3. Frankie

THREE

Frankie

Saturday , April 20

Frankie's House

2620 11th Ave S, Birmingham

7:49 am

I jolt awake, my heart racing. The early morning breaks through the wood slats covering my windows, casting sharp yellow lines across my bedroom. Blinking away the remnants of sleep, I try to grasp at the fading wisps of my dream. It slips away like smoke, leaving only a lingering sense of something unresolved.

Hunter Parrish. His name echoes in my mind, bringing with it a strange mix of emotions. I can't recall the details of the dream, but his presence lingers as if he'd just been here in my room. Ridiculous, of course. We haven't spoken in months, not since that night in the lab.

Until our hallway crash last night, of course. Curious how seeing him brings all of that back into my consciousness.

I stretch, pushing away the covers, and swing my legs over the side of the bed. The plush rug that takes up most of the floor in my bedroom grounds me in reality, easing me into wakefulness. I can't shake this odd tingling all around me. It's like a phantom touch, a conversation half-remembered.

"Get it together, Frankie," I mutter to myself, padding to the bathroom. The face in the mirror looks back at me, green eyes still unfocused. I splash some cold water on my face, hoping to clear my head and brush my teeth. I can't do anything in the morning until I've brushed my teeth, not even take a sip of coffee.

As I go through my morning routine, flashes of the dream tease at the edges of my wakefulness: Hunter's intense and focused blue eyes; His tattooed sleeves peeking out from under his scrubs; His rare, genuine smile transforming his usually serious demeanor.

I shake my head, annoyed at myself. Why is he suddenly invading my dreams? The request, which is really a directive to me, from Dr. Theo Bench on Wednesday proposing a collaboration with him was probably the start.

And then seeing him in the flesh for the first time last night, running into that solid, broad chest, smelling him…

Curiously, neither of us mentioned the department head's proposal to pair up for the new pacemaker trial when we ran into each other. I wonder if he even knows, yet.

His possible involvement seems odd to me. He isn't a researcher—he is a surgeon. But, the truth is, there's no one else at UAB who knows as much about heart disease, pacemakers, and how they work as he does.

I pour myself a cup of coffee and try to focus on the day ahead. Today is not a work day. I have research to review and data to analyze, but it can wait until next week. Today, I have personal errands to run and laziness to catch up on.

Elmwood Cemetery

600 Martin Luther King Jr Dr, Birmingham

1:16 pm

I kneel down on the soft earth, the scent of freshly cut grass mixing with the subtle fragrance of the flowers I brought with me.

The cemetery is quiet and peaceful, almost out of place, given the rush of life just outside its gates. It's one of the reasons I come here as often as I do. The world slows down here, giving me time to think, to breathe, to remember.

I start pulling at the small weeds that have cropped up around the headstone, determined to make it look as neat as possible. The stone is simple, just the way Mom would have wanted it. There are no frills and nothing ostentatious; just her name, the dates that mark the too-short span of her life, and the words "Beloved Mother."

"Hey, Mom," I whisper, the words catching in my throat like they always do. "I brought your favorites."

I place the bouquet of daisies and lavender at the base of the stone, carefully arranging them so they don't obscure her name.

She always loved daisies. She told me when I was itty bitty that they were the happiest flower and I always think of her when I see them. She also loved the smell of lavender. She would fill our tiny apartment with their scent, trying to make a home out of so little. She always had some growing around our house and in any outdoor spaces we had.

I sit back on my heels, letting my hands rest on my thighs as I take in the sight of her final resting place. It's been years since she passed, but the pain of losing her hasn't dulled much. If anything, it's just settled into a familiar ache, a constant reminder of what I've lost.

We grew up together, in a way. She was so young when she had me, barely more than a kid herself. Bill, the sperm donor, as I call him, left before I was born. He ran off to start a new life, a new family, without a second thought for the one he abandoned.

I've never had much of a relationship with him, and I don't think I ever will. He's just a name on a birth certificate, a ghost who haunts the edges of my life without ever really touching it. I haven't seen him since I was thirteen, and that was for about five minutes when he stopped by the apartment unannounced to "visit." We moved after that.

Weirdly, though, out of the blue, I've had a few voicemails from him recently. I don't even know how he got my number, but I eventually blocked him.

But Mom…she was everything. We didn't have much, but what we had, we shared. She worked two, sometimes three, jobs to keep us afloat, always smiling, always telling me that things would get better. She is the singular person that made me believe I could be anything I wanted to be. Even when I didn't believe in myself, she believed in me.

Mom was the first person in her family to even think about college, but she never had the chance to go. When I got accepted, it was like I was carrying both of us across that finish line.

When I earned my PhD, when I got to call myself Dr. Renna, I was the first in our family to hold that title. It was for her as much as it was for me. Unfortunately, she passed away before I graduated and earned the "D-R," but I know she was with me every step of the way.

I worked my ass off, not just because I wanted a better life, but because I wanted to honor everything she sacrificed to get me there.

My independence and my drive—they're not just traits; they're survival skills. Watching her do it all on her own, without a single complaint, taught me I couldn't rely on anyone but myself. Especially not a man.

My father's betrayal was a constant reminder of how easily someone can walk away and how devastating it can be to depend on someone who doesn't stick around. That's why I've always kept my guard up, why I focus on my work instead of getting caught up in relationships that could pull me off course.

When Mom got sick, it felt like the world was falling apart. Watching her fade, knowing there was nothing I could do, that I couldn't save her, was the hardest thing I've ever faced. She didn't have access to the kind of experimental treatments that might have made a difference, that might have given her more time. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

That's why I do what I do—why I'm so driven to make a difference in the field of medical research. I hope I can make a difference so other, maybe, won't have to go through what we went through, to lose someone they love because they couldn't afford the best care or didn't have access to the latest treatments. It's what keeps me going, even on the days when the work is overwhelming and the weight of it all seems too much to bear.

I run a hand over the smooth surface of the headstone, tracing the etched letters of her name with my fingertips. "I miss you," I say softly, the words falling into the quiet air. "I'm trying to make you proud, to do something that matters. I just wish you were here to see it."

A soft breeze rustles through the trees, carrying with it the faint scent of lavender, and for a moment, I can almost believe she's here with me, watching over me like she always did.

I sit there for a while longer, letting the silence wrap around me like a comforting blanket. This place, this ritual, is my way of staying connected to her, of keeping her memory alive in a world that moves on too quickly.

I know what it's like to love someone with your whole heart and then lose them, to be left with nothing but memories and a grave to visit. Love is both comforting and the one thing that can hurt you more than any physical pain I've ever experienced. A double-edged sword.

Eventually, I stand, brushing the dirt from my knees. "I'll be back soon," I promise, even though she doesn't need me to say it. I always come back. She knows my heart. She always has.

Frankie's House

3:18 pm

I walk into my house, the familiar click of the door shutting behind me, echoing through the quiet space. It's a small, cozy place—nothing fancy, but it's mine.

The scent of the lavender candle I had burning before I went out still lingers in the air, mixing with the faint smell of coffee that's been a constant companion throughout the day. Oops. I didn't mean to leave it burning, but walking into is almost like Mom is here with me.

I toss my keys on the entry table and make my way to the kitchen, where a small stack of mail sits waiting for me. The usual—bills, advertisements, a flyer or two. I start flipping through them, not really paying much attention, just sorting the junk from the things that actually need my attention.

And then I see it.

An envelope, tucked between the electric bill and a coupon for pizza delivery. It's different, though. It's handwritten, the kind of thing you don't see often anymore.

I don't recognize the handwriting. The paper is plain, but the writing on the front is careful and deliberate. My name, my address. No return name, only an address that isn't familiar.

My fingers hovering hesitantly over the envelope. Something about it feels off. Or maybe just unfamiliar. I can't remember the last time I got a handwritten letter, much less one that wasn't from a friend or a colleague.

Curiosity gets the better of me, and I tear it open, unfolding the single sheet of paper inside. The handwriting is the same as on the envelope—neat, precise, like someone who took their time crafting each word.

But when I see the name at the bottom, my breath catches in my throat.

Dad. And not just "Dad," but "Love, Dad." Who the fuck does he think he is reaching out to me after all this time and calling himself dad? He's been nothing to me, and especially nothing resembling a dad.

For a moment, I just stand there, staring at the letter like it's something foreign, something I can't quite comprehend. I block his calls so he figures out where I live. I don't know if I should be creeped out or impressed by his attempt, even if it is a day late and a dollar short.

The man who walked out before I was even born, who left my mother to raise me on her own, who never once reached out, never once tried to be a part of my life, thinks we can be all chummy now. Shit. He better think again. He's dead to me.

I swallow hard, my heart pounding in my chest. Part of me wants to crumple the letter up and toss it in the trash where it belongs without giving it the attention it doesn't deserve. But another part, a part I don't like to admit exists, needs to know what he has to say.

With trembling hands, I smooth the paper on the cold stone countertop and start to read. The words swim in front of me, but I force myself to focus and take them in.

Frankie,

I know I failed you. I've lived with that knowledge for a long time, and there's no excuse for the choices I made. I wasn't there when you needed a father, and that's something I can never change. But I need you to know this: you were born from love. Despite everything, I've always carried that with me.

And I never stopped loving you.

You deserved so much better than what I gave you. I'm deeply sorry for abandoning you and for not being the father you needed. There's no way to make up for that, and I don't expect you to forgive me. But I hope you'll accept this apology for what it's worth.

I'm sick, Frankie. I don't say this to garner sympathy or to ask for anything more than a moment of your time. I might not have much time left, and before I go, I wanted you to know the truth about where my heart has always been.

I know I haven't earned the right to ask anything of you, least of all your forgiveness. But if there's one thing I can offer before it's too late, it's my sincerest apology. I'm sorry, Frankie, for everything.

I want you to know that despite my absence, I never stopped loving you. I hope, in some small way, that matters.

Love,

Dad

Sorry? He's sorry?

Fuck you, you bastard.

A surge of anger rises in me, hot and fierce. Sorry doesn't make up for the years he left us struggling, for the way he abandoned my mother, for the way he made me believe I was never enough or worth sticking around for.

And yet, despite the anger, there's something else, too. Something softer, more complicated, pushes through me. A part of me that's always wondered about him, that's always wanted to know why he left, why he never tried to be a father to me pushes me outside of my comfort zone.

I read those words over and over, my mind spinning. I don't know what to do, what to think. Meeting him? After all these years? I can't even begin to process what that would be like. Would that be disrespecting my mother? He never had the time or desire to meet either of us when he wasn't dying or when she was?—

The letter trembles in my hands as I set it back down on the counter, my emotions a tangled mess of anger and confusion and unwanted longing.

I push that thought away. I've spent my whole life without him. I don't need him now. I've made it this far without him.

I leave the letter on the counter, staring at it as if it might suddenly provide answers, or vanish altogether.

Whatever happens next, I know one thing for sure: this letter, this man who suddenly wants to be a part of my life, has just stirred up a past I thought disappeared along with him.

Monday, May 6

7 :18 am

My phone rings just as I'm taking a bite of toast, the shrill sound cutting through the quiet of my kitchen. I glance at the screen and see Carly's name flash across it. She's the only person that would call me this early. I swipe to answer, holding the phone away from my mouth.

"Mmmph?" I manage to get out, still chewing.

"Frankie Renna, are you seriously answering the phone with your mouth full?" Carly's voice is teasing, but there's a hint of disappointment in it, too. "What have I told you about that, missy?"

I swallow quickly, trying not to laugh. "If you're going to call me at this ungodly hour, then you deserve what you get. What's up?"

"Just finished my night shift, and I was thinking about stopping by on my way home to say hi if you're up. You know, make sure you're still alive and all that."

I smile at her sarcasm. "Sure, you know I love the company. Odd hours and all."

"Great, because I'm pulling in now," she says, and I can almost hear the smirk in her voice.

I laugh, shaking my head at her audacity. "You're impossible."

"That's why you love me," Carly chirps, and a moment later, I hear a knock at the door.

I open it to find her standing there in her scrubs, looking as bright and cheerful as someone who hasn't just worked a twelve-hour shift. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and there's a mischievous sparkle in her eyes.

"Morning, sunshine," she says, breezing past me into the kitchen. "Got any coffee?"

"Always," I reply, grabbing a mug and pouring her a cup. "How was your shift?"

Carly takes a sip of coffee and sighs contentedly. "Shift was uneventful. Your coffee is the worst. You need to do better."

"Take it up with the manager."

"Noted. I'll file a complaint. So, what's going on in the world of Dr. Frankie Renna?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I just got an email confirming I'll be working on a study with the insufferable Hunter Parrish."

Carly raises an eyebrow. "Wait, what? Hunter Parrish? As in the man you fucked sideways in the lab last year?"

I roll my eyes. "Yes, that Hunter Parrish." I choose to ignore her desperate attempt to bring this to the gutter. "It appears Dr. Bench had the bright idea to ask him to consult on the pacemaker work we've been doing, and I didn't exactly think like I could say no. You know, I didn't share with him the whole 'fucking sideways' sidebar."

Carly sets her coffee down, leaning forward with interest. "And now?"

"And now I just checked my email, and it's a go. We have a meeting this afternoon, the three of us."

Her eyes widen, and she gives me a knowing look. "Frankie, are you freaking out?"

I sigh, rubbing my temples. "Of course I'm freaking out. It's going to be awkward. Luckily, it won't be our first interaction since our lab in-service. I literally ran into him at the hospital on Friday."

"What happened?"

"I was hurrying down the hall, looking down, and he rounded a corner at the same time. Bam. Like I said, literally."

"Fuck. Why didn't you tell me?"

"Exactly. That was Friday. We haven't spoken since then. Plus, no biggie. Until I get this email, of course."

"No biggie?! This is the first interaction since you two," she says, making a hand gesture with her pointer finger, going in and out of a circle created by her thumb and pointer on the other hand.

"You're disgusting and so juvenile, Carly."

"I know. But seriously."

"I know."

Carly reaches out and squeezes my hand. "Listen, just be careful with him, okay? He's a hottie, no doubt, but he's world's grumpiest. Plus, he has a reputation for the perpetual bachelor."

I nod, trying to keep my tone light. "Don't worry, girl. While we might have slept together that one time, I have no intention of ever going there again."

But as the words leave my mouth, a tiny voice in the back of my mind whispers the lingering essence of him from the dream the other night. I push it down, refusing to acknowledge the way my stomach twists at the thought of seeing him again.

Carly studies me for a moment, then nods, seemingly satisfied. "Good. Just keep your head on straight, and remember who you are. You're a brilliant, beautiful, and in-control-scientist-badass."

I force a smile, hoping it's convincing. "Yeah, I know all those things." Then I throw a dishtowel at her.

As we chat about lighter things—her patients, my latest research—I can't help the niggling doubt that keeps creeping in. The thought of being in the same room as Hunter Parrish again, of working closely with him, has me on edge in a way I haven't been in a long time.

I tell myself it's just nerves, just the usual anxiety about bringing someone else in on my project, my baby. But deep down, I know it's more than that. I will have to deploy the universe's best self-control if he so much as brushes past me in a suggestive way.

"Are you pulling another night shift tonight?"

Carly stretches out on the couch, the wide sectional I bought just so I could spend time with my friends and have plenty of room. Right now, she's on the far left side, and I'm on the far right, our usual positions. I haven't changed out of my pajamas, and she's wearing a borrowed pair of joggers. I think she spends more time here than at her own house.

"Nah, they have me on-call for today. There was a big lull last night, not a lot going on, everyone covered, that kinda thing. It's nice, really. It's like my Friday."

"When do you go in?"

She shrugs, her eyes glued to the flatscreen hanging above the fireplace.

"They'll call if they need me. I'm not stressing over it too much."

"Who's running the desk?"

After stretching and showing her trim, athletic figure, Carly replies, "Grace is on the desk tonight, and she has her own little cadre backing her up."

"How is Grace doing, by the way?"

Twisting a strand of her short, blonde locks, which she does constantly, Carly blows out a breath.

"Well, that little scare she gave us last month is still getting her the side-eye from the folks upstairs. They want to be sure that one of their best ER nurses is still able to do the job without collapsing while on duty."

I nod a bit absently as I think about the issue Carly talked to me about a while back. When she told me she had a minor heart attack, part of my expertise, I've been keeping tabs on her.

"She's not working with any restrictions any longer, is she?"

"No," Carly replies, shaking her head as she stretches her legs, "They cleared her completely, but they're still watching. You know, company policy."

"Sill no idea what caused it?"

"Nope. Even bringing it up is a good way to get her growling, so I don't bother asking questions. A motherly Grace is better than a menacing one. Plus, I look forward to her home-baked goodies, so I'm not rocking that boat."

"So you do have some self-control when it comes to that mouth. Good to know."

"Rarely, but yes. She brought in apricot crumble cheesecake about a week ago," she says with a grin, licking her lips as she closes her eyes.

"And you didn't save me any, did you?"

Her shrug is answer enough. Meh, I don't blame her. I wouldn't save her any, either.

Just saying.