11. Frankie

ELEVEN

Frankie

Frothy Monkey

7:11 pm

I sit in the café, staring down at the paper cup of peppermint tea with the craft paper koozie wrapped around it. I spin the corrugated sleeve around mindlessly, trying to ease my anxiety but only adding to it.

The steam stopped rising from it a while ago, but I still haven't taken a single sip. I wrap my hands around it to try to stop my fidgeting. It's strange being here, waiting for a man who's been nothing more than a ghost in my life.

When I got the second letter, I thought about ignoring it—just like I ignored the first one. But something in his words got to me this time. The way he basically begged me, promised to leave me alone if I would meet, I figured I would see what is so urgent.

Carly told me I'd regret it if I didn't at least hear him out, and I came to the realization that she's right. But as I sit here, waiting, I'm not so sure. Part of me wants to run before he gets here. Maybe this was a mistake…

The door chimes, and I glance up to see him walk in. It's like seeing a stranger, yet there's a familiarity in his face because I've seen him over the years in his commercials. He looks older, frailer than I imagined. Up close, there's no trace of the slick car salesman. He's just a tired man who doesn't seems out of place.

He spots me and hesitates, as if unsure whether to approach. I nod slightly, giving him permission, and he makes his way over to the table.

"Hi, Frankie," he says softly, almost as if he's testing the sound of my name.

"Hello," I reply, keeping my tone neutral. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel—anger, sadness, maybe even relief that he's here. But I'm not ready to let any of it show.

He sits down across from me, his movements careful, like he's afraid he might break something. There's an awkward silence, the kind that stretches on just long enough to make you uncomfortable.

"I wasn't sure if you'd come," he finally says, his voice laced with uncertainty.

"I almost didn't," I admit, staring at him directly. "But you said you were dying. And you've at least made a valiant effort, so I figured I'd give you a chance to say your piece."

He nods, looking down at his hands, which are trembling slightly. "I am. I didn't want to burden you, but… I couldn't leave without at least trying to talk to you."

"What is it?" I ask, my voice sharp with impatience. "What are you dying from?"

He looks up at me, and I can see the weariness in his eyes. "I have Hodgkin's lymphoma. It's a rare form, and it's… aggressive. The doctors haven't been able to find anything that works. It isn't responding to the traditional treatment methods."

The words hit me harder than I expected. Cancer. Of course, it's cancer. A part of me has a modicum of sympathy for him, but another part, the part that's been hurt by his absence, is numb. My mother, the woman he abandoned along with his child, also had a terminal illness. I didn't see him visiting while she was dying.

I'm not sure what to say, so I just nod, letting him continue.

"They've tried the usual treatments," he says, his voice faltering. "But it's not responding. They've mentioned some experimental options, but…" He trails off, the unspoken truth hanging between us. He's running out of time.

I swallow, trying to process the information. This man, who I barely know but who has shaped so much of who I am, is dying. And there's nothing anyone can do about that. Strangely, when it was my mom in his place, I wanted to do anything and everything I could to try to stop it, to fix her. With him, I don't have that urge.

"Why are you telling me this?" I finally ask.

"Because I needed you to know," he says, his voice trembling. "I know I haven't been there for you, and that's my biggest regret. But I couldn't leave this world without at least trying to make things right, to give you some kind of explanation."

I narrow my eyes, my defenses going up. "And what explanation could possibly make up for twenty-eight years of nothing?"

He flinches, and I can see the pain in his eyes. "I don't expect you to forgive me, Frankie. I just wanted you to know that… I never stopped thinking about you. I stayed away because your mother said that is what she wanted. I didn't fight hard enough, and that's on me. But I did care."

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes. "Caring isn't enough. Caring didn't help my mom when she was struggling to raise me on her own. You know, she died twelve years ago, right?"

"I know," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I didn't find out until after her death, I'm so sorry. I know I failed you both. But I want you to know that I didn't stay away because I didn't care. I stayed away because… because I thought I'd already done enough damage. I wasn't healthy for you two, and you deserved more."

That sounds like a cop out to me. I don't know what to say to that. The anger I've held onto for so long somehow seems unnecessary now, but I'm not ready to let it go. Not yet.

"I don't know if I can forgive you," I finally say, my voice trembling. "But I'm here, and I'm listening. That's all I can give you right now."

He nods, tears welling up in his eyes. "That's more than I deserve."

We sit in silence for a while, both of us lost in our thoughts. I take a sip of my lukewarm tea because I don't know what else to do.

I came here expecting to give him a few minutes, tell him to leave me alone and leave, having finally closed that door. But now, I'm not sure what I feel. There's a part of me that wants to understand, to find some real closure before it's too late. There's still a part of me that's a little girl who wonders why her father didn't love her enough to stay.

The café feels too small, too stifling now. I need to get out of here to clear my head. Bill's words are still echoing in my mind, but I can't deal with them here, not with him watching me, waiting for a reaction I'm not ready to give.

"I think I need to go," I say, standing up abruptly. My voice sounds distant, even to me.

My father looks up at me, a flicker of something—disappointment, maybe—crossing his face. "Of course, Frankie. I didn't mean to keep you."

I nod, not trusting myself to say more. I grab my bag, not even bothering to finish the tea that's gone cold in front of me. My hands are trembling slightly as I turn to leave.

"Thank you for coming," he says quietly, his voice full of a sadness that tugs at something deep inside me.

I don't respond, instead, I give him a brief nod before I push through the door and out into the none-the-wiser Birmingham air. The street is happy and alive as if a complete shitshow isn't going on in my life.

The soft glow of streetlights cast long shadows on the pavement. I start walking, not really paying attention to where I'm going, just needing to move, to get away from the heaviness that's back there in the café.

I round a corner too quickly, my mind still miles away, and nearly collide with someone coming from the opposite direction. I'm about to apologize when I realize who it is.

"Hunter?" I say, my voice tinged with surprise.

He looks equally startled, pulling out his earbuds. "Frankie? What are you doing here?"

"I—" The words catch in my throat, the emotions from the meeting with my father suddenly too much to hold back. "I just…had a meeting and wanted to clear my head. It's a nice night so I thought a walk would be nice. I'm so sorry that I didn't see you. My brain must be somewhere else."

He studies me for a moment, his expression softening. "No worries. I should say the same. Apologies. Rough day?"

I nod, sensing the tears that I've been holding back start to well up. "You could say that."

Without thinking, I take a step closer, the need for comfort outweighing my usual caution. Hunter seems to sense it, his demeanor shifting from surprise to concern. He doesn't ask any more questions, just takes a slow, steady breath, as if inviting me to do the same.

"Do you want to walk for a bit?" he asks gently, his voice low and comforting. "I've gotten my run in. I could use a cool down. Shain Park is amazing at night."

I nod again, grateful for the suggestion. We start walking together, side by side, the silence between us not uncomfortable but rather calming. It's nice to just be in the presence of someone who isn't expecting anything from me, someone who's just there.

We walk like that for a while, neither of us saying much, but his quiet companionship is exactly what I need. The night air is cool against my skin, and slowly, my lungs can finally expand to let more oxygen in, letting my shoulders gradually drop back into some semblance of healthy posture.

The paved path we've been walking on winds through a patch of trees illuminated by soft, amber lights. Hunter gestures to a bench, and we sit down, the world around us quiet and still.

He turns to me, his expression still full of that quiet concern. "This is my favorite spot in the park. I usually sit here after a run and watch people walk by. It's very soothing."

"This is quite nice. I wouldn't have pegged you for a people-watcher, Dr. Parrish. I've never done this, but I like it."

"I'm glad to share," he says kindly, even friendly. He is usually so rushed, so tense and busy. This is a nice side to Hunter. I'm enjoying the view of the passersby and my bench neighbor. Who knew he would be the one to rescue me after that face-to-face with my father? And he doesn't even know.

The evening air is lighter now, the weight of the earlier conversation with Bill slowly lifting as I sit beside Hunter on the park bench. We don't say much, and somehow, that's exactly what I need. The silence isn't awkward, it's…comforting.

After a while, Hunter stretches his arms, his muscles flexing under the thin fabric of his shirt. I admire the way his tattoos run the entire length of his forearms, intricate designs that enhance his powerful physique. I remember wanting to study them more carefully after our quickie all those months ago. They seem to tell a story, one I've never asked him about, but now I find myself curious.

"You've got some interesting ink," I say, the question slipping out before I can think better of it. "Do they have any specific meaning?"

Hunter glances down at his arms, as if he's forgotten the tattoos are even there. A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and I can tell the subject interests him. He points to a particular design on his right forearm—a koi fish, beautifully detailed, swimming upstream.

"This one," he says, tapping the fish with his finger, "is for perseverance. The koi fish is a symbol of strength in the face of adversity. There's a legend that if a koi swims upstream long enough, it transforms into a dragon. It's kind of a reminder that the hard stuff you go through can lead to something greater."

I'm surprised by the depth of his answer, and I find myself leaning in slightly, intrigued. "That's really cool. I don't have any tattoos, but I love knowing the significance of them. Makes me imagine what I would get and where. Are you a koi?"

He shrugs, looking a bit self-conscious, but not in an uncomfortable way. "I guess I've always felt like I was swimming upstream. My parents had pretty high expectations, and there was always this pressure to be the best. But it wasn't just about proving something to them—it was about proving it to myself. The koi is a reminder that the struggle is part of the journey, and that the end result, the ‘dragon,' is worth it."

His thoughtfulness and emotional depth catches me off guard. I see a glimpse of something more behind the gruff surgeon I know at work. This is a side of Hunter that's thoughtful, introspective, and surprisingly open, and it's hard not to be drawn to it.

"It suits you," I say softly, my eyes lingering on the tattoo. "You've definitely got that perseverance thing down. You're a fighter, aren't you?"

He chuckles, a low, warm sound that sends a shiver through me. "I guess you could say that. It's a work in progress."

We fall into a comfortable silence again, the air between us charged with something unspoken. I notice how effortlessly handsome he is, especially now, outside of the hospital, without the usual tension that seems to cling to him.

The athletic fit of his shirt clings to his chest and arms, and I can't try not to stare at the definition of his muscles, the sheen of sweat making them glisten under the streetlights. His tattoos wrap around his biceps and forearms, and there's something so effortlessly sexy about the way he carries himself—confident but not arrogant.

I find myself lingering, just a bit, as we walk back toward the main path. There's something about seeing him like this, outside of the sterile environment of the hospital, that's both disarming and almost inviting. He's still Hunter—sharp, focused, intense—but there's a warmth to him now, a side I haven't seen before.

We reach a point where our paths diverge, and he turns to me, that same easy smile on his face. "Take care, Frankie. I'll see you at work."

"Yeah, see you," I reply, and as he walks away, I find myself watching him go, the way his broad shoulders move, the effortless grace in his stride. Dear Lord, he is a beautiful man.

When he's out of sight, I take a deep breath, acknowledging a strange mix of sentiments. The heaviness from my talk with my father is still there. But it's muted now, as if a softer, more manageable emotion has enveloped it. I realize that it was Hunter's presence, his calm and unspoken support, that helped ease the turmoil inside me.

I walk back toward my house, my mind still replaying the unexpected encounter. It wasn't anything monumental—just a walk, a shared silence—but it was the perfect buffer from my surreal sitdown and from reality.

And I can't ignore the fact that Hunter, of all people, was the one who provided it.

It's strange, this pull I have toward him. We're colleagues, nothing more, and yet… there's something there. Something more than a meaningless fuck six months ago. Whatever it is, it's real, and it's growing.

Tonight, the walls I've built up around myself since our encounter so long ago, feel just a little bit lower. And for the first time, I find myself wondering what it would be like to let someone in.