Chapter 32
Chapter
Thirty-Two
FRANKIE
Homecoming week attempted to kill me slowly.
Not in the dramatic, scandal-splashed, glass-shattering way my life seemed to specialize in lately.
No, this was more like the relentless way of being a senior with a job, a house full of secrets, romantic ups and downs I couldn’t have predicted, and a calendar I built while refusing to acknowledge I was one person with a single nervous system.
Pretty sure I was still in denial over that.
But we’d made it.
Friday night came with stadium lights and much cooler air and a sky so clear it felt like it had been scrubbed clean just for us. The kind of night that made everything look sharper—helmets gleaming, breath visible, cheerleaders’ voices cutting through the noise like bright ribbons.
We survived the game.
The guys won.
And when I say won, I mean won. It was a total go sports moment that made the stands shake and the band go nuts and the student section scream like we were singlehandedly responsible for the score.
Bubba and Jake were on fire—besides the fact I knew they were the best, Coop and Archie told me every single play, interception, and run they were pivotal in.
Pride was a weird thing. It snuck in when you weren’t looking and then suddenly you were yelling yourself hoarse with your hand over your mouth like you could contain it.
I did manage to do some homework during halftime, because I was still me, and because if I didn’t, my future would come for my throat.
Archie went for food—three hot dogs and chili fries for me, and drinks, with Coop to assist while I saved our seats.
They were excellent. But even that felt…
lighter. Like I could exist in my own skin again without constantly flinching.
After the final whistle, when the team flooded the field and bodies crashed together in sweaty, joyous chaos, I caught Bubba’s eye and he pointed at me like he’d just scored the touchdown for me.
Jake, as usual, acted like he’d done it all alone and the rest of the team should probably thank him personally. He climbed the bleachers two at a time to get to me and picked me up into a spinning, sweaty hug that made me laugh.
“Okay,” I wheezed into his shoulder, laughing. “I’m proud, I’m proud, put me down before I die—”
He did not put me down, not right away.
Coop hauled me into a hug so hard, my feet left the ground. As soon as he released me, Archie got me next. He hugged me tight, then pressed a fierce, but swift kiss to my lips that held as much promise as desire.
When he let me go, he didn’t move away. Instead, he brushed his hand to my lower back as his mouth found my ear.
“You okay?” he murmured.
“Yes,” I whispered back. “I’m… yes.”
His thumb pressed once into the small of my back. A quiet promise. A grounding touch. For the first time in weeks, I believed that the good parts of life might still be allowed to exist right alongside the complicated parts.
“Let’s go feed the champions, they deserve a celebration.” He winked and we were off.
Saturday morning was the parade—because tradition demanded that once you survived the adrenaline of Friday, you were required to stand on a float and wave at people like a pageant contestant. In years past, I’d helped decorate these floats. Not this year though, so it was all new to me.
The parade was loud and bright and full of candy being hurled like projectile sugar missiles. Kids screamed. Parents waved. Teachers seemed to be as wound up as we were.
Jake and Bubba rode with the team and tossed handfuls of candy into the crowd like they were benevolent kings.
Rachel and I watched from the curb, in t-shirts with hoodies tied around our waist like we’d just paused while out for a jog. We’d definitely not been out for a jog. She leaned close enough to mutter, “If Jake makes eye contact with that toddler again, he’s going to start signing autographs.”
“He would,” I said solemnly.
Rachel snorted. “He absolutely would.”
And then—like the universe was in on the joke—Jake turned and waved directly at a little kid, then put his hand to his chest like he’d just been deeply moved by fame.
Rachel groaned. “I hate him.”
“You love him,” I corrected.
“No, that’s you,” she said with a snort, then added, “I just hate that you love him.”
By the time Saturday night arrived, I was running purely on caffeine, adrenaline, and whatever stubborn gene made me refuse to crumble.
And somehow—somehow—I was excited.
Not scared-excited.
Not bracing-excited.
Just… excited.
Like I’d been granted a small slice of normal again. I’d survived the primping appointments Rachel insisted on. Hair. Nails. Waxing.
I’d never had a Brazilian before. I wasn’t entirely sure I would forgive Rachel for that one. But I was smooth… everywhere.
Archie’s house had turned into a staging ground by late afternoon. Jeremy moved through it like a tactical mastermind, calmly intercepting chaos before it could become real. The cats were suspicious of everything—especially the garment bag hanging on my door like a threat.
And me?
I was in my room, wearing the dress.
The dress was even better than I remembered.
Wine-dark red. Deep and rich and warm, it was a declaration that I wasn’t sure I could back up but was eager to try. Thin straps. Confident neckline. The gentle A-line that let me breathe and dance and still feel like myself.
I stood in front of the mirror and stared.
Not because I didn’t recognize the girl.
Because I did.
Rachel sat behind me on the edge of my bed, one leg crossed elegantly over the other, spine straight, posture perfect. She looked like she belonged in a fashion house boardroom, not a high school bedroom.
Her dress was midnight blue satin — not navy, not royal — the kind of deep, liquid blue that shifted almost black until the light caught it and revealed its depth.
It hugged her like it had been cut specifically for her body, clean lines, no fuss, no sparkle.
The neckline dipped just enough to be dangerous, the fabric smoothing over her waist and hips before falling in a long, sleek line to the floor.
No ruffles. No drama.
She was the drama.
Her dark hair had been swept into a low, polished knot at the nape of her neck, a few deliberate pieces framing her face like she’d allowed them there. Her makeup was sharp and intentional — winged liner, muted lip, highlight placed with surgical precision.
If I looked like a fairytale in my gown…
Rachel looked like the villain who won. It was a damn good look on her too.
She watched my reflection in the mirror like she was judging a competition she’d already rigged in my favor.
“You’re going to ruin lives,” she said flatly.
I blinked. “Rachel—”
“You’re going to ruin lives,” she repeated, slower this time, like I might not fully grasp the gravity of the situation. “Frankie. That color on you is illegal. Someone should arrest you.”
Heat climbed my face. “You’re being dramatic.”
“I am being accurate,” she corrected coolly.
Then she leaned forward, satin whispering against itself, eyes narrowing with laser focus. “Turn.”
I turned.
Rachel made a low, satisfied sound in the back of her throat — like a cat who had just successfully pushed something priceless off a marble counter and was very pleased with the chaos.
“Oh,” she said softly.
Her eyes traveled over the line of the dress, the way it fitted at my waist, the way it moved at my hips.
“Yep,” she decided. “That’s perfect on you.”
And for a second — just a second — something in her expression softened. Not envy. Not competition.
Pride.
My throat tightened unexpectedly.
I inhaled slowly and lifted my chin.
“Okay,” I said.
Rachel stood, smoothing invisible wrinkles from her gown, slipping seamlessly back into composure. “Good,” she replied. “Because we are about to make an entrance that will be discussed for years.”
I met her eyes in the mirror. “Let’s do this.”
That was when Archie’s house got… louder.
Not with yelling.
With the kind of excited, coordinated chaos that meant something was happening.
Jeremy knocked once and opened the door when Rachel and I both called out at the same time.
“Miss Frankie,” he said smoothly. “Mr. Archie and the gentlemen have requested your presence downstairs.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Requested?”
Jeremy’s mouth twitched. “Insisted.”
Rachel stood immediately. “Oh, this is going to be ridiculous.”
It was.
It was so much worse than ridiculous.
They’d made me a homecoming mum.
Not a normal one.
Not a sweet, small ribbon and a flower situation.
No.
This thing was a statement.
It was huge and gorgeous and absurd—layers of ribbon in deep red and white, sparkling accents that caught the light, and a flower arrangement that looked like it had been personally curated by someone with a degree in intimidation.
And the bells.
There were bells.
Of course there were bells.
I stared at it like it might bite me.
“What is that,” I breathed.
Archie stood in the middle of the living room in a suit that should have been illegal, smiling like a man who had personally chosen violence.
Coop was grinning like he’d been waiting to see my reaction all day.
Jake looked smug in a way that suggested he’d contributed at least one terrible idea.
Bubba looked proud. Like he’d built it with his bare hands.
Jeremy stood nearby with the quiet satisfaction of someone who had overseen a disaster and made it look elegant.
“It’s beautiful,” Archie said smoothly.
“It’s… enormous,” I managed.
Jake held up a finger. “It is proportionate to your emotional impact on the world.”
I turned my stare on him. “That sentence doesn’t even make sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” he insisted. “It’s poetry.”
Rachel made a strangled sound. “I can’t believe you people will be allowed to vote.”
Archie stepped closer, lifted the mum carefully, and his eyes softened just slightly as he looked at me.
“We wanted you to have one,” he said quieter. “A real one.”
My chest tightened.