23. Frankie

TWENTY-THREE

Frankie

8:34 pm

The string lights cast a warm, inviting light over the screened-in porch as Hunter and I settle into the cushioned chairs, each holding a glass of wine. The night air is warm, but the gentle breeze created by the ceiling fan creates the perfect temperature. It's peaceful here, and for the first time today, I can actually relax.

The quiet sounds of the night settle in around us as my mind races with memories of my mom. All of this has stirred up so much of that painful time.

I think about those final days, watching her wither away, her heart betraying her, and the helplessness that consumed me. If there had been anything that could have given her a little more time, a few more months, even a year, I would have fought tooth and nail to get it for her.

Unfortunately, by the time the doctors identified the problem, there wasn't. We didn't have options back then. The resources weren't there. I was barely an adult, watching the strongest person I'd ever known, my best friend, slip away because her heart couldn't keep up.

Now, sitting here with Hunter, knowing Grace's life is hanging in the balance, I know helping Grace is the right thing to do. She's someone's mother, someone's friend, an institution at the hospital, and I have the chance to help.

It's true, the trial isn't ready, and there are risks to doing this. But how could I look at Grace, or anyone else, and say I didn't try when I had this device that could change everything? It's personal. If this were my mom, dying before my eyes, I wouldn't have hesitated for a second. I won't let Grace go like that if I can help it.

I glance at Hunter and know I have to make the call. For the first time, I know it's the right one. I won't let Grace's story end like my mom's. Not if there's a chance this device could save her.

The pizza is long gone, both of us hungry after our full and busy day, and now, with the food cleared away and the wine flowing, everything's just… easy. Uncomplicated. Like this is exactly where we're supposed to be.

I marvel at Hunter, taking in the way the ambient light plays across his features. His normal, intense expression is softer at night when we are together like this. He looks content, almost at ease, which I never see at the hospital. It pleases me to know he's let his guard down, even if it's only fleeting.

"Thanks for the pizza," I say, breaking the comfortable silence. "It hit the spot."

He chuckles, his gaze meeting mine. "It was a good call. Sometimes you just need something simple."

"Simple but perfect," I agree, taking a sip of my wine. The rich, fruity flavor rolls over my tongue, and I savor it, savor this moment.

We fall back into silence, but it's not the awkward kind. It's the kind of silence that sneaks up on you when you least expect it, where words aren't necessary. The warmth of the wine spreads through me. Being here with Hunter, just like this, is perfection.

The comfortable tranquility stretches between us as we find some things to laugh about together. For once, we don't talk about the trial or cancer or heart disease.

The night settles in around us like a warm blanket. The wine has done its job, loosening the knots of tension that continue to battle within me, and I'm content.

"I should probably get going," Hunter finally says, his voice soft, almost reluctant. "It's been a long day. I know you probably want to get some rest, too."

"Yeah," I agree, though part of me wishes we could just stay here a little longer. Suddenly, I'm a child again, not wanting the night to end, for my easy friend to abandon me. But I'm not bold enough to say so. "I'm pretty wiped too."

As we move inside, I grab our empty wine glasses and head to the sink. Hunter lingers by the door, pulling out his phone to check it. I rinse the glasses, the sound of the running water filling the space between us, and I can't help but feel like this moment is slipping away too quickly.

I dry my hands on a towel, turning to find Hunter still glued to his phone, his expression distant, as if he's already halfway out the door. He's focused, almost too focused, on leaving, and it stings a little more than I'd like to admit.

"Everything okay?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry. I had a few texts and a missed call from my mom."

Oh, how I'd love to have a missed call from my mom. The thought leaves a lump in my throat.

His hand reaches for the door knob when he turns to say something. Maybe he wants to stay?

"Thanks, again, for a great night. I really enjoy spending time with you."

"Same," I simply say. I hope my disappointment isn't evident that he instead didn't say something along the lines of, "I really enjoy spending time with you, therefore I can't leave. You complete me." Okay, too cheesy. But, I'm disappointed none the less.

Then Carly's words echo in my mind: It doesn ' t always have to be him calling the shots.

Before I can think twice, I take a step toward him, my heart pounding in my chest.

"Hunter," I say, my voice catching slightly in my throat. He pauses, turning back to me, his brow furrowing in question. I reach out, grabbing his hand before I lose my nerve. "Stay."

It's a simple word, but it almost seems like I'm asking him for the world. For a moment, he just looks at me, the surprise clear in his eyes. I can see the battle waging inside him, the conflict between what he wants and what he thinks he should do.

"Frankie…" he starts, but I can hear the hesitation, the doubt, in his voice.

"Please," I whisper, my grip on his hand tightening. "Just stay."

Something shifts in his expression, the tension easing as he looks at me, really looks at me, and I can see it—the same desire, the same longing that's been eating away at me for weeks. Slowly, almost as if he's afraid to move too quickly, he steps closer, our bodies nearly touching.

Then, without another word, he pulls me into him, his lips crashing against mine in a kiss that's as desperate as it is passionate. It's as if all the tension, all the uncertainty we're both living under lately, is being poured into this one moment, and I can't help but respond with the same intensity, the same need.

His arms wrap around me, pulling me closer, and I lose myself in him, in the friction of his body against mine, in the way his hands grip me like he's afraid I'll slip away if he lets go.

When we finally pull back, both of us breathless, he rests his forehead against mine, his breath warm against my skin. "Frankie," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion.

I don't respond, my heart still racing, my thoughts a whirlwind of what this means, what comes next. But right now, in this moment, all that matters is that he's here, with me, and that he chose to stay.

The world outside my living room fades into the background as Hunter's lips claim mine with a fervor that sends shivers through my entire body. His hands, strong and sure, tangle in my hair, pulling me closer as our bodies press together with an urgency that is both thrilling and terrifying.

He bends me over the back of the sofa and jerks my pants down. I hear his buckle clank metal-on-metal as his pants fall to the floor. He spreads my legs and positions himself at my opening and shoves himself into me.

I cry out in pleasure, appreciating the girth of his massive cock as he goes in and out, in and out. It's fast and furious and deliberate.

When I come and collapse forward out of pure exhaustion and pleasure, he picks me up and turns me back to face him. He holds me tenderly for a moment and then asks if we can go to my bedroom. I don't answer with words, grabbing his hand instead and leading him down the hall.

Our breathing is still ragged as we stumble toward the bedroom, shedding the rest of our clothes along the way. His shirt falls to the floor just as I toss mine along with my bra.

The back of my knees hit the edge of the bed, and we collapse onto the mattress in a tangle of sheets and need. Hunter's body covers mine, the weight of him both comforting and exhilarating. His lips trail a path of fire down my neck, his teeth nipping at my skin, making me gasp with pleasure.

I arch into him, my body aching for more. Our eyes meet, and in his gaze, I see a reflection of my own desperate longing. "Hunter," I whisper, my voice trembling with anticipation. I'm tender down there, but not done. I'm swollen and desperate to have him inside of me again.

"I want you, Frankie," he growls, his words sending a thrill through me. "I need you."

I don't have time to respond before his mouth is on mine again, his hands exploring my body with a hunger that is primal. I can feel him, hard and insistent against my thigh, and I can't hold back the moan that escapes my lips.

He enters me with a single, powerful thrust that steals my breath away. Our bodies move together in a rhythm that is both wild and beautiful, each stroke driving me higher and higher. I cling to him, my fingers gripping his back as I meet him thrust for thrust, our bodies slick with sweat and passion.

The sounds of our lovemaking fill the room—the rhythmic creaking of the bed, the wet slap of our bodies coming together, our cries of pleasure mingling in the air. It's raw and real and more intense than any other time with him before.

"You are so good," Hunter groans, his voice strained with the effort of holding back. "So perfect."

A fierce energy gathers inside me, brimming just below the surface, threatening to break free. My body is on fire, every nerve ending alive with sensation. And then, with a final, powerful thrust, the world shatters around me, and I'm falling, falling, falling into a sea of ecstasy.

As the waves of pleasure slowly ebb away, I'm cradled in Hunter's arms, our bodies still intimately connected. He presses a gentle kiss to my forehead, his breathing slower now.

For a long moment, we lie in silence, listening to the sound of our hearts beating in sync. And in that moment, I realize that something has shifted between us, something profound and irreversible.

I turn to look at Hunter, my eyes searching his for some sign of what he's thinking, how he perceives this. But his expression is unreadable, his eyes guarded.

"Don't overthink it, Frankie," he finally says, his voice soft but firm. It's almost as if he is reading my mind. "Let's just enjoy this... whatever it is."

I nod, choosing to take his advice. After all, I've spent so much of my life worrying about the future, about being strong and standing on my own without anyone else. For once, I want to let my heart depend on someone else, to embrace the uncertainty and see where it leads.

Friday, May 31

6:14 am

The soft gray light of early morning filters into the room, casting a delicate glow over everything it touches. I blink awake, surprised that I'm up this early—especially after last night. Normally, I'm the last one to rise, but something stirred me, something that tells me it's more than just the remnants of a dream.

I turn over, and my breath catches in my throat. Hunter is still asleep beside me, his face softened in the quiet serenity of slumber. The lines of worry and determination ever present along his brow are gone, leaving him looking almost boyish in the soft dawn light. I smile involuntarily at how handsome and peaceful he looks.

And he's in my bed.

My gaze drifts over his features, taking in the sharp angles of his jaw, the strong curve of his cheekbones, the way his lips are slightly parted as he breathes deeply, rhythmically. Even in sleep, there's a quiet power about him, a kind of strength that seems to radiate from within.

And then my eyes are drawn to the tattoos that cover his arms and chest, peeking out from under the sheets. The ink is dark against his skin, swirling patterns and intricate designs that tell stories I've yet to learn.

I've never been with a man who has this much ink, and I can't deny how incredibly sexy I find it. The tattoos give him an edge, a hint of danger that contrasts sharply with the kindness and empathy I've come to know in him. And it suits him.

As the daylight begins to spill more fully into the room, it highlights the details of the ink, the way it contours to his muscles, enhancing the natural lines of his body. He looks like something out of a fantasy—bad boy on the outside, but now I know better. Beneath the tattoos and the gruff exterior, Hunter is one of the most caring, compassionate people I've ever known.

My heart aches a little as I watch him, a mix of fear and longing swirling in my chest. I'm falling for him, hard, and that scares the shit out of me. I didn't plan for this, didn't want this, but now that it's happening, I don't know how to stop it. And maybe, deep down, I don't want to.

I just hope I'm another victim to think she will be different. My mom always told me, when a man tells you who he is, believe him. He's said from the beginning he didn't want anything.

In fairness, so did I. Intentions change. Feelings grow. I can only follow my heart and trust that it wouldn't lead me astray.

I reach out tentatively, tracing the edge of one of the tattoos on his arm with my fingertips. His skin is warm and smooth under my touch. He shifts slightly in his sleep, mumbling something incoherent, but doesn't wake. I let my hand linger a moment longer, soaking in the aura of him, before pulling back.

The room is slowly brightening, and I know he'll wake soon. This rare, stolen moment of pure voyeurism is fleeting, I know. I want to soak up as much of him like this that I can.

His eyes flutter open, those deep blues locking onto mine, and he smiles—a little sheepish, a little sleepy, and a lot sexy. It's the kind of smile that could power the whole city, and for a moment, it's like the only woman in the world who's been lucky enough to receive it.

"Good morning," he murmurs, his voice a low rumble that sends a shiver through me.

I don't trust myself to speak, so instead, I let my actions do the talking. My hand slips beneath the sheets, finding the firm planes of his stomach, tracing the contours of his muscles until I reach the prize I'm seeking. I wrap my fingers around his growing erection, feeling it swell and harden in my grasp.

Hunter's breath hitches as I begin to stroke him, his gaze never leaving my face. There's a hunger there, a raw need that mirrors my own, and it spurs me on.

With a swift, fluid motion, I straddle him, my hair falling in a curtain around us as I lean down to capture his lips in a searing kiss. His hands find my hips, gripping me tightly as I rock against him, the friction sending sparks of pleasure radiating through my core.

I savor the pressure, hard and insistent, urgent against my entrance, and I don't waste any time. I rise up, positioning him at my center, and then I sink down, taking him in fully with one swift motion. We both gasp at the suddenness of the connection, the exquisite fullness of it.

Our rhythm is fast and frenzied, driven by the urgency of our impending separation. He thrusts up to meet me, each stroke sending waves of ecstasy crashing over us both. Our bodies move together as if they were made for this dance, each motion more intense than the last.

Hunter's hands wander, exploring the curves of my body with an urgency that speaks of unspoken desires and the bittersweet knowledge that this moment can't last. He palms my breasts, teasing my nipples into tight buds, and the sensation shoots straight to my core, intensifying the building pressure.

I throw my head back, my movements becoming more erratic as I ride the edge of release. Hunter sits up, wrapping his arms around me, and captures my nipple in his mouth. The added sensation sends me tumbling over the edge, and I cry out as my orgasm crashes over me in relentless waves.

Hunter isn't far behind, his own release following swiftly on the heels of mine. He buries his face in the crook of my neck, muffling his groan as he finds his release, his body shuddering beneath mine with the force of it.

We stay like that for a moment, our ragged breaths gradually syncing up with the steady beat of our hearts. Then reality starts to intrude, and with a reluctant sigh, Hunter gently disentangles himself from me.

"I have to go," he says, his voice tinged with regret. "Surgery waits for no one."

I nod, understanding the demands of our professions all too well. As he gets up and starts to dress, I can't help but watch him, memorizing every line and curve of his body, every detail of his tattoos.

He catches me looking and flashes me that smile again, the one that seems to hold a promise of more to come. And despite the early hour and the swift departure upon us, I can't help but bask in a sense of contentment.

Morning sex has a way of setting the tone for the day, and this passion, connection, the raw honesty of it, is definitely something I could get used to.

2:49 pm

The late afternoon sun filters through the trees, casting dappled shadows on the ground as I walk along the familiar path in the park. It's quieter than usual today, the typical hum of joggers and dog walkers replaced by a gentle breeze rustling the leaves.

I asked my dad to meet me here. This park has become our place over the past couple of meetings, a neutral ground where we've been slowly getting to know each other.

As I round the bend, I see him sitting on the same bench where we we've met before, his hands clasped in his lap, head slightly bowed. He looks up as I approach, and his face breaks into a small, tentative smile. There's something different in his expression today—something heavier.

"Hi, Dad," I say, the word still foreign on my tongue, but less so than it did weeks ago.

"Hi, Frankie," he replies, standing up as I reach him. He hesitates for a moment, then gestures to the bench. "Shall we sit?"

I nod, wishing we could walk to take away some of the awkwardness of sitting here together with nothing to occupy us but our words, or lack thereof. Perhaps he isn't feeling well today and needs the rest. He appears a little more pale than the last time I saw him.

Quickly I sink onto the bench beside him, the warmth of the late afternoon sun on my back. There's a tension in the air, unspoken things hanging between us, and I can tell this time is different. He isn't his usual overcompensating self.

We sit in silence for a few moments, just listening to the sounds of the park, and then he takes a deep breath, turning to face me. "Frankie, there's something I need to tell you. Something I've been holding back because I wasn't sure how to say it. But I think it's time."

A tight knot forms in my stomach, pulling tighter as I meet his gaze, the seriousness in his eyes telling me that whatever he's about to say, it's important. "Okay," I say quietly, bracing myself.

He looks down at his hands, taking a moment to collect his thoughts before he begins. "When your mother and I were together, I wasn't… I wasn't the man I should have been. I had a problem, Frankie. An addiction. I was spending money we didn't have on things we, as a family, didn't need, and I wasn't being the husband or the father that you and your mom deserved."

His voice is steady, but there's a tremor beneath it, a raw honesty that I haven't heard from him before. I swallow hard, the weight of his words settling over me. "Addiction?"

He nods, his eyes still fixed on his hands. "I was an alcoholic and I had a gambling problem. I tried to stop, for your mom, for you, but the grip it had on me was too strong. I kept relapsing, kept making the same mistakes. Your mother gave me so many chances, more than I deserved. But in the end, she made the right decision for both of you. She asked me to leave."

My heart pounds in my chest causing a mixture of emotions to swirl inside me—anger, sadness, confusion. "She didn't tell me," I whisper, more to myself than to him.

"She didn't want you to know," he says softly. "She was trying to protect you and your idea of me. I understand that now. But back then it felt like the end of everything. I tried to get clean, but I couldn't do it on my own. By the time I finally did, years had passed, and by then I didn't know how to find y'all."

His voice breaks slightly, and I can see the pain in his eyes, the regret etched into every line of his face. "Once I finally tracked down an address, I sent cards, letters, I called. But everything was sent back, and the phone numbers were blocked. I don't know if you remember, but when you were thirteen I came by, but your mom said it was best if I leave. By that point, it wasn't my place to argue with her. When you moved, I didn't know where you were. I wanted to be in your life, Frankie, but I didn't know how."

Tears well up in my eyes, and I blink them back, trying to process everything he's telling me. "I thought… I thought you didn't care," I say, my voice trembling. "I thought you just left."

"I never stopped caring," he says urgently, reaching for my hand. "Not for a single day. I never forgot about you, Frankie. But I was a coward, and I didn't fight hard enough to be in your life. And that's something I'll regret for eternity."

I look down at our joined hands, his grip warm and steady, and for the first time, I see him—not just as the man who wasn't there, but as a man who made mistakes, who's spent years trying to atone for them. "I saw you on those commercials. You had a wife and children. It felt like you left us for a better life."

He swallows, his Adam's apple bobbing as he fights back tears of his own. "I did remarry, and God blessed me with two other children. But none of them were a replacement for you. My sons are grown now, and I'm still married to a patient woman, but I never stopped loving your mom or you. I threw away my life without even realizing it."

A tear slips down my cheek, and I don't bother wiping it away. "I wasn't," I whisper. "I needed you. I needed my dad."

"I'm so sorry, Frankie," he says, his voice breaking completely now. "I'm so sorry I wasn't there for you. That's why I made it a mission to find you. When I was diagnosed with cancer it hit me that I might never get the chance to make things right, to tell you how much I love you, how much I've always loved you."

I can't hold back the tears anymore, and they flow freely down my face. The pain of all those years of feeling abandoned, of thinking I wasn't enough, crashes over me, but with it comes a strange sense of relief. Because now I know—it wasn't that he didn't care. It was that he didn't know how to be the father I needed in time.

Without thinking, I reach out and pull him into a hug, my arms wrapping around him tightly. He stiffens for a moment, surprised, but then he hugs me back, his embrace strong and trembling at the same time.

We sit like that for a long time, both of us crying, both of us healing, as the sun hides behind some clouds, giving a rare reprieve in the heat.

And for the first time in my life, I'm finally beginning to understand, to forgive, and to let go.