2. — run it out. #2
Entering the main house through the garage served another purpose.
Her father refused to allow anyone to park in the front of the home.
If a guest stayed longer than a few minutes, they should park alongside the house in a designated area.
The rest of them? That’s what the twenty-car garage was for.
Using the garage entry allowed her to see who was actually home before she had to face them. A quick survey of parked vehicles, black being her father’s, white, Carina’s, and the rest were security, plus her own Supra.
The missing Mercedes coup that her father preferred when in New York wasn’t in its usual slot between the flashier Aston Martin and the rarely used Lamborghini. Only one of two white Rolls sat parked a little further down, meaning her stepmother wouldn’t be waiting inside, either.
Frankie didn’t even wonder if the two were together. Carina had been somewhere in Milan for the last several months, and her father could be anywhere between Manhattan and New Jersey at any given time of day when he was home.
She stopped at the Supra to toss in the soccer bag that also contained her homework for the weekend. Pulling out her phone while she had the chance, Frankie logged into the two social medias she did have, ignoring the notifications that popped up, and navigated to James’ profile to block him.
After tossing the keys to the Supra in the driver’s seat, she finally headed for the door at the far end of the garage. A quick scan of her thumbprint allowed her entrance, and the clatter of a drawer being closed reminded her that, in fact, she wasn’t entirely alone.
She could count on Sissy. Even when doing so hurt, too.
The French au pair remained the one constant in her life. Sissy waited in the same spot she always did when she knew Frankie would be returning home from whatever practice or game had kept her away for longer than usual.
It wasn’t like she had a life or friends, for that matter. What were those?
Getting close to people meant answering questions that either, she didn’t have the answers to because she knew better than to ask, or...
it was something she didn’t want to tell.
A dead mom, too much money, and an absent father connected to the mob were certainly conversation starters, but not ones that she cared to have.
She knew people, mostly her peers, thought she was weird. Some had even said exactly that, and usually, it didn’t hurt much. They didn’t know her. Not really.
Hell, she didn’t know herself. Why let the opinions of others matter?
Sissy stood behind the large island in the middle of the kitchen. The glossy white of the countertop melded into the same toned cabinetry and appliances. Dimmed overhead lighting kept the space from feeling too large and empty.
“Was it an ice cream or fruit kind of game?” asked Sissy.
That made Frankie smile again. “Ice cream.”
Her former nanny—now the estate manager—pushed a single-serving tub of cookies and cream heaven her way. A bowl of freshly cut fruit also waited on the counter. Frankie liked both.
“You want ice cream and you’re smiling?” Sissy lifted one eyebrow as Frankie took a stool for a seat, already grabbing the cold tub and waiting spoon on top. “Seems a little suspicious to me.”
“Today wasn’t great. You make it better.”
Sissy’s chin tipped up at the declaration. “Oh?”
Frankie shrugged. “I always know I’m coming home to you.”
“Oh.” Sissy had a knack for picking up on Frankie’s moods and where they stemmed. “Sal wanted me to tell you—”
“That he’s sorry. His flight got changed and he’ll make the next one. Yadda, yadda. Just spare me, Sissy.”
The older woman, as gentle as she was, hated two things: being interrupted and swearing.
“Sorry,” Frankie mumbled at the sharp look that came her way.
“Mmhmm.”
“It’s the same excuses.”
“I believe some things did come up for him today, and he meant to greet you at the door with your favorite takeout after missing the game, but then he got another call.”
Sissy’s coifed chignon tilted in the direction of a newspaper that had been left sitting on the edge of the kitchen island. She didn’t offer further explanation and allowed Frankie’s perusal of the headlining story to fill in the blanks.
SUSPECTED RUSSO MAFIA CAPO—
Frankie stopped reading. “Is that the Los Angeles Times?”
Her dad had been in California for the last several weeks. Now she knew why.
“He does have things going on,” Sissy said softly. “It’s better that you don’t know all the details, but perhaps you could occasionally look at the bigger picture.”
And he didn’t have a choice.
She knew that too well because her father told her so.
He didn’t go into details. The one time she gained enough courage to outright ask about his connection to the mob left her with more questions than answers.
His response still made her heart ache whenever she replayed the conversation to herself.
Don’t ever ask me things that’ll make me have to lie to you, Sunshine.
So, she didn’t ask and her father never told. Frankie remained as lonely as ever all the time in between.
“He loves you,” Sissy added as the ice cream took the brunt of Frankie’s pain. “More than anything in the whole world.”
“Yeah, I know.”
More than the moon, and stars, and galaxy. More than God. More than myself, he told her once.
Sissy offered nothing else while Frankie demolished the cookies and cream treat. It was only when her spoon scraped the bottom of the container that Sissy sighed.
“I should also let you know...”
“Oh, God. What?”
Sissy tried to smile, but it came off tight and untrue. Only one person could gain that sort of fake pleasantry from her. Even in the face of the seventeen-year-old she had practically raised.
“When?” Frankie demanded.
“Mrs. Gallo—”
“No.”
“Carina,” Sissy corrected with a roll of her eyes.
Between them, they didn’t have to bother with what Carina wanted to be called. Frankie refused to play that game.
“When?” she asked Sissy again.
“Tomorrow, I guess. Sometime. No one really knows. I wasn’t able to get a definitive time to expect her. She’ll pick her car up from storage and drive herself home. I do know that much.”
Which meant that Sissy had taken the time to talk to the head of the estate’s security, Larkin. He kept a general schedule and tab of everyone’s business and needs. The man of the house didn’t like surprises. The woman of it, on the other hand, didn’t listen well.
“Why?” Frankie asked, the question making Sissy glance away. “Why is she coming back from Milan this early? Wasn’t it supposed to be another month?”
Without a word, Sissy nodded toward the newspaper again. It connected the two things, in some way, which meant Carina’s early return had likely been a demand of her husband’s.
“I really didn’t want to deal with her until my birthday, at least.”
Carina would have to be there for her graduation.
All the rest, though?
“Fuck,” Frankie spat.
“Francesca Dove Gallo, language!”
Sissy had every right to reprimand her, but she barely heard the warning. A little too much had been piled onto the plate of total crap that was her day.
Carina tipped the scales. Complicated didn’t begin to explain the toxic mess between she and her stepmother. There had been times in her life when Carina stepped up for Frankie in ways no one else could. Yet, she had also been the same woman who traumatized a motherless child.
No one knew the mess of hatred and gratitude inside Frankie festered and warred each time she exchanged air with the woman her father had chosen to make his wife.
A model known globally, but the farthest thing from a mother to exist. They never loved each other, and a kind word hadn’t passed between Carina and her husband in years.
Yet, the word divorce hadn’t been spoken, ever. The word entered Frankie’s vocabulary at twelve, sitting in a pew while a man at the pulpit deemed it a sin.
Then, she got a little older and realized how her stepmother had come from the same place that now controlled her father’s every move.
That’s how she figured it out. Her father’s marriage...an arrangement. Some deal struck that she probably couldn’t ask about. Like everything else.
“Are you okay?” she heard Sissy ask.
“No.”
“Can I help?”
Sometimes. Not this time.
“No,” Frankie whispered, pushing back the stool to stand.
Life often became too much for Frankie. People, places, and things became background noise to the blood that rushed in her ears and the sound of her own heartbeat thrumming through her screaming bones.
What had started for her as a child that felt like too many butterfly wings beating in her stomach every time a voice raised around her had turned into full blown panic attacks for her as a teenager.
Before she turned to leave, Frankie said, “I’m sorry for swearing.”
“It wasn’t at me, I suppose.”
That didn’t make it better. Neither did her apology. Before she said or did something worse because she couldn’t manage her own feelings, she decided to go deal with it alone in a way that soothed the angry, anxious parts of her like nothing else could.
Hell, she tried the meds. Not even that helped like running did.
“Where are Sassy and Stella?” she asked of her pets. A tiny mixed breed dog and a white Maine Coon that liked the outdoors more than the inside.
“Somewhere. I’m sure they’ll find you. The fruit will still be here,” Sissy said at Frankie’s retreating back, “after you run it out.”
That was their deal. A secret between them, too. Sissy wouldn’t count the minutes, or hours, that it took Frankie to come back. Frankie had to eat when it was all said and done, whether she wanted to or not.
···
The nice thing about having what felt like unlimited property—it wasn’t—in her backyard meant she finally had space to breathe while her legs took her down gently rolling hills of manicured grass.
She could be alone but didn’t feel alone the same way she did inside the massive house that echoed with emptiness.