring to before I knew, before their summer of sex, before all the complicated truth bombs got dropped.
But there was no rewind. No do-overs. Just here. Just now. Just Archie, coming closer, and me, sitting there, trying to remember how to breathe.