by Chloe Liese
“You need a masky thing-a-ma-bob. I have a fever. And I keep touching you. And breathing near you. Dr. Amy!” he hollers.
“Ren.” She laughs. “Right here, buddy. What’s up?”
“This here Francesca is…” He frowns. “Ah, I can’t think of the word right now. But it means her medicine makes her body very friendly towards the germs. She needs something so she’s safe from my plague.”
Amy grins at me, then directs herself to Ren. “While that’s very considerate of you, I’m confident your fever isn’t due to anything plague related. When I was assessing you, I noticed signs of a sinus infection. Remember, I told you I was going to give you some antibiotics?”
He stares at her. “I do not remember that.”
She pats his good arm. “That’s because you got your head knocked nicely. You told me you’d had a cold recently, and I told you it seems like you developed a secondary bacterial infection in your sinus cavity from it. That’s why you’re fevered.”
He squints at her one-eyed. “Can you maybe condense that to smaller words? I’m not following.”
“What I mean to say is,” she says gently, “that you aren’t contagious. You won’t get Frankie sick.”
“Oh, good.” Ren sighs and lets his eyes fall shut. “So, she can keep holding my hand, then, and I won’t give her the plague.”
“I should go anyway,” I tell him. “Time for you to sleep, Zenzero.” Slowly, I start to pull my hand away, but Ren clamps down on it, and his eyes pop open.
“That’s it. That’s what I wanted to ask you.” He tries to sit up and falls back, grimacing. “Forgot about that,” he groans.
“Easy. You know I’m always around. We can talk tomorrow.”
“No.” He stares at me seriously. “I need to know this. What does zenzero mean?”
A hot blush floods my cheeks. I clear my throat self-consciously. Amy’s loitering near the door on her phone, and she’s entirely within earshot. The last thing I need is her giving me shit for this. “Well, it’s silly,” I say, lowering my voice. “It’s just Italian nonsense.”
“Nonsense.” He frowns. “You call me nonsense?”
“Dammit, Bergman. No,” I whisper. “It means ginger, okay? Because you’re…” I wave my hand in the general vicinity of his face. “You’re a ginger. It’s cute.”
Ren’s smile is so bright, its voltage could power a city block. He cranes his head toward Amy. “Hear that, Dr. Amy? She thinks I’m cute.”
But before I can say a word in my defense, he shuts his eyes on a soft sigh, drifting off, his hand locked tight around mine.
8
Frankie
Playlist: “Undertow,” Lisa Hannigan
If Ren remembered our little narcotic-induced heart-to-heart, he didn’t let on. Over breakfast at the hotel the next morning, he flashed me his standard, friendly smile, and then he treated me like he always does. Like a woman he works with. Not like a woman he called Francesca, whose hand he insisted on holding until he fell into a restless sleep.
Which I’m fine with. Honestly, it’s easier that he doesn’t remember. If he had remembered it, I could just picture his acute embarrassment, that furious blush, the remorse that would paint his apology, even though I found what he did amusing and oddly endearing.
Back on the plane home after losing game two, unfortunately—but unsurprisingly, since we played without Ren—I stick my nose in work and avoid talking to anyone. If I don’t glue my eyes on my phone or laptop, they keep stupidly wandering across the plane to where Ren sits, leafing through a small paperback that I’m ninety-nine percent sure is Shakespeare, the dork.
Dammit. This is why lines can’t be blurred, boundaries can’t be crossed. Just a few nonstandard encounters with him and now every time I’m near Ren, weird sensations simmer beneath the surface of my skin. When I saw him yesterday at the game in his charcoal-gray suit and noticed it turned his eyes the color of rain-slicked slate—when I watched him talk with his teammates, giving them his entire focus and that wide-mouthed laugh—my stomach knotted furiously.
Just after I got seated on the plane, my breath caught when he strolled past me and left in his wake that familiar clean, spicy scent. It made my mouth water. It wasn’t the first time it happened, but previously, I chalked it up to it being an astonishingly nice scent. The guy has good taste in cologne. So what?
So what? So, this time, as I breathed him in, my body ached so fiercely in neglected places, I nearly slapped myself. And then I buckled down on work.
The flight hasn’t been the smoothest, and it’s hard to concentrate on work. Twice, when I glance up, I could swear Ren’s eyes had just gone back to his book. And now, he busts me watching him. That pale, catlike gaze slides up from the page it’s been tracking and locks with mine. My breath catches in my throat.
I blink away.
What is this?
Heartburn. That’s it. I had that spicy tuna roll for dinner before we left. I rub my chest, trying to coax away this hot, tight, burning something. Ugh. No more tuna roll.
Dipping my head back to my computer, even after I’m forced to pack up for descent, I don’t look up until our wheels touch down with bone-rattling bumpiness. Until I’m safe once again, grounded to earth and reality.
Player. Employee. And “never the twain shall meet.”
Yeah. Ren’s not the only literature dork around here.
I might not hardcore jam on Shakespeare like Søren, but I like my books. They’re one of the most vital tools in my arsenal for navigating human behavior, to explore my feelings about the parts of life that most confuse me. Books help me feel a bit more connected to a world that often is hard to make sense of. Books are patient with me. They don’t laugh at me instead of with me. They don’t ask why I’m “always” frowning, or why I can’t sit still. Books welcome me—weirdness and all—and take me exactly as I am.
After our rough landing, we deplane and head onto the bus back to Toyota Sports Center, our practice facility. Seated alone, I power on my phone, only to see Annie’s text:
Worst timing ever, but I’m at the hospital. Can’t tell if it’s preterm labor or a false alarm. I’d tell Tim to leave me here and come get you, but I think he’d divorce me for it. I’m SO sorry. Can you call me when you land? I feel awful. I know you don’t like Ubering this late at night.
Shit. I’m worried about Annie. And I’m worried about getting home. Because Annie’s right. I find late-night rides alone in a taxi driven by a strange dude nerve-wracking.
Maybe it’s the New Yorker in me, but I’m cautious about what situations I place myself in. I have pride, yes, and I don’t like to be babied, but I am also a practical woman. I can acknowledge that my ability to defend myself is objectively less than a woman whose hands and feet move much more readily.
My car was acting weird before we left for St. Paul and had to go to the shop again, so Annie and Tim offered to pick me up when I got back. My other friend Lorena doesn’t have a car, so I can’t ask her to come instead. Which means, now that Annie’s unable to get me, I’m screwed.
“Everything okay?”
I jump in my seat at the sound of Ren’s voice and drop my phone. It lands with a sickening crack on the bus floor.
“Zounds!” Ren leans and picks it up.
“Did you just swear in Shakespeare—”
“Let’s move on and pretend I didn’t do that.” Ren’s cheeks are bright red. Sighing in relief when he turns it over, Ren hands me my phone, demonstrating the screen somehow survived the drop. “I’m sorry I startled you.”
“That’s okay.” When I take my phone, our fingers brush, and a crack of electricity snaps through my skin. I yelp and pull away, a scowl tightening my mouth. I always look murderous when caught off guard because, while most people startle mildly when surprised, I jump out of my skin, adrenaline floods my system, and all I want to do is curl up into the fetal position. It’s unsettling and embarrassing.
“You okay?” Ren
asks.
“I’m fine.” I make a fist and release it. My hand’s trembling. “That didn’t hurt you?”
He shrugs. “I felt a jolt. But I was expecting it.”
Expecting it. What does that mean?
Ren’s eyes are on me, his mouth shifting from an easy grin to a frown of concern. “You don’t look okay. What’s up?”
I glance at my phone, staring at Annie’s text. “My ride home fell through. I’m a grouch when it comes to a change in plans, but it’s not a big deal. I’ll figure it out.”
“Let me give you a ride.” When he sees my uneasy look, he nudges my thigh gently. “You’ve already been in the minivan. You know how cool it is. How can you say no?”
His eyes hold mine, that easy, gentle smile in place. Something tells me getting in that van alone with Ren is asking for trouble. But weighed against a late-night Uber ride with a possibly cane-fetishizing murderer—laugh all you want, but it’s a statistical possibility and those aren’t chances I want to take, even when chances are slim—it’s not enough to deter me.
“All right,” I tell him. “Thanks.”
Ren’s smile widens, before he schools his expression. “Cool.” He picks up his book and doesn’t say another word.
When our bus rolls to a stop outside the practice facility, Ren stands and stretches. It sets his hips at my eye level and it’s too easy to picture him more than shirtless—pale skin, the shadow of hair arrowing down his stomach…
I glance away furiously as heat floods my cheeks. After fumbling with shoving my phone in my bag, I ease up from my seat, stifling a moan of discomfort. My joints practically creak as I straighten, a process that takes longer than it should. When I hike my bag onto my shoulder and stand fully, I notice Ren’s positioned himself slightly behind our row of seats, his arms braced on each side, sealing off the row until I’m clear.
Half the guys stand behind him, eyes on their phones, their small carry-on bags on their shoulders. They’re waiting.
“Sorry!” I call. “Granny Frankie’s slow moving.”
A bunch of variations of “You’re good, Frankie” travel the bus. Taking my time down those stupid steep steps off the bus, I make it out into the balmy California air waiting for us and draw in a long, deep breath.
Suddenly, weight leaves my shoulder. I gape as I watch Ren fluidly hoist my bag up his arm, as he hauls not only his equipment—yes, the man insists on carrying his own equipment and not letting the lowly assistants schlep his stuff—but also both of our suitcases, all with the use of one good arm.
“I’m feeling slightly useless,” I yell. “And you’re supposed to be careful of your shoulder.”
Ren grins back at me. “My shoulder’s fine. Besides, I’m antsy. I had to sit on my butt and watch a game. Just getting a little functional fitness in.”
Ignoring the option to drop off some of his stuff in the facility, Ren pulls out his keys, and the van’s trunk hatch opens with a chirp. After neatly loading our luggage, Ren steps to my side to open the door for me, waiting as I slide into the seat and buckle up. My laptop bag is set neatly at my feet before he closes my door and jogs over to his side.
Our practice facility is in El Segundo, a ten-minute drive west of my rented bungalow in Hawthorne, which is the opposite direction from Ren’s house in Manhattan Beach. I feel bad about making him go out of his way to take me home, but having a safe ride back is worth taking this bite of humble pie.
Before he pulls out, Ren turns on the radio and picks a station that’s quiet but strummy. Guitars, violins, maybe even a ukulele. The man’s voice is gentle and soft. It’s relaxing. I stifle a sigh as I settle into the soft leather of my seat and crack open my window, hoping it’ll wake me up a bit from this dreamy stupor his car’s putting me in.
“You can change the music, if you want.” Ren watches the road carefully, then crosses traffic.
“I like it. Thanks, though.”
He nods and focuses on the road. Ren looks absurdly right driving a minivan. I can just picture him years down the road, behind the wheel, a few more lines at the corners of his eyes, a wedding band claiming his left ring finger. Taking his kids to soccer practice, passing Goldfish bags and juice boxes to the backseat, singing loudly to Disney music on the stereo. And then, stupidly, I see myself in the exact seat I’m in, somehow belonging in that picture.
Honestly, Francesca.
Snapping my glance away, I focus out the window. After a long spate of comfortable quiet, I clear my throat and tell him, “Thanks again for the ride. Sorry to take you out of the way.”
“It’s no problem, Frankie. I’m always happy to give you a ride home.” He takes the right off El Segundo Boulevard onto Inglewood.
Minutes later, we pull up to my house, and Ren unloads my stuff as I fish out my keys from my bag and walk up to the door. I slide my key into the deadbolt first, freezing when I turn and don’t feel the bolt slide back. It’s unlocked. I test the handle. That’s unlocked too.
“What is it?” Ren sets my suitcase gently between us.
“My door…” It comes out hoarse and threadbare. “My door is open.”
“Frankie.” The urgency in Ren’s voice makes my head snap up just in time to realize he’s sweeping me up off my feet, holding my entire body easily in one arm—holy shit—and carrying my suitcase in the other.
I’m stashed in the van, Ren sprints around to the other side, and he drives quickly down the road, before parking and opening his phone. I watch his fingers dial 911.
“W-what are you doing?” I ask him.
Ren glances up at me as the phone rings. “Calling the police. Most violence related to burglaries happens during break-ins, when the homeowner walks in on the intruders. If someone’s still in there—Hi, yes…”
I stare at Ren as he speaks calmly with that composed, even voice he uses on the ice, the one that he used after Maddox got drunk and stupid on me.
I always find it fascinating to watch people like Ren in action during a crisis. People whose stress response isn’t shutting down their ability to function. Ren’s the guy who thinks analytically and keeps his shit together when the world’s burning. I’m the one who sinks to the floor and forgets how to breathe.
He tells them my address, explains the situation. I should be helping. Talking. Doing anything to take control of the situation. But instead, I sit there, staring down the road at my little rented bungalow that I’ve worked so hard to make feel like home. It’s been broken into. Invaded.
A cold numbness sweeps through my body.
Ren’s voice rushes over me, a warm breeze that pulls me from my frozen shock. “Frankie. Police are coming. It’s going to be okay. Do you have your landlord’s number?”
I nod. But I can’t seem to move my hands to find my phone. Carefully, Ren bends and extracts my phone from my bag. “What his name?”
“Mike Williams,” I whisper.
Ren dials, slowly opens his door and stands outside the van, his eyes glued on the bungalow. He leaves the window down so air comes in, so I can hear his conversation, if I were capable of following it. But slowly, a roar louder than the Pacific’s waves eclipses my hearing. Tears prick my eyes.
There are these tiny moments when missing my dad is acute and unexpected. He died when I was twelve. I’m twenty-six. I’ve lived longer without him than with him, so why, so many years fatherless, do I feel like I would give anything right now to feel safe in his strong arms, to hear his gravelly voice comforting me?
Great. Now I’m crying. And I don’t cry in front of others. Because since I moved to California and realized I had a chance to rewrite the script on how people saw the autistic girl with a limp, Project Make Frankie Badass consists of an impenetrable, chilly front. Nowadays, I cry privately.
I cry into bowls of ice cream on the twenty-fourth through twenty-ninth days of my cycle. I cry watching those TV shows where they build homes for people in crisis. I cry when that humane shelter commercial comes up on the
hotel TV every away game, because I miss my dog who’s staying with Aunt Lorena while Mommy travels, and I want a houseful of cats, and my bungalow, which was affordable-ish, close to both the practice facility and the arena, was perfect but for one small thing—“no cats!”—so I can’t be the cat lady I’ve always wanted to be and now my house doesn’t even feel like it’s safe and—
“Frankie.” Ren rips open his door, dropping into the driver’s seat while he lunges over the console and wraps me in his arms. “Hey. Shhh, it’s okay. You’re okay. We’ll get it figured out.”
Now I’m not just crying in public, I’m sobbing. In Ren Bergman’s arms no less, getting snot and tears all over his nice suit and fisting that soft blue dress shirt as hard as my aching fingers will let me.
Have you ever started out crying for one thing and found yourself crying for so much more by the time you really get going? That’s what happens to me sometimes. That’s what happens now.
Crying because I miss feeling safe in my home already. Crying because I’m hurting, and I’m tired of hurting. Crying because when shit happens, I want my sister, my mom, my grandmother, and they’re an entire country away. Crying because I need my dad, and he’s not here, and he never again will be. Crying because I miss my dog. Crying because this break-in scares me and makes me feel vulnerable, and I work very hard not to feel that way.
“Frankie.” Ren presses his cheek to the top of my head and holds me close. “Can you take a deep breath?”
I breathe in, then release a long shuddering exhale.
“Good,” he says softly. “And again?”
I take another slow, calming breath. And another. And another. Until my breathing is even, and my tears are only silent, sliding down my cheeks. At some point in my breakdown he started rubbing my back in a slow, soothing, circular motion. I sigh and lean into him.
“I called your landlord,” Ren says. “He’s going to talk with the police, make sure they get the place clear and safe again.” Ren’s hand slides up my back, then cups the nape of my neck. “Do you have any pets they need to keep an eye out for? Your dog, right?” he asks gently.
