by Abby Brooks
I laugh, despite the anxiety growing inside me, and sit up to grab my purse off the floor. “Yeah, can you believe that?” I explain the accident. The damage to the car. My shitty hotel room, and the drain on my savings. “And then, to make things all the more exciting, when I get to the body shop to pick up my car, I discover why my insurance is so cheap.” I explain the invoice and the outstanding thirty-five-hundred dollars as I pull my pill bottle out of my purse.
“No way! What did you do?” Tessa’s voice still sounds strained, the response a tad forced and unnatural, but she’s softening toward me.
She and I are going to be okay, mostly because she’s the kind of person I wish I could be.
I spin the bottle in my hand. “Thankfully, Frank was there and he offered to put the balance on his credit card so I didn’t have to leave the car at the shop while I came up with the money.” Pinching the phone to my shoulder, I unscrew the cap, the pills clattering against the plastic.
“Frank? Who’s Frank?”
Who’s Frank?
That’s a spectacular question if I’ve ever heard one.
I shake a few pills into my hand as I contemplate the answer.
Is he just some guy? Or is he the guy?
Is he someone I spent some time with once while I was stuck in Denver? Or is he someone that means enough to make me consider staying in Denver?
Is he already part of my past? Just someone to keep me company here in the present?
Or is he my future?
“Sarah? Are you still there?”
I slide the pills back into the bottle. Replace the cap. Bury the thing in my purse and then drop back onto my pillows. “Yeah. I’m here. Who’s Frank? Oh, Tessa…he’s the most amazing guy…”
I go on and on about our time together, how he makes me feel, what he’s done for me since I’ve been here. Tessa adds the appropriate squeals of excitement to the conversation as I gush, then, as the clock ticks past eleven, tells me she needs to get ready for bed so she’s not a zombie at work in the morning.
“I’m so glad you called,” she says, and judging from the smile in her voice, she means it.
“Yeah,” I reply. “I am, too.”
We say our goodbyes and when I hang up, I find a text from Frank that simply reads ‘thinking of you.’ Those three words hit me hard and I type out a quick response.
Me: Wish you were here.
While I’m brushing my teeth, his reply comes in.
Frank: Me too.
The text bubbles bounce.
Frank: Wait.
Frank: Scratch that.
Frank: Your place is terrifying. Wish you were here, instead.
I laugh. The man has a point. While I’m thinking of an appropriately witty response, another text comes.
Frank: Come home with me tomorrow. I can’t stand the thought of spending another night without you.
My heart jumps into my throat, my emotions run wild, strong and potent without the medication in my system. I dance in place, holding my phone over my head while I swing my hair in circles.
Who is Frank?
He’s the guy worth taking a risk for.
The guy worth changing for.
The guy who’s going to teach me to fly.
I respond with a simple ‘yes, please,’ then fall into bed and wait for sleep, too excited to do much more than stare at the ceiling and daydream about tomorrow.
Sarah
I manage to get through work without bothering Frank too much, which is a miracle in and of itself, though whenever we pass in the hallway, he manages to brush a hand across my arm.
Or my hip.
Or so low on my back his fingers graze my ass.
At the end of the day, I follow him through the streets of Denver to his apartment building, surprised by the upscale exterior. Frank leads me to his unit and fumbles with his keys. “I like nice things,” he says when I mention the swanky design of the complex. He swings open the door and ushers me into a small, yet airy space. Before I can get my bearings, he pulls me into his arms and presses his lips to mine. I drop my purse to the floor and grip his arms as his hands sweep over my waist and hips.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his forehead pressed to mine. “I’ve been waiting to do that all day.”
I kiss him. Once. Twice. A third time. “Don’t apologize,” I say when I finally catch my breath, my body a riot of heat and desire.
When Frank releases me, I spin in a slow circle and stop when I’m facing him again. “No wonder you’re so uncomfortable at my place. This apartment is amazing!”
“I really hate that you think of that hotel as your place. Your home should be a reflection of who you are and that hotel is not you.” He gives me a quick tour, while I admire the art hanging on the walls and the quality of his furniture. Everything’s leather or wood or metal, very masculine and obviously expensive. The space is clean, yet lived in.
A few bills hide one corner of the kitchen counter.
Crumbs scatter around the toaster.
A coffee mug sits in the sink.
He sees me notice the crumbs and brushes them into his hand.
“I don’t know why I’m surprised you don’t live in a typical bachelor pad,” I say as he wipes his hands off over a trashcan under the sink.
Frank straightens and leans against the counter, his brow furrowed in question. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Just that nothing about you is typical. Not even a little bit. From the cool job, to the swanky suits, to the glasses, to the fact that elevator sex at work is cool with you. Nothing about you screams ‘average male.’ So the fact that you live in an apartment that looks like it belongs in the brochure for this complex just confirms what I already know.” I make a show of studying the well-appointed kitchen. “I suppose next you’re going to tell me that you’re a five-star chef?”
As I ask the question, I realize I already assume the answer is yes. The more I learn about this man, the more I can see him doing anything he sets his mind to.
“Wouldn’t that work out well for you, seeing as how I’m going to have to feed you at some point tonight?” Frank lifts his brow, a smile tugging at one side of his mouth. “Unfortunately, if I can’t boil it or microwave it, I don’t eat it. I live on takeout.” He slides open a drawer to reveal a host of menus hiding inside. “I’ve got Chinese. I’ve got Indian. I’ve got Italian.” He slaps a different menu on the counter with each statement. “All you need to do is tell me what you want, and I’ll take care of you.”
I slide the menus over and study them. “You know what I can really go for right now is some bone marrow…” I trail off, hoping he remembers pointing out the eclectic dish on the menu at Guard and Grace and doesn’t think I’m a total nut-job for mentioning it.
After lunch that day, curiosity got the better of me and I spent about half an hour browsing the internet for information about how it tastes and why people eat it. Apparently, there are huge health benefits and some people really enjoy the taste, though I still feel a little repulsed by the idea. While I really don’t want to go out for dinner tonight, I would like to try it someday, just so I know for myself.
Frank narrows his eyes. “I didn’t peg you as a bone marrow kind of gal, but if that’s what my girl wants, that’s what she’ll have.” He swipes his keys off the counter and holds out his hand. “To the Wilde-mobile.”
I laugh, pleased he remembered.
Pleased he’s willing to head back out into the city to take me to an expensive restaurant for an over the top meal.
Pleased to be here with him.
Pleased to be his girl.
“I’m kidding,” I say through my laughter. “Honestly? Are you maybe in the mood for a pizza?”
Frank sags with relief. “A pizza sounds perfect.” We hash out the details of the order and then entertain ourselves with conversation as we wait for dinner to arrive. We compare notes on our childhoods and discuss the differences between ranching and
farming. I tell him about my conversation with Tessa last night, explaining my apology and her acceptance. He congratulates me, then goes on to tell me about an awkward elevator ride with Bree this afternoon.
“It was not at all like being on the elevator with you.” He licks his lips and the heat in his eyes tells me that elevator ride made just as much an impression on him as it did on me.
“Thank goodness for that.” My inner thighs clench at his words and desire runs through my body, warm and fluid. If I’m not careful, he won’t be clothed when the pizza arrives and while that’s a win for me, I’m not sure the person on the other side of the door will feel the same. “What happened between you guys?” I ask, intentionally diverting the topic to less suggestive areas. “I can’t decide if Bree’s in love with you or if she hates you.”
Frank drapes an arm over the back of the couch. “I doubt she even knows where she falls on that one.” He goes on to explain a pretty typical situation. They worked together. She was interested. He wasn’t. As I watch him talk—the way his lips quirk into a smile, the light in his eyes when they land on mine—a feeling of contentment settles over me. It’s so warm, and so unfamiliar, I find myself almost drowning in gratitude.
“That’s never an easy situation.”
Frank wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. “It really isn’t. But Bree took things a few steps past crazy. Made up all these allegations about me making inappropriate comments, all kinds of BS…” Frank widens his eyes. “Thankfully, I’m not the first person she’s had this kind of problem with. McDougan moved her off my team and I make it a point to avoid any and all contact with her.”
I can’t imagine a company keeping someone on the roster if she’s trouble, but what do I know about that kind of stuff? “Are you kidding me? If they keep having this kind of problem with her, why do they keep her around?”
“That, my friend, is a very good question and I’ll be damned if I know the answer.”
The doorbell sounds and Frank jolts off the couch and jogs to the door. While he’s out of the room, I study the pictures on the walls, hoping to find a glimpse into his personal life, a picture of his family or his ranch, and find nothing that isn’t work related.
There are some framed certifications.
Some pictures of him wearing a suit and a hardhat, posing at construction sites.
A few of him beaming with pride in front of finished buildings.
Maybe his work is his personal life…
Frank returns, pizza in hand, and sets the box on the coffee table in front of the couch. We eat there, perched on the edge of the leather, grease running down our hands as we bend over the box. He finishes his first piece and bounds into the kitchen for some napkins.
“Need a drink? I mostly keep bottled water on hand, but I might be able to dredge up a Diet Coke or something.”
“Water would be great, thanks,” I say, even though what I really want is a beer.
Of course Frank doesn’t keep alcohol around. It’d be tempting fate, leaving a giant vulnerability in his one-drink limit if all he had to do was go into the kitchen and grab another.
While he digs in the fridge for two water bottles, I realize how quiet he keeps his apartment. Typically, I’d find the silence unsettling, but tonight, I simply notice the difference between his life and mine. If I was at home, I’d have the TV on. A glass of wine in one hand and my phone in the other. My attention would be split between screens, dulled by alcohol and medication, focused on nothing of importance at all.
Here, the TV stays off.
My mind stays sharp.
How much of my life have I wasted doing nothing more than sitting in a room with my mind numbed? How many experiences like this have I missed? Simple conversations that feel massively important? How much more life is out there, just waiting for me to wake up and see it?
“You okay?” Frank folds the pizza box closed. “You look a little off.”
“Just having a life-changing epiphany so big I can’t wrap my head around it quite yet.”
“Wow. Color me jealous. I love epiphanies. Wanna share?”
“I think, maybe, you’ve already experienced this particular revelation.” I explain my thoughts to him, my words clumsy in their desire to speak a concept into the world that I’m not fully finished understanding. Frank smiles as I speak, nodding his head as I make my points.
“When you sit down and really look at it,” he replies, “life is amazing. When you take away all the distraction and all the time we spend worrying about—” he sits back, breathing in as he holds out his hands “—really, really useless stuff, and just sit still and experience right here and right now in all its simple glory, there is joy to be had. I know a few bottles of water and a pizza doesn’t exactly sound like an experience to celebrate…” He trails off, smiling apologetically. “But it kind of feels that way tonight, doesn’t it?”
I try to remember the last time I felt joy and come up empty-handed. How can there be joy in life when there are bills that can’t be paid and family members you can’t please? Where is the joy in waking up every day to a job you don’t want to go to and dealing with people you don’t even like?
Maybe Frank doesn’t deal with any of those things. Maybe he loves his job and can pay his bills. Maybe there isn’t anyone at work he can’t stand. Maybe his family is perfect.
Except Bree is a thorn in his side.
And he’s mentioned having trouble with his younger brother and not quite fitting in with his father and older brothers. His mother expects him to drive four hours after work just to have dinner and there’s no way he can live up to those expectations. So neither work nor family is perfect for him.
Oblivious to my thoughts, Frank continues. “And people squander their time on stupid TV shows and mindless games on their phone.” Frank gestures to his own television. “I’m not immune. There are nights I turn that thing on and sit here until bed. But it’s a waste and I know it.”
The thoughts and ideas in my head feel like an octopus, unwieldy and squirming, too many pieces to keep track of all at once. I grab on to the one thought that seems clearer than the rest. “I don’t want to waste time with you. I want to experience every single second of it.” A voice in my head whispers about the space separating Ohio and Colorado and I shove it away, desperate to enjoy this moment with Frank without worrying about the future and its uncertainties.
He brushes a strand of hair off my face.
Cups my cheeks.
Lowers his gaze to my lips and I study the fan of his dark eyelashes through his glasses. They swoop against his cheek, long and thick and almost feminine in their beauty. When his lips touch mine, he’s gentle. As if he’s holding back. The avalanche of passion from the elevator missing from his kiss. I grip his arms and pull him to me, eager for more, but he only draws away.
“I want to do this right.” His lips brush mine as he speaks, igniting a flurry of butterflies in my stomach. “I want to go slow. To worship this body the way it was designed to be worshipped.” He runs a thumb along my bottom lip and I suck it into my mouth, my gaze crashing into his as heat ignites behind his eyes.
Hands explore bodies.
Clothing falls to the floor.
Time and space lose all meaning as sweat gathers along my temples, my throat growing raw as my voice wails forth my passion. Frank uses his hands, his mouth, his teeth, his tongue. His touch swings from feather light to painfully rough and I float through seas of pleasure, lost to everything but sensation, comprehending nothing but him.
When he finally enters me, he grips my face in his hands, his nose brushing mine, his dark eyes locked on my soft blues. I fall into him and I swear his soul finds mine, the edges joining, the two of us twining, entangling. I lose sight of where he starts and where I begin and my heart calls to his while my lungs capture his scent.
Sweat drips from his temple.
He whispers my name.
I shatter into a million pieces and he
puts me back together again.
Frank
A week passes. Then another. Sarah gets her first paycheck and presents me with an installment toward paying off the money I lent her for the repairs to her car. I take it, pleased she’s created a budget that will allow her to pay me back over time, irritated that her insurance company continues to drop the ball, and worried about what might happen once she doesn’t owe me money anymore.
Sarah doesn’t actually live in Denver. When she set off west, she never intended to stop in this city. The only reason she’s here at all is because of the accident. While I’ve known that on some level since the moment I told her about the job at McDougan & Kent, it’s only recently that I’ve really taken the implications into consideration.
I like Sarah.
A lot.
The longer she stays in Denver, the more I get used to her as a part of my life. But the woman is living in a hotel. There’s been no talk about looking for an apartment, nor has there been any talk about what happens when it’s time for her to leave. There hasn’t been one conversation about the future at all, nothing but a whole lot of enjoying the present. Up until recently, I’ve been fine with that. Why initiate a talk that might ruin what we have when things are so good in the right now? We’re too new for me to ask her to move to Denver permanently. Hell, we’re too new to know if I even want to ask her to move here permanently.
I don’t want her to go, but I don’t know if I have a right to ask her to stay.
So what happens when she’s paid off her car?
Will she leave?
Will she pack up her things and finish her trip west? Sit on a beach in California and forget all about me? Will she head back to Ohio?
Or will she stay?
Should she stay?
The thoughts are prickly and I do my best to avoid them for the better part of an hour, but finally give in and wander out to reception a little before five because her smile makes everything better.
