9. Frankie

NINE

Frankie

Frankie's House

9:17 am

The sound of the mail slot creaking open breaks through the silence of my house, followed by the soft thud of envelopes hitting the floor. I barely register it at first, my eyes being glued to the screen, absorbed in the latest data analysis for the pacemaker trial. But the sound lingers in my mind, a subtle reminder that the outside world still exists beyond the endless stream of numbers and charts.

I sigh, rubbing my temples as I push back from the desk. I've been at this for hours, and my brain is starting to turn into mush. A break wouldn't hurt.

With that I head to the front door, bending down to scoop up the small stack of mail. It's the usual assortment of bills and junk, but one envelope catches my eye, stopping me cold. The handwriting on the front is neat, almost too careful, and my stomach flips as I recognize it. It's the same handwriting as the letter from my father that arrived over a week ago.

Immediately, my heart starts to race, the blood pounding in my ears. My hands grow clammy as I stare at the envelope, a wave of nausea washing over me. What does he want now?

When he made his impromptu Saturday night visit, I told him stopping by wasn't appropriate. When he asked if he could come in to talk for a minute I told him it wasn't a good time. I might have been more apt to let him come in if I weren't dripping wet, but I guess in fairness, I haven't been very welcoming in his other attempts to reach me.

I have an urge to tear it open, to see what he has to say. At the same time, I'm terrified of what I might find inside. I can't breathe properly, my chest tightening with anxiety. It's like all the emotions I've tried to bury since his visit are suddenly clawing their way to the surface, demanding to be felt.

Before I can decide what to do, my phone buzzes in my pocket, pulling me back to the present. I fumble for it, grateful for the distraction.

Off work. Can I stop by before I crash? Desperate for a nap but could use some company first.

I take a shaky breath, my fingers trembling as I type out a reply.

Please do. I could use a break, too.

A small sense of relief washes over me the moment I hit send. Carly's timing couldn't be better. I need to get out of my own head, and she's always been good at helping me do that.

I place the unopened letter on the kitchen counter, trying to ignore the way it seems to stare back at me, taunting me with the unresolved pain it represents. I'll deal with it later. Right now, I just need to breathe.

Then I tidy up the living room, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the knot of anxiety twisting in my gut. Carly will be here soon, and I can push this aside for a little while longer. But even as I straighten the cushions on the couch, I can't help but glance at the letter again, my heart still pounding in my chest.

The knock comes quicker than I expect. I forgot to take off the deadbolt. Normally, Carly doesn't knock. Essentially, I have a roommate without the benefit of shared expenses.

"Hey, girl," she says, her voice tired but cheerful. "You look like you could use some fresh air."

I manage a smile, grateful for her presence. "That obvious, huh?"

Carly steps inside and hangs her purse on the hook just inside the door that used to hold my beloved Pokey's leash. "I've been cooped up in that freezing hospital all night. What do you say we go for a quick walk while it's still nice out? I need to feel the sun on my face before I pass out for the next twelve hours."

The idea of leaving the house, of putting some distance between myself and that letter, is suddenly incredibly appealing. "That sounds perfect, actually. Let me just grab my shoes."

As I slip on a pair of sneakers, Carly stretches her arms above her head, yawning. "You wouldn't believe the night I had. Three traumas in the ER, back-to-back. I swear, full moons bring out all the crazies."

I laugh, grateful for the distraction. "Well, you can tell me all about it on our walk. Maybe it'll help take my mind off... things."

Carly raises an eyebrow but doesn't push. That's one of the things I love about her—she knows when to pry and when to let things be. "Sounds like a plan. Come on, let's get out of here before I change my mind and fall asleep on your couch."

As we step outside, the early morning air is crisp and refreshing, although it is already pretty hot for so early. I take a deep breath, letting go of some of the tension when I exhale. Carly links her arm through mine as we start down the sidewalk, and I'm struck by a wave of affection for my friend. She may not know it, but her spontaneous visit is exactly what I needed.

The sun is making its way up, blaring directly at eye level as Carly and I step out onto the sidewalk. The air is thick with the promise of summer heat, but there's a slight breeze that makes it bearable. Carly stretches her arms above her head, letting out a content sigh.

"God, it's amazing to be outside," she says. "I swear, those hospital walls start to make you stir crazy after a while. I crave outside air."

I nod, though my mind is elsewhere, the letter from my father still weighing heavily in my thoughts. I'm trying to shake it off, to focus on the walk and the company, but it's not working.

Carly glances at me, picking up on my distraction. "You okay, Frankie? You've been awfully quiet since I got here."

I force a smile. "Just tired, I guess."

She gives me a sideways look, clearly not buying it. "Tired, huh? You sure you're not just sulking because you didn't get that dress at half off?"

I let out a small laugh, but it's hollow. "Yeah, that must be it."

We walk in silence for a few more minutes, the sound of our footsteps the only noise between us. Carly keeps sneaking glances at me, and I can sense her curiosity growing. Finally, she stops and turns to me, her expression more serious.

"Alright, spill it. What's going on? You're not yourself today. I'm not buying what you're selling about being tired. Cut the bullshit."

I hesitate, the words catching in my throat. Part of me doesn't want to talk about it, doesn't want to admit that he's getting to me. But the other part of me is tired of holding it all in, of pretending like everything is fine when it's not.

"It's my father," I finally say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Carly's eyes widen in surprise. "Your father? What about him?"

I take a deep breath, the emotions bubbling up inside me as I try to find the right words. "He showed up at my door. Saturday night, after we got back from dinner."

Carly's mouth drops open. "He what? Why didn't you tell me?"

I shake my head, the memory of that night still vivid. "I didn't know how to tell you. I didn't even know how to process it myself. It's been years since I laid eyes on him, Carly. The last time I saw him I was still wearing jelly shoes and listening to NSYNC."

"Holy shit, Frankie. What did he want?"

"I don't know," I admit, appreciating the sting of the truth. I refused to let him in. I just… panicked. I was at a loss of what to say or do. Fresh out of the tub, I was in a robe, and it was late. That's not all—he's been trying to call me for a few months and he sent me a letter."

Carly is silent for a moment, processing everything. "Wait, so tell me again. I know you weren't close with your father, or basically had no relationship with him. But what happened? I mean, if you want to share. You can slap me and tell me to mind my own business if you want."

We find a bench just ahead under a large magnolia tree. I pull Carly with me and we sit down. This could take a while.

I swallow hard. The anger and hurt I've been holding back rises as I find the right words. "He left us. He left my mom when she was pregnant with me and went off to live his own life. My mom was a young, single mother, struggling to make ends meet while he went on with his life, probably not giving us a second thought. He made a few pathetic attempts to connect with me when I was little, but it was never more than a few visits. I never knew what to say to him, and he never tried hard enough to be a part of my life."

"Why now? After all this time?"

Carly listens, her expression softening as I continue. "I haven't heard from him in over a decade, not a single word after my mom died. And now, out of nowhere, he sends me a letter telling me he's dying and wants to make amends."

"He sent you a letter?! Like, in the mail?"

The tears well up in my eyes as the pain of his abandonment hits me all over again. "Yes, a couple of weeks ago, but I just tossed it. I didn't want to deal with it. But he's being persistent and he's wearing me down. So he stopped by Saturday and now I have a new letter, one I haven't opened."

Carly looks at me with a mix of shock and sympathy. "Frankie, why didn't you tell me sooner? I'm so sorry you've been dealing with this all by yourself. This isn't something you can just ignore. I mean, hearing from your estranged father who's sick… that's heavy."

With a trembling voice, I wipe away a tear that slips down my cheek. Dealing with it was the last thing I wanted to do. I've spent my whole life trying to forget him, to move on. But now, he's back, and I don't know what to do."

Carly reaches out and takes my hand, her grip firm and reassuring. "Frankie, you don't have to decide anything right now. But maybe it would be good to talk to him. To at least hear what he has to say."

I shake my head, the thought of letting him back into my life terrifying. "I don't know if I can, Carly. He hurt us so much. I don't know if I can forgive him."

"I know," Carly says gently. "And I'm not saying you have to. But maybe this is a chance for you to get some closure, to say the things you never got to say before. It might be healing, for you."

The tears are falling freely now, and I don't bother to stop them. Carly pulls me into a hug, holding me tight as I let out all the pain and anger I've been holding inside for so long.

"I'm here for you," she whispers. "Whatever you decide, I'm here."

I nod against her shoulder, receiving the weight of her words. I'm not ready to make a decision yet, but for the first time, I'm seeing that maybe I can find a way to let him in. Even if it's just to say, "fuck you, you bastard."

"Thank you. That means a lot. I'm sorry I got all snotty on you."

We both laugh as Carly fake-wipes her shoulder.

"Come one. Let's get moving. I have to work, and you have to laze around all day."

"Good point." With that, we stand up and head back. It's freeing to have gotten that out. I realize I have been holding all of this in, trying to will it away. But I needed to talk, to process it out loud.

10:41 am

Frankie: Please give me fifteen minutes. I can't give up, but if you'll meet with me and you want me to leave you alone after that, I will. Please.

205-634-1144

Dad

Goddammit. I throw the letter in the trash can and walk out of the kitchen. It's time to get back to work. I've procrastinated enough this morning.

The familiar glow of my computer screen is a comforting sight after the annoyance of having to deal with this bullshit drama. After reading it, diving into data is a welcome a relief—something solid, something that makes sense that fits neatly in a chart. I scroll through the latest results, noting patterns and anomalies, my mind slowly settling back into its usual rhythm.

Then, my email pings, the sound sharp in the quiet room. I glance at the corner of the screen where the notification pops up, and my breath catches when I see the sender.

Hunter Parrish.

I open the email, and as I read his words, I encounter that same inexplicable flutter in my chest I seem to get whenever anything Hunter Parrish-related comes my way. He's telling me he identified some risks that he wants to run by me. He has everything listed, but the words are all running together.

My frustration is rising. This is why Theo wanted to bring him in. It doesn't make it any easier when I feel like I have to defend my work.

Even with my defensiveness, I have an affection for Hunter's mind and compassion in this space. He is truly a dynamic surgeon with so much knowledge about the personal side when all I look at are the lab markers.

I shouldn't let myself get this way; I know that. There's no reason for it, and yet… my heart skips a beat, and my pulse quickens. Am I angry or giddy? Apparently, the two emotions are indistinguishable for me at this juncture.

Why does he have this effect on me?

I lean back in my chair, staring at the screen, trying to figure it out. My logical brain knows there's nothing between us—there can't be, and I don't want there to be. We're colleagues, and that's where it needs to stay. But he has this way of getting under my skin, of inducing things in me I can't quite define.

I take a deep breath and start to type out a reply. Then I erase it, not quite sure how I want to come back. I know we need to address his concerns, but he can wait a minute while I figure out how, exactly.

My heart is still fluttering annoyingly in my chest. I tell myself it's just the residual tension from talking about my father, from the emotional weight of that conversation with Carly. It has nothing to do with Hunter. It can't.

Shaking off the thought, I return to the data I was reviewing before he so rudely interrupted me.