Chapter Nineteen

After she cleaned herself up in the bathroom and put on Frank's shirt and her underwear, Twyla dithered in the hallway. Frank, who was also fully clothed again in his white shirt and plaid pajama bottoms, came to his bedroom door in search of her.

"I'm trying to figure out if I'm supposed to sleep in Annie's room or yours," she admitted. No point hiding her fragile emotions from a man who'd seen her wield a vibrator this evening.

"What do you want to do?"

"There you go again, asking me what I want, when I don't even know what I want most days. Who cares what I want?"

"I do."

She rubbed her face with both hands. "You're my best friend."

"And you're mine. That hasn't changed."

"Everything's changed." She dropped her hands and let him see her, all of her, in her stark honesty. She was a house with the doors and windows thrown wide open. Only this house maybe had a hole in the roof and some smoke and water damage. Perhaps this house was no one's idea of a worthwhile house.

"We don't have to borrow trouble. We don't have to regret this." He pushed himself off the jamb and reached out a hand to her, not to touch her, but to offer it to her, if she wanted to take it. "Tomorrow's coming for us anyway. Let's finish out this night together. Come back to bed."

"With you?"

"With me."

She hesitated, staring at that generous hand, and she worried what it would mean if she took it now.

"What's done is done," he said. "Let me hold you tonight."

To hold another person was something people pledged in their wedding vows. It was what Hart and Mercy had said to each other the night Twyla and Frank had taken a step in a new and bewildering direction. It was the promise Twyla had made to Doug and that Doug had made to her, one neither of them had fulfilled to the best of their abilities.

I will hold you in the dark of night.

Twyla wanted to hold and to be held, but she wasn't convinced that it was possible to be held without being held down or held back.

Frank kept his hand outstretched and did not waver. "You'd like that, wouldn't you? To be held, just this once?"

It wasn't as if Frank would ever hold her down or hold her back. His arms weren't a cage. He knew how and when to let go, whether it was his wife or a pink dragon. And the Mother of Sorrows knew Twyla wanted to be held so badly and held by him.

She placed her hand in his. "Just this once."

His fingers closed around hers, and he held her, palm to palm. His calluses matched her calluses; they'd earned them together. He led her to his room, walking backward, as if she'd disappear if he dared to look away.

"Go on and settle in," he told her, nodding toward the mattress.

She gave him a quizzical look as she climbed into the left side of the bed, opposite of where he'd been reading earlier in the evening. "I assume you're joining me?"

"I've slept next to you on tour for the past eight years. I know you sleep on your left side." He walked around the bed and climbed in on the right. "You get comfortable, and then I'll go in for the cuddle."

"‘Go in for the cuddle'?" she laughed.

"Yep. Get comfy, Left Side."

It was a lot easier to get comfy when Twyla was laughing rather than worrying. She settled in, noticing that Frank's mattress and pillows were significantly comfier than her own, and maybe she ought to invest in a better sleeping situation for herself since she was going to have to buy a brand new bed anyway.

"You ready?"

"Ready."

He dimmed the gas reading lamp, and then she was surrounded by Frank: his body, his heat, his scent. His arm draped around her waist, pleasingly heavy.

"Sometimes I get hot in the middle of the night, so I might have to scoot away to cool off," she apologized in advance.

"You do what you need to do, Little Spoon."

Already, the warmth and comfort of Frank's embrace was lulling Twyla to sleep. "Left Side. Little Spoon. How many new names do you plan on giving me tonight?" she asked him as her eyes drifted shut.

"As many as you want."

He snuggled her more tightly into him, and it didn't feel too hot or suffocating. She relished the heft of his arm at her waist, the solidity of his body pressed against hers, and it made her fret, because she didn't want to like it quite this much, not when she had come to appreciate sleeping alone.

Frank is not a cage, she reminded herself. He'll let you go if that's what you want.

"Twyla?" he said, his bass voice vibrating against her back.

"Hmm?"

"We're going to be fine, okay?"

"Okay," she said, trying to convince them both that it was true.

The same birds that sang outside Twyla's bedroom window every morning sent up a chorus outside Frank's bedroom window, too. She had slept later than she usually did, and was surprised to see how bright the light was coming in through the curtains.

In the books she read, characters often woke in strange beds, befuddled by their surroundings until they remembered the blisteringly hot sex they'd had the night before. Twyla knew immediately where she was and what she had been doing mere hours ago and with whom, and she did not need to wait to plunge herself into a cold sea of misgivings and regret and dread. Their kiss on the night of Hart and Mercy's wedding had been a mistake. This? She didn't know a word for what this was.

She was in Frank's bed. But Frank wasn't in Frank's bed. She was relieved. She didn't think she could face him yet.

She found a note folded in half on his pillow, her name written in his neat, clear cursive. She opened it and read:

Good morning, Twy. I've gone out to pick up breakfast. The coffee's already made, if you want some. Be back soon.

Frank

P.S.—Don't let yourself worry too much.

The paper was small in size, and the postscript was crammed into the bottom margin, as if he had spaced out the original message evenly on the page and had decided to add the postscript at the last minute. It was a short note, but Twyla suspected he had agonized over its composition. She would have. The fact that he knew she would be worrying her fool head off when she awoke stabbed another agonizing shard of remorse into her heart. It was bad enough that she had messed with her own emotions by coming to Frank's room last night; the thought that she had messed with his, too, lashed her.

If she was going to face this day, she would do it in real clothes, not Frank's undershirt. She sat up, and the first thing she saw was her vibrators, three in the pillowcase on Frank's nightstand and the fluorescent favorite, which had rolled against the spine of the book Frank had been reading. Out of habit, she gathered them up to hide them in the drawer of the bedside table, forgetting momentarily that they belonged in her bedside table, not Frank's. There wasn't much in the drawer, only the small box of condoms, a scattering of loose change, a couple of pencils, some bookmarks, and a framed photograph.

The photograph caught her attention. Why on earth would he keep it in a drawer rather than on a shelf or table?

Probably an old picture of Cora, she guessed. That would make the most sense. He surely wouldn't feel comfortable keeping a picture of his ex-wife out where anyone could see it, although it had been some time since Twyla got the sense that he was pining for her.

She ought to have respected his privacy enough to leave it alone, but she took out the frame without thinking through what she was doing.

It wasn't a picture of Cora. It was a picture of her and Frank, together and smiling. They were outdoors, on a beach, a picnic blanket beneath them, the sun shining, the sea shushing behind them. The image, of course, lacked color, but she could fill in the brilliance of the blue sky above, the soft gray-green of the ocean, the red-and-white checks of the blanket. She remembered this excursion, five or six years ago, a trip to one of the inner islands with both families while Frank's kids were visiting him for the summer. Frank had given Annie a camera for her birthday, and she had been over the moon, snapping the shutter at anything and everything. Frank must have spent a small fortune on film and development, but then, he would have done anything for his children.

In the photograph, they sat close together, Twyla leaning easily against Frank's shoulder. She was laughing, her face turned toward something outside the frame, while Frank looked at her, smiling, his eyes warm, even in black and white. She had never seen this picture before, but the quiet contentment that it captured made an aching lump swell in her throat. She had no idea why Frank kept it in a drawer, but she knew that she needed to put it back where she'd found it. She was about to do exactly that when she noticed an envelope taped to the backside of the frame, labeled with Frank's tidy hand: Twyla's birth key.

Twyla kept Frank's birth key in her safe-deposit box at the bank. She had never thought to ask him where he kept hers, but now that she knew, the lump in her throat grew and throbbed. She returned the picture and the key to the drawer and dabbed at her eyes as she vacated Frank's room, feeling as though she were fleeing the scene of a crime.

In Annie's room, she put on the clothes she had been wearing when she showed up on Frank's doorstep last night. She could almost hear Hope's voice saying, Good morning, you lucky bitch… How was your walk of shame? It was fitting, since Twyla had set fire to her relationship with her daughter an hour before she had set fire to her friendship with Frank.

"Grandmother Wisdom, save me from myself," she groaned as she dropped onto Annie's bed and buried her face in her hands. She was tempted to leave while Frank was out, but she knew this was one of those best-to-rip-off-the-bandage situations, as Frank himself would say. Besides, she would never in a million years do something that hurtful to her best friend.

Her best friend who cared enough about her to run next door and retrieve her vibrators so that she could have the mind-blowing, life-altering release she deserved.

"This is a disaster," she cried to any god who happened to be listening, not that it would do her any good now.

There was a knock at the front door. Frank's door. She shouldn't open Frank's door, should she?

"Frank! Frank-IEEE! Open up!" Duckers's voice called from the front steps.

"Disaster," she moaned, drawing out the r in a long growl before heaving herself to her feet and going to open the door.

"Hey, Twyla," he greeted her, and then confusion knitted his brow. He looked to her house next door, then turned to her. "Did I go to the wrong place?"

"No, I have a hole in the roof. Remember?"

"Right. Is Frank here?"

"No, but he'll be back soon." She smacked herself on the forehead. "It's Saltsday. He's taking you to the autoduck lot."

"Can I come in?"

"Ope! Sorry. Of course." Twyla led Duckers to the kitchen and tried to avoid eye contact without appearing to avoid eye contact.

"So, where's Frank?"

"He went out to get breakfast."

"Did he now?" His tone was an alarming combination of suspicion and smug delight as he took a seat at one of the counter stools.

"Mm-hmm."

"For both of you?"

"Presumably."

Twyla made the mistake of meeting his eyes, which were narrowed to skeptical slits.

"I thought you were staying with your son."

"It was crowded with all the kids, so I stayed here." She reached for the carafe and slapped on a smile. "Coffee?"

Duckers leaned over the counter and met her fake smile with a shit-eating grin. "Give it up, Banneker."

"Fuck," she admitted in defeat. "Fuck, fuck, fuck." She took a mug from the cupboard and poured herself a steaming cup of liquid fortitude.

Duckers hopped off the stool, yanked the dish towel from its hook, and wrapped it around his head like an old-fashioned bonnet. "I swear on Grandfather Bones's pinkie finger," he said in a ludicrous falsetto, blinking his lashes at Twyla. "Frank Ellis and I are friends! Nothing more than that! I have never wanted to jump his bones a day in my life!"

"First of all, that sounds nothing like me. Second of all, I do not wear bonnets made of kitchen textiles."

He took the dish towel off his head and flicked it teasingly at Twyla. "All I know is that someone got lucky last night, and it wasn't me. Which sucks, actually."

"How are you holding up?" She took the towel from him and hung it back on the hook.

"Fucking terrible. I know I need to—wait a minute." He wagged a finger at her. "Don't change the subject. I know what you and your bestie got up to last night, hot stuff, and I want the deets!"

Demonstrating either the best or the worst timing in the history of the world, Frank stepped through the front door, carrying a white paper bag. He froze when he saw Duckers. His eyes went wide as he sent a panicked look to Twyla, who replied with a we've been busted wince.

Frank closed his eyes. "Shit. I'm supposed to drive you to the autoduck lot."

"And a good morning to you, too, Frank!" Duckers practically sang.

"Good morning," Frank muttered. He walked to the kitchen and mouthed Sorry at Twyla before pouring himself a cup of coffee. Maybe Duckers's showing up was a good thing; dealing with him was easier than dealing with each other in the aftermath of last night.

"Did you forget I was coming over this morning?" chirped Duckers.

"Yep."

"Because you were distracted?"

Frank regarded him warily and said nothing.

"With sexy times?"

"Fuck," said Frank as he set the carafe on the counter with a portentous thud.

"That's what she said."

That earned Duckers a glare from both Twyla and Frank.

"No, really, that's what she said. You two are practically the same person. It's kind of adorable. What's in the bag? Is it doughnuts? Please say it's doughnuts."

Frank rubbed his eyes. "It's doughnuts."

"Fuck yeah."

Twyla watched in dismay as Duckers devoured a cruller in three bites. She hoped there was another one. She was fond of crullers.

"Watch and learn, Marshal Banneker," Duckers told Twyla as he dug another doughnut out of the bag. "Partners who bring me doughnuts earn my undying devotion."

"I'll be sure to mention that to your new partner whenever you get one."

"Ha!" He clapped his hands, as if Twyla had told a good joke. When he saw her tilt her head in confusion, he set down his half-eaten blueberry cake doughnut. "Wait, are you retiring now, too?"

Alarm bells rang in Twyla's mind, but she wasn't sure why. "No, I've got two more years until I'm vested."

"Exactly. So I'm your new partner."

The alarm bells grew louder and more insistent. "Wait. What did you mean, am I retiring ‘too'? Who else is retiring?"

Duckers gaped at her before his eyes focused over her shoulder.

On Frank.

"You didn't tell her, man?"

Slowly, Twyla turned to face Frank. His posture stiffened, his shoulders hunching ever so slightly, as if he were preparing to take a punch. "Is this true?" she asked him, even though his demeanor answered the question for him. "Are you retiring?"

His lips paled. "Darlin', I can—"

"Don't you darlin' me!" she snapped, the force of her hurt and anger hitting her in the gut.

"And that's my cue to leave," said Duckers, picking up his half-eaten doughnut. "Frank, I'll hit you up for a ride tomorrow, if Twyla doesn't strangle you first."

Twyla and Frank remained motionless in the kitchen—Twyla glaring daggers and Frank freezing like a scared rabbit—as Duckers let himself out.

"I was going to tell you," Frank said as soon as the front door shut.

"When?"

"Today."

"Why didn't you tell me before you put in for retirement?" asked Twyla, when what she wanted to ask was Why didn't you tell me before you made love to me?

"Well now…," he began, but he floundered, unable to cough up more.

Twyla gripped the edge of the counter and took a breath, forcing herself to talk about things calmly instead of flying off the handle. "It's fine if you want to retire now, but you should have told me. We have a plan. Or we had a plan, I guess I should say."

"I know."

"When did you do this?"

"Last Wardensday."

"And you didn't tell me? Maguire knew? And Duckers knew? But I didn't get to know?"

"I had my reasons."

"Care to share them with me?"

He clamped his lips in a thin line.

"Are we still buying a ranch and starting up the bed-and-breakfast?" she pressed.

"I don't know."

"So I'm supposed to go about my business, waiting for you to make up your mind?"

"I don't know."

"Say something other than I don't know, because what I'm hearing is that you want me to be a chair, available whenever you need it and forgotten when you don't."

"You're not a chair," he said in a long-suffering way that infuriated her.

"Convince me otherwise."

He opened his mouth, thought better of it, and ran his hands down his face. "What are we doing here, Twy?"

"Arguing!"

"I'm not arguing with you."

"Well, I wish you would, because I am hopping mad right now."

"Go ahead and be mad at me, then. But I need to know one thing: Was it a mistake?"

"Putting in for retirement without so much as mentioning it to me? Yes!"

"Fuck retirement. I'm talking about last night."

He was so calm, so quiet. His tone didn't match the thunderclap of a question, but that didn't stop the question itself from rattling Twyla, head to toe.

"Did you make another mistake with me?" he asked her again.

Twyla felt like a boat at sea, tossed about by a storm, all unmoored and directionless.

"I'm asking you, was it a mistake?"

This time, his words bore a sharp edge, and Twyla, all cut to pieces, started to cry tears of anger and hurt and confusion. Trapped and resentful of being cornered, she shouted, "I don't know!"

Whatever warmth he had for her leached out of his eyes. His face betrayed nothing. He was a closed door, a locked house. He nodded slowly, then stalked past her on his way to his bedroom.

Twyla had no idea how much time went by while she stood in Frank's kitchen, stunned and baffled and crying, listening to the sounds of his movements in his bedroom. Her knees started shaking, and she thought maybe she'd better sit. She made it to a counter stool and sat there, absently stuffing a cinnamon twist into her mouth since Duckers had taken the one and only cruller.

Last night when he'd held her in his arms, he'd promised her they were going to be fine. How in the Salt Sea was this fine? They'd had sex, and he had retired without bothering to mention it to her. Their friendship—their future—had gone completely off the rails, and what was she doing about it? Eating a doughnut? This was unacceptable.

"Put on your big-girl pants," she told herself, and she went to talk to Frank.

She found him moving between his dresser and his bed, stuffing clothes into a duffel bag that lay open on the coverlet.

"You came to me," he said without giving her a chance to speak. "You were the one who started what we did last night. I never would have instigated that."

That. Making love to her was that now. Great. She was tempted to remind him that he hadn't put up a fight, but decided the better course of action was to lean against the jamb and hear him out. He did her the courtesy of halting his packing to speak to her face.

"You expect to come and go, in and out of my life, however you please, the same way you walk in and out my door. When you need me I'm here, and when you don't, guess what? I'm still here. And you know it. And you take advantage of it. So you tell me, who's the fucking chair in this relationship?"

"You are not my chair," she assured him, the calm one now that he was the raging emotional storm.

"Could've fooled me."

He zipped his bag shut, a harsh sound in the close space. He made to leave the room, but Twyla stopped him with a hand on his chest, a gesture that, in the wake of making love, took on a far more intimate weight.

I'm losing him, she thought, in far more ways than one.

"Frank, this is us. We can talk it out."

"I'm done talking."

He brushed past her, duffel bag slung over his shoulder. She followed after him, all the way to the front door. She nearly grabbed him by the arm to make him stay, but she thought of how Frank's arms weren't a cage, and if she didn't want him to hold her down or hold her back, she wouldn't hold him back either.

"Where are you going?" she asked him.

He paused only to glance over his shoulder. "Haven't you heard? I'm retired now."

"Frank, please don't—"

"You have a key. Let yourself out."

He left and slammed the door behind him.