Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
The opening credits to Singin’ in the Rain are starting, and Frannie is insanely cozy on Henry’s couch.
It’s something else to see the movie on a seventy-five-inch screen with surround sound, almost like being in her own home theater.
With the added little rebellion that she absolutely shouldn’t be in Henry’s apartment after work.
An hour in, though, Frannie’s starting to feel more than a bit silly. Elsa has no way of knowing Frannie’s watching a movie, and no reason to visit without provocation. “Good Mornin’ ” is about to start, and Frannie reaches for the remote. What was she thinking?
“This number’s such a gas.”
Frannie jerks, blinking across the couch to find Elsa curled up on the opposite end, one leg pulled up, arms crossed around her shin. One of her high heels is on the floor.
Frannie stares down at it, heat rising in her cheeks. Can Elsa take off all her clothes, or are they somehow tethered to her? Does her whole body feel like a static charge, or just her extremities? What would it feel like to run her lips—
No. Nope. That’s not something she should be thinking about. She needs to focus.
“Do you want to start from the top?” Frannie asks, pausing the movie, proud that her voice doesn’t sound as tight as her throat feels.
“Oh, you don’t have to. I’ve seen it before,” Elsa says quickly.
“I don’t mind. I was … writing for most of the first hour,” she lies, gesturing toward her closed laptop on the coffee table.
Elsa looks at her computer, then back to Frannie, her face scrunching a little. “Were you?”
“Yep! I gotta have a book to give Henry when he gets back,” Frannie says, smiling brightly. She clicks back to the main menu and restarts the film before Elsa can protest.
“If you’re sure,” Elsa says slowly. Frannie can already see her sinking against the back of Henry’s burgundy leather sofa. “I didn’t know Henry had this on DVD.”
“He doesn’t.” Damn, it would have been far cooler to pretend he did. “I saw it at the street fair this weekend and bought it. Haven’t been able to find it on streaming.”
Elsa considers her for a moment, bottom lip between her teeth, like she doesn’t believe Frannie. In fairness, she’s never checked for it on streaming, but she did pick it up on a whim. Then Gene Kelly starts his flashback, and Elsa turns back to the screen, her eyes lit up.
Frannie does her best to watch Elsa watch the movie without letting Elsa know she’s watching her watching. Her face is so beautiful when she smiles. Every little twitch of her lips is absolutely captivating.
Frannie drags her eyes away from Elsa’s mouth with effort, forcing herself to watch “Fit as a Fiddle,” one of her favorite tap numbers.
“My brother and I once watched this every weekend for a year. It wasn’t until we wore out our tape and got the DVD that we ever noticed the flowers that come out of the violins at the end. ”
Elsa looks over at her and Frannie winces. Elsa might not be a movie-talking person. She went to all of these in the theater. And here Frannie is, being horribly Gen Z about it.
“That makes sense. I don’t think Technicolor really pops the same way on a TV like it did in the theater,” Elsa replies. “This looked incredible when it first came out.”
Frannie tries to withhold her eager little grin. “Really?”
“It was so bright. It doesn’t seem like much compared to CGI now, but at the time, it was still the spectacle to see.”
“Eh. Give me Gene Kelly and Donald O’Connor tap dancing over another Marvel battle any day,” Frannie says.
Elsa nods emphatically. “It’s really a dying art. Is anyone tapping anymore?”
“Tom Holland’s supposed to play Fred Astaire in a biopic at some point,” Frannie says. “I’m still holding out for an On the Town remake.”
“That is a terrible adaptation. Oh, look, he’s on the trolley!” Elsa pats a hand excitedly on the back of the couch.
Frannie wishes she were close enough for it to land on her shoulder. With effort, she looks back at the TV. Gene Kelly is running over cars to escape the paparazzi before jumping into Debbie Reynolds’s car.
“That must have been fun to film,” she says to distract herself from silly thoughts about kissing the beautiful ghost next to her.
“Or torture,” Elsa counters. “Though I’d hope he couldn’t have anything to insult Debbie Reynolds about with her in a prop car.”
“It makes me so sad that he was such a dick to her,” Frannie agrees.
“Actors being douchebags seems to be the norm, and it’s always disappointing.”
Frannie didn’t think hearing this woman say “douchebag” would sound so good. She looks like a casual Marilyn Monroe there on the other end of the couch, heels off and both feet pulled up now.
Frannie looks back at the screen just in time for Debbie Reynolds to pie Jean Hagen. Elsa laughs loudly. The lights in the dining room flicker and the TV crackles. Her laugh is throaty and low. “Delicious” is the word Frannie would use, if she were writing about it (and oh, she will be).
It’s been so long since Frannie watched an old movie with someone who enjoys them. She’s warm all over, and her chest feels full. Between spending time with Gretchen and sitting here with Elsa, it feels like maybe she has friends in the city for the first time … ever.
Even if one of her friends is a beguiling blond ghost with the world’s best laugh.
They make it back to “Good Mornin’ ” and Frannie glances over to find Elsa mouthing along to the lyrics and swaying in her seat.
“You know, I always thought the real answer to this story was for Don, Kathy, and Cosmo to be in a throuple,” Frannie says when the three characters collapse laughing onto Don’s green couch.
Elsa cackles. The TV goes static for a second and the hair on Frannie’s arms stands up. It’s enchanting.
“What?” Elsa asks, face bright, cheeks pink.
“Well, he’s clearly in love with Don, and who wouldn’t fall in love with Kathy? They’d be a power throuple. He could compose, they can act, it’s perfect,” Frannie argues.
“You’ve really thought about this,” Elsa says, eyes crinkling.
“I stand by the idea that the answer to most love triangles is to connect all sides of the triangle,” Frannie says seriously.
“So polyamory solves all the world’s ills?” Elsa asks, that perfect eyebrow arching.
“At least literarily,” Frannie replies, laughing when Elsa giggles.
“And in real life?”
Frannie shakes her head. “I can barely take care of myself, let alone a second person. Adding a third? That’s a lot of important communicating to keep three people happy in one relationship.”
Elsa throws her head back to laugh. Good God, the line of her throat is doing things to Frannie.
“So you’re not looking to be in a … is it a polycule? That’s at least three, right?”
“Or more,” Frannie says in dismay. “I hope to find one perfect person someday, and that’s enough.”
Elsa’s grin closes into a pleased smile and she nods, turning back to the TV. Frannie watches her watching the Don and Kathy love montage for a moment before she has to pry her eyes away.
Elsa probably can’t be that person. For a host of reasons.
It’s not like she’d ever pick Frannie, anyway.
And there’s the whole stuck-in-the-Dakota-Building-as-a-ghost thing too.
Though that doesn’t seem so important when they’re posted up on Henry’s couch, giggling through the “Broadway Rhythm” number together.
But still. It would be ludicrous.
When the final shot dissolves into the Singin’ in the Rain billboard, Frannie reaches out for the remote and hits pause, bathing them in the bright white light, Don and Kathy’s kiss freeze-framed on the screen.
The silence is loud around them and Frannie looks over at Elsa, searching for something to say—something to prolong the evening, to stay here in this little bubble of laughter and camaraderie.
“Is this your favorite movie musical?” Elsa asks. She’s shifted a bit closer, with her knees swung to the side now, an arm along the back of the couch, her cheek in her hand.
“I think so. You?”
“It’s basically a perfect film, but I’ve got a soft spot for Easter Parade.”
“I’ve never seen that one,” Frannie says, surprised.
Elsa’s eyes widen and her hand drops to brush Frannie’s forearm. “Oh, well, tomorrow night, we’re watching that. I’ll find it on streaming. Or the Maitsons will have it, and they won’t notice it missing.”
Frannie nods dazedly, tingles zipping up her arm from the gentle press of Elsa’s fingers. That heat is back in her cheeks, along the back of her neck, down her chest.
“Okay,” Frannie says, her stomach clenching treacherously at Elsa’s bright smile.
“It is not,” Elsa says indignantly.
“Is so,” Frannie argues, sitting up straight to glare at her. “Hello Dolly is the worst movie musical adaptation, and it killed movie musicals, too, which makes it twice as bad.”
“You’re putting Hello Dolly over Cats?” Elsa exclaims.
“Not a Golden Age musical. It doesn’t count,” Frannie says, withholding a laugh as Elsa glares at her.
Swing Time is still playing on Henry’s massive TV, but neither of them has been paying attention through the dialogue. They’re really only watching for the dance numbers.
“You’re both wrong,” Michael pipes up from the floor.
Frannie glances down to where Bridgette and Michael are lying on the carpet, watching the movie with rapt attention.
The kids don’t join them every night. Not that Frannie and Elsa have spent every weeknight watching movies over the last two weeks.
They’ve missed … at least three nights. Two of those were weekends when Frannie had no real reason to be in the building, but still.
She’s been walking around in a haze of besotted frustration and happiness; it’s embarrassing, and addictive.
“Panama Hattie is the worst,” Michael says, not bothering to look back at them. “Mom said so last year.”
Frannie looks over at Elsa, who’s glaring at the back of Michael’s head.
“So, not one of the twenty-first-century monstrosities, then,” Frannie says.
Elsa sucks on her cheek. “I’m not sure it’s worse than Cats. Just different,” she says grudgingly.
“Can’t a lot of movies be terrible at the same time?” Bridgette asks, glancing back at them.
“They can,” Frannie agrees. “Maybe we call a truce and just make a top ten list.”
“Okay, Panama Hattie,” Elsa starts.
“Cats, Hello Dolly,” Frannie says, reaching for her phone. She’s going to miss one, she’s sure of it.
“Dear Evan Hansen, On the Town,” Elsa continues, her knee nudging Frannie’s.
They started movie night with the kids on either side, but the children abandoned the couch a while ago. Frannie shamefully hasn’t wanted to move, enjoying every light brush of Elsa’s shoulder, her legs, her hands.
She’s decided ghosts are kind of like La Croix. There’s something electric and citrusy about Elsa when she’s close like this. It’s intoxicating. The tingles almost feel normal now.
“Calamity Jane?” Frannie suggests. “I remember that being kind of cringey.”
Elsa bobs her head. “But it’s also very queer coded. Not sure I want to put it on the list.”
“Oh! Wow, yeah. Okay, strike that. I feel like Seven Brides for Seven Brothers should be on there because the message is messed up, but it’s also—”
“One of the best movie musicals,” Elsa completes for her. “It’s a shame when something problematic is also a … what did you call it?”
“A banger?”
“Yes,” Elsa says emphatically. “Absolute banger. Right, kids?”
“Yep!” Michael says, still not paying them any real attention.
“I like the barn raising,” Bridgette agrees. “But wouldn’t it be more fun to make a best-of list?”
Frannie and Elsa glance at each other. “It would be more polite, but not really as fun,” Elsa says.
“Yeah.” Frannie reaches for the bowl of popcorn Elsa and the kids insisted she make. They can’t eat it, but they like the smell. Ghosts can smell, apparently.
Elsa bumps her shoulder and Frannie smiles, settling back in so they’re pressed together again.
Frannie can feel every minute shift of Elsa’s arm; her whole body’s alight with it.
She doesn’t look at Elsa, and Elsa doesn’t look at her, but they stay that way for the rest of the movie.
Frannie’s sure her cheeks are bright pink, but she doesn’t care.
“Remind me to tell you about the couple who walked out of West Side Story,” Elsa whispers when the end credits begin to roll.
“No,” Frannie says with a gasp.
“It still haunts me,” Elsa says, glancing at her. Their faces are very close together.
“An egregious crime certainly deserves the designation,” Frannie says, a little breathless.
Elsa wrinkles her nose. “Oh, goodness, you need to write. We’ll leave you to it.”
Frannie opens her mouth to protest, but Elsa’s hand on her knee stalls the words in her throat. She squeezes gently and Frannie feels herself flush up to her ears.
“We’ll see you tomorrow,” Elsa says.
Frannie nods, not trusting her words, and watches the kids pop up from the floor. Elsa stands after them and Frannie’s eyes track up the lithe, lean line of her body. When she reaches Elsa’s face, the woman’s watching her, eyes twinkling.
God, that’s unfair.
“Goodnight, Frannie,” Elsa says, winking at her before herding the kids out of the living room. “Get some work done,” she calls over her shoulder.
And then they’re gone, and Frannie’s left there on the couch, her whole body keyed up, warmth pooled in her belly, and the end credits of Swing Time paused on Henry’s TV.
She reaches for her laptop with twitchy fingers, flips it open, and starts to write, pouring her frustration and confusion and lust-addled thoughts onto the page in an effort to exorcise them from her mind.
The woman shouldn’t be able to affect her like this. She’s dead.