Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The alarm clock on Frankie’s nightstand chirps at the same time every morning, Monday through Sunday, not a day missing the beat. It's the same constant beep that fills the silence in his dark bedroom until he groans and shifts onto his side, barely opening one eye to see the six and two zeroes blinking in red against the black screen of the clock.

He raises up on his elbows and shuts off the alarm, drags his hand down his face and scratches his beard, stretches his neck to one side and then the other, and fights the urge to fall back asleep as he tosses his duvet to the side and plants his feet on the rug. 

A few rays of sun shining through the blinds over the window are enough to illuminate his closet, as he slides the door open and pulls back the drawer, picks out a pair of swim trunks and pulls them on after discarding his boxers into the laundry hamper next to the dresser. With his eyes still not fully opened, relying on little more than spatial awareness to avoid knocking into the walls, he opens the door and slips into the bathroom to brush his teeth and grab a towel before heading out and down the hallway, through the door at the back of the house that opens out to the yard. 

Early August, the sun sits high already as he steps out onto the tiles and closes the screen door behind him, throwing the towel onto one of the reclining chairs and diving into the pool. The neighborhood is silent, no sirens and no cars to be heard at this hour, only the crashing sounds of the water, the dulling of his surrounding silence as he plunges, breaking the water surface and getting enveloped by coolness, rapidly adjusting as he comes up for air before ducking under again. He swims laps back and forth until his arms get sore, breathing heavier on every inhale, kicking back the waves with his legs, finding the same pace as yesterday and the day before, the day before that and the week before and every morning for the last five years with no exception. 

Routine, a way to remind himself of where he is. Something to count on, an anchor of sorts. He leaves the bed unmade — the creases and wrinkles seem to keep the nightmares at a distance, perhaps only as a form of placebo, but better than waking up in tight sheets, drenched in sweat. His messy double bed is softer than the hard twin bed with the tight sheets but when he startles awake in the middle of the night, he’s not coherent enough to notice the difference.

He knows when thirty minutes have gone by, and he plants both hands on the edge of the pool before hauling himself up, grabbing the towel and drying himself off with the assistance of the heat, barely dry when he gets back in the house and pads to the bathroom, chucking the towel in the hamper on the way, then turning on the shower. 

Six forty five, carefully opening the door, he sticks his head into Sage’s room to see her still asleep, with her bunny tucked into her elbow. 

“Buenos días, amor,"  he coos as he flips the lightswitch on the wall, stepping in quietly and crouching by the side of her bed, carefully lifting her duvet and running his hand over her back. She mumbles something sleepy and halfway coherent in return, and he lifts her up with a groan, places her on his hip while she dozes off on his shoulder, and picks out her outfit for the day. Maybe she’s too old for it after nearly six years of being held, but he doesn’t care and she doesn’t seem to either.  

“¿Tienes hambre?” he asks, “¿Estás cansada?”

She nods in response, yawning so big he breathes a laugh. Toothpaste gets squeezed onto her toothbrush with one hand, and he gives it to her as he sets her down in the bathroom, then heads to the kitchen. 

One step into the living room and something sharp is shoved into the bottom of his foot, his entire weight leaning onto what he quickly realizes is a small Lego in a trail of more Legos, red, yellow, green, and blue little bricks leading from the castle in the living room, the one they were building last night, until Sage was falling asleep laying on her stomach, and Frankie had to carry her to bed.

“Fuck,” he mutters, wincing at the pain and lifting his foot to pick the plastic from his skin, looking at the indent already left when he tosses it towards the couch. 

Little pancakes are fried up for both of both of them, sizzling in the pan while he walks to the bathroom and braids one side of her hair, quickly returning to the kitchen to flip them before coming back to braid the other side, packing her lunch while the next batch cooks, waiting for the coffee machine while Sage makes her bed. 

He opens his phone to check the weather forecast for the afternoon and gets a reminder of a message from nearly a week ago, one he has yet to respond to. 

Thanks for last night ;)

His thumb hovers over the keyboard before he clicks out of his messages and looks at the weather with a sigh, then shuts the phone off and tucks it into his back pocket. 

Filling the void gets harder when the bottom sinks lower with every attempt. 

He hands Sage two plates and two forks, and he watches as she skips over to the table and sets them down, boosting herself up onto the chair and leaning over the placemat, pretending to be asleep as she waits, imitating her father’s snores. 

They eat together, maple syrup on his pancakes and raspberries on hers. 

“Hoy vamos a ir al museo,” she says, wiggling in her chair, the fork a little too big in her hand as she eats her breakfast and tells Frankie that Mrs. Ramirez promised that there would be a big, warm room with butterflies that fly around and land on you if you stand really still. She tells him about all of the exhibits, then tells him they'll be let out early and that he has to come get her downtown. 

“¿No te viene a recoger tu mamá?” he asks, glancing at the calendar on his wall with bright little pink S’s in the top right corner of the days she’s staying with him.

Or, the days she's supposed to. 

“Me dijo que me vendrías a recoger porque ella va a trabajar hasta el miércoles.” 

Last time, this time — his week seems to get longer every time he picks up his daughter from school, days added on either side with no heads up. He looks at his little girl with a sinking feeling, a sense of dread, his end of the deal going from fifty to seventy percent in a matter of months. Not long until he’s the sole provider for the two of them, he can already tell. 

He collects the dirty dishes and puts them in the sink, nods towards the front door as he swallows his last sip of coffee and grabs her backpack, then his keys, slips on his shoes, puts on a baseball cap, and locks the door behind him. 

She has to stretch out her arm all the way to hold his hand as they walk to school, her purple backpack slung over his shoulder as they make their way through the neighborhood and she stops to pet the neighbor’s cat. A brown and white striped fluffy thing that winds his tail around her legs and pushes his face into the side of her knee until she crouches down to pet him, tugging on Frankie’s hand so he has to bend down too. 

“Alright, vamos,” he says as he straightens up after a minute, and they continue their path, Sage taking three steps for every one of Frankie’s, until they pass the corner store and his eye is caught by the front page of the local paper.

Beachfront Community Center is looking for swimming instructors! Drop by with your resume or call the number below. 

Chapter Text

The smell of chlorine penetrates Hailey’s nostrils while the sound of children yelling and screaming and hollering and splashing grates her ears, echoed shrieking in a large hall with bright lights. The community pool is a place that shouldn’t scare her but somehow does, making her eyes shift side to side, looking at the big blue rectangle and the slightly smaller blue rectangle, one with people swimming laps and the other with kids floating around with those puffy, plastic, floaty things around their arms.

She grabs onto the cross that rests against her chest, winds the thin gold chain around her finger and swallows around a lump in her throat, looking down at her black swimsuit, wondering if it might have been a little too low cut after all, leaving little to the imagination. She would love to turn on her heel, sprint out of here, and find an activity less daunting to start off her year of taking up hobbies to become more independent, to learn how to trust in God and spend time with Him while learning something new. 

She has always been told what to do and yet, sometimes, it feels as though she doesn’t know how to do much of anything. It was time for her to do something for herself, and everyone at church agreed. She’s not sure who suggested it but something lit up within her when swimming lessons were suggested. It offers independence and self-sufficiency, they said, and she agreed, wholeheartedly, though a little bit hesitant. 

It’s a survival skill too, really, if she thinks about it, not just a hobby. But the deep water is so daunting, the tiled bottom one can barely see from where they stand, and the chemical filled, blue water sloshing against the drains. 

Learning how to swim, a baptism — what’s the difference, at the end of the day? 

They both involve dipping your head under the water to become something, at the hands of someone who has done this many times, who hardly sees the novelty anymore while you go through your transformation. It must become routine for them, and she hopes it does for her too, that she’ll be able to dive into the lake by John’s family cabin and go for a swim in the mornings when she heads down there for the summer. 

Hailey never knew why her parents never taught her how to swim, whether it was her mother’s neuroticism and firm boundary that the beach water could never surpass her knees, or her father’s insistence that she went to choir when her friends went to the pool. 

But none of it matters now, it’s all part of the same tangled mess of a childhood with too many boundaries and too much guilt, too many restrictions set on a girl who never dared to step outside of the limits anyway. 

She dips her head and whispers a quick prayer, holding onto her cross, asking God for the courage to do something so far out of her comfort zone, and thanking him for the confidence to come here today in the first place. 

It wasn’t an easy decision, praying over it with John, then deciding to tell her parents that she’d would be skipping family dinner on Sundays to take swimming lessons, ensuring them that of course I’ll still come to church, and of course I’ll join you for coffee and of course I’ll go to Bible study with the girls on Thursdays instead.  

It surely could not be a coincidence that the only lessons were available on the Lord’s day, so she thanks him also for the opportunity to spend time with him one on one for eight weeks, hoping that she can bring something new to the table when she returns to family dinner. 

“Hailey Smith?” 

She jumps at the sound of her name called out, snapping out of her moment of recollection, her attention directed up to a man standing in front of her, holding his hand out to introduce himself. 

He’s wearing swim trunks, a light colored shirt with some sort of birds on it, and a pair of awful looking flip flops — bright red and frayed at the edges, probably a decade old. It’s a little bit of a funny sight, but she’s not in the mood for humor. 

“Frankie,” he says with a smile on his face, a smile that deepens the crows feet above his cheeks, that warms his stunning brown eyes. “I’ll be your instructor for the next few weeks, we exchanged a few texts earlier.” 

The fluorescent lights behind him illuminate his messy hair, the halo of golden brown curls that point in all different directions, that he pushes his other hand through while he raises his eyebrows. 

“Yes, right, Frankie,” she says, nodding and smiling back. Her mouth is dry, hands beginning to tremble. 

What is this strange feeling? Her face feels hot all of a sudden, heat flashing across her cheeks and her temples. Her chest feels like it’s about to break out into hives or something. 

But he looks so… Scruffy . There are silver threads in his mustache and in the patchy beard covering his jaw — he looks nothing like John and yet she remembers feeling something similar to this the first time her now-husband took her out on a date. 

“You ready?” he asks, and she doesn’t miss the way his dark eyes sweep over her bathing suit, how it hugs her hips, her waist, her chest, how his gaze lands on the golden cross she’s playing with and the rings on her finger, the gold band and the silver one next to it — the one with the sparkling diamond.

She also doesn’t miss the little smirk that pulls at the corner of his mouth. “Alright, señora,” he says, tipping his chin towards the large pool, “Let’s go.” 

She bites back a smile at his words, at being called anything but sweetie . 

“We’re gonna start off pretty easy,” Frankie says as he walks her towards the shallow end of the big pool. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it to the side, revealing a set of broad shoulders, his brown curls dipping into his neck and the width of his back as he climbs down the ladder into the water and motions for her to follow. “Come down here and we’ll have you just walk a little, back and forth, nothin’ crazy.” 

She nods, hands still trembling and that heat sticking to her chest and cheeks, different from the humid heat in the room. 

Hailey curls her hands around the railing and carefully takes one step at a time, descending into the blue pool, pausing halfway down, breaths moving a little faster. 

Temptation , she thinks — one time, the ladies at church told her that she might meet a handsome man one day who makes all kinds of promises, who sweet talks and says he’s good for her, who makes her stray from the Lord and lets the darkness swallow her whole. 

He has the devil in him , they said, and he will be sent to test the strength of your relationship to God, to your trust in Him and your faith. Be prepared, darling, and don’t think you’ll be immune to his advances. They can be really charming, these men. 

“What's the holdup?” 

She hears Frankie’s voice from the water and feels the waves crashing against her thighs, snapping out of her frozen state once more and taking the last step down, the surface of the water reaching her waist as she slowly walks towards him, her elbows cautiously lifted in the air. 

He waves towards himself and she takes three more steps, closing the distance with a bit of a stumble, tripping before Frankie catches her with his hands around her waist, stabilizing her with a firm grip — with big hands and thick fingers spanning an obscene amount of her skin. 

She gasps at the sensation and he pulls her closer as he clicks his tongue, playfully scolding her for running in the pool, winking and sending a shiver down her spine that settles in her womb with a low throb. 

But he doesn’t let go of her waist, even when she reluctantly tries to squirm out, brushing against his bulge in the process. Under the water, wet pieces of fabric dragging over each other while he looks at her with those deep, dark eyes — mesmerizing brown orbs that make her swallow around a lump in her throat when he cocks an eyebrow. 

“Promise to be careful?” he asks, and the raspy timbre of his voice turns everything around her into a blur, the screaming and splashing suddenly drowned out by the sound of his breaths as he waits for her to respond. 

“Yeah.”

“Good girl,” he winks.

Her face flashes hot at the pet name, cheeks burning with embarrassment and lust. He leans in, hands still circling her waist, thumbs digging into her bathing suit, and his lips hover right by her ear. 

“Let’s start with some of that walking, just back and forth,” he says, his tone a little lower now, pulling her even closer for a moment, “Can you do that for me?” 

With goosebumps covering her arms, with desire pulsing in her cunt, she nods, and he releases her, letting her turn and walk away from him, putting one foot in front of the other, feeling the waves crashing against her ribs at every step, turning to walk back to him where he stands with his arms folded over his naked chest, smirking like he did earlier, in a way that should irk her and creep her out but instead makes something inside of her fizzle and flutter. 

More praises, perfect, good girl, then she tries to listen carefully when he talks about proper breathing technique. 

It’s so difficult, he makes it difficult, especially when he tells her to bend over, just like that, and touches the small of her back, pushing it slightly. 

Her common sense couldn’t be further away from this pool, but her eyes flit down to her chest and she sees the cross resting there, a few droplets of water surrounding it, skin glistening and nipples hardened under the wet, shiny swimsuit. 

She glances back up, and before she knows it, her lungs are filled with air and she’s bending over to dunk her head under the water, plunging in and holding there for a few moments, taking in the soothing silence of the pool, before coming back up, breaking the surface and being met with the noise again, looking up at Frankie. 

“You can hold your breath pretty well,” he remarks, swiping his thumb across his bottom lip and nodding in approval, “That’s good to know.” 

He takes a step towards her and looks down at her wet lashes, clumped together, the drops of water sliding down her clavicle and into the suit. 

“Before I forget,” he says then, clearing his throat and gesturing to her swimwear, “You might wanna wear a two piece instead of this, it’s more aerodynamic, you know, under the water? Helps you swim faster, less fabric weighing you down and such.” 

“Oh, okay, yeah,” she chirps. He’s the expert — who is she to say that he’s wrong? 

“I’m gonna have you floating on your back now,” he says then, and spins his finger, urging her to turn around, then gesturing for her to lean back against his chest. 

She takes in as much air as she can and leans back, letting him catch her with two hands on her back, and her head leaning onto his shoulder. A whiff of his cologne hits her, her breath hitches in her throat, and she feels one of his hands sliding down to her asscheek, cupping it and squeezing, forcing a little whimper of her throat, one she’s never even heard herself. 

She feels the rumble in his chest when he chuckles too, and she hopes he can’t feel her pushing her ass further into his palm, rubbing against it almost, like a cat in heat or some poor, lost person under the spell of something dark, something twisted and demonic. 

When she looks up at him, he’s staring at her chest, and again, she should be so incredibly uncomfortable, she should feel violated and upset and creeped out. But she has never been this aroused in her life, and that hot pulsation in her cunt, the ache in her clit and the sensitivity of her nipples — it all tells her that she has never truly enjoyed her body and what it is capable of. Her God-given body, that is, with God-given feelings and sensations she never knew existed, that John has never evoked in her. 

Both of his hands come to her behind then, holding her up while she rests a little closer to his neck, breathing him in, and he kneads her flesh while she spreads her legs, entirely upon instinct, with no thoughts running through her mind other than a want, a need, for him to touch her somewhere else. 

Hailey don’t know how long she floats there, or how long she spends holding onto the railing and kicking her feet while Frankie has a hand under her lower stomach to hold her up and his eyes on her ass.

Her breathing is heavy and her insides are hot and tight until the session is over and he helps her out of the pool, where the cold air hits her along with the reality of what happened in the heat of the water; the sinful reality of her dance on the edge of adultery, of accepting the touch of another man, one who does not value the sanctity of marriage, judging by the way he looked at her rings with mischief in his eyes. 

“Thank you, Frankie,” she says curtly, a tight lipped smile holding back the storm of emotions in her chest — the guilt, the regret, the arousal, the strange gratitude she feels towards this man for showing her how her body can make her feel. 

“See you next Sunday,” he winks, drying off his chest with a towel. 

—

The drive home is unbearable, the ache between her legs so distracting that she fears she might drive off the road. The guilt should consume her but her primal brain brushes it off, too excited for the carnal desire that has sprung up within her, itching for release, for the touch of that man again. 

She feels possessed almost, and this is not attraction, it is not love or comfort — it is something entirely different and dangerous. It slithers around her limbs and tightens around her throat, and the lightheadedness that should concern and suffocate her, instead feels delicious. It feels like adrenaline and blood coursing through her veins, it feels like her clit swelling and her nipples perking up, like his bulge feeling a little firmer the second time she came near it. 

—

Lies spill out of her mouth when she arrives home, when John asks how it went and she says it went well but that it was a big step. He even seems to understand when she says that it was quite scary at first and that she feels the need to pray about it, to debrief almost, with God, that she only needs a few minutes to herself before she can start making dinner for the two of them.

The bedroom door shuts behind her, the lock flipped, and she kneels at the foot of her bed, hands clasped together in prayer, unsure of what exactly she’s even about to ask for. 

But she tries anyway, thanking God for the courage to step out of her comfort zone, for a knowledgeable instructor, but at the mention of Frankie, at the thought of his broad chest, his curls and his eyes, the dull throb behind the fabric of her panties makes a reappearance, an ache between her legs that won’t settle no matter how hard she tries to shake it off. 

It feels like an affront to God, truly, being so distracted while she speaks to Him, and so she decides to revisit after cooling off. 

She flops down on the bed with a sigh, noticing after a moment that her legs have spread and the button on her jeans has popped open. The locked door stares at her, reminding her that John will not be barging in, no matter what she does. 

So with the feel of Frankie’s touch still burning her skin, around her waist and hips and asscheeks, she slips a hand into her panties and slowly begins to rub her clit, stifling her moans as they catch in her throat, not moving an inch so as not to evoke suspicion. Her body is so flooded with arousal that she comes mere moments later, his name on her tongue, and then the bitter aftertaste of reality. 

Back onto her knees at the edge of the bed, she asks for forgiveness this time too, and for the courage to stick to these lessons, despite her apprehension surrounding her ability to swim. 

Amen .

—

Sunday, the Lord’s day, another afternoon standing across from Frankie, and she’s wearing a two piece this time, at his suggestion, one that barely holds the flesh of her chest and behind. He suggested a warm-up before today’s session, and so she finds herself doing stretches with her eyes fixated on his shorts, and the massive bulge he has seemingly made no effort at  trying to hide. 

He clears his throat before he speaks with a chuckle, “Checking me out?”

Horrified, she averts her gaze and blinks profusely, feeling that heat in her cheeks again, “No, I’m— I’m sorry.” 

“Nothing to be sorry for,” he muses, glancing down at his crotch,  “Probably not every day you see that kinda thing, with the whole, you know—” He gestures towards the cross dangling from her neck and she grabs it in response, in defense perhaps, refusing to admit that he’s right. 

Never has she seen this kind of thing, never has she seen this kind of man. She’s been so sheltered that she’s barely even seen herself. And Frankie is everything she has been told to fear, and everything that begins to churn inside of her, stirring and bubbling up to the surface, slithering into her trembling arms. 

She should be so afraid of this man, of the spirit within him that draws her in and makes her commit such awful acts of sin against her marriage, against the vows she has taken and the promises she has made her husband — promises that a little part of her mind reminds her that he has taken as well, but that he does not keep, because he does not keep her with his actions or his words. Rather, he relies on her being kept , out of obligation and loyalty, never suspecting that outside of the four walls of their home lurks a man whose only intention is to take, to steal, to corrupt and to lead astray. 

Frankie tells her to do jumping jacks and he stares at her chest while she does them. 

—

Someone calls his name as she steps down the ladder and he tells her he’ll be right back. 

Hailey carefully descends down into the water again, a little less scared this time, and waves her arms around under the surface, creating little waves with her hands in figure eights while she passes the time. 

“Hey, señora,” he calls out a minute later, and she looks up at him as he approaches the pool. 

He takes a couple steps down and pauses to look at her, to observe how she stares up at him with wide eyes, her nipples giving her away again, thighs clenched together under the water. 

“I could get used to you looking up at me like that,” he mutters, tilting his head, with his tongue in his cheek and his brow arched. 

She barely even understands what he means but she can tell it’s something that, again, should drive her straight out of this pool and into her husband’s arms, but she likes looking up at him too for some reason. 

Despite her heart being in her throat and her arms trembling a little at Frankie’s attention, she begins to swim with ease, stretching her arms out and pushing the water behind her, kicking her legs and getting a few feet further every time, staying at the shallow end of the pool. 

Then Frankie takes a few steps back, into a deeper section. 

“Swim towards me,” he winks, holding his arms out and waving towards himself. 

So she launches forward, kicks her legs and wades through the water, and when she gets close to him, only an arm’s length away, she feels his fingers brush against her tummy and his hands sliding around to grab her waist. 

He turns her around but doesn’t let her swim away yet, holding her against himself, pushing her ass into his crotch and onto his erection, as he praises her.

Good girl. 

Her arms fail her when he releases her from his grip, and she splashes around, arms waving and legs floundering, convinced she might drown until he grabs her waist and pulls her towards him. She grabs his forearm to stay afloat, breathing fast, nearly panting, distracted and horny and frustrated at herself. 

“You’re unfocused, baby,” he coos into her ear, tracing his fingertips down the muscle that connects her neck to her shoulder, holding onto her waist with his other hand. “That’s dangerous, you know? Need to be aware of your surroundings.” 

“S— sorry,” she whispers, tilting her head to the side to stretch her neck further for him. 

“I know one thing that might help,” he whispers, nibbling on her ear, taking it between his teeth and pulling it slightly, “It’ll relax you, then you can refocus.” 

“Yeah, that— that’s a good idea, whatever it is.”

He releases her from his grip while he whispers, “Just gonna go tell the management that someone shat in the other pool, then we’ll be alone, alright?” before getting out and heading towards the front office. 

She doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry, but before she knows it, a lifeguard comes out, blowing a whistle, waving his arms and instructing everyone to get out of the water. Frankie speaks to him for a moment and the lifeguard nods, and then he’s back in the pool with her, watching everyone filter out. 

She stands against the tiled wall, with Frankie in front of her, pretending to make conversation while he submerges his hand and starts to tug at the strings of her bikini bottoms. Her hand shoots out and grabs his bicep, and she eyes him as he tugs one final time and the fabric peels away from her mound. 

The last person leaves the pool, the lifeguard has disappeared already, and he moves to the other side, one firm tug and her bottoms are floating between her legs. He fishes them out and throws them over the edge of the pool, letting them land with a wet smack on the tile, and nudges her legs apart with his foot, bringing his hand to the apex of her thighs, running a single, thick finger through her folds. 

“Think I know what you need, little miss crucifix,” he croons, then looks to his side to see that the coast is clear, puts both hands on her hips and hoists her up onto the edge of the pool, pushes her legs apart as she squeals in surprise and holds them open. 

He wastes no time, his tongue crashes against her clit and he eats her like a man starved, sloppy and wet and dragging his tongue up and down and side to side, sucking and releasing, nibbling and pulling at her sex like he owns it.

She lays down, only to arch her back and let him spread her legs further, growling into her pussy, pushing his tongue into her opening and rubbing the tip of his nose on her clit so that she’s constantly stimulated, coming back up to lick and suck until she’s coaxed into an earth-shattering orgasm that rings in her ears and rips his moaned name from her throat.

She covers her face with her hands, coming down from her high, her back hitting the tiles while she feels him kiss her folds and her inner thighs. The searing heat of his touch and the biting cold of her indiscretions coalesce into something that sends goosebumps over her arms, and the water on her skin suddenly feels freezing. She sits up and watches him push up on his hands just a little, just enough to get closer. 

“This cannot happen again,” she asserts as she closes her eyes, holding her hand out in front of her, not touching him, but also not stopping him from pressing kisses to her wet chest, licking up the drops of water sliding down between her tits. “I am not a cheater, Francis,” she says, to him or to herself, God only knows.  

“My name is Francisco,” he mumbles into her neck, sliding his tongue over her skin and biting into it after. The sound of his name, how his voice carries the syllables — it echoes in her mind, it makes her gasp for some reason, sending a new wave of goosebumps over her arms, following the one from his lips on her pulse. 

“Okay, Francisco, well, this is never happening again.” The insistence in her words is rendered useless when she tilts her head to the side, stretching the column of her throat, giving him more space to claim, space that he covers with his lips, one kiss at a time. 

“If you say so,” he whispers, his hand making its way to her jaw now, her ear sliding between his middle and ring finger, tilting her head back so he can raise up and begin to kiss her, angle her face and slide his tongue into her mouth. She moans into his mouth immediately, never having been kissed like this, with determination and lust and the taste of her pussy on his tongue. 

He places both hands down on the tiles on either side of her ass and lifts up fully from the pool, making the water slosh and little waves crash around him as he pulls himself out and up over the edge with his lips still on hers, urging her down on her back while he kneels on the drain and lays down on top of her. 

His hard cock grinds into her naked center and he growls while tasting behind her teeth, then strokes her tongue with his own, takes her leg and hooks it over his hip. 

He overwhelms her with his scent, his weight, his sounds, the size of his cock. He sucks on her tongue and bites her bottom lip, pulls on it and moves to her neck, sucks on her skin and sinks his teeth in. The way he thrusts his hips, the way he humps her, it’s animalistic and wrong and terrible and it turns her on so severely that she can feel her slick dribble out of her opening and slide down between her asscheeks, mixing with the water below. 

She has never heard sounds like the ones coming from his throat and his chest, more masculine and rough than anything John has ever uttered, more hungry and wanting and—

John . 

Shit. 

She taps Frankie’s shoulder just as she feels the head of his clothed cock begin to push into her hole, his wide head barely entering her, and as much as she wants to rip down his swim trunks and let him fuck her right here, she gets a single moment of clarity when she looks up and sees the sun shining in through the square window in the ceiling, the rays of sunlight radiating down, reflecting off the shimmering surface of the pool, giving Frankie that halo again, those radiant curls sticking out in every direction. 

“What?” he murmurs, and she wonders if that’s how he would sound if she woke him up from his sleep. It makes her insides twist but she can’t think about the implications of any of that now. 

“I— I have to go, sorry,” she says, wriggling out from under him, grabbing her wet bikini bottoms, already gone cold. 

“Alright,” he sighs, but before he lets her out from under him, he wraps his paw around her neck and anchors her right there as he leans down to kiss her again, with barely any tongue this time, only a light sweep across her swollen bottom lip, before he plants a kiss to her mouth and then whispers, “See you on Sunday.” 

He raises up and climbs off, heads over to the rack with towels and picks one up, coming back to hand it to her — one that she unfolds and realizes is incredibly small, clearly meant for children, and he smirks at how she struggles to cover her chest and her naked center as she stumbles to the showers. 

—

Thursday Bible study feels like pulling teeth. 

Of course marriage is the topic of the day, and she would’ve known had she checked the schedule before leaving the house. She would fake any illness necessary to avoid sitting in Betty’s living room, around her dining table, hearing about how much her friends value their godly marriages, how much they feel like they’ve been brought together by God, destined to meet and be with one another. 

Betty says that Cameron was placed in front of her one day, that there is no such thing as a coincidence, and she thinks of Frankie in half a second. She thinks of the ad she came across, the availability only on Sundays, how quickly he spotted her cross, her ring, how he immediately knew how to push her buttons. 

What would her life look like if this was not how she spent her evening? What does Frankie do with his free time? 

Questions she shouldn’t want the answer to, and yet she still wonders. 

Somehow, the topic of sex is brought up. The other women giggle, one of them flushes pink and red in the face, another fans herself. 

“It’s a part of marriage,” Betty says, sing-songy in her tone, “We shouldn’t be afraid to talk about it.” 

Reassuring nods around the table encourage her to keep going, and she looks down at her notes, then begins to talk about abstinence, the wedding night, about learning and figuring things out with your partner. 

One of the girls shares a story about going away on a trip, and her husband making love to her all night. More stories follow, the girls opening up one by one, but even the most detailed stories leave something to be desired. The more she hears, the more she feels Frankie’s firm grasp, his aggression, his want to take as well as his drive to give. She feels the hardness of his big cock, his hands on her thighs, his voice, low and raspy. 

She excuses herself to the bathroom and takes a few minutes to cool down, and the pieces begin to fall in place. 

For every saint there is a sinner, for every day there is night, for every angel there is a demon, and for every John there is a Frankie. For every Sunday dinner with her parents, there is an empty hall, a warm pool and Frankie’s head between her legs. 

Frankie has been sent to test her faith and her faithfulness, her loyalty and her dedication.

The only issue is that she’s so incredibly weak in her self concept, her beliefs, her awareness of her needs and her desire for her wants that she doesn’t stand a fucking chance. 

She might go to Hell, but at least the burning touch of Frankie’s hand will guide her there. 

—

The clock on the wall ticks every second and she finds herself counting to ten, then restarting, counting to then, restarting, letting the sound fill the silence of the dinner table as she sits across from her husband. Neither of them have said much of anything during the entire meal, and while she’s relieved that he doesn’t seem suspicious, she can’t help but feel a little irritated at his inability to notice that she’s being awfully quiet. 

It’s probably best if she doesn't talk anyway.

“So, um—” John clears his throat and offers a sheepish smile as he spins his fork around in his hand, “You wanna get down and dirty tonight? Thought maybe we could try a new position.” 

She smiles back, hoping that maybe a new experience with her husband will curb her curiosities about Frankie, that they’ll ground her again and remind her of why she saved herself for him, why she has decided to hide the truth of her indiscretions, not wanting her marriage to dissolve. 

“Sure,” she says, simultaneously wondering what’s gotten into this man who usually only lasts around ten minutes in the missionary position, never very creative despite the porn she knows he has consumed over the years, that he had to seek counseling for at the church, at one point, realizing he was being tempted and seduced by the ways of the flesh, that a Godly man would not consume such materials. 

He wiggles his eyebrows at her, real frisky today it seems, cheeks blushing and that sheepish smile returning, “I was thinking about, like, doggy, you know, from behind?” 

She nods, chewing on her last bite of dinner, looking down onto her plate with only a bit of tomato sauce remaining. “Yeah, that— that sounds good, I just have to clean up a bit and then I can meet you in the bedroom?” 

—

When she walks in, John is already undressed, lying under the duvet with his hands folded, eyeing her as she begins to remove her clothes, slipping off her sweater and throwing it over the ottoman in the corner, unbuttoning her pants while she hears him whistle from the bed. 

Sometimes he takes her clothes off, but most often she finds herself taking them off when he’s already naked in bed. She flashes him a glance while she takes off her bra and panties, dropping them on the floor and stepping over, lifting up the sheets and getting under. 

She remembers all of the wonderful things the older ladies at church told her about the marriage bed, about how magical it felt to finally be intimate with their husbands, learning together, finding out what they like. 

Until now, she’s found out a little bit about what John likes but not too much about herself, and he doesn’t seem too interested to find out much more than how he can get himself off. Before the wedding, they had kissed, held hands, hugged, even took a few naps together on her couch. Both of them had felt tempted, but she was proud of having waited, having saved herself, giving themselves over to one another on the wedding night, fumbling with the condom, unsure of how to properly arrange their limbs, getting through it in one piece and trying again the next morning. 

But despite the year that has passed since that night, things in the bedroom haven’t changed too much. John is more steady with the condom now, slipping it on despite her birth control pills, never letting her feel his bare skin inside of her, only in between her folds for a few moments before he pulls away to rummage through the nightstand. 

Tonight, the silver packet is already placed next to the pillow when she snuggles into John’s side, tentatively giving him a few kisses on the lips. He’s hard already, but the erection that pushes into her thigh when he turns over feels different this time. 

Selfishly, she finds herself wondering what it would feel like to have something bigger grinding into her flesh, something more like— 

She doesn’t go there. 

After less than a minute of kissing, a few light pinches to her nipple and a full grab to her tit, John nudges her legs open and starts to descend towards the foot of the bed, taking the time to kiss down her torso as he makes his way to her spread legs. 

It’s been a while since he did this, and for a moment, she fears that he can tell it hasn’t been as long for her. Maybe she can blame it on being stressed, if her responses aren’t what he’s used to when, if she’s honest with herself, she can’t remember how she responded to his tongue anymore. 

He begins to lick her clit, one stroke of his tongue after another, wedging a finger into her opening, drawing it in and out, unaware that she’s about to crawl out of her skin, feeling the anxiety begin to creep up when she realizes that it surely won’t be enough to get her anywhere, and that even after several minutes of slobbering over her sex, she surely won’t be wet enough to take him, or to even take another finger at this rate. And if he notices that something is different, if he asks what’s going on, the all-consuming guilt of her affair will spill out through the cracks and destroy everything in its wake.

So for the sake of her marriage, just this one time, she allows herself to go somewhere else inside the confines of her own mind.

To the edge of the pool, where Frankie pushed her legs open, where he ripped off her bikini bottoms and devoured her, where he nibbled on her folds and sucked on her clit and made her convulse with pleasure. She closes her eyes as she thinks of him, incredibly guilty but turned on nevertheless, believing that this is what she meant when her mother said that marriage is sacrifice. 

She gets wetter — wet at all, really — and John pulls away. 

He never lets her finish when he goes down on her, either with a remark about it taking too long and his boner going down, or noticing she’s close and jokingly pouting that it’s unfair if she gets to come now and he has to wait until later. Sometimes she wonders what kind of porn he watched, if his attitudes and beliefs about sex have changed since he was a teenager. He reaches over and grabs the condom, and she can see the tip of his tongue poking out as he slips it out of the foil and finds the right side, rolls it on and climbs between her legs. 

There is something unappealing about the whole ordeal, something about the way he focuses so hard that barely any attention is paid to her, about how disconnected from his own body he seems, not letting his touch guide much of anything, deciding on an action and then following it rather than letting his desire guide him. Not that it would guide him anywhere pleasurable for her, but she thinks it might be more attractive to see him taking what he wants. 

Not that she’s seen that more than once. 

“Okay,” he breathes, steading himself on his elbows on either side of her head, guiding his cock to her entrance and pushing it in, giving a few preliminary strokes, his back stiff as a board, grunting when he finds a rhythm he’s happy with, not entirely consistent, thrusting fast, not hitting the place inside of her that she’s doing everything in her power not to think about the existence of — the little spot that the tip of Frankie’s finger nudged into and stroked, the spot she should forget about. 

She snakes her hand down between her legs and rubs at her clit, changing up the direction, the speed, shifting and speeding up and slowing down until she can tell that John is close.

 “Wait, wait,” she says, in an uncharacteristic expression of wanting to get her own before he gets his, “Just— I wanna come, sorry it’s taking some time.”

He groans and pulls out, sits back on his heels and swats her hand away, placing his own fingers on her clit and rubbing in a circular motion, asking if he’s doing it right, getting increasingly agitated as she tries to adjust his movements, sighing and giving up at the end of it. 

“You’re not gonna come anyway,” he groans, moving his hand to his cock to give it a few strokes, trying to get it back to its former state of hardness.  

Something about the visual of him, about the contempt in his voice, makes something flare up inside of her. It makes something start to burn as it coils and weasels its way into her ribcage, turns up the heat of her blood and makes the edges of her vision darken. It’s as if something is taking over her, possessing her, using her as a vessel, reaching its hand out to her to say, enunciate the words I feed you and then take my hand, let me bring you somewhere you are allowed to be selfish and where you no longer need to sacrifice. 

Do you trust me? 

“It’s fine, don’t worry,” she smiles and grits through her teeth, the sickening guilt replaced by something new, something devious and wrong and demonic. “How about— you said you wanted to try something?”

He flashes her a grin and she get on all fours, feeling him shift around and enter her again, pulling her hips back in an unstable manner, while she fakes a few moans and he thrusts in some sort of jumpy, inconsistent pattern, until he comes silently and flops down on over her. 

She taps her fingers on the sheets and turns her head to smile at him, “I’m just gonna go get cleaned up, okay?” 

He puts his hand around his dick and pulls out, discarding the condom while she picks up her clothes and snatches her phone off the dresser, heading into the bathroom. 

After locking the door behind her and sitting down on the toilet, she grabs her phone and stares at the contact name Frankie Morales for what must be a full minute before she opens a text message to him.

What’s your address?

Her phone is silently put on the countertop while she washes her hands and gets dressed, the flushing of the toilet covering up the beep of his response being received mere seconds later. 

i’ll send in a sec. door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so pls be mindful of the rules. they r very strict

She rolls her eyes and waits until his address follows in a second text, then the wheels start to turn. An excuse and a coverup form in her mind while she pulls on her pants and her sweater, a way to get out of this hell for at least one night, to see what it is she’s been warned about for so long, to see if one person’s abyss is another’s salvation.  

When Hailey comes out of the bathroom, her hand is on her lower stomach. 

“Hey, I’m just gonna go to the store, okay? I think my period’s coming soon and I’m out of pads,” she says, nodding towards the door, “I’ll run some errands while I’m at it so just text me if you need anything, I’ll do the whole round.” 

“Okie dokie,” he says, and she turns the corner, stepping out into the hallway before she lets the resentment set in any longer. 

—

Frankie’s place is, unsurprisingly, in a dodgy part of town, one with frequent sirens and more than a handful of boarded up storefronts. There’s a chill in the air when she steps out of her car, on the other side of the street from a house with a single porchlight on, lighting up the entrance and the wall of the garage next to the door. 

She slams the car door closed and takes a breath, looking up at the full moon and shaking her head at herself. Of course it would happen on a night like this, of course it would happen on a day she hasn’t felt the presence of the Lord, on a day she wonders if he really does care for her after all. 

On a day that she feels the embrace of something else, another shadow wrapping his arms around her and promising her that her desires will be seen, heard, honored, that her wants and needs will all be fulfilled. More than fulfilled, she’ll be allowed to gorge herself if she goes with him, if she turns away from the light and embraces the darkness.

She rings Frankie’s doorbell and takes a step back, fidgets with the rings on her finger, necklace forgotten despite the cold touch of the gold on her skin as she stands outside and waits. The door opens to a dimly lit house, the smell of weed and cologne permeating her senses. She should be turned off, she should be grossed out, she should be so unimpressed. 

And yet, her pussy is already throbbing at the first inhale of his scent, and at the sight of him as he opens the door, chuckling while he pulls off his baseball hat and runs his fingers through his mess of curls, then puts the hat back on and adjusts it with both hands, then takes a step closer. 

“That was fast,” he muses, leaning into the wooden frame leading the way to his living room. His bicep strains the sleeve of his t-shirt as he leans on his elbow.

“Shut up,” she quips, her breaths heaving, “You know just as well as I do that I shouldn't be here so don’t push your luck, Francisco.” 

He laughs at that, taps his knuckles against the frame and takes a breath, cocks an eyebrow and looks down at her, at the porchlight drenching her in golden rays as it contrasts with his own figure in the doorway, the shadowy inside of his house. 

“Who am I in your eyes?” he asks, taking a step towards her and circling her waist with his hands, pushing her over the threshold of his territory, into his space. “Some kind of Antichrist? The devil himself? Put in your life to lead you astray, make you sin?” 

His hands are on her back and the door is still open behind her, eyes adjusting to the warm lighting in his living room that stretches into the kitchen, the couch illuminated by the TV and the hazy air above the coffee table, the ripples of smoke coming from a joint halfway tucked into an ashtray. 

“M— maybe,” she murmurs, looking down at his shirt with her hands on his chest, swallowing so hard she hears the gulp in her throat, “They told me he'd be tempting, and that's all you've done… Tempt me, into— into adultery.” 

He cracks a smile and leans over to close the door behind her, stepping closer when the door snicks shut, until her feet are between his. Refocusing on her, he narrows his eyes as he whispers, pushing her hair over her shoulder with one hand, the other on her hip, “What have I done? Tell me.” 

She runs her hands up the fabric of his shirt, slide them up along his neck, the patchy scruff on his jaw, up, up, a little further, until she reaches his hat and carefully takes it off, tosses it over to his couch and runs her fingers through his hair, separating his curls while he gazes at her in a way that she can feel on her skin, in a way nobody has ever looked at her, not on her wedding day and never since. 

“Tempted me into adultery with—” she says, her voice as shaky as her breaths, gesturing to his chest, then his face, his hair and then his shoulders, his arms, “All this.” 

She steps back, opens up the space between their bodies, and with a sudden wave of courage, nods towards his crotch, “And that . That… Thing .” 

He seems to like that, pulling her back in and curving both hands around her hips, leaning in to brush the tip of his nose along hers. 

“Godly cock wasn't doin’ it for ya?” he whispers, with his eyes blazing, darker than they’ve ever been. His touch is scalding, heat rolling off the skin of his neck and arms, almost as hot as he makes her. 

“Shut up,” she mutters, convincing no one, not even herself. 

His lips come to the side of her neck, the bristles of his thick mustache scratching her skin, scruffy and a little unkempt, with hints of gray. 

What a sleazy old man. A sleazy, dirty, perverted, gorgeous fucking creature of a man, like nothing she's ever seen. 

“You’re going straight to Hell, you know that, right?” He seems to enjoy mumbling terrible things into her skin and pressing the words into her body with a kiss immediately after, sealing it with a lick of his tongue, “No space for girls like you in heaven.” 

“Shut up—”

“Maybe even purgatory, adultery is pretty bad,” he chuckles, arms wrapping tighter around her, his hard cock pushing into her stomach through the fabric of his sweatpants. A drop of arousal seeps out of her at the feeling, into her panties, still wet from the lubricant on the condom from earlier. 

“Shush, stop—”

He shakes his head and interrupts her with a kiss, finally, dragging her along the floor, through the dim light of his living room, the kitchen, the hallway, to his even darker bedroom, to the unmade bed opposing the reclining chair covered in clothes. 

With his tongue in her mouth, he undoes her pants and pulls them down, kissing along the edge of her underwear when he’s squatting down, grabbing her ankles and stepping her out of her jeans. 

“I told you no panties,” he whispers, teasing the seam of the fabric, moving further in, licking a stripe over the lace covering her clit and making her gasp. “You’ve been such a good girl until now, what happened?”

“Nothing,” she mutters, looking at his hair and wanting so badly to drag her hand through it again, to feel those thick curls on her fingers. 

“You seem agitated.” 

“No, I don’t.” 

“ No, I don’t, ” he mocks, pulling her panties slightly to the left, revealing part of her mound, kissing the skin that makes contact with the air. “What happened? Got shitty sex from your husband or something? Came here to get the real thing?” 

She rolls her eyes at him, at the reminder of why she’s here, on one hand wanting to say that yes, it’s only because my husband sucks in bed, and on the other, trying not to spill that you make me feel something I couldn’t even conjure up in my dreams and you’ve possessed me like a demon and I don’t want you to leave my body and I love how you feel. 

“How about that,” he marvels as he raises to his feet, moving his hand to her chin and tipping her face up to look into his eyes. “Crawling to the cross… Finally gonna let me fuck that tight-ass little pussy? Not reserved for Jesus anymore? Or your husband?” 

She blinks, snared by her own silence. 

“Thought so,” he whispers. 

Frankie smells like sweat and cologne and weed, and this is a terrible idea and she really shouldn’t be here but her sweater slips over her arms just as easily as her bra, as easily as his own shirt falls from his body and his sweatpants drop to the floor. 

“You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you,” he coos, and she hates how much his words go to her clit, to her nipples, setting every nerve in her body on fire. “Gonna smell like my come, my cologne, my spit, my sweat… Like my bed—” 

She whimpers and he kisses her, then murmurs into her lips, “But first you’re gonna suck my cock, and then I’m gonna fuck you.” 

He rips her panties down her legs and forces them off, then pushes her to her knees and tells her to open up, digging his thick fingers into her cheeks to pry her jaw open. 

Her lips part, jaw separating wider as he rubs the tip of his massive, impossibly long cock on her lower lip, sticky with precome as it oozes out from his slit, and he groans at the sight, putting his free hand on the back of her head. John never forces her to her knees, never shoves his cock past her lips — he begs and pleads, lays on the sheets and takes her mouth in silence, tensing up a little before he comes. 

But Frankie —

“Hope you don’t have a fucking gag reflex,” he mutters, then pries her mouth open a little more and presses his cock in, deeper and deeper until his tip hits the back of her throat, placing one large hand under her chin and the other on top of her head, holding her in place while he tips his head back and thrusts . 

Frankie fucks her face, relentlessly and without reprieve, shoves his head down her throat, making her drool and claw at his thighs, and forces little sputtering, choking, gagging sounds from her, ones that spur him on and make him growl and moan, pushing in as far as he can and retracting until only his tip is left within. 

John would have come by now, she thinks to herself, sated and done for the night. But Frankie only gets harder, with her nose buried in the coarse dark curls on his pelvis, inhaling his musk, her eyes sliding back at the scent, so masculine and so fucking hot. 

“That was your warm-up.” 

He pulls out with a groan, slips both hands under her arms and pulls her up, leaning her over the bed, kicking her feet apart and slotting his dick between her asscheeks. “Know we haven’t gotten to the backstroke section in the lesson plan yet,” he chuckles, thrusting gently, sliding his length over her asshole, “But you can think of this as another type of backstroke, hm?” 

“Yeah,” she whimpers, hands fisting in the crumpled sheets beneath her while he pushes her up on the mattress, teasing her entrance with his tip now, bare and dripping, letting her wetness coat him as he feeds her less than an inch at a time, drenching more and more of him before he pushes in. And it’s the first time she has felt a naked cock inside her, a loss of another type of innocence, an intimacy not awarded to her by her husband. 

“Tight fuckin’ fit here,” he remarks with a low whistle, “Looks like John Smith didn’t do much to stretch you out.”

She whips her head around in absolute horror.

“How do you know his name?” she snaps, and Frankie looks at her, dumbfounded, mouth open, brows scrunched together as he pauses. 

“His name is literally John Smith? The most anonymous name I could possibly come up with right now?” He’s on the verge of a laugh, dragging a hand down his face, through his curls, then coming to scratch at his beard, “Are you serious right now?” 

She rolls her eyes at him and concedes, “Yes, Frankie, that is his name.”

“That’s your husband’s name — John Smith.” 

“Yes,” she sighs, “Frankie, do I need to remind you of what I said when I showed up here?” 

He pushes in a little further then, amusement plastered all over his face, his sly smirk doing something to her that she can’t quite place, as if she feels a heat washing over her chest. 

“Remind me of what?” 

He tilts his head, wraps her hair around his fist and sinks all the way into her, bottoms out and watches it punch the air out of her lungs, a pathetic little breath escaping her while her eyes slide into her head and he gives her hair a little tug. 

“Remind me of what?” 

“That I shouldn’t be here,” she breathes, bordering on delirious already, clenching her walls around him just to feel his size, to feel every curve, every vein, his skin, the burn starting to set in from how she gapes around him, fucked open and stretched out. His , now. “I think you might be the Devil or something.” 

“Don’t give me that much credit,” he laughs, sliding out, pressing back in, grinding into her cervix and tugging at her hair, listening to her moan, and leaning over to whisper, “I am so much worse.” 

Then he starts to fuck her, deep and almost punishing in its fervor, his hand gripping her hip so hard she swears he could crush her bones, hand fisted in her hair and pulling on it until her head leans back, and he towers over her, forces her to look up at him while he pounds her from behind, while he shows her how a real man fucks her, one who isn’t tied down and restrained by the shackles of a past spent trying to be pure, trying to suppress his instincts. 

Frankie lets go of her hair and purses his lips, lets a glob of saliva fall to her crack and watches it slide down while brings his thumb to his mouth, wets it with spit and reaches down between her cheeks, rubs her tight ring of muscle and gently pushes in while she looks back at him, eyes wide with apprehension. 

“Yeah, yeah,” he rolls his eyes, pushing further in when he feels her relaxing around his finger, “Sodomy in front of the Lord, I get it.” 

She rolls her eyes back at him. 

“I can promise he’s not looking in here, baby, he doesn’t wanna see this any more than that little husband of yours does,” he says, then narrows his eyes in that way she pretends to hate, “What was his name again?”

“Shut up,” she groans, and the hand on her hip finds her hair again, tugging it back harshly while his wide thumb sinks in fully.

“What was that?” he growls, giving her a hard thrust when she doesn’t respond, her slick seeping out and smearing over her inner thighs when he withdraws and fucks back into her, making her flesh shake and jiggle. 

“Forget it,” she mumbles, letting her hands slide out in front of her, suspended by his hand in her hair, feeling her ass bouncing against his hips at every thrust, the wet squelch of her pussy taking him and his balls smacking against her clit, sticky and sinful and the best feeling she has ever felt. 

“That’s what I thought.” 

He lets go of her hair, letting her fold in half as her chest hits his sheets and her face is buried in his scent again, and he reaches around to put two fingers to her clit, circling it quickly, bringing on her orgasm in mere seconds. 

It softens her, lets him in even deeper, sucked in by her pussy while her asshole flutters around his thumb, and he chuckles, muttering under his breath, easy to please. 

He keeps rubbing, despite her whines and whimpers, fucking her and playing with her clit until she comes for him again, then flips her over onto her back, pulls her to the edge of the bed and slides back in. 

She glances down at his pelvis, sticky and wet with her arousal, thick hair he hasn’t trimmed in what must be months, dark curls she wants to feel against her sensitive little nub. 

Both of his hands slide under her ass to lift her up, his cock reaching so deeply his name rips from her throat with a loud moan, the first followed by more, forced out one by one, his name in there again somewhere, incoherent almost. 

Then he lays her down, pushes her up on the bed and kneels between her thighs, lays down on top of her and cages her in with his bulging arms. He captures her lips in a kiss as he grinds into her, pushes his pelvis into her clit, lets his sweat smear across her torso, her shoulders getting covered in the concentrated scent of his underarms. 

You're gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you. 

It’s as if she’s being baptized in his scent, drenched in his perspiration, in the saliva covering either side of her neck from his wet kisses, his precome dribbling out inside of her, the taste of it still on her lips. 

“Frankie—” she pants into the crook of his neck, fingers twisting in his hair, her other hand on his upper back, holding him close, “Frankie, I’m gonna— I’m gonna come, I—”

He shushes her with another kiss, a rumbling growl, letting her come before he throws her ankle over his shoulder and he pounds into her until the sound of her moans drowns out the sirens outside the window and his snarls, his curses, the wet slap of their bodies and his grunts when he takes her other ankle and folds her in half again, pushes her knees into her chest and shows her how she’s meant to be fucked. 

Hailey can tell that he’s close, closer than he wants to be, muttering how fucking tight she is between grunts and moans, both hands gripping her hips, pulling her back onto him with every thrust, his cock so deep within her that the room is a blur, hazy from the darkness, the air thick with the smell of sex. 

His thrusts slow, trying to abate his orgasm, failing to when she tightens and whimpers his name again, when she arches her back and sucks him in further, until her walls suffocate him and he grunts her name, panting with his jaw hanging open, lifting up to look down at how he splits her in half. 

“Hope you’re on the pill or something,” Frankie groans, while his cock pulses and swells inside of her, spitting ropes of his come that fill her and slide back down his shaft. Then he chuckles, his voice going low and gravelly. “You know, so you don't have a little demon baby in here you won't let yourself get rid of. That wouldn't be good for business, would it?”

Crushing her with his weight again, he bites and kisses her neck, staying lodged inside her cunt, body pressing her down into his sheets, a drop of his sweat sliding down her chest, her own heat dampening the backs of her knees. His lips find her, tongues twisting together, heavy breaths filling the silence in the air. 

She swallows his saliva, she’d drink it if she could, his blood or his spit or his come. 

“You’ve never had that before, huh?” he murmurs into her mouth, “Never taken a load like that?” 

Her hips squirm in response while she shakes her head, and another laugh rumbles in his chest. 

“You like it, though, you like having my come inside you.” 

She doesn't dare tell him she has never had a load inside of her at all, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of being the first to own her like this, the first person to risk something. He pulls out and brings his hand to her core, lets some of his spend seep out onto his fingers, and smears it over her folds, her clit, up to coat her nipples, her lips, then back down to rub it into her asshole. 

It is so, so filthy. 

“You like when I cover you in it.” His voice is low, eyes dark again, piercing and paralyzing while she raises up on her elbows and looks up at how he towers over her again. “Not so Godly anymore when you're covered in the Devil's seed, huh?” 

“No.” Her voice is weak, little more than a squeaking sound.

He cranes his neck down to smell her shoulder, her arm, her chest and her neck. 

“Told you you’d smell like me,” he whispers, pressing his lips into her chest, right above where he marked her, “Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me .” 

His finger comes to her stretched out, gaping entrance. It collects more of his slick, warm load, and he brings it to her chest, one streak across and another down the middle. He crosses her with it, with the evidence of her lust, her sin, her adultery, her submission to darkness and evil, to her own wants and her own primal drive towards this man, the desire for her that she senses in him. 

“Yeah, now you know who you belong to.” 

She looks down and sees the glistening cross of semen, her nipples still glossy, filthy and revolting and terrible and making her pussy clench so hard another thick drop splashes out of her and onto this bed, her clit beginning to ache again, wanting more and more and more. 

“See that?” 

He tilts her chin up with one hand, the other planted on the mattress, muscles bulging out, his wet, semi-hard cock hanging between his legs, come still seeping out of him, dripping from his slit. “Don't need God when I’m here to tell you what to do, baby.” 

 “No?”

“Nah,” he slides his hand around her neck to cradle the base of her skull, moving his knees to the outside of her hips, shifting closer until his cock is in her face. “And now you’re gonna lick up all my come, you’re gonna suck my dick ‘till I’m hard again, and then I’m gonna teach you how to ride me.” 

“Okay,” she whispers, lashes fluttering, lips parting at the sight of his thickness, his length, the flushed-red tip. 

“Not just gonna teach you how to swim, sweetheart — gonna teach you how to take my cock. Mine , just mine, until you can’t do without it, until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it, until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.”

She pauses for a moment, looking up at his face, eyes adjusted to the darkness now. And then, 

“Frankie?” 

“Yes, angel?"

She takes a breath and swallows tightly before she says, "Teach me.”

Chapter Text

Less than twenty four hours go by before Hailey sees Frankie again. Before she finds herself on his front step, the dark green door and the dusty pavement illuminated by a ceiling lamp clearly singing on its last verse, flickering intermittently as she stands there with her fingers twisting in the hem of her shirt, the cross on her chest burning into her skin and her breaths shallow. She rolls her eyes at herself, irritated at her own weakness and the slick coolness of her panties, the wet fabric clinging to her core and reminding her of why she came here in the first place. 

—

With her arms weighed down by shopping bags and her skin covered in Frankie’s sweat, his come, and his spit, she pushed the handle to the front door down with her elbow and stepped into the house, immediately met with the relief of John’s snoring. He didn’t text, he didn’t ask her where she was, and she’s not even sure if she’d have it in her to lie if he did. 

But she was already wet again by the time she came home, raising her arm to get her hair out of her face and inhaling Frankie’s scent from her shoulder. 

You’re gonna smell just like me when I’m done with you.

She put away the groceries quietly, with the kitchen door shut, every breath stoking the ache that formed deep within her, that dulled the soreness from one, then two, then three rounds of taking his cock. In his bed, on his couch, on his countertop. 

Nothing left of you now, it’s just me. All me. 

She felt his come absorbing into her skin, leaving a slippery soft cross on her chest, right where he smeared his own spend while his eyes bore into hers, where he crossed her after she submitted to him and let him possess her. 

You like when I cover you in it. 

The light from the underside of her cupboards bounced off the tight streaks on her skin. Her nipples hardened when she looked at the implication of a cross, a dirty and disgusting christening of sorts, when she felt his come dribbling out of her, warming the cold, sticky insides of her thighs. 

Even the steam from the shower smelled like him, when the warm streams of water hit her skin and the remnants of him slid down her legs and into the drain, the scent of him carried in the humid air, lingering while she washed herself off and tried to avoid brushing her clit while she scrubbed away the evidence of her sins. 

Because that’s what they were — sins. And although cheating on her husband was and is wrong, the worst part of it all, the most sinful and inexcusable part, is that she didn’t regret it. That she fell asleep in her bed that night and slept through her alarm the next morning, plunged into the deepest, darkest slumber, not dreaming and not stirring, as good as dead, with the rise of her chest the only sign of life. 

And when she woke up the next morning, the first thing she thought of was him. The color of his eyes, the feel of his scruff on her skin, his cock in her mouth, his hand in her hair. 

“You’re up late,” John remarked as she came into the kitchen, dressed in pajamas with her hair wrapped up, having stumbled down the stairs feeling boneless and fucked up, “I didn’t even hear you come back last night, I just fell asleep watching Law & Order.” 

Fucked up, fucked out — same difference. 

“Yeah, I was—” she responded as she walked up to the coffee machine, immediately hearing the hoarseness of her voice, wrapping her hand around her throat as he chuckled. “Had to go across town to get some stuff.” 

“What happened to you?” he asked with a smirk before taking a sip of his coffee, leaning against the countertop with the morning paper in his hand.  

What happened to me? Well, baby, I got face fucked for the first time in my life. I gagged and choked on another man’s cock. I licked up the come from his shaft, I swallowed it and I thanked him for it after. I licked up my own slick from his balls and inhaled the musk from his crotch so deeply I got dizzy. 

“Think I’m coming down with something, a cold maybe.” 

“Well,” John groaned, setting his mug in the sink, “Pop some lozenges and relax till we go to mom’s thing at two, don’t want you getting sick.” 

She let out a sigh, turned away from her husband and focused on the coffee machine, the slow pour of the espresso into the mug. 

Her mother in law’s birthday party. What would be a full-day event had it not been for John’s sister setting her foot down and saying that six hours were sufficient. Six hours of fucking hell. 

Frankie and his filthy fucking mouth — years of unlearning curse words just to have them fed to her over and over, grunted in her ear, moaned and praised. 

Fuck, that’s a good girl. 

You like that shit?  

It was going to be a long afternoon, and while she sipped her coffee, hoping the heat would soothe her throat, her phone went off with a ding, her screen lighting up with a text message from Frankie. 

how many hail mary’s today to make up for last nite? ;)

She tried not to laugh as she typed a response, hunched over the counter, listening to John click the TV on and watch whichever game happened to be playing on ESPN.

Probably ten thousand. Who said you could text this number?

Coffee in hand, she snuck up the stairs and into her bedroom, phone sitting on top of the dresser while she searched for an outfit.

are u in ur church clothes?

It’s Saturday.  

u should put them on and come over

I’m going to my MIL’s birthday party. I think your house is the last place I should be today.

She stared at the screen until he responded, 

door’s open if u get bored

Then got dressed and tried to ignore the temptation, the ache, the need.  

Keep dreaming, Frankie.

She didn’t hate herself for fucking him but she sure hated herself for smiling when she opened his last text.

only of u

—

Mary’s birthday afternoon, evening, day, whatever it was, seemed to go by slower than molasses, with more and more guests filtering in, half of the church already present when her and John strolled in at ten minutes past two. 

“It’s just the weather,” she dismissed when two of the girls from her Bible study group commented on her voice, so concerned, serving her tea and saying something must be going around, that little David picked something up from his classmate and was in bed for three days straight. She smiled at them before looking at her watch, before picking up her phone and looking at Frankie’s text, still unanswered, wondering what he would find himself doing on a Saturday afternoon. 

Nothing respectable, she was sure of that much. 

But she still wondered, still thought about it as more food was served, as Mary opened present after present and everyone aww ed and ooh ed at the kitchenware and the jewelry while she sat in the couch and wound the chain of her necklace around her finger, felt the pointy edges of the cross and tried not to think too hard about how it felt to have Frankie tighten it around her throat while he pulled her hair. 

John sat next to her on the couch with a gentle hand on her thigh. He didn’t manhandle her into his lap after pulling his cock out of her throat, he didn’t keep his hand tight around her neck while she rode him, he didn’t come inside of her and let her clean up her mess with her tongue. 

Frankie . 

Francisco when she rolled her eyes and smacked her lips, unamused, before he grabbed her jaw and held her snared until she dropped the attitude, until her face softened and he could see her arousal flooding her, hand coming out to grab the head of his cock and stroke him, inching closer, pulled into him by his hand around her face, until he could enter her again, still slick with his own come. 

The memory made her squirm in her seat, resting one thigh over the other to dull the throb of her heartbeat in her pussy, feeling her face getting hot from visualizing it all, from replaying it in her mind over and over, until she had to excuse herself to the bathroom and take a breather, looking at her pupils in the mirror, dark and blown out. 

Her thoughts soaked through the fabric of her panties, while she tried to collect herself and think about absolutely anything but that man’s thick cock, his voice, his touch, coming back out to the party with clammy hands and the back of her neck damp. 

door’s open if u get bored

She couldn’t, right?  

She couldn’t bail on her mother in law’s party to go cheat on her son, again, as if once wasn’t bad enough. A sinner, sure, but an unfaithful wife first. An unfulfilled one, unsatisfied. 

Confined to the couch with another cup of tea, while John helped bring the dessert into the living room, busy with bowls and trays and cutlery, she slipped her phone out of her pocket and stared at his last message — only of u . 

She worried her thumbnail between her teeth and typed with her other hand.

Are you home?

The send button was clicked and her phone was stuffed back into her pants before she could think about it, his response coming in almost immediately, quickly checked before her husband served her dessert. 

yeah

just waiting for u

And that is how she found herself on the front step of Frankie’s house. 

—

A pay per view amateur porn is playing on his TV, the smell of weed and cologne filling the living room when she walks in and he closes the door behind her, chuckling to himself low in his chest. He knows like he knows like he knows that she’d be back. And maybe not so soon, but the look in her eyes when they went all soft and glassy, with her cheeks smushed between his thumb and ring finger, told him everything he needed to know. 

“Look who’s back,” he whispers, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, putting his hand under her chin to tilt her face up. “Missed me?”

“No,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes at him, looking down at the floor, and then up at him, almost pleading. 

“Think you did,” he presses on, thick fingers sliding to the back of her neck while his thumb keeps her face right where it is, where he wants it. 

She hears moaning from the TV and it only adds to the arousal that’s been stirring inside of her for hours, making her flushed and flustered, itching to tell John that she forgot she had plans with a friend tonight and had to bail. 

Her eyes flick over to the screen, and she wants to look away immediately but she finds herself trapped, intrigued, almost mesmerized by the woman on screen, by her tits, her lips, her fingers between her legs, the other woman crawling over her, replacing said fingers with her own. 

Frankie cocks an eyebrow and she barely notices him in her peripheral vision as she watches the tape and he can see her lips parting, a swallow passing through her throat slowly, and he winds her hair around his fist, tugging it lightly to get her attention. “You haven’t seen a lot of that, have you?” 

“Not— not really, no,” she mumbles, and Frankie flashes a grin at her before he lets go and gives her a tap on the side of her ass, nodding towards the couch. 

With a hand on her waist, he sits down on the middle cushion and beckons her to sit on his lap, facing the screen. Two large hands slip around her to spread her legs, one unbuttoning her pants while the other reaches for the joint sitting in the ashtray, picking it up to stick it between his lips while he uses both hands to unzip her, and one hand sneaks down over her lower belly, under the waistband of her panties. 

She listens to his inhale and feels the smoke on the back of her neck, goosebumps spreading over her skin when he reaches forward again to put the joint down. His hand rests between her legs, cupping her sex with no intention to move until she begins to squirm. 

But he can feel her wetness slicking up his fingertips as they stay still against her opening, little movements on the screen eliciting a reaction, some more than others — the shift of her hips in his lap, a subtle attempt to drag her cunt along his hand, her clit swelling against his palm. 

“I think you like it,” he whispers, his other hand pushing up under her shirt tugging down the lacey cup of her bra to free her breast and roll her nipple between his fingers, gently pinching and pulling until it’s hardened, repeating the motions on the other side, feeling her shallow little breaths trying to keep up with her heart rate. “They’re both very pretty, don’t you agree?” 

“Yeah,” she breathes, then swallows, feeling a slight tremble in her legs, unsure of what to do with her arms, hesitating for a second before he takes one of her hands, and then the other, settling them on the insides of her thighs. 

“See that?” he asks, nodding towards the screen while he brushes the tips of his fingers along her sex, and of course she sees it, she’s seen every little movement presented to her, every kiss, every touch of the blonde girl’s hand over the other one’s shiny, dark curls. 

She could kill for him to touch her, properly and not teasingly, for him to put just a little bit of pressure on her clit, sink his fingers in just an inch. Anything. She’d commit any sin, sacrifice herself in any way, repent or beg or defile for him to give into her silent pleas. Anything he asks her to do, she’ll do.

And anything he tells her to do, she’ll do with a smile. 

And she can tell he loves the tease. He loves holding her still while she squirms and feels her wetness drip out of her, soaking her panties and her pants, bound to leave a wet mark on his sweats when he’s done with her. Done with whatever he wants to give her this time, feeling more like a virgin now than on her wedding night, entirely unfamiliar with what is going on in front of her eyes, and shocked by her reaction to it, taught that it was wrong and never wanting to believe it, not understanding how intimacy between two people could be bad or evil. 

But she would never have expected this. 

She never expected how wet it makes her to watch a woman take another’s nipple into her mouth and lick around it, bite it a little while Frankie tugs at her own, watching her brush her knuckles between her friend’s legs while Frankie slicks up his fingers with the effect all three of them have on her. 

“Think she likes that?” Frankie coos, and his voice gives her chills, the reprieve from his regular, somewhat snarky tone, the teasing edge to his words the last time she was here, like he’s always poking fun at her in good faith, as if he wants to make her laugh. 

This is different, this is soft. 

“Hm?” he nudges. 

She nods, not a coherent response to be formulated while she sags against his chest, eyes still on these girls, supposedly roommates , supposedly in their dorm room, supposedly doing something they’ve never done before. Eyes on the one on her back getting kissed along her neck and chest while the other shifts down, and her stomach drops when she realizes where the girl is headed, her clit throbbing with anticipation. 

“Think she’s as wet as you are, baby?” 

Not possible.

Not a chance in hell.

“N— no,” Hailey stutters, almost shaking when she sees a head of thick curls move down between a set of tan legs. 

“No?” he chuckles, “Well, let’s check then.” 

His finger slips inside and she moans at the first contact between his skin and her walls, tightening around him immediately, squirming and begging for more while a laugh rumbles in his chest. 

“Maybe you’re right,” he murmurs, nipping at her ear with his teeth, moving down to leave wet kisses along her neck, sucking and biting as he moves down, sinking his teeth into the muscle that leads to her shoulder. 

He goes deeper when the camera pans and she watches with bated breath as the woman’s tongue comes out to sweep across the girl’s clit, just once, and she groans as she tilts her head back, chest raising as she lays on her elbows, stomach tensing and legs falling further apart. 

She has never seen anything like it before, anything so erotic, so slow, nothing like the porn she has caught John watching, where everything is a spectacle, the woman on all fours, moans that border on shouts, no eye contact, no whispering in her ear. 

“Let’s take these off,” Frankie whispers, slipping his hand out from her pants and pushing at the waistband. 

“And this,” he says, as he tugs at her shirt. 

And when all of her clothes hit the fabric of the cushion next to the one he sinks into, she’s back on his lap, fully naked, with his hands back on her nipple and her mound, beginning to stroke her clit slowly, slicking up his finger with her wetness and rubbing her all over, so slow it feels like she’s burning up, like she’s crawling out of her skin, back arching and a moan tightening her throat. 

Her eyes are fixated on the TV screen, the sight of a girl holding another’s face against her pussy makes her whimper and squirm, and Frankie thinks that Christmas must have come early, that he has been personally blessed tonight, with this angel on his lap who is so hungry for him, so frustrated and horny and so turned on by what she’s watching. 

His cock aches in his pants, hard since she walked in through the door. He didn’t even notice it himself, too distracted by these girls, by Frankie's old faithful, Missy Darling and Vicki Summers, his favorite pair. 

“I can’t keep watching this,” he groans, looking down to see her bite her lip while her eyes trace the movement of Missy’s ass, “I gotta get you on my cock.”

He lifts her up with one arm around her waist and tugs his waistband down with the other, freeing his cock and fisting his shaft while he positions his leaking tip at her entrance, getting sucked in the moment he parts her folds and begins to glide in, his forearm thick over her stomach, holding her close to his chest. 

She mewls when he bottoms out, slick dripping down his cock, sliding over his balls while he grunts in her ear, stretching his hand out over her side and using the other to play with her nipple. 

“Touch yourself, baby,” he whispers, and his cock twitches inside of her as he says it, but she’s frozen still, stretched out and stunned into stillness, rolling her hips just a little, just enough for him to nudge into her sweet spot and make her eyes slide back. 

He gently picks up her hand and moves it between her legs, lets go when her fingers brush her clit and drags his hand up her side, back to her nipple. 

“Wanna see how cute you look when you masturbate,” he coos, and her face burns with embarrassment, with the deepest shame etched into her spine. “Wanna see you get yourself off to these girls. You want to, huh? Turns you on to watch her eat her friend’s pussy, doesn’t it?” 

She sighs as she begins to rub her clit, and she can feel his smile at the back of her neck, his nose buried in her hair. “Yea, there you go,” he whispers. 

Deliriously, she nods, circling her fingers lazily. 

“See that?” he asks, and her eyes return to the TV, to Vicki’s back arching and her satisfied giggles. “Can tell she’s not faking it, you know why?” 

“Why?”

“Cause that’s what you do when you’re about to come, when I eat you,” he murmurs, and she squeezes her eyes shut, hand stilling on her mound, embarrassed heat flooding her cheeks and chest at his words. “You arch your back like that, pull my hair, you push your hips up just like she does, you ride my tongue.” 

And he notices how flustered she gets. 

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, angel. That husband of yours might not notice that shit but I watch you like a fucking hawk when I have you to myself.” 

She wants to scream in embarrassment, in vulnerability. She feels him flex his cock inside of her to remind her that it’s there, as if she could ever forget or ignore the stretch, the gaping, how he fills her until there's not a crevice left in her body that he hasn’t claimed for himself. 

“Let go, you’re so close,” he whispers, “Make a mess on my cock, on your fingers, show me how much you like it.” 

And she can’t stop it, she can’t stop the wave of pleasure that washes over her, how the pressure inside of her spills over and she rolls her head back on his shoulder, squirming and whining while she rubs herself, chasing every last little spark of her orgasm, overwhelmed by the visuals, the scent of the man beneath her, his voice, his encouragement. 

For being so goddamn dirty he has a soft touch too, gentle hands over the curves of her body while he rocks into her, something else beneath the snarky, chuckling, gum-chewing, brow-quirking exterior. 

Something that sees her.

Something that sees her needs — unfulfilled, desperate, wanting. 

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groans behind her, his hands on her waist, lifting her up and setting her down, watching the thick shaft of his cock drawing out and pressing back in, more of her arousal covering the hair on his pelvis, making it shiny and sticky, the sweet sound of her moans filling his ears. 

He slows down, he speeds up, he feels her nails digging into his knees through the fabric of his pants, waistband darkening with her come and slick and his own sweat. The girls on the screen have been forgotten completely, his sole focus on the noises coming from her, sounds of exasperated need, of trying to get as much as possible to tide her over until next time, to make up for however long she’s been unsatisfied. 

She gets closer, he can feel it.

“Frankie—” she breathes, “Frankie, Jesus fuck —”

She convulses in his lap, arches her back while her shoulder shifts, still touching herself like he told her to, like she does with a bitten-back smile, her teeth sunk into her bottom lip.

Until you can’t do without it.

Until you come crawling over here every night, begging for it.

Until you pray to God and ask him to free you from being so cockdrunk and addicted to me.

His balls pull tight and his cock begins to pulse, filling her with his load while he grunts and digs his fingertips into the flesh on her hips and thighs, fingers disappearing into the crease of her curves while he holds her down, pussy so tight it squeezes him like a clenched fist. 

He thinks he might’ve spoken too soon, that the addiction might go both ways, that breaking down that uptight little act of hers might be the most delightful thing he knows, tearing her from the shackles of her marriage and the standard she imposes on herself, turning her into a wet, sinful mess under him, far from presentable, far from appropriate, nowhere near holy. 

She collapses back against him, naked chest heaving while she reaches her arm back and threads her fingers through his hair, the sound of labored breaths filling the air as the TV turns idle, stuck on the trailer for the next video, asking if Frankie wants to pay for the full thing. 

His breath is hot on her neck, lips soft and beard scratchy when he kisses her skin. “You wanna watch a movie or something?” he asks, with just an air of hesitation before she turns her head towards him, smiling with just as much shyness. 

Chapter Text

“You about ready? We’re leaving in twenty,” John shouts from downstairs, just as Hailey drags the tip of her finger along the corner of her mouth, wiping up a little smudge of lipstick, smacking her lips once, then twice, looking herself over in the mirror before she gets up and tells him that she’ll be down in a second. 

She straightens out her necklace, the gold of her cross still warm from the shower as it rests on her chest above the collar of her dress. Church clothes , as Frankie would say — as she said too, week after week growing up, rolling her eyes at her mother, trying to fake sickness to get out of Sunday morning service. 

It never worked, and even though twenty years must have passed since then, even though today is a Saturday and it’s a baptism she’s going to rather than another dry service… It still feels the same. Because as much as she has tried to rid herself of the part of her faith that was forced down her throat, the other half remains ingrained in her body, in her mind, internalized and calcified for so long that she doesn’t even notice it anymore. 

It’s entirely robotic, the way she frosts each of the fifty cupcakes she volunteered to bring to Claire’s house, each of them piped with blue frosting and topped with a piece of fondant shaped like the letter L. One after the other, a thick, creamy, pastel colored bullseye looking thing adorning each muffin until they’re all done and meticulously placed in a comically large plastic container and carefully placed in the trunk of the car. 

“I get to meet your Bible study friends today, huh?” John asks, glancing at the rearview mirror and flipping the turn signal. 

“Yeah, they’re all gonna be there, I think. I haven’t really paid attention to the planning, to be honest, I just saw my name on the sheet next to the word cupcakes and sort of zoned out.” 

He chuckles a little and reaches his hand across the console, landing it on her knee, his thumb moving back and forth for a moment before he refocuses on the road ahead. “Seems like you’re enjoying it though, right? The Thursday group?” 

“Yeah, it’s nice,” she says, noncommittally as it sounds, her voice an octave higher as if she’s unsure of her own answer. 

“Or do you wanna come back to Sundays with me and the parents?” he asks then, and she feels her shoulders tensing. “You only have a few of those swimming lessons left, so if you come back, we’ll just pick up where we left off.” 

“I’ll— I’ll think about it, yeah,” she smiles at him and nods, then clicks around on the dashboard until she finds a radio station. 

—

Hailey filters into the church and tries to find an empty space in one of the pews, following John as he walks ahead. Jane catches her eye and waves, then points to Betty who smiles even wider and waves as well, and she gets tugged into a pew as she waves back, settling into her seat and shifting the fabric of her dress around while the rows fill up. 

It’s nice to see a few familiar faces, and she feels a bit bad for not making more of an effort to get to know these girls, for zoning out not only during the baptism talk but during the entire hour, if she’s honest with herself, too busy thinking about Frankie and his—

The sound of the organ drowns out her thoughts as she fixes her gaze on John’s knee just to focus on something, to fight the thoughts of Frankie’s—

“Hey.” 

Hailey hears a whisper from her left side and she turns her head, letting out a shocked gasp as she sees who has taken a seat next to her. 

Speak of the devil and he shall appear, isn’t that what they say?

“Frankie?” she whispers back, her heart pounding, a frantic shit shit shit in the back of her mind. “What are you doing here?” 

She feels John shifting to look at the man on her other side and she wonders if it would be appropriate to jump out of the pew and run out of the church, screaming at the top of her lungs. 

“My nephew,” Frankie mutters and points at Claire as she holds Lucas, standing in line on the side of the pulpit. 

“You’re Claire’s brother?” 

Should’ve paid attention for two fucking seconds longer every time Claire mentioned Lucas’ uncle. Instead, she’s paying for it now, in her sanity and the drops of sweat sliding down her back, but hopefully not her entire marriage. 

“Sure am,” he winks, “Well, half, we have different dads.” He leans forward then, and turns his attention to John, and he sticks his hand out in front of her. “Frankie,” he says with a smile, and she quite simply wants to vomit at the sight of John’s hand in his. It looks so small and skinny, pale and bony when engulfed in Frankie’s. She sees his wedding band sliding against the thick, glimmering gold on Frankie’s finger. 

“John,” he says, in that jovial tone of his, oblivious to the cuckold he has become. She can’t imagine it bothers Frankie to see his obliviousness. “How do you know my wife?” 

“You didn’t tell him?” Frankie whispers to her, nodding towards her husband before he looks back at her. 

Hailey’s stomach lurches. For a moment, she wonders if Frankie’s possessiveness has gotten the best of him, if the sight of her actual husband has lured it out and he figures he has nothing to lose, if the sick pleasure of telling him, in a church of all places, that he’s been fucking the man’s wife, is too appealing. 

But, “Sunday swim team,” he grins. “Sorry for taking her away from your family dinners, I promise she’ll be a threat to Michael Phelps when the term is done. Right?” 

He nudges her with his elbow and she closes her eyes in embarrassment, grimacing and giving a reluctant nod and a smile that’s half relief and half mortification. John chuckles and makes some sort of small talk she’d rather die than listen to. 

—

When the deacon begins to speak, she fights tooth and nail to pay attention, willing her mind to shut off its attention to the heat of Frankie’s thigh radiating into hers. She’s never seen the church this packed and she curses herself again for not paying attention, not planning for a disaster ala the man whose cock she can still feel in the soreness of her cunt sitting next to her in church, stuffed into a pew with her husband on the other side. 

Maybe if she just looks once, to get over the shock and the novelty. Just one little look, putting the troll out into the sun to watch it crack. It won’t be so overwhelming if she knows what she’s dealing with, if she desensitizes herself to it, if she dulls her senses enough. 

And so with calm, measured breaths, she lets herself take him in, her eyes leaving the deacon and sliding down to the floor, over the back of the person in front of her, to her own knees, and then over to Frankie’s. 

Black slacks, shiny black shoes — she can barely believe it’s him sitting there, wearing something other than those God awful flip flops he seems to love. Big, folded hands in his lap, ones she can still feel on her hips. 

She tries to keep her eyes on the dark fabric of his pants but she knows it’s a matter of time before she breaks, and her attention moves a little further up, eyes fluttering closed at the sight of his bulge, trying and failing to stop the wave of mental imagery that floods her mind, of how big he is when he’s hard. And even when he’s soft too. 

When he’s semi-hard, after pulling out of her, wet and dripping with his own and her come, looking down at her with dark eyes, his chest all dewy with sweat, his hair all tousled and—

She clears her throat and hopes he can’t tell how wet she is.

His shirt is tucked in, halfway covered by his black suit jacket, a silky button up with splashes of different colors against a warm toned fabric. An open collar, a thick gold chain and a thinner one with a cross dangling from it. This has to be some sort of joke, a cruel and unusual punishment for her actions. The two lines of gold taunt her as they lay nestled in his chest hair, against the backdrop of his skin. 

His head turns towards her and she looks up to meet his eyes. A little smile tugs at the corner of his mouth and he tenses his thigh just enough for her to feel it. That smile spreads when she looks down at his mustache, thick and dark and lining his upper lip. 

He holds her attention there for longer than he should, longer than he means to. She smiles too, blinking as she averts her gaze, wanting to lean on him but feeling John’s hand on her knee again, cupping it, flopped over it like a dead fish, cold and heavy over the sheer of her tights. 

Yuck . 

Frankie’s hands stay on his lap the entire time he’s seated. It makes her a little dizzy to breathe in his cologne on every inhale, trying to calm herself but instead feeling something stir deep down, something that does not belong in this pew, in this building. Bad, bad, bad. Bad and very terrible and wrong. 

Hailey pays some semblance of attention to Claire and Lucas when it’s their turn to come up, the water over the little boy’s head, the smile on his mother’s face, Connor standing behind her, looking at their son. John wiggles his hand over her knee and she gives him a tight lipped smile, just an obligatory glance in his direction and an acknowledgement of his unspoken words. 

The thought of the two of us up there makes me want to vomit even more than earlier , she bites back. As if you’d dare to even get me pregnant, as if you’d touch me after, as if you wouldn’t pass out the sight of your hands covered in blood and amniotic fluid, and as if you’d kiss me through the sounds of gurgling screams. 

She barely notices when the ceremony is over, jostled back to the present when both John and Frankie begin to stand up. 

“You’re coming to the carne after this, right?” Frankie asks with a wink, and when she nods, he gets up and heads towards Claire. 

Lucas stretches out his arms in Frankie’s direction and Claire hands him over while Frankie coos to him, smiling and mumbling something she can’t hear over the sounds of the organ playing again, over buzzing small talk and the sound of people leaving. 

—

The sound of music and chatter and a sizzling grill can be heard from two houses down, the click clack ing of her heels against the pavement following her as she walks behind John from the car to Claire’s house, smoothing her dress down with one hand, saying a silent prayer as she holds onto the cross on her chest. 

All she can hope for is to walk out of here with her marriage still intact. Anything more would make her a choosing beggar, she thinks. 

John opens the door to let her in, and she’s hit with the sight of a crowded living room, kitchen, and a patio, the Bible study girls, what must be Claire and Connor’s entire families, friends — it wouldn’t surprise her if the majority of the people in church earlier were there purely for Lucas. 

Claire comes up with her arm out, the other holding a frozen drink of some sort, and she gives Hailey a hug before she gives one to John, nodding towards the grill and shooing him towards her husband before she takes Hailey’s hand and pulls her into the living room. 

Claire picks up an identical drink to her own and hands it to Hailey before she’s swept away by a girl she thinks is Claire’s sister, and so she finds herself leaning against the kitchen island, sipping this sweet, boozy slush, looking around for a familiar face, sucking it down a little faster than she probably should, feeling the alcohol hit her before the brain freeze gets a chance to. 

Scanning the room, she spots what she believes must be Claire’s parents, then Connor’s parents, a guy who looks suspiciously like Connor, a group of people she’s never seen before, and then, perched on the armrest of an empty loveseat, looking directly at her already — Frankie. 

She looks side to side before she walks over, spotting John outside and preoccupied, with his back turned towards the open door to the patio and the large windows at the end of the room, a pair of large tongs in one hand and a drink in the other. Two more steps and she’s in front of the man who makes her heart flip and her cunt twist, towering over her as he gets off the couch and embraces her in a hug, his arm snaking around her waist while he gives her a kiss on her cheek. 

His eyes are like pools of darkness when he pulls away, a hand still on her lower back, his pinky landing on the edge of her panties as if he can tell where they are. She’s mesmerized by those brown orbs, the ones with gold specks highlighted by the sun shining into the room, a few threads of silver by his temples illuminated as well that she’s never noticed as much as she does now. 

She wonders how old he is, she wonders if he knows how young she is. She cringes at all the things he doesn’t know about her while he strokes the fabric of her dress with his thumb. 

“Enjoying yourself?” he asks, glancing out of the window for a split second before taking half a step forward and setting his feet on either side of hers. 

The alcohol, the noise, Frankie’s scent, the sound of his voice — it makes her woozy, unstable on her feet, and she leans back on his hand to find that he’s holding her steady, that she can slump over if she wants to, and he’ll still keep her upright. 

She takes too long to answer his question and he cocks an eyebrow, taking a sip of his drink while he waits for her to respond.

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah?” he smirks, then looks at her half-empty glass, “Looks like it.”

She rolls her eyes at him and tries to bite back the smile that forces its way out, catching the straw between her lips and downing a few more sips, grimacing when the brain freeze hits a second time and Frankie laughs. 

He nods towards the kitchen and she turns around to see that food is being served, frowning when she feels his hand falling from her back, until he turns her forward and gives her a light pat on her ass to walk ahead. She snorts and sucks up the rest of her drink, looking back at Frankie with a tipsy giggle as he urges her forward. 

But a slight panic sets in when she looks around and spots John coming in from the patio, plates in hand, and she realizes she’s about to spend hours wrestling the alcohol that wants to pull the truth out of her in a drunken monologue to Frankie and to her husband. 

Hailey opens her mouth and lifts her hand halfway to wave him over as a precautionary measure, but the sound of Frankie’s voice snatches her attention away from John and she turns to hear him say something to Claire in Spanish — having a whole conversation, actually — while she piles things onto a plate that she passes to him, and he hands over to her, before she assembles one that he takes while he motions for the two of them to sit down at the dining table. 

Frankie’s hand at the small of her back is an afterthought when she looks down at her plate and inhales the delicious smell of the food as she walks across the living room, sneaking a piece of beef before she sits down. At the table, her mouth waters as she assembles her taco, so distracted by her own hunger that she startles at the feeling of a hand on her knee. 

She glances up, surprised to see John’s face, wondering where Frankie went before she turns her head to the other side and realizes what she’s gotten herself into. 

Two dining tables are set up in the living room, both filling up as well as the couches, chairs, the tables outside — and she somehow ended up right here, already a little drunk, with meat juices sliding down her wrist as she tries to focus on the food and not on the men on either side of her, with a hand on either one of her knees now, one of them moving while the other stays still. 

John squeezes lightly while he looks at her, then turns his attention to someone at the end of the table handing him a beer and taking his empty bottle, beaming an appreciative gracias! in response. She rolls her eyes and refocuses on her food, listening to him talk about work and sports and corporate America and all the things she so wishes she could care about but, in reality, drain her of her will to live. 

Frankie’s pinky ducks under the edge of her skirt while his palm grips her knee, and when she dares look in his direction, his eyes snare her, draw all of her attention to his own, and hold her there, looking at him with wide eyes, her pulse tripping, breath hitching when his entire hand pushes under the fabric and her legs part further. 

He eats with his other hand, eyes trained on hers, takes a sip of his drink, greets the woman who sits down at the other end of the table, then turns his attention back to her. 

From the corner of her eye, she can see John turned away from her, now fully engaged in a conversation about what she assumes is football, and so she lets one thigh fall further from the other, away from the one that has John’s hand curved around it, staying still. 

A low rumble of a laugh emits from the man on her right, the one whose hand shouldn’t be sliding further up along the inside of her thigh, while the hem on her dress drapes over his thick forearm. That deep noise drowns out the other sounds in the room, the music, the clatters, the voices, all disappearing one by one until the only thing remaining is Frankie’s murmur in her ear.

“I have to fuck you.” 

A whimper catches in her throat and she chokes on her bite of food, letting out an embarrassing, sputtering cough that draws John’s attention to her and his hand away from her knee. Frankie’s hand somehow makes it to her spine first, rubbing up and down while he asks if she’s alright, holding back the laugh she knows he desperately wants to let loose. 

“I’m fine, I’m— don’t worry,” she waves John off, and he seems pleased with the answer, ignorant of Frankie touching her back and the goosebumps that follow the touch of his skin. 

Her husband turns back to the conversation and receives another beer, Frankie’s hand finds its way back to her inner thigh, and when his pinky brushes the gusset of her panties, she chugs half of the drink that was placed in front of her when she sat down. 

Frankie raises his eyebrows and smirks while he downs his own, then excuses himself and heads down the hall, turning back to see her looking at him before he tilts his head towards a door on the left. 

“Is this seat taken?” Brandi asks with her hand on the back of the chair, balancing a plate and a glass in her arms. 

“Go ahead,” Hailey chirps, grabbing her drink and taking quick sips while Brandi gets settled, feeling increasingly antsy as she looks at John’s back, then the time, and then the closed door down the hall. 

“Lucas is so cute, isn’t he?” Brandi asks while slicing open the steaming chicken thigh on her plate. “I can’t wait to have kids, I keep telling Andre I’m ready but—”

Hailey’s attention fades while her friend is mid sentence. She watches her lips moving, mouth opening and closing, head tilting side to side and her shoulders shrugging while she talks about kids or Andre or the topic for Thursday’s Bible study or God knows what, while her attention shifts between her and the clock on the wall, the presence of her husband on her other side. 

His words are slurring a little and he must have forgotten that his wife is sitting right there, and she doesn’t know if she’s interrupting poor Brandi when she opens her mouth, but Hailey excuses herself to use the bathroom and gets up quietly, throwing a glance back at John while she walks across the room and enters the hallway. 

Reaching the right room, she licks the corners of her mouth and knocks three times, taking a step back out and craning her neck to look at the dining tables, to spot John still turned away and Jenny occupying her seat. Maybe she should be relieved that her seat is taken, that the presence of a warm body is enough to ensure John that she’s still beside him in more ways than one. 

She’s pulled into the bathroom by her waist, the door closed behind her and the lock flipped while Frankie crowds her against the hardwood, kissing her with an aggression that tastes different this time, giving her his tongue and his spit and his growls while she circles her arms around his neck and pulls him close to her, threading a hand through his hair and tugging at his thick curls, yanking him down so hard he parts from her lips and finds her neck instead, biting and licking it as if his teeth won’t leave a mark. 

“Frankie—” she whispers, but he growls in response, not a fucking word , scolding her like she’s been naughty, like what they’re doing is no worse than making out at a school dance and not actively poisoning her marriage vows. 

His hands rucking up her dress, kneading her ass cheeks, holding her hips and lifting her onto his thigh should be it. 

The wet, dripping heat between her legs should be it. 

Pert nipples, swollen clit, thighs parting by themselves — her arousal should be the most damning in this entire fucked up, sinful affair, but what she thinks might be even worse, even more incriminating and even more irreversible, is the tugging in her chest. 

In her heart .

That sinking, flipping, twisting feeling in her stomach when he smiles at her, when he runs his hand through her hair, when he touches her, when he beckons her toward himself in the pool, when he tells her what a good girl she is, on land and in water. How it feels to see him on the other side of the room, that schoolgirl giddiness she never got to feel, this strange feeling of trust that he hasn’t done much to earn. 

He lifts her leg, draws her panties to the side, and she can see the moment he considers simply ripping them apart before he thinks better of it and slides them away, sinks two fingers into her and whispers, “Soaking for me already… Fucking dirty , with your husband right out there and everything.” 

The tips of his fingers stroke along her front wall until they find that place that makes her knees buckle and he has to hold her up again, with his arm firmly around her waist while she holds back her moans, feeling the pressure building inside, of everything she has to keep stifled, now and always.

“I think you like it,” he murmurs, speeding up the rocking of his fingers until she’s balancing on a knife’s edge and it would take nothing for her to tumble over. “I think you like being a little whore for me.” 

His thumb finds her clit and circles it, too slow to make her come, too firmly not to make her need it more than air. Her head tilts back and she pants as he nags, “Don’t you?”

Hailey finds it in herself to nod, and then she lets go, feeling the contractions of her cunt squeezing his fingers, fluttering around him while he makes a rough sort of sound and unbuckles his belt with his other hand, pulling out his cock and stroking it while she rides out her climax. 

He lifts her off his thigh and tugs her with him, his hand still around himself as he drags her to the bathroom counter and spins her around, pulls up her dress and kicks her feet apart. The head of his cock sinks into her with no resistance, aided by the wetness sliding down her folds and into the creases of her thighs, as she grasps the edges of the countertop and her head rolls back on her neck, every inch feeling better and thicker and deeper until he groans a little louder than he should and begins to fuck her, hard . 

His hands are searing hot on her hips, over the straps of the panties she still has on, getting pushed and pulled while he draws his cock in and out. She watches him in the mirror, his suit jacket discarded somewhere and the cross around his neck swaying slowly. 

Where the hell did he get that from anyway?

Muffled music booms from the living room, from the patio, mingled chatter and laughter and the clinking of glasses. It drowns out the sound of Frankie’s grunts but it does nothing to temper the heat of his skin. 

How does he know how to fuck her so right? 

Why does he touch her like he cares about her, like he loves her? 

What a stupid thought. 

Why does he hold off, why does he ignore his own wants and his own needs, until she’s nearly wrung out and on the verge of collapse? 

He reaches around, knows she’s ready for the next, rubs and massages her clit with the slick of her arousal while he fills her, fucks her, grunts when her hips buck and she pushes her sex into his hand, grinding against his fingers. 

Why does he put her before himself when she’s never given him a reason to? 

She tips her head back and it hits his chest. He grunts under his breath. The moans she holds back seep out in strangled, choked little whines. 

They make eye contact in the mirror and she watches his snarl, his flared nostrils, and the dark, stern look of his eyes. His right hand strokes her with care, a gentleness he gives her when she’s vulnerable for him, when he can see himself unravel her and take her apart piece by piece. His left grips her hip and pulls at her flesh, harshly, unkindly, selfishly. It single-handedly moves her entire body, slamming her back on his cock with a wet slap that echoes off the tiles. 

He shakes his head when she pants his name but she can’t stop, she can’t prevent it falling out from between her lips. What he does to her is beyond control, beyond reason. His hand comes up to cover her mouth, to back her into himself further and slide deeper, hit a place that makes her stick her tongue out like a dog and taste his palm. 

He never asks if he can come inside and she never wants him to. 

She never wants him to ask her anything, she wants him to take . 

Just like he does when he pushes in so deeply that she lifts off from her heels and she can feel every pulsation of his cock, every rope of come spurting into her and sliding out of her hole.

—

“Let’s go outside,” he says, nodding towards the living room, and her brows furrow in disbelief and confusion while he zips up his pants. 

“I’m not going out there like this, are you fucking insane?” 

He rolls his eyes, then slides the window open all the way and gestures for her to climb out. “Ladies first.” 

She rolls her eyes back at him and half heartedly attempts to come up with a reason for why they should go back, an explanation for why they both look flushed and fucked out and messed up after she disappeared with her swimming instructor for God knows how long. 

“I’ll help you up,” he adds, and she hates that it wins her over. 

Still tripping over her own feet as she takes off her heels, the alcoholic buzz keeps swimming in her veins as she lets Frankie hoist her up and out through the window, holding her steady until she lands on her bare feet in the grass. 

He climbs out after, drawing the window closed and ducking ahead of her under the windows, making his way around the house and away from the party until they reach the front porch. 

A cigarette and a lighter are fished out of his pocket and he flicks it on, his eyes boring into hers again while he holds the filter between his lips. “Not much of a smoker, but—” he says before he takes the first drag, exhaling while he looks up at the sky, “My sister will feed you until you pass out if you don’t stay awake somehow, you know?”

He lifts his brows in invitation as he looks at his hand but she shakes her head with a smile, steps up in front of him and plays with the collar of his shirt, twisting her fingers in the soft, colorful fabric, wondering where he got it and what he looks like in other formal wear. She wonders what he smells like in the morning. 

The tequila swims through her veins, heating her chest and arms, mingling with the intoxication of Frankie’s touch, his scent, swaying on her heels, knowing she drank a little too much but that she’s safe in his hold. 

It feels like there’s no one else around, that the buzz from inside the house is just white noise, that there is no husband on the other side of the wall, no stifling marriage, no expectations embedded in the ring around her finger. 

No plans, no footsteps to follow. 

“You were really good with Lucas,” she purrs, smoothing her palms down the thin silk, “Where did you learn that?” 

Frankie looks down and breathes a laugh, clearing his throat before he looks back up at her, a long moment of silence following as his expression turns somewhat tense, brows knitted when his smile drops. “That’s because I, uh —” his eyes shift away for a split second, “I have a daughter.” 

She can feel her eyes flaring open and shifting between his, and she’s shocked in a way she didn’t expect, jealous in a way she didn’t expect. A bubble bursting of sorts, reality creeping into what was supposed to be a fantasy, a little world separate from her own, from life itself. “I— you what ?”

He blinks slowly and relaxes his shoulders, as if he’s giving in, giving up, laying himself bare in front of her. “I have a daughter with my ex-wife. She’s turning six.” 

A drunken laugh spills out of her and his eyes narrow, a confused smile tugging at his upper lip as she tries to collect herself. 

“How the hell do you have a kid at that house?” she asks, her face scrunching in confusion and amusement, “It’s full of weed and porn and—”

“Don’t you think I clean up before she comes over?” Frankie interrupts, his demeanor changing as he slips his thumbs under her palms and pushes her hands from his chest, slowly lowering them until she pulls back too. Her stomach lurches when she feels the slight push of his hands, the way his torso leans away from her as he cuts the contact between her bodies. 

He almost chuckles as he asks, “How little do you think of me? You think I can’t take care of my daughter cause I smoke when she’s at her mom’s?” 

“Frankie, come on, you know that's not—”

“Nah,” he says, shaking his head, a swallow passing through his throat before he keeps talking, as she stands there snared by her own words, her own reactions, her own judgment pouring out of her, seeping from her pores, so obvious he can see it, feel it, hear it. “You and I, we’re not as different as you wanna think.”

A strange, dull pain sinks in her chest. It weasels itself into her stomach and makes her want to disappear into a hole in the ground, one where Frankie isn’t looking at her with what can only be described as a lack of surprise, a sort of confirmation that, under the part of her that wants to claw its way out and sink its nails into him, is the same cloth he was cut from, the same judgment, the same disapproval that she’s had no choice but to internalize and no time to deconstruct. 

“I grew up around all that, Christian parents and all, grounding me for months when they found condoms in my room at sixteen. So when we met, I knew exactly what I was dealing with. I knew all your hang-ups, knew how repressed you probably were, how desperate you were… And I understood, I didn’t judge you. But I kind of expected the same respect back, you know? You got what you wanted from me. What, was I supposed to tell you my life story to make myself worth fucking? Tell you about the shit I deal with, my divorce, my kid, my past? I don’t need you to prove to me that you’re worthy of respect, nobody has to. Respect isn’t something you should have to prove that you deserve, it’s just something you’re entitled to.”

The embers on the tip of the cigarette glow between his fingers as he lifts it to his lips, inhales slowly and then exhales away from her face, his eyes staying on her the entire time, narrow and filled with a disappointment she wishes she couldn’t see. 

The breeze pushes through his curls, a little longer and messier than the first time they met, the ring of his pinky and the gold on his chest glinting in the sun, blinding almost, a distraction from the intensity of his eyes. Easy to get lost in, impossible not to feel at the back of her neck. 

She tries to play it cool, trying to muster up the courage to get a word out. “Look, I know that you’re—”

“You don’t know me, sweetheart. You know what I’ve chosen to show you, what’s best for you to know in a situation like this. It’s not the first time I’ve been someone’s secret, you understand?” 

Frankie is quiet for a beat and she wraps her arms around herself, willing her legs to start working so she can run away, but instead staying trapped where she is. 

“And if you paid attention in your little study group when Claire mentioned me repeatedly, talking about Lucas’s baptism, you probably wouldn’t have been here today. You wouldn’t have sat between me and your husband, letting me feel you up and then pretending like it never happened. And that’s the thing about people like you, like my family; people are good , or they’re bad . Either everything you do is right, or everything you do is wrong. I know you think I’m bad, and I might be a piece of shit but I’m not dumb. Fine if you think I’m the devil incarnate but— but you think I’m a bad person, don’t you?”

His voice never falters, his eyes are blank, expression flat and not a twitch in his jaw, just his shoulders raising with a shrug, and a hint of a disbelieving smile. The acidic burn of her guilt creeps up her throat and suffocates her while she tries to swallow it down, looking at how she twists her fingers in the sleeves of her shirt, hoping he can’t see that her eyes well up. 

“And somehow you’re not, because you believe you have an excuse to cheat, you think you have a good excuse to come to my house, get fucked and then turn around and pretend you’re… I don’t know, doing something to make your marriage bearable. But I don’t have an excuse, do I? I’m just some fucking guy who lives in a shady neighborhood and smokes weed and watches porn. You know, except for when I work two jobs and live somewhere cheap so I can save up for my daughter’s education, right? You don’t think I worry about her safety? You don’t think I walk her to and from school every day so I know she’s okay? I mean, do you think I sit and think about you all day, having nothing to worry about other than the next time I get laid?”

“I— Frankie, I— I don’t—” she sighs, shaking her head, each word stinging more than the last, a death by a thousand cuts as she tries to formulate a response, an apology, anything. 

“I have to go pick Sage up from her mom’s house, tell Claire I had to head out,” he says as she turns her head towards him again. 

He’s looking past her while he holds onto the cigarette for a second longer, one last drag before he tosses it to the ground and grinds his heel on it. He puts his hands in his pockets and walks down the driveway, looking towards the living room window as he turns the corner. 

And with shaky legs, she sits down on the wooden steps behind her, listening to the pounding of her heart and the crunching sound of his steps on the gravel past the trees lining the driveway, until they disappear into the deafening silence of the front porch and she’s left by herself. 

Reluctant tears press up into her waterline as she rubs her temples, trying to take a full breath without her lungs spasming. 

He has a fucking kid. A daughter. 

You don’t know me, sweetheart.

What made her think she did? 

It’s not the first time I’ve been someone’s secret, you understand?

A sick tinge of jealousy zips down her spine and settles in her stomach, curls and churns there while her mind pinches itself, a slow form of self torture in the form of timelines and mental images and wondering if she was the only person that day, that week, the first time and the last time he had her. 

Wondering if he went to pick up his daughter the next day. 

She can’t reconcile the two sides of him, day and night, a man split in half and formed into two separate people — one who grabs her ass under the water when she pays him for swimming lessons, and another who walks his little girl to school. 

You know what I’ve chosen to show you, he said, and as pathetic as it is, as childish and stupid as it feels, it makes her sad. It makes her want to gag a little bit too, the realization that he wasn’t wrapped around her pinky, wasn’t desperate for her, wasn’t waiting for her to give him the time of day. He knew her type and he knew what she couldn’t admit that she wanted, he cherry picked and glued together a version of himself that appealed to her desperation, smelling it like blood in the water, sensing her need for a man who takes and gives with equal aggression. 

Do you think I sit and think about you all day?

Eugh. And what would she have even said to that if he gave her the opportunity? 

Yeah, I actually do think you sit around and think about me cause all I do is sit around and think about you. 

Or maybe just the truth. 

I was sort of hoping you did. 

Stupid. She wonders if this is how it feels to get dumped by the boy you lost your virginity to as a teenager, if it’s an experience she missed out on and got the chance to live through now instead. Or maybe it’s that great, big punishment she’s been waiting for and that she so deserves, sitting here with the short end of the stick while he forever gets to carry a piece of her with him. 

“Are you okay?” 

Hailey doesn't notice Claire coming outside until she sits down next to her with a hand on her back, about to ask another question before she looks around and stops herself, shifting focus. “Where’s Frankie?”

“He, uh—” Hailey starts, then forces an exhale, “He said he had to go pick up his daughter.”

“Oh,” Claire pauses for a beat, her hand moving to Hailey’s shoulder, “Did something happen? Did he say something?” 

“No, no,” she interjects, wiping her forehead with the tips of her fingers, willing the tears to stay in her lash line and not spill over her cheeks. “I just needed some air and he was out here, having a…” She shakes her head, blinking away the pathetic sadness that blurs her vision of the driveway. “Yeah, I’m fine, just tired. Didn’t sleep well, I guess.”

“Okay… Wanna go back inside?” Claire asks, twirling the ends of Hailey’s hair around her finger and resting an arm on her back. 

Hailey nods in response, and Claire steps down from the porch as she takes her hand, waiting until Hailey stands up and brushes off, then lets her lead her back into the house, sniffling and miserable, wanting to call Frankie to beg him to come back so she can sink to her knees and apologize for being such an idiot, so insensitive, for lying to herself and to him about how he makes her feel. 

John sees Hailey before she sees him, before she’s even two steps into the living room. He’s grabbing her hand, holding a salt-rimmed glass in the other, swaying to the music and pulling her closer. His shirt is buttoned halfway down, armpits ringed with sweat, his tie discarded somewhere, a little red-faced and with a huge grin she hasn't seen since their wedding. 

“Check out these moves, baby, woo! ” he announces over the music, and does an uncoordinated little two-step back and forth, so focused that his tongue is peeking out at the corner of his mouth. Claire’s sisters stand by the couch, howling with laughter and their arms over their stomachs, wiping at the tears in their eyes while John points at them. “These two taught me, check it— check— are you seeing this? Pretty good, right?” 

Laughing and crying seem equally appealing right now.

“ Yeah, baby!” he cheers at himself, the drink sloshing in his glass, socked feet slipping over the floor, his torso shifting side to side while he holds her arm up. He somehow gets into a rhythm, counting under his breath as he steps forward and back, breathy little grunts or a muttered yes yes yes replacing the numbers here and there. “You do it, you do it,” he pants, staring down at her feet. 

Hailey shoots Claire a glance while she bites down on her lips, and she sucks in a shaky breath before she tries to replicate his movements, shifting back and forward, feeling more sober than she did when she sat in that church pew.

Chapter Text

A splitting headache greets her when Hailey wakes up on Sunday morning, the beat of the music still echoing in her ears, the smell of Frankie’s cigarette, the crunching sound of his steps on the gravel as he walked away. 

How little do you think of me?

You think I’m a bad person, don’t you?

Fuck. The humiliation is more nauseating than the hangover itself, secondary to the guilt. Guilts , plural, to be specific. Which one is worse, really? The one about indirectly telling Frankie he’s a lowlife or the one about fucking someone else in the same house as her husband is drunk and blissfully unaware?

Did she get what she wanted? 

What does she really want from Frankie, anyway?

God knows. She sure doesn’t. 

She blows out a long breath and looks over at John, snoring while he lays on his stomach, sleeping soundly. More of last night becomes clear past the throb between her temples, the smell of tequila on her skin. 

Check out these moves!

Yeah, baby! 

Jesus. 

She reaches over and grabs her phone from the nightstand to see that there are no messages and no missed calls. Two hundred dollars are transferred to Frankie and she opens her message thread with him, nausea setting in when she sees the last text from what seems like forever ago. Too long and not long enough. 

just waiting for u, it says. 

The only way out is through, and there’s not a chance in hell she’s facing him today. A quick glance over at her husband, and she’s typing.

Hey Frankie, I’m sorry about

Backspace, backspace, backspace. 

Hey Frankie,

Backspace, backspace, backspace. 

Hey.

What is there to say?

Hey. Not feeling well today so I won’t make it to the lesson. I know it’s less than 24 hrs notice so I transferred the money already. 

Good enough. 

Hailey hits send and draws the covers over her head, staying in bed until John is up and in the shower. 

The wallpaper on her phone stays blank, telling the time, with no messages coming in. Not for the rest of the day, and not for the rest of the week. 

—

Monday through Friday, dinner is forced down across the table from John. He talks about work and she forces a laugh, a smile, even a contemplative hum. The corporate jargon makes the story much less interesting — he left the office two hours ago and he’s still putting a pin in this and circling back to that. It’s just this mind numbingly monotonous story every time, about accounts, or Kevin’s client or Jamie’s dog, Raj’s in-laws, Terry’s kids. Other people’s lives. She can’t find it in herself to wonder what he says about his own. 

He asks about her day after that.

“Fine,” she says, “Alana told me I’m getting a bonus this quarter.”

“That’s nice.”

“Yep.”

Her wedding ring clinks against her glass and she takes a sip of water, filling the silence with a slurp and then a swallow. His fork scrapes against his dish and her eye twitches at the sound of him chewing. Then he remembers some other story and it’s back to thinking about Frankie. 

It feels, on all counts, wrong , but that seems like an oversimplification. 

There’s a resentment that clouds her judgment, that makes it entirely clear that her actions are wrong but they don’t feel wrong and it’s sort of confusing but also sort of easier to handle. She has the option to pretend like nothing ever happened, to skip out on all the remaining swimming lessons, pay the fee every time, send an excuse over text and go to something else Sunday afternoons, take up a workout class on Thursdays and switch to the Bible study that overlaps in membership with the singles’ club. Maybe listening to their woes for half the time is better than maintaining a friendship with Claire and risking another run-in with Frankie. 

Her mind is somewhere she can’t quite identify during Bible study Thursday night, after nearly a week of cringing at the last words exchanged between her and Frankie, a week of waiting for a text that never comes. 

How is she supposed to feel? Is this what it’s like to get dumped? Not that she would know, sheltered as she was until she met John and had her first kiss when her friends started getting engaged. 

“Hey,” Claire taps her on the shoulder while she does the dishes, volunteering to be anywhere other than the living room where study hour has wrapped up and the dessert plates are empty. “You’re coming on Saturday, right? I know it’s kind of a lot since we just had the baptism last weekend but I’d love for you to be there, it’ll just be us girls and some family, really lowkey.” 

Does Frankie count as some family? 

Hailey nods and collects herself, putting on a smile as she turns to her friend. “Yeah,” she chirps, “John is away for work so it’ll just be me.” 

Claire's eyes narrow a little and she shuts off the tap, leans against the counter and folds her arms. “Something’s up,” she says, “You’re acting weird.” 

“Me?” 

“Yeah, you. You’re off, there’s something wrong.” 

I fucked your brother and my life is a lie. 

Ehh. 

I think I’m possessed by a demon. A sleazy cock demon who makes me feel like a teenager.

Reel it in a little. 

I’m feeling insecure in my faith. 

Perfect. 

“I don’t know,” Hailey breathes as she turns towards Claire, “I’ve been struggling a bit with stuff… Just life and faith, I guess. Sometimes I feel kind of aimless, you know? Like I’m not sure what I’m doing with my life. I mean, do I want to work in sales forever? Is that my life’s purpose? Do I want kids? I don’t know, I have all of these questions and I can’t seem to get any answers.” 

“I get it. It’ll come to you in due time. ” 

“You’re not gonna tell me to pray about it?” 

Claire laughs softly and unfolds her arms, turning to lean over the counter, shaking her head. “Prayer helps but it’s your life at the end of the day, you have to do what’s right for you.” 

“You’re telling me prayer isn’t the solution at Bible study ?” Hailey laughs. 

Claire lowers her voice then, “Have you not noticed how quickly the conversation derails out there?” 

“What do you mean?” 

She laughs again. “You must be going through it if you’re checking out that badly. We talk about the verse of the day and then it’s a free for all, it’s always been like that.” 

“Oh.”

“Oh,” she repeats, “Come on, let’s get coffee ready.”

—

Sage runs in while Frankie closes the door behind her, gift bags in hand. She storms up to Claire, who lifts her up and spins her around, coming to the hallway to embrace her brother in a hug while he wishes her a happy birthday. He spots Hailey in the corner of the living room, looking at him and averting her gaze the second he makes eye contact. He should’ve answered that goddamn text, not spent the week typing and deleting, rolling his eyes at himself. 

Because what kind of example is he setting, really? What does he gain from emotionally void encounters with women and what will he do when he has his daughter around full time and those encounters end? When his only option to get laid is to be in a relationship, to have someone sleep over, interact with his little girl before she goes to bed, not to mention the daunting criteria of them being someone he will allow around her in the first place. 

He puts the gift bag on the table and avoids looking in Hailey’s direction when he slips out to the back porch to help Connor with the grill. Always attuned to the sound of Sage’s voice, he knows who she’s speaking to while Connor hands him a container of marinated steaks and he pays halfway attention to what his brother-in-law is saying about work. He hears Sage introducing herself to Hailey, hears his daughter say Hailey’s name, and he can’t turn around. His eyes are fixated on the meat, the thick marinade sliding around the top and the smoke enveloping it. 

“Can we?” he hears his daughter ask, and lets him turn his head for a second — just fatherly concern, of course, of course — to see Hailey standing up from the couch with her hand in Sage’s, nodding and smiling, before she guides her to the far end of the room where a massive puzzle lays a quarter of the way completed, tugs her down to the floor and starts to look for pieces. 

He tries to look away but his stomach sinks, hoping that Hailey somehow had a momentary case of amnesia and forgot that Sage is his daughter, just so she doesn't have to sit with the reminder of their conversation, how she was introduced to the little girl’s existence. 

He hopes it won’t color her impression of his little girl, the shame beginning to creep up on him that he thought he did away with years ago. The shame of not being like the others, of not being able to stay in line and do as he’s told. 

Thrown out of his parents’ house at eighteen, thrown out of the army a year he tries to forget (though the doctor was kind and friendly and said it was a recommendation , that the nightmares and such should go away with time once he returns home). 

Back home, a baby child in his arms, a ring bought with the money he had left, and then divorce papers, another failure, keeping Sage afloat while he drowns in his own misery. 

Challenges , the lady in the chair had said.

“How are things at the shop?” Connor asks, clicking the metal tongs together before flipping a steak, landing with a thump and a sizzle. 

“Oh, you know,” Frankie turns his attention back to the grill, shrugging. Colin comes up behind him and hands him a salt-rimmed drink, unsure of what it is but winking as he hands it to Frankie. He couldn’t tell them apart when Claire and Connor got together, several months spent relying on their outfit choices to know who was who. “People don't know how to drive in this city so… Always lots to do.” 

“Man,” Connor muses, “I wish I could get my hands dirty, you know? Roll around on one of those little things on the ground under the cars. Gosh, just really get in there , make that car really— really fast, rev the engine and zoom down the highway like I’m running from the cops.” He clenches his fists and looks into the air, trying to formulate a fantasy that sounds nothing like Frankie’s everyday tasks.

Connor continues, “I just sit in meetings all day, I feel like I don’t do anything. I just listen to my manager talking, and she’s saying so many words but she’s still not saying anything. Just bla bla bla , corporate speak, and then another one comes in and he takes over, and he’s all bla bla bla, nobody cares. Suddenly it’s three in the afternoon and we barely—”

The sound of Hailey’s voice comes through again, seeps out through the balcony doors and into Frankie’s ears. 

Where’s that piece with the flamingo? Did you eat it?

No! He hears Sage giggle. 

No? I think you ate it.

No, I didn’t.

I think you’re a little sneak who ate the puzzle piece.

You’re the sneak!

Sage, you are the definition of a little sneak.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath. Connor is still talking. He’s wearing a fleece vest, hair nicely combed and gelled back. “Lucas is doing great,” he says, “He’s sleeping for—”

Frankie’s attention fades again. His own words are nauseating and bitter as they come back to him. Going home alone that night, looking at another unanswered text from another one-time thing and debating asking her over but locking his phone instead and jumping into the pool, doing laps until he could barely keep himself afloat. 

It’s just so stupid, having feelings for a married woman. 

Feelings that make him feel hot and jittery as he stands there, knowing she can see him through the open door. She can see the curls that stick out from under his hat at the nape of his neck, she can see him nod along to Connor’s monologue, and she can see him looking back at her, catching her eye for a second before Sage demands her attention. 

Hailey eats with her too — plates are handed to the two of them where they sit on the floor, her aunt coming to join while Frankie eats in the kitchen, turned away from her. All Hailey gets is glimpses of his back and his hair, sometimes his side profile if she’s lucky. 

And she feels that guilt again, a guilt that should be accompanied by shame but manifests itself rather as a hopeless sort of jealousy or childish stubbornness, like a little girl who wants something so badly and cannot understand why she can’t have it. It feels unfair and yet she knows it isn’t. 

It’s not unfair that Hailey chose to get married. It’s not unfair to her that she can’t have Frankie the way she wants. If anything, it’s unfair to him that she judges him so harshly, that she projects onto him, seeing him as the opposite of herself and yet realizing that they’re both a little miserable where they are, thinking the other person made all of the right decisions and ending up in the same place. 

—

The party moves on, people shift around, Hailey is on the couch and then she’s outside in the yard and then on the porch. She mingles and eats, Louise asks where John is and Hailey says he’s working. Louise asks if the two of them are thinking about kids yet and Hailey shrugs, glancing over at Sage, dancing to the music that emits from the living room speakers. 

Then she talks about how she and her husband are trying , and for some reason it feels voyeuristic to listen to it, having to hear about someone’s fertility and sex on a schedule. Ovulation tests, fertile windows, trying to spice it up, feels a little weird to do it so mechanically. The entire conversation makes the ranch on her plate incredibly unappealing. 

It even feels strange to imagine people her age actively trying for a family when she still doesn't quite know when to say oh gosh, have you told your parents? or congrats to her own friends when they tell her they’re expecting. 

Frankie wouldn’t want any more, would he? Maybe that would be an easier way to get out of this mess, to have God make the decision for her and strike her birth control down like lightning, letting an immaculate conception happen in her womb that shatters her marriage into a million pieces and seals her future with the only man who has ever climbed under her skin and permeated her cells with want and pining and desire.

The one man who has ever made her babble incoherently on his cock too. 

Hailey retreated to the kitchen island, trying not to look around for Frankie, planning an exit strategy and trying to decide who she should invite out to get plastered tonight, hoping to forget the day. 

Maybe it looks pathetic to stand there but she cannot possibly look any worse than she feels — nervous, nauseous, a variety of emotions all pertaining to fucking things up in her affair and her marriage, shitting where she eats, catching feelings for someone her parents would disown her for being with. 

That pisses her off too, for reasons she can’t quite understand. 

When she looks down at the floor, someone comes up next to her, leaning back on the counter, also looking down, and her eyes flutter closed when she hears his voice. 

“I’m sorry for how I acted last weekend,” Frankie says, and her heartrate trips before it skyrockets. “I was… I don’t know if it was the alcohol or seeing you with, uh— I don’t know, I just know I overreacted and I apologize for that.” 

He takes a breath and shakes his head, pausing like he’s blasting through a prepared speech. “I shouldn’t expect you to know things I don’t tell you, you know? I guess I thought that Claire had told you more and that I didn’t have to be the one to tell you much about myself. I’m not very open about that kinda thing, it just feels a bit personal.”

The air is heavy between them, and he chews on his cheek, halfway sneaking looks in her direction without fully committing to it. His confidence is wearing off, dissipating for every word out of his mouth and then for every second that slides by with no response. 

“It’s okay, I understand,” Hailey says back, glancing at him out of the corner of her eye. Direct eye contact would be too much, she thinks. “It was unfair of me to judge you like that, to make assumptions, I’m sorry.” 

“How were you supposed to know all that, though? I’ve shown you very specific things and let the rest stay a secret. And you were drunk too.”

“No excuse.”

He’s quiet for a moment, lifting his head to scan the room. 

“Come over tomorrow,” he says, looking over to her, “We’ll do the lesson at my house, okay? I’m dropping Sage off at her mom’s at six, then you can come over.”

“Okay.” She gives him a careful smile and he pushes off the counter, her eyes following him as he steps over to his daughter and crouches down, puts his hands around her shoulders and asks if it’s time to leave so they can go to the movies. She wraps her arms around his neck but stays in her conversation, keeping Frankie right where he is while she laughs and wiggles side to side. 

Hailey stays at a distance, eventually watching them leave, with Sage on Frankie’s hip while she waves goodbye and blows kisses at her aunt. 

—

The lightbulb outside Frankie’s door still buzzes and flickers as she reaches her hand to the doorbell and freezes for a moment, her palm clammy around the straps of her bag, swimwear already on underneath the tracksuit and twenty four hours of nerves making her blood feel like it’s congealing inside her veins. Her wedding rings feel tight and suffocating on her finger as she presses the button and hears the echo of the bell from inside the open window. 

Frankie opens the door and lingers for a moment before he nods for her to step inside, and she feels his hand at the small of her back as she takes off her shoes. His house smells like food, like meaty tomato sauce and garlic, and her stomach rumbles at the scent. 

“You have to change, or?” he asks, giving her outfit a once-over. 

Hailey shakes her head and he takes her hand, leading her through a dimly lit hallway, past the bathroom, the open door to Sage’s room, and past his own before he opens the screen door and steps out onto the stones lining the pool in his backyard. 

He sheds his t-shirt and dives into the water, smoothly breaking the water surface with a splash as she hesitates with her zipper, before lifting his head and slicking his hair back, pushing his thumb and index finger down his nose and waving for her to join him. 

“Come on, angel,” he says, and she rolls her eyes but her fingers push her zipper down, and a moment later she’s descending down the ladder, feeling Frankie’s hands at her sides, holding her up as her toes brush the bottom of the pool. 

He turns her around in his hold and looks at her like he wants to kiss her, but slowly lets go when she’s stable on her feet, and moves backward until the water reaches his collarbone. 

“Swim towards me.”  

With still-trembling limbs, she launches forward, swimming towards him in slow strokes, arms and legs pushing the water back until she’s a foot away from Frankie and she turns around, feeling like an awkward seal for a few seconds before swimming back to the ladder, then making her way back to him, stopping and turning before she reaches him again. 

“All the way,” he calls, “Still got a few feet left to go.” 

Begrudgingly, choked by guilt and anxiety and shame more than anything, she makes her way to him through the warm water. Dusk has fallen over the neighborhood, casting red and purple light over the sky, darkness settling under the trees and the lights from inside the house shining out through the glass of the windows. The pool glows a cold, light shade of blue and it lights up Frankie’s face, reflecting off the droplets clinging to his chest. 

His hands curve around her hips and hers land on the thick of his shoulders at the other end of the pool. Her feet kick around to hold her up but she knows it’s unnecessary. He looks at her and she knows that her hesitation radiates from her like the heat in the water as he wraps an arm around her waist and his free hand comes up to the side of her jaw. 

“Few more laps, then I’m feeding you dinner, and then we’re gonna talk, okay?” 

She nods, not a word uttered yet, feeling like a string has been wrapped around her vocal chords and pulled tight, secured with a double knot and left there, closed off. 

Hailey swims away and then back, with wider strokes each time she passes the side of the pool. Away and then back, her ears and mind filling with the sound of cicadas chirping and water lapping, her guilt dissolving when it shouldn’t. 

Away, towards the house, grabbing onto the ladder while she takes a breath, then pushing back instead of turning over, letting the water guide her on her back until Frankie’s hands are around her waist. 

His chuckle rumbles in his chest, “That’s not on the syllabus for this week, is it?” And then his lips at her ear, “You’re a natural, huh? Not gonna need me much longer.” 

Shifting in his hold, she turns to face him, and he’s still smiling but she looks at him with something that feels like concern. 

“I do need you, Frankie,” she says as she looks between his eyes, “That’s why I was such a bitch to you. Cause I need you and I hate it.” 

He smiles wider, a smirk turning into a full grin and a blush flaring across his cheeks. They’re so scruffy, tinged with gray. She still doesn't know how old he is and the sight of those little signs, the grays and the soft wrinkles and the sound of his laugh, it all tightens in her chest and pools low, somewhere under the water, between her legs as she wraps them around his waist.

“No, you don’t,” he whispers, eyes glued to her lips, one hand on her hip and the other coming up to the back of her neck, thumb brushing over her pulse. “You don’t have to need someone to want to be with them, you understand?” 

The grays will never make their obvious age difference more obvious than his words can. 

Neither of them say anything to fill the silence, but the water still laps at her skin and crashes against the tiled edges of the pool, sloshing in little waves around the two of them, lit up by the beaming lights under the surface. Her legs are spread wide around him, cunt pressed up against his crotch and the bulk she can feel right there under his shorts. She can’t help it, the way her nipples harden against his chest, breathing going a little shallow as she looks at him. His hair is darker when it’s wet, but his eyes are brighter in his light, tinged with a golden honey color she hasn't noticed before. 

His thumb brushes over her hip, hand wrapping around her hair and pulling at it gently, just enough to lengthen the column of her throat, where he leans in and kisses, just once, slow and wet, a brush of his tongue, licking up the droplets sliding down her skin. Then he pulls back.

“Come on, lasagna’s done,” he murmurs as he nods towards the house and lets his hand slide down to her ass, giving her a pat before he turns her around and she swims away with Frankie on her heels. 

He sets the table after he gets out of the shower, letting her stay in while she rinses out the shampoo that she suspects belongs to Sage, and try to think about something less objectifying than the visceral image of his semi-hard cock between his legs, merely from the presence of her naked body, the soap suds flowing down over it, his hair sticking to his pelvis, how thick his shaft looked when he stood in front of her. 

God , the thought makes her ache. It makes everything inside of her tighten and throb with need. It’s okay to just want , apparently, to not have to need so badly — a revelation to her, relying on something unexplainable to justify her feelings for the man she can hear in the kitchen, filling glasses and setting heavy pans on the table. It feels an awful lot like permission with no caveats, no promise to make up for it. Just acceptance for something she can’t all the way defend. 

She draws the shower curtain aside, squeezes the water out of her hair and gets back into the velour ensemble she showed up in, a soft black hoodie over her bra and pants to match, lacy panties underneath, wondering if she should’ve told Frankie that it’s what she wears every day, that she’s not dressing up, that he’s not special. Maybe saying it with a wink would make it true. 

The entire house smells like lasagna and her stomach sinks at the sight of him at the table, nodding for her to come sit down, remembering the smell of weed in the living room, and then the smell of his cigarette when he took her hands away from her chest and her heart sank too. 

“You want garlic bread?” he asks as she pulls out her chair and takes a seat, and she nods with a careful smile, watching him pull the bread apart and sliding two pieces onto her plate, licking his thumb while he lifts the spatula and cuts out a piece of lasagna. He glances at her as the plastic hovers over the cheese, moving it slowly back and forth until she says when , and he slices through it, dumping it on her plate next to the steaming hot slices of bread. 

His piece is huge, much bigger than her own, and she tries to remember how much he ate at the baptism and then the birthday party, but all her memory serves her is glimpses of full plates and Frankie in the mirror behind her, then in front of her. 

Do you think I sit and think about you all day? And then the crunch of the gravel, voices from inside the house, and Claire’s steps behind her. 

He rips off three pieces of bread, throws them halfway on top of his slice of lasagna and begins cutting through it, horizontally and then vertically, before he begins to eat. Hailey hesitates with her cutlery, cutting off a single, tentative piece at first, tasting it as he looks up at her, smiling and nodding, giving him a thumbs up, with shy heat in her face that didn’t flare up when her legs were around his waist in the pool but burns as she sits across the table from him, in the light casted by the lamp above them, listening to the sound of the fan in the kitchen still on. 

He eats much faster than her too, as she pushes the lasagna onto the garlic bread and takes a bite, and it’s salty and crunchy and delicious, creamy and rich.

“What do you usually make for you and Sage?” she asks, still shy, even with her zipper pulled all the way up and her legs crossed on the chair. 

“Hmm,” he shrugs, “A bunch of different stuff, I guess. She likes pasta a lot so I try to find different types, different shapes and all that.” 

“Kids love different shaped pasta.” 

“They do,” he smiles, then keeps thinking. “I make chicken, beef… I grill pretty often, make some extra for lunch the next day. She likes noodles, stir fry and that kinda thing. And typical kid stuff too, like fish sticks, burgers, you know.”

Hailey breathes a laugh and tries to refocus on her plate, his voice breaking the short silence when her mouth is full.

“How about you? What do you make?” he asks, and it’s strange to talk about such trivial things in the company of a man who it feels like she knows so well and yet, it becomes clearer every time that she doesn’t know him much at all, that the things she knows are things that are so intimate in some ways, but not as intimate as what he makes for dinner. 

“I just throw a bunch of shit in my crock pot and go to work, honestly, most of the time.” Hailey rolls her eyes and Frankie laughs.

“Convenient,” he says. 

“Very.” 

Her fork scrapes against her plate as she listens to the crunch of Frankie taking another bite, looking up at him to see him looking at her already, elbows on the table, broad shoulders stretching the sleeves of a worn Lakers t-shirt. She looks back down at the pan, the sliding layers of noodles, creamy bechamel and chunky meat sauce, browned cheese on top. “How long did it take you to make this?” 

Step one, insult a man to his face.

Step two, fail to make regular conversation when he cooks you dinner.

Nailed it. 

“I don’t know, forty five minutes, maybe? The sauce has to simmer for a little while but the assembly is pretty quick.” 

“Wow,” she says, and then, “Wait— you made this yourself? Like, not from a box mix like the rest of the population?” 

He looks at her like she asked him what her own name is, nodding slowly, smirking as his eyes narrow. “Yes?” 

How the hell do you have a kid at that house?

She cringes at the memory. 

Don't judge others, and God won't judge you. Don't be hard on others, and God won't be hard on you. Forgive others, and God will forgive you.  

And all that. 

All that other shit she spews and never follows, running her mouth while she’s drunk on tequila, hiding with a man she cheats on her husband with, the one she goes home and lies to every day. 

“Did you wanna—” she hesitates, letting out a nervous half-laugh, “Did you wanna talk about what happened last—”

“In Claire’s driveway?” 

She nods. 

He shrugs and glances around, at the dark living room, the kitchen lit up by the lights underneath the cupboards. “Not much to talk about, really. You said some shit, I said some shit, we both had some space. And you’re here now, aren’t you?” 

“I guess.” 

His hand reaches across the table and envelops hers, the pad of his thumb tracing her knuckles as he gazes at her, head cocked a little to the side. He waits a beat before he says, “Alright. Let’s talk about it. Should I go first?”

Hailey nods again, feeling her palms perspire and her heart rate ricocheting, her extremities going cold from the adrenaline. 

“I don’t have that much going for me, if I’m honest,” he says, and the wrinkles between his brows deepen as he averts his eyes, looking at something a little past the table, his thumb moving back and forth, steady, soothing. She wants to cry, acutely, like there's a fist around her heart, squeezing it until she bleeds all over it. The resignation in his voice, he doesn’t hide it, he sits across from her with his heart on his sleeve. 

And she’s the worst person ever, hands down, no doubt about it. 

“Working two jobs, livin’ in a— well, not the best neighborhood. Had a career until I didn’t. Turned forty last month and spent it with my friends from high school. Got too drunk to go to a strip club with them like they planned so I just went home.”

(And I’m falling for a married woman I don’t deserve, who I got on the hook by being the worst version of myself, and I spent my afternoon nervous to see her, cooking for her, deluding myself into thinking that her seeing me in a different light will do anything at all about that ring on her finger that sparkles and shines and I know that her life with me would be so dull.)

“You have a daughter,” she tries to interject as a positive reminder, shaped like a question.

“Yeah, who I’m about to become a single dad to. A daughter I wasn’t prepared to have and still don’t feel prepared to take care of sometimes. I never want to call her an accident, but… Well, the pill failed and we found out really, really late. Too late, if you get me.” 

Hailey inhales and nods, in over her head, unsure what to say. “Sage is wonderful, you’ve done a great job.” 

He smiles, but he doesn’t say anything.

“What kind of career?” she asks, hoping it’s not another piece of information that Claire shared while she thought about Frankie’s tongue and cock and curls and hands and what it’s like to come with a dick down her throat. 

“Army.” His eyes flash open for a second and his lips tighten into a forced smile, an eyebrow cocking while she looks at him in awe. 

“Oh.”

“Yeah, ‘till I got too fucked up and didn’t sleep more than an hour a night and got discharged. Nothing honorable about that, is there?” 

He says it so casually, an air of nonchalance to his words, as if it’s just a dry fact. Sometimes that’s how it feels too, that his life is just a dry fact sheet, a list of events. Got married, got deployed, got a kid, got divorced, got kicked out of the army somewhere between being handed a baby in a hospital and being served with papers. One failure after another, scrambling to stay afloat in more ways than one. 

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she whispers, at a loss for words again, faced with someone’s story far above her own maturity level Always sheltered, circled by her parents, guided along and then married off and walking side by side with someone else, until she wanted some independence and freedom, taking one step out into the world and realizing it’s so much larger than she thought. 

Her world is still small and Frankie’s isn’t, and that age difference keeps manifesting itself in new ways, each one more glaring than the last. 

“It’s alright,” he smiles, and she can tell he’s trying to reassure her, not that it helps. “But that’s sort of why I keep my life to myself, you know? I didn’t want you to see all that. I wanted you to—” He glances around again, looking for the right words. “I think I wanted you to be sort of reluctant, if that makes sense. I wanted you to want sex from me and then run back to your husband and never see me again so I wouldn’t have to get attached. I wanted to be a secret so that I had a reason not to show you who I am, but because of Claire, that’s— that’s not really possible. And I didn’t wanna develop any feelings either, I— I usually don’t.” 

Hailey stays silent, nodding as if she can even begin to understand what it’s like to even feel free enough to be someone’s secret, to want them not to want you so desperately and not care if they come back or not. 

And that last part. 

“So what’s your deal?” he asks before taking his last bite, scanning her face, still holding her hand. 

She shakes her head and the words get caught in her throat. 

“I don’t know,” she says, shrugging, “I’m just… A former sheltered kid. I’ve never gone anywhere without my parents, never done anything. Did everything by the book, got married, moved in with him. My parents want me to have kids and all that but it’s like I’ve been living in a cage somehow, like I’ve been restrained, and now I don’t know myself, I don’t know what I want, I don’t know who I am, really.” 

It’s Frankie’s turn to be quiet, to nod and lean towards her and take both of her hands in his grasp, both calloused thumbs brushing over her knuckles, and then her palms. 

“Thought I’d do something different to fill my time so I took up swimming, and that’s where you come in.” 

He smiles at that, and a reluctant smile tugs at her lips as well. 

“What did I do?” he asks with a sly little wink, smiling wide enough to show his teeth, for the crows feet to grow deeper beside his eyes. 

“You fucked me up,” Hailey says with a huff of a laugh. 

“Yeah? How so?”

She pushes out a long breath, eyes shifting around, trying to gather her thoughts like chasing butterflies with a net inside her mind, tripping over her feet. 

“When I’m with you, I feel like the only thing I’m doing wrong is the cheating itself, not every single other thing I do.”

His eyes look so lovely in this lighting, that spills over the dining room and kitchen in a golden glow while the rest of the house turns as dark as the streets outside of the window. He looks lovely too, and his hands are big and warm, rough and a little dry. 

She doesn't deserve him, she doesn’t deserve home cooked dinner and she doesn't deserve to be at his house. She doesn't deserve to see him sitting across from her, to have her hands in his. 

“I’ve always felt like everything I do is wrong somehow, like I’m constantly under scrutiny and I have to be so perfect and proper and, like, godly , you know? I have to be a perfect example for my nieces and nephews and I fucking hate it, I can’t lie. I feel like I’ve been putting on this act since I was a teenager, pretending to be… Whoever the hell it even is that my parents want me to be. And then I meet you, and I let you grab my ass in the pool and eat me out and say the dirtiest, nastiest shit I’ve ever heard in my life, ever . And I ditch my mother in law’s birthday to watch lesbian porn with you and I can taste the weed when we make out and I’ve never smoked anything and I— I feel so good . I feel so fucking good every time I’m with you, Frankie, and it makes me hate myself.”

He’s still smiling like he never stopped, reaching a hand up to her jaw, leaning over to kiss her. It feels like her bones gelatinize when his lips are on hers, when she tastes him and he pushes the tips of his fingers into her hair, the kind of slow kisses where their tongues meet and separate, glide past each other and every melding of their lips feels intentional. 

His forehead stays on hers as asks, eyes closed, his voice low,“Why do you hate yourself for that?” 

“Cause it’s a sin,” she whispers, “I’m going to hell. I’m lying to everyone around me except for you, I’m destroying my marriage—” 

He hums, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers, with his thumb brushing the side of her throat. 

“But the worst part is that it makes me realize how much I’ve lied to myself, and how ashamed I am of myself, of what I want and like, what I don’t care about and don’t believe in.” 

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. My parents talk about the afterlife a lot, they say oh, the afterlife, that’s what it’s all about . Meanwhile my right now-life just… I never felt like I even lived, I just existed.”

“I know that feeling.”

“It’s lonely,” she tells him, and he lets go of her with a soft kiss, then scoots his chair back and gestures for her to come around. 

Hailey pushes off her chair and rounds the corner, climbs onto his lap and threads her fingers through his still-damp hair while his hands find her hips. He’s wearing sweatpants, she can feel the firm bulk just beneath where she sits, and she’s sleepy all of a sudden, arms circling his neck, leaning into him and resting her forehead between his neck and shoulder, right where he’s thickest. 

“It is lonely,” he murmurs, sliding his hand up her back, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. 

“I don’t feel lonely with you, Frankie.” 

He breathes a laugh and strokes her spine, all the way up to her neck and back down, with his palm and then his knuckles. 

“I feel like I can be myself,” she tells him. 

“You can.”

Everything spills out in the comfort of Frankie’s embrace, in the smell of food and heat of the lamp, in his hands, his lap. “I don’t think I should be married anymore.” 

“Maybe not.”

She raises her head to look at him, his hand still moving between her nape and her tailbone, gently, soothing. 

“Why did you get divorced?” she asks him, and it feels incredibly invasive but her filter is torn to pieces.

“I didn’t function,” he says, matter of factly, “For a long time, I couldn’t function. I didn’t sleep, I couldn’t work. I obviously couldn’t be much of a husband when I was barely a present father, you know? What little I had, I gave to Sage.”

“But—”

He shakes his head and smiles, brushes damp locks of her hair over her shoulder and looks at her like the innocent, sheltered girl she is. Inexperienced, maybe even naive on a bad day. She wonders if he feels sorry for her. 

He wonders the same about her. 

“Nobody wants to stay married to a deadbeat guy, you understand that.”

“But that’s the point of marriage, isn’t it?” 

The shift into dad mode is so subtle he can’t even feel it, slipping into the role he knows best. The only one he does well, if he’s honest. 

“Sure it is,” he says, “But sometimes loving someone isn’t enough. Sometimes one person is drowning and it’s better for the other person to let go so they don’t drown too, you understand? And I bet you’d stick it out for a long time if your husband had a crisis, with work or with his health or whatever the case may be, but at some point you could find yourself bled dry and realizing it’s not a relationship anymore, just a feeling of obligation. And it’s not fair for either of you to stay.” 

She shakes her head and looks down at his t-shirt. It isn’t fair, indeed. 

“It’s okay to realize that it isn’t what you planned for it to be. Marriage. Or anything in life, really. It’s okay to put yourself first.” He tilts her face up to look at him. “Do you think I’m going to hell?” he asks. 

“No.” 

“No,” he repeats back, shaking his head slowly. 

She lets out a frustrated, tired huff as she sags into him again, exhaling onto his cheek, and then his neck. “Why can I be myself around you and not my husband or my parents? Or even my friends?”

Frankie wraps his arms around her and settles with his hands on her sides, his nose buried in her hair as he answers. “I don’t know, that’s a good question.”

“I have feelings for you, I know I shouldn’t,” she mumbled into his skin, and his arms tighten over her back. 

“I have feelings for you too,” he says, and his voice rumbles in his chest, rolling through her. “Maybe that’s why.”

Chapter Text

“So embarrassing,” Hailey whispers, lifting up from Frankie’s t-shirt and looking into his eyes. 

“Why’s that?” he asks, a gentle smile softening his words as his hand passes over her hair, curling his fingers in the ends of it, in the waves slowly forming as it dries. 

Her face flushes in shyness. “I feel like a little school girl with a crush on my much older teacher.” 

He breathes a little laugh and jostles her once, kissing her temple when she leans forward and slumps into him again. “How old are you, Hailey?” he asks. 

She exhales, then answers into his skin, “I turned twenty seven a few weeks before we met. I got married really late, I was the last one out of all of my friends to... I know I seem really young, I— I’m sorry. I’m a bit immature.”

“That’s okay,” he coos, holding his palm against the base of her skull. She looks like a baby, he thinks, with soft, smooth skin and freckles over her nose and her cheeks. And she didn’t look her age, he knew it from the first glance, but he hoped for thirty.

At least . 

Because he shudders a little bit at his own actions, his own touches over her body beneath the water, and he knows that he wouldn’t have crossed the line had she told him that she celebrated her twenty-seventh recently. 

She’s not like the others. She’s not like the women in their late thirties — somehow already deserted in the bedroom by their husbands, spotting Frankie at the pool and asking for his number, ending up in the beds they share with their man. It’s all on their terms, all following the move they make.

He doesn’t touch them first — their hands find his bulge under the water and he knows what’s bound to happen. 

I don’t think he has jack shit planned for my fortieth, one might say. 

Or, it all went downhill after the second kid. 

Forty five and he can’t get it up. 

He never made me come. 

Not like Hailey, who barely even counts as a wife in his eyes. And he still doesn’t know what made him break his own rule of not taking the first step, but something pushed him over and made his eyes zero in on her like a predator to its prey. And he feels like that sometimes, like she’s something for him to hunt. 

Frankie’s voice lowers to a whisper. “Where are you from?” 

Another long breath, another kiss to her temple. She’s tired, sleepy, exhausted in more ways than one. “I’m from a small town about an hour from here. All religious, conservative, two and a half kids, white picket fence kinda thing. Really sheltered.” 

The fan above the stove is still whirring, providing some white noise in the silence of Hailey on Frankie’s lap, her legs dangling in the air and his arm around her waist. 

“I have two sisters,” she says, rubbing her cheek into his shirt and picking at a stray thread sticking out from the collar. “Both are older than me. They both also have families of their own… Good jobs, husbands — they have their shit together. So everyone was sort of relieved that I was following in their footsteps. Like I finally got married, you know? It wasn’t just oh, we’re happy for you, it was, like… Thank God you finally found someone after all this time , and we started dating when I was twenty five. It wasn’t late… That’s just my family being ridiculous as always.”

Frankie doesn’t say anything, but he shakes his head slowly in affirmation. He holds her, breathes with her, pets her hair, and strokes her back. 

“I feel like all I’ve done is check things off a list. It’s like playing a board game, moving a piece further down the board, following everyone else and doing the exact same things they did,” she says.

“I understand.”

“John and I, we're supposed to, uh—” Hailey clears her throat. “God, I— I feel a bit sick talking about this for some reason, I’m sorry. That’s weird. Anyway, I’m supposed to go off my birth control next month. We’re supposed to— to… Um—”

 She can’t even say it. 

“Start trying ?”

“Yeah, that,” she sighs, shuddering.  

Frankie grimaces and hides it behind the top of her head leaning against his cheek. He closes his eyes and breathes, tries not to let it get to him, tries not to feel jealous. “Do you want to have children?” he asks, and he knows it is not that simple, but—

“I don’t know,” she says. She sucks in a breath like she’s been holding it, listening to the thump of Frankie’s heartbeat. “I read this study,” she murmurs then, “It said that when you become a mom, your brain matter changes. That all of your thoughts revolve around your baby. And I just really struggle with the idea of losing the little I have of myself to that, of just being mom , not being Hailey anymore, cause I barely know who Hailey even is.” 

“I get that. It’s really hard being a parent.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Yeah.” 

Frankie feels the wetness of Hailey’s eyes against his neck, listens to her sniffles and soothes her with his hand on her back, kisses to the top of her head, and touches over her arm, her neck, her hands. 

—

He wraps his arms around her and stands up, puts her on the couch and hands her the TV remote and a blanket. She doesn’t know what time it is anymore.

She stays there while he divides the lasagna into containers, collects the dishes, and takes out the trash. The scattered toys over the living room rug are collected into the bins below the TV, a little pink hoodie and a pair of shimmery fairy wings are placed back in Sage’s room. 

Hailey listens to the show she put on, some sort of crime show with yellow tape and blue lights that she hasn’t seen before and doesn’t care too much about while she watches Frankie cleaning up after the two of them and Sage. There’s a calendar on the wall, where more days have an S in pink marker in the corner than not. He has three days off now, it seems, before she’s back, even though she was just here. 

He sighs while he does the dishes, opening small lunch boxes with butterfly designs on them and purple water bottles, stacking them in the dishwasher along with their plates and glasses. Half of the clear Tupperware containers with leftovers are regular sized and half are smaller; all but two big ones go into the freezer. 

“Lunch for you tomorrow,” he says, nodding towards one of them, “In case you wanna stay over.”

—

They both have work in the morning and it’s late when they get into bed, but when Hailey steps into the bedroom in one of Frankie’s t-shirts, and he hasn’t yet turned off the light on his nightstand, he lifts the edge of the duvet and waves towards himself. 

When she’s a foot away, he reaches out to hold her hips, to steer her over him and onto his lap where he leans against the headboard. She’s been quiet since dinner, seeking him out for comfort while they watched more of the late night TV she randomly chose. He stroked her hair, kissed her forehead, pulled her into his lap and let her stay with her exhaustion while he brushed his thumb over her cheek and looked down at her. 

“This is your life,” he whispers, as he gathers her hair in his hand, pushes it over her shoulder and she settles on top of him, “You decide what you want to do. And if you decide to leave your marriage, that’s your choice. If you don’t want me in your life, that’s also your choice, and no matter what you choose, it’s okay.” 

“But—”

“No, Hailey. Promise me you’ll only keep me around if you truly want me there, okay? Cause I don’t want to trap you. The last thing I want is for you to be with me and be miserable.” 

She nods, but she averts her eyes, and he cups her cheeks with his palms. 

“Look at me,” he says, “Do you promise?”

She looks between his eyes, and her shoulders drop with latent tiredness, more exhaustion from earlier, from however long she has lived like this. 

“I want to be with you, Frankie,” she says quietly. 

He takes a deep breath, looks down at his t-shirt draping over her, with his hands still holding her, then nods, subtly, while he swallows. 

“I know, sweetheart,” he says, “But that’s a lot easier said than done, you know that.”

Hailey pouts, letting her head fall back on her neck, and Frankie’s hands glide down her shoulders, her arms, and land on her thighs, splayed out over his hips. 

It’s quiet until she looks at him again.

“Why does it have to be so difficult?” she asks.

He cracks a little smile and shakes his head. “That’s just how it is in life. We have to take responsibility for our actions, we can’t just hide. You and I can’t either, and at some point, John is gonna start getting suspicious.” 

“You think?”

“I know. So you need to make some decisions.” 

Hailey sighs again, and it feels like a ten word conversation that lasts an hour. The numbers tick by in glowing green on the alarm clock, and Hailey rests her forearms on Frankie’s shoulders, looking into his eyes. 

“Are you mad at me?” she asks him.

“Why on earth would I be mad at you?” he asks her in return, breathing a laugh and pushing a lock of her hair behind her ear. 

“Cause I’m being such a baby about everything.”

“You are a baby,” he says, then pulls her into him and whispers, “But that’s okay.” 

She smiles for the first time in hours. “Am I your baby?”

“Yes,” he nods, “You are my baby.” 

He slips his hand around the back of her neck and tilts her face up with his thumb, looking into her eyes for a moment before he presses a kiss to her lips. 

“Are you mad at me ?” he asks, and she shakes her head. 

“No?”

“No,” she assures.  

She kisses him then, pushes the tips of her fingers into the curls at his nape, the ones that always stick out from under his hat. They’re just so cute . 

“I’m not wearing any panties,” she whispers into him, and he lets out something between a sigh and laugh. 

“Why is that?” 

Shyness heats her cheeks and forces her eyes away from his searching gaze, only for him to tilt her chin up again, and to repeat his question, “Why aren’t you wearing your panties, little girl? Did you lose them?”

She shakes her head and a sneaky little smile plays on her lips, much to Frankie’s relief. 

“Where did they go then?”

“They’re on the bathroom floor,” Hailey whispers. 

“And why did you leave ‘em there?” 

She curls her fingers under the waistband of his boxers and begins to gently lift them, away from his hips and up to reveal his erection. “No reason.”

He curves one arm around her waist and reaches down with his other hand to push the fabric down his thighs and spread his legs. “I don’t believe you,” he says, as she hovers over him and he holds up his cock, distracting her with kisses while she begins to sink down on him, and it’s tighter this time, he can feel the tension in her legs and in her core. 

“Breathe,” he says softly, and she tries to suck in a long breath but it doesn’t do much to ease her. 

So he shifts gears, away from the soothing, the petting, the gentle touches. 

“Hey, look at me,” he commands, and her eyes snap up to his. He lands a swat to the side of her asscheeks, clicks his teeth, “Didn’t say half was enough, sweetheart,” and she squeals when he pulls her down all the way, bumping her cervix and feeling a jolt zip through her body. “That’s right,” he says, “You take the whole thing and you don’t whine about it.” 

Hailey nods, brushing her fingertips over her lower tummy, pressing into her skin while she rolls her hips slowly, and Frankie can feel her letting go, the tension easing, her body loosening as she submits. His hands grip the flesh on her hips to rock her, up and down and back and forth, grinding his cock into her while she bats her lashes and sputters and tries to make out a coherent sentence. 

“Shh, just shut up, shut up,” he whispers, letting go of one hand to wrap it around her hair and give it a little tug. She bites her lip and her whimpers are caught in her chest. “That’s better,” he grunts, “Just be quiet and take it, little angel.”

But she can’t hold her moans back for very long, and he flips them over, knocks her legs apart, buries her face in his chest and fucks her open, pushing her into one orgasm and then another, unraveling her the way only he knows how. 

He moves her arms and legs around as he pleases, knowing that she’s too innocent, too inexperienced — still — to decide for herself, or know what she should do, what will get him deeper and let him access the place she wasn’t familiar with until he came along. And with every cross of her wrists over each other, every time he pushes her knees into her chest, she learns how to take his cock the way he wants her to, just like he promised. 

—

“Wanna help me clean up?” Claire asks with a tap on Hailey’s shoulder. 

Everyone’s bibles are shut and pushed to the side, replaced with now-empty dinner plates, and everyone has turned to chat with the person beside them, in two’s and three’s and four’s. 

“Sure,” she says, excusing herself and heading to the kitchen with a stack of plates in her hands. 

There’s a silence between them while the tap runs and the dishes are stacked in the dishwasher, with Claire on one side and Hailey on the other, unsure of what to say. 

“Is everything alright?” Claire asks. 

Hailey nods but she chokes on her inhale. “Yeah,” she says, nodding as if to reassure herself, “Yeah. I’m fine.” 

“Alright,” her friend sighs, and the ever-accumulating guilt in the back of Hailey’s mind eats at her, claws at her, bites her in the back of the neck. It’s wrong to lie, but is it really any better to tell an awful truth?

“Well—” she says, “I guess I’m not… Not that great.” 

“Oh?” 

“I haven’t been super happy in my marriage lately,” Hailey confesses, “Things have just been a bit… Not good.” 

The tap keeps running and the chatter between the bible study girls still buzzes in the other room like the cicadas outside, like a constant white noise to soothe the excruciating silence in the kitchen. 

“Why’s that?” Claire asks, and her voice changes. It softens, ridding itself of its former sarcastic edge. 

“I don’t know, I just— sometimes I feel like I’m living a lie, almost, or—” 

Claire’s brows pull together and Hailey looks out of the window while she sighs. She wipes her forehead with her shoulder and sets her hands down on the counter, foamy rubber gloved fingers fidgeting over each other while she looks down and collects her words. 

“I feel like I need to tell you that, um—” She swallows. “I’ve been seeing someone.” 

“ Seeing someone?” Claire questions, “But you’re—”

“Married. I know.” 

“Well, who is it?”

“That’s the— that’s the difficult thing, here,” Hailey stalls, avoiding eye contact and focusing on the suds sliding off the yellow of her gloves, onto the metal next to the sink, and the sun setting outside the house, golden light filtering in and reflecting off the metal. 

She woke up in Frankie’s bed Monday morning and she unlocked the door to her house with dried tears on her cheeks and lasagna for lunch at work. They haven’t spoken since, but the lessons have moved to his house now, a promise that they’ll be together again on Sunday. 

“It’s Frankie. And I’m sorry, that has to be insanely weird for you, but… Just don’t tell John, please, I’m trying to figure it all out, it’s just a lot.”

“Alright,” she says, then takes a breath, slipping the last few utensils into the basket. “I mean, I— you already know it’s messed up to cheat, I don’t have to tell you that.”

“I know.”

“But also… I get it.” 

“You do?” Hailey whispers, just now noticing her heart pounding. 

“John is great, it’s not that,” Claire says, and Hailey nods profusely. One sticky truth is enough for today. “But he’s kinda… Bland, you know? He’s like Andy.”

Claire looks into the living room, at Vanessa sitting at the corner of the table and chatting with two girls. 

“I don’t think they’ve had sex in six months and they got married last year. And why would she? He’s like a human Xanax.” 

Hailey snorts a laugh and tries to tamper down her reaction, feeling the adrenaline jitter in her muscles. “Yeah, it’s been a bit lackluster in that department, you could say.”

There’s another silence and then the beep of the dishwasher starting. Claire leans against the counter as she takes her gloves off, looking directly at Hailey. “He’s been through a lot — Frankie — and he deserves to be more than someone’s secret.”

How ironic. 

“I don’t know all that much about him, to be honest,” Hailey says, and it’s sort of true, sort of not.

“Just don’t, like, take advantage of him, you know? He hasn’t dated anyone since his ex-wife and I think he’s really struggled to trust someone enough to let them in.” 

“Absolutely, that’s— yeah, that— that makes sense.”

More silence. Claire opens the cupboard and slides out a stack of dessert plates. 

“Have you ever—” Hailey hesitates, “Have you ever thought about, um, you know, going out— outside your, uh— You’re being like, suspiciously cool about this, so—”

“Who hasn’t?” she asks, shrugging while she hands Hailey the plates. “I mean, you lied about being a virgin when you met John, right? We all have secrets. What they don’t know won’t hurt them.” 

Hailey’s eyebrows raise as she nods, “Yeah, definitely,” and she swallows her embarrassment as she walks out to the dining room. 

—

Hailey arrives home unsure of whether she feels lighter after her confession or if it makes everything weigh on her more heavily than before. 

She drops her bag on the kitchen counter and goes upstairs, tosses her phone on the bed beside her, lays down, and falls asleep. 

—

“John?” 

She stirs awake an undetermined amount of time later, and blinks her eyes open to see her husband sitting in the chair in the corner of the room with a phone in his hand. It’s a little hazy, the edges of her vision blurred with sleep. 

It takes a second for her to realize that it’s her phone that he’s holding. 

“ I’ll send in a sec, ” he says, with a disbelieving tone to his voice, a crystal clear pronunciation of every word she knows is lazily spelled in the texts he has uncovered.

Fuck. She wants to blame Claire but it was clearly a case of et tu, Brute? in that kitchen. 

Frankie was right about John. 

“ Door’s open but no panties allowed in the house so please be mindful of the rules. They are very strict. ”

He keeps reading them, his thumb moving as new texts pop up on the screen, and he reads them aloud, one after the other. 

Hailey’s eyes shut slowly while her stomach sinks and nausea curdles in the very pit of it. She can’t launch forward and grab the phone, she can’t storm out. She’s completely, entirely, backed into a corner by her own indiscretions, by her own insistence on having each other’s passcodes out of fear that her husband will do exactly what she has done. 

“ How many Hail Mary’s to make up for last night? ” he recites dryly, “ I’m going to my M.I.L’s birthday party. I think your house is the last place I should be today. ”

He nods and moves further down through the conversation while Hailey swallows stomach acid and holds her palm up to her forehead. She begins to sweat, her heart races. 

“Are you home? Yeah. Just waiting for you,” he reads out, then narrows his eyes. “This one’s different — Hey. Not feeling well today so I won’t make it to the lesson. I know it’s less than 24 hrs notice so I transferred the money already.” John looks up at her and cocks his head to the side. “You haven't been sick. What happened?”

“I don’t—” she stutters, shakes her head, “I— I— it’s not—”

“When were you planning to tell me about this?” he asks, tossing her phone onto the bed and leaning back. 

“John—”

“Did you have sex with him?”

“With Frankie?”

John raises his eyebrows and Hailey sighs, pushing out a breath. He’s not dumb. 

“Answer me,” he says, “Did you have sex with Claire’s brother?” 

“N—no,” she lies. 

“No?”

A silence stretches between them and she can hear his breaths. He’s nervous too, but he looks straight at her, unflinching, unyielding, his eyes set on her and no mind paid to anything around him. And he’s angry. He has all of the reasons in the world to be angry. 

It’s just strange to see him like this, she thinks. 

“What were you doing at his house then? I assume that’s why you left mom’s party?”

Hailey swallows and rubs her temples while she sits up against the headboard of the bed. 

“Are your panties somewhere in his house?” 

Every word he says is just—

“When you said it would ‘ take a thousand Hail Mary’s to make up for last night’ ,” he says, doing air quotes with his fingers, “What’s that about if you didn’t have sex? I mean, you’re obviously cheating on me, so… Might as well just spit it out.”

She shakes her head as the words freeze in her throat, forming a lump she swallows over, trying to keep everything down. 

“I assume these swimming lessons are just a—” John takes a breath like he’s building the courage to say what’s next, “Just a— a God darn freakin’ cover.” 

He doesn’t take the Lord’s name in vain. Ever. He does not say anything resembling a swear word lightly. He arrests her on every little oh shit that slips from her when she stubs her toe. 

Compared to Frankie’s vulgarity, it’s almost laughable, and how many times she has moaned, oh God, oh fuck , with no second thought.

“They weren’t, I promise.”

“Maybe I should just call him,” John says, and reaches forward to grab her phone, but she launches towards it and snatches it before he gets the chance to, incriminating her more than the texts already have. 

“John, I don’t think—”

“Just answer me,” he presses on. “Just say yes or no. Did you have sex with Frankie?”

She takes a breath and looks down, hanging her head in shame while she gathers her hair in the hand not holding her phone. “Yes,” she says on an exhale, nodding, closing her eyes.

“How many times?”

She squeezes her eyes further shut while she responds, “I don’t really think that’s helpful to—”

“How many?” 

How many total or how many nights? How many rounds? How many times has Frankie come inside of her? She doesn’t even know what counts. 

“Only a— a few. A few times.”

John huffs a laugh. “Was he here last weekend? Have you had sex in our bed?”

“No.”

“No to what?”

“No to both.”

“Were you at his house?”

Hailey’s lashes flutter as she opens her eyes, but she can’t look at her husband. All she can look at is the diamond on her finger. “Yes,” she says. 

She hears a sniffle and it feels like a knife to the gut. She can’t look at him. She cannot look at the tears she can hear have welled up in his eyes, that might already be dripping down his cheeks. 

“I thought you loved me,” he says. 

“I do, I—” 

“You wouldn’t cheat on me if you did, Hailey.” Another sniffle and then he clears his throat. 

“No—”

“I don’t— I don’t think I can look at you anymore,” he says, and that is when she looks up at him, to see the red blotches on his cheeks and the tears already streaming. 

“John, I… I’m not—” Something churns inside of her, something that isn’t guilt. It’s… 

Anger?

“I’ve felt a little bit neglected by you,” she says carefully, “Especially sexually, and I know I should’ve tal—”

“So you cheat instead of talking to me about it?” he interrupts, “You go and sleep with every man out there? Is he the only one?”

He goes from broken to hysterical in a matter of seconds, sniffling through the tears with a face painted with contempt. 

“He’s the only one.”

“Do you have feelings for him?” 

Would it be better or worse if she didn't?

“I don’t,” she lies. “It was just… I just flirted with him a bit and—”

“Did he take advantage of you?” he asks then, and it looks like time is up for acting innocent.

“No,” she says firmly, wiping her palms on the sheets beside her. “I wanted it.” 

A silence stretches between them for a moment, and then two, and then three. 

Thirty seconds go by in stillness before he says, “Get out.” 

—

She gets an hour. 

John’s car screeches as it leaves the driveway and she remains in the silence. Two open suitcases next to her, three duffel bags, and two boxes. 

All of her belongings are thrown in, haphazardly, kitchen appliances and electronics thrown in the same box with wedding gifts addressed directly to her, cards from folders in the office and little things brought with her from her childhood bedroom. The teddy bear from her closet, her things in the bathroom, clothes and shoes and anything with an H on it, all thrown into the duffel bags while her phone rings. 

And her mother’s voice is on the other end, shrill as ever. “What am I hearing?” 

Fuck. 

Fuck .

“Mom, please just—”

Revenge, Hailey assumes it is. Petty revenge, at that, the only thing he can do in response to being emasculated. 

Slut , she could see him bite back the entire time he sat before her in the bedroom no more than thirty minutes ago. 

“Hailey Leanne Smith, you are a disgrace to our family, an absolute disgrace.” 

Hailey Leanne Banks will be her name again, soon enough, she assumes. She slumps against the heavy cardboard box and gasps around her need to cry, the weight on her chest that hits like a ton of bricks. She’s ten years old again, caught talking to a male classmate. She’s thirteen and her shirt is too low cut. She’s sixteen, her request for birth control pills is met with her bedroom door slammed shut, and she’s home from school the next two days, bleeding through her sheets. 

“What do you mean?” she squeaks. 

“I mean, why is John calling me and telling me you’ve cheated on him? And with a middle aged man? What is wrong with you?” The woman is sputtering, unable to keep up with her own words. “Th— that is not how we raised you, Douglas and I."

It’s difficult to hold back years of resentment over things only brought up in therapy. Things internalized and deconstructed, a self image made up of nothing but shame and scrutiny, picked apart by one’s mother like a shattered mirror. But for a reason that Hailey cannot understand herself, it is only now that she can find it in herself to not lay down and take it. 

“I did,” she says, staring at the grain of the floorboards until they become blurry. “I cheated on him ‘cause I wasn’t happy. And he kicked me out.”

“Well, sweetie, there’s no place for you to stay here, so I don’t even want to see you at our door unless it's with your husband,” Anne spits. “I raised you better than this. In fact, I think it’s those TV shows you’ve been watching, all corrupting your brain. Jesus, Mary and Joseph… John is a wonderful husband and you’re wasting it. It’s a miracle you even found someone at your age, Hailey, you should be grateful he gave you a chance, especially—”

Her mother goes on.

And on, and on , berating her like an unruly teenager deemed deserving of a verbal ass kicking. Marriage values this, a wife’s role in the home that, something about Hailey’s body, about her sister’s body, her children, her husband, the family, the cabin, blame for a lack of unity in the core family thrown at her until Hailey takes the phone from her ear, looks at her mother’s name, and clicks the red button to hang up. 

Anne’s name flashes on the screen repeatedly while she moves to her closet, clenching her jaw and swallowing her tears, pulling on a hoodie and tying up her hair before taking out the stacks of shirts and putting them in the suitcase. 

Hailey blinks through the tears that gather in her waterline, emptying her drawers and hangers, taking everything pink, everything purple, everything bought with her card. Not a second is spent thinking. The bags and suitcases are zipped up, boxes taped shut, and everything is shoved into the black Jeep in the driveway. 

Leave the house key, John said before he turned in the door, and the silver key hits the dresser before she leaves, shining against the gleam of her wedding rings also left behind. 

The tears don’t come until the car door is shut behind her and her forehead hits the top of the steering wheel, when she doesn’t know where to go, when she can feel the information spreading through her community, her social circle, her church, new and old bible study groups. There’s no point in calling any of them — there’s no space for Hailey in their guest rooms, all of them living in houses with husbands and children. 

She thinks, for a moment, about Claire, but—

Just don’t, like, take advantage of him, you know? 

So she drives to a hotel and stays the night, calls into work the next morning and fakes a cough. Nobody is waiting for her, one accountant or another. Nobody seems to know the difference between her and her coworkers anyway. 

—

Her friends’ phone numbers are suddenly not in use. Texts bounce back. This number is no longer in service , undelivered, undeliverable. 

The person you are trying to reach is—

Her mother sends text messages until Hailey blocks her number. 

Her older sisters vanish, addressed in the myriad of texts as part of the choir that sings Hailey’s failures. 

She sits on the bed of a dim hotel room, looking out through the gap in the curtains to see a half-empty parking lot. There’s dust floating in the air, and silence in every corner, every crevice. The carpet on the floor is a drab red, some sort of square pattern in yellow covering it all the way out to the double-locked door. 

Her phone dings with a text and she braces herself before she opens it.

It’s from Frankie.

U alright? haven’t heard from u 

There’s no point in lying.

John saw our texts. I got kicked out. 

Frankie’s name flashes on her phone with an incoming call, and her car is in his driveway twenty minutes later. 

—

He’s standing on the front steps with Sage, and she waves at Hailey when she pulls in, breathing a sigh of relief and gratitude, on the heels of cold sweat. When she steps out of the car, Frankie is crouching down to speak to his daughter, and Hailey listens as she walks towards the open door. 

“You remember Hailey from aunt Claire’s house, right?” he asks, and Sage nods. “She’s gonna stay with us for a little while, is that okay?” 

The girl nods and turns towards Hailey, stretching out her arms for a hug and tapping her fingers together. 

They spend the afternoon building Legos in the living room while Frankie grills outside. The air smells like smokey, sweet barbecue ribs and there’s music playing from the speakers below the TV, some Spice Girls playlist set to shuffle while Sage stands up on her knees to fasten the window panel on the roof of a rescue center for dogs. 

“Do you wanna put on the flowers?” she asks, holding up a handful of pink little plastic pieces.

“Give me half,” Hailey says with a smile, “We’ll both put them on.”

Sage nods and shuffles over, dressed in an Arthur t-shirt and pink pants, with a pink ribbon at the end of her braid. 

Her mom taught me how to do her hair, Frankie had said . And now I’m better than her at doing it, so —

“What’s your favorite animal?” Sage asks, before she furrows her brows and sticks her hand into the bowl of little Legos in front of her, searching for some specific piece. 

“Maybe raccoons?” Hailey responds, sticking one of the flowers onto a plastic tree. 

Sage giggles. “They’re weird. Sometimes we get them in the yard,” she says, “Daddy tells me not to pet them but I want to pet them, they look so soft.” 

“They do look soft, but they can be pretty aggressive, I think.” 

“Yeah, that’s what he said…” Sage sighs and starts assembling a lamp when Frankie steps into the house with a steaming tray. 

“Girls,” he says, nodding towards the dining room, “Go set the table.” 

—

The night ends early, and although Hailey is wide awake, the lights in the house are off at eight and Frankie is in Sage’s room reading to her while Hailey searches through her bags for her toiletries and an outfit for tomorrow, rummaging in bags frantically packed and overfilled suitcases. There’s a siren somewhere in the distance and a dog barking on the other side of the street, cicadas chirping by the pool that glows in the dark of the evening. 

He comes back, yawning, carefully closing the door behind him and setting his phone on the charger by the nightstand. Part of him wants to ask what happened, but he doesn’t think that information is meant for him. 

“You feel okay?” he asks instead, after watching her all night and seeing how her smiles didn’t reach her eyes unless Sage was looking at her. 

“Yeah, all things considered. Just a bit lost, I guess.”

“We can talk about it tomorrow,” he says, pulling off his shirt and tossing it to the recliner in the corner of the room, followed by his shorts. He gets under the sheets and drags his hand over his face, his tired sigh the only thing she hears in the quiet.  

“I might stay up for a bit, if that’s okay,” Hailey says. 

Frankie nods, “All good. Her door is closed, so feel free to watch TV or whatever.” 

She steps over to the bed and sits down, gets pulled into a hug and a kiss to the top of her head. 

He knows. There’s no need to explain why tears cling to her lashes. There’s no point in speculating, tracing steps, trying to figure out why her phone ended up in John’s hands. 

Frankie is asleep before she makes it out of his bedroom with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders. 

Images slide by on the TV but she’s not really watching. Hailey sits with her arms wrapped around her knees and she looks out of the window, at the glow of the street lights. The volume from the speakers is low, just a murmur, not enough to distract her from the slithering guilt and what closely resembles regret but just… Isn’t . 

There are no missed calls on her phone, and no texts either. 

Maybe it needed to happen. And maybe she’s naive but maybe she was meant to end up right here, in Frankie’s house. Maybe it was God’s will, she thinks, but when she looks up out of the window, she doesn’t feel his presence at all. She doesn’t hear him the way she used to, and it’s impossible not to think that perhaps she has pushed him away. 

That it really was unforgivable this time. That her mother has been right all along — maybe Hailey is just too corrupted, too weak in her spirit. She was never on fire, and Anne said as much to her every time she came home from camp in August and her faith remained unchanged. 

She watched her friends spinning in the rain with their palms facing up towards the sky, rejoining in the presence of their shared Father way up there in the sky. 

And Hailey felt nothing. 

—

The water pressure in the shower sucks. It sputters and the flow is inconsistent. Hailey spends twice as much time rinsing out her shampoo as usual, and Frankie knocks on the door, carefully asking when she’s done. 

It’s too late to have breakfast when she comes out, but there’s a Tupperware container under her keys, and he nods for her to take it when they all leave the house. 

Frankie waves to Hailey as he leaves with Sage, only glancing at her for a second, and she knows that she cannot expect him to embrace her fully in front of his daughter, but— 

She shakes it off and gets in her car. 

—

She can tell that he’s tired. He smiles whenever Sage looks at him, but when her eyes are back on her Lego set, his face falls. His breaths are slow, sighs barely hidden when he looks at the time and there’s another hour until her bedtime. 

It’s the same routine every day, the same focus on Sage from the minute he gets home from picking her up. The only time he has to himself is when he showers after work, and he comes out of the bathroom with water dripping from his hair as he starts making dinner for the three of them. 

Hailey feels like part of the wallpaper some days. 

He said he’d fix the shower pressure five days ago and it hasn’t happened. He said they’d talk about the day she got kicked out and that hasn’t happened either, though a week has gone by since she shut the door to her house behind her, and she hasn’t heard from John since — the man who is still very much her husband on paper and in the eyes of the law. She wonders why he hasn’t sent divorce papers. 

Frankie hasn’t asked either. 

They go to bed together every night, she puts her hand on his chest and he’s already falling asleep when she turns off the light. She kisses at his neck, lets her hand slide down over his stomach, but he takes it and interlaces his fingers with hers. 

“I’m too tired, I’m sorry,” he says, and she knows it’s not meant as a rejection but it doesn’t feel like anything other than exactly that. 

Especially when it happens again.

And again.

And she’s been there for two weeks now, and Sage was supposed to be dropped off at her mother’s house four days ago, and every afternoon has been spent building Legos and going to the park and watching movies. Every evening has been spent listening to Frankie read to her, and then hearing his snores when Hailey gets in bed. 

She grabs the blanket from the foot of the bed, wraps it around herself, and tiptoes out to the living room, to look out onto the glowing windows of the houses around the neighborhood, the trees lining the streets, their leaves gently swaying in the wind, and the dark sky, too polluted to see the stars. 

And she cries, silently, until she falls asleep. Frankie finds her there the next morning, but he doesn’t have time to ask. 

—

When Sunday rolls around, Sage gives Hailey a hug, puts on her backpack and jumps out of the door. Frankie follows behind her — “I’ll be back in thirty-ish,” he says, and leaves to drop her off at her mother’s. 

His car leaves the driveway and the house is empty, save for the neighbor’s cat sneaking in through the gap in the screen door. There’s honking somewhere in the distance, a low siren only heard for a few moments while Hailey tries to read. He must not hear them anymore, she thinks, when she wakes up in the middle of the night to the glaring sound of an ambulance, and Frankie is still asleep. Sage doesn’t seem to notice them either — they speak to each other as if there’s no noise interrupting them. Hailey understands it half the time, it’s only in English if it’s relevant to her. 

A few chapters later, he comes back in and shoos the cat off the couch, reaches into the side table and pulls out a half-finished joint and a lighter as he sits down. 

He flicks the lighter and takes a drag, the deepest breath he has taken all week it seems, and blows the smoke up towards the ceiling while he drags his hand through his hair. 

“Everything okay?” Hailey asks. 

“Yeah,” he says, picking at the filter with his thumbnail. 

“Are you sure?”

“Don’t worry about it, alright?”

“Okay.”

He sighs every time he exhales, and he flicks his ashes into the coffee cup sitting on the low table in front of them. His eyes are fixated on something outside the window. Either that, or he’s spacing out, glaring at something in the driveway or in his neighbor’s front lawn. 

After a while, Hailey makes an attempt. 

“Hey, I was looking at the calendar and, since Sage is gonna be at her mom’s next weekend, I was thinking we could—”

“Nah,” he interrupts, still looking out. “She’ll be here.” 

“Oh. Well, the cal—”

“I know.” 

“We could bring her?”

Only then does he turn to Hailey. “Whatever it is,” he says, picking the joint from between his lips and tapping it on the side of the mug, “I probably can’t afford it right now.” 

“Okay,” she says, but her stomach hurts. She withdraws her feet from where they were halfway tucked under his thighs, and his eyes are on the black screen of the TV, while she shifts back to the corner of the couch and her eyes slide over the words on the page without absorbing any of them. 

—

She’s not sure if he means it as an apology, but the makeup comes in the form of her thighs spread open and the head of his cock sliding over her entrance, her tongue in his mouth. 

“There’s just a lot of shit going on right now,” he mutters, while his lips trail down the side of her neck and over her chest while he slowly pushes into her. She gasps when she slides in all of the way, in one stroke, and he shudders a little too. 

“It’s okay,” she says, trying not to moan. 

He shakes his head. “It’s not, I’m neglecting you,” he murmurs, but he loses his train of thought and licks at her nipple, sucks it into his mouth and slides his hand under her lower back to tilt her hips up. He gets just a little too deep, bordering on the uncomfortable, but his thrusts are quick and desperate and his cock feels so good, it feels big and hard and it reaches every little spot that John never touched. 

Hailey thinks about him while Frankie is on top of her, while he grabs the backs of her knees and throws them over the inside of his elbows. She thinks about the wedding night, about the blood on the sheet and the victory in his eyes. About the jerky movement of John’s hips, while Frankie’s move so smoothly. Forward, up, back down. Forward, up, back down.  

With her husband, it was all in and then out . It went in, it slid back out. The only lubrication between them was already on the condom when he put it on. 

But now she drips onto Frankie’s sheets while the head of his cock rubs at her g-spot on every stroke, and her hand moves to her center, the tips of her fingers finding her clit so she can rub at it for as long as she needs. And Frankie moves just the same — he pushes his cock into her and withdraws only half way, he looks at her body and he doesn’t look at the time. 

“Good girl,” he whispers, but she can barely hear it over herself when she comes. 

“You’re so fucking wet, baby,” slips from his mouth, breathy and low, looking down at the glossy surface of his shaft when he pulls out from her. It twitches while he lets go of her legs, just to pick them back up and turn her onto her knees, to grab her wrists in one hand and wrap the other around himself. To stroke and glide his hand over his soaking wet cockhead and watch the precome spill out of him, only to rub it over her asshole before he moves down and slides into her pussy. 

He rubs his own sticky wet arousal into that tight furl and sinks the tip of his thumb into it, slowly pushing it further in while she plays with her clit again, and he can feel her asshole pulsating at her second orgasm. 

“Look at this little virgin asshole,” he grunts, and a little whimper escapes her when he fits more of his finger into her. “I’m gonna fuck this too, angel, and I’m gonna come in here tonight.” 

She nods. 

He curses between breaths and his cock swells at the thought of it, so hard that his pulse beats against the inside of her pussy while he fucks her. And he begins to groan at every slide in, until his orgasm sits too close the surface and he pulls out his cock and his finger at the same time, pushes his hand down on her lower back, positions the tip of his cock against her asshole and thrusts in until just his head is lodged inside.

She tightens around him, her moans are high-pitched and whiney and panting, and he lets his climax wash over him while he squeezes her hips, releasing inside of her ass while the rest of his cock drips with her arousal and slides down into the hair around his root. 

“Half a virgin,” he says, clicking his teeth, and swats the side of her asscheek with a slap that makes her flesh recoil before he follows it with a tight grab, still barely two inches inside of her when he bends forward to bite her shoulder. 

—

“Frankie,” she calls out from his bedroom, “Do you have hand cream or lip balm?”

“I should,” he calls back, mumbling with his toothbrush in his mouth, “Check the drawers in the nightstand.” 

Hailey pulls open the drawer and rummages around through cables, earplugs, a bottle of melatonin, orange pill bottles from the pharmacy with Francisco Morales on the labels, baby Aspirin, Tylenol, an old pacifier, a Barbie, a fresh diaper that must also be years old, and a small pack of tissues. There’s no way he declutters here often. 

Nothing in the top drawer, so she moves onto the bottom. She pushes her hand past a few empty pill bottles, a black box with gold letters that spell Magnum , more earplugs, tissues, phone chargers, an even older flip phone…

She finally finds a hand cream at the back, and when she pulls it out, she spots a small, black thing behind it that she knows at first glance is a vibrator. 

And her stomach sinks for some strange reason, while she listens to him spit out his toothpaste and turn off the tap, then his footsteps back into the bedroom. 

“Did you find it?” he asks, nodding for her to scoot further into the bed, toward the wall and away from the door he just walked through. 

“Um, yeah,” she says, staying still, and his brows scrunch as he looks between her and the nightstand. 

“And?”

Her voice lowers to a whisper and her stomach hurts when she asks, “Is that— is that a vibrator?”

“Yeah,” he says, entirely casual. 

“Is it yours ?” she asks him. 

He nods, “Yeah.”

“Oh.”

She wishes she could put words to the icky feeling inside of her, that clawing thought of how many other women have been in this bed. She knows why he has it, she’s not stupid. 

But she’s young, and she’s inexperienced. She’s a girl with two men under her belt, looking at a man who must have plenty of women. She wants to ask, she doesn’t want to hear his answer. 

The words come out anyway.

“What do you— or— nevermind.”

Frankie sits down at the edge of the bed and looks towards the curved piece of silicone. “What do I what?” 

The lamp in the ceiling is dim, glowing warm and not bright enough to show the blush over her cheeks. She swallows before she answers, shaking her head. “No, I was just wondering why you have it but that’s a stupid question. It’s obviously for… Women.”

“Yes?” He smiles a little but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You wanna try it, or?”

“No,” she waves, shutting the drawer and scooting back, clutching the hand cream. “Forget it, it’s not my business what you do with other women.”

“I don’t do anything with other women,” he says in a low voice. His smile is gone and his brows are furrowed again, but he doesn’t sound angry. “What’s going on? You’re all jittery.” 

“Nothing.”

He looks between her eyes then. “I don’t believe you.” 

She looks away. 

“What is it?” he asks again, glancing toward the nightstand. “I clean my toys properly, is that what you’re worried about? It’s not for anyone in particular, it’s just for—”

Toys . Plural. 

“I get it,” she interrupts. 

“Okay, so what’s the issue here? Why do I feel like we’re getting into an argument?”

“We’re not,” she says, less patiently than intended. 

The silence is only broken by the sound of the cap clicking back onto the end of the tube, and Hailey setting the cream on the windowsill. Frankie takes a breath before he speaks again.

“Okay,” he whispers, then gets in bed and turns off the light. “Come here.” 

She tucks herself into him but her eyes stay open, staring at the wall. 

“Frankie?”

“Yes?”

She hesitates for a moment, but the question slips out, immediately met with stomach-curdling regret. “How many women have you slept with?”

He takes a breath and blows it out. “I don’t think you want me to answer that.” 

Hailey shakes her head, and she knows she shouldn’t be angry, but—

“Have you lost count?”

He sighs and she can feel his lashes flutter against the nape of her neck. “ Hailey .”

“What?” There’s a bite to her response, and she hates herself for it. 

Frankie lifts up on his elbow and reaches back to turn the light on, then shifts Hailey around to face him. The light makes his curls all radiant looking, resembling a halo like that time at the pool, when he was so overwhelming. And he still is, but it’s different now. 

“Can you please tell me what’s going on with you?” he asks calmly. She’s quiet, averting her eyes, and he follows up, “Do you think I’m seeing anyone else?”

She shrugs. 

“Well, I’m not.”

“Why wouldn’t you?” Hailey huffs. 

“I don’t have the desire or the time for that.” 

“You had time when you were messing around with me at the pool,” she mutters. 

Frankie puts his hand under her chin and gently lifts her face up towards him. He gives her a stern look, then lets go, nodding. “Yeah,” he says, “And I shouldn't have done that, but I did, and here we are.” 

Hailey scoffs. “The hell is that supposed to mean?”

“You know just as well as I do that this ,” he gestures between them, “Should not have happened. It was inappropriate of me to do that to you back then. I took advantage of you.”

“No, you didn’t,” she protests.  

“Hailey,” he says, and she hates the sound of it. “You’re thirteen years younger than me, you were nervous, clearly unhappy in your marriage, and I touched you cause I could tell you were attracted to me and I thought it was fun. I was entertained by it and it stroked my ego. I ate you out at a public pool cause I was horny and I thought you were hot.” 

“You said you have feelings for me.”

“I do now,” he says. 

She sucks in an unsteady breath that spasms in her lungs, and Frankie looks at her with tired eyes.

“Are you fucking your other clients?” she asks him. 

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” 

“Have you slept with any of your current clients in the past?”

He sighs. “Yes.” 

“Have—” 

“Stop this,” he whispers sternly, “This isn’t productive.”

But Hailey pushes on, unable to stop herself from torpedoing the only thing she has. “How many of your clients have you fucked, overall, in the span of… Forever .” 

Frankie rolls his eyes and shakes his head. 

“Answer me, I want to know.” 

His voice is low, but firm. She has heard him use the same tone to Sage in Spanish. “I can guarantee that you don’t want to know.” 

“Tell me,” Hailey insists, with her stomach twisting around itself and her hands shaking. “If you don’t, I’m gonna assume it’s thirty.”

“It’s eight,” he says. 

Hailey gags before she repeats the number, “ Eight ?” 

“Eight.” 

“In how long?”

“I don’t know. Six months?”

“Six?!” she nearly shouts, and her heart is racing. “How the fuck did you even find them? Were they all at that pool?”

“Half were,” he groans, “And the other half were those four women’s friends.” He says it so matter-of-factly, as if it means nothing. 

She shakes her head and wants to claw herself away from him, away from this bed, away from everything. “You’re so— so —”

He cuts her off. “You know what? I might be a dog but at least I’ve never cheated on anyone. I’m loyal.” 

“You started it, you're the reason I cheated,” she snaps. 

He huffs a laugh, but he doesn’t seem humored. “You stared at my dick for thirty seconds the first time we met. You were rubbing your ass against my shorts like the neighbor’s cat when she’s in heat, for fuck’s sake. And you went home to your husband after that, then came back the next week and immediately blushed when you saw me.” 

Now Hailey is the one who rolls her eyes. “Whatever.” 

“Are we done here?” he asks, “It’s late.”

“Yeah,” she huffs, “Fine.” 

He sighs. “Please don’t say 'yeah, fine'  if you don’t actually mean it.” 

“I’m not your fucking kid , Frankie, don’t talk to me like that.” 

He pauses for a moment, and Hailey swallows her want to cry. 

“I don’t know why I thought this would work out,” he murmurs, looking into her eyes. “I don’t know why I thought that maybe this was…”

“What?”

“Forget it,” he says, shifting out from beneath the duvet. “I’ll sleep on the couch.”

“ Frankie —” she protests, but he shuts the door behind him without looking back. 

—

Hailey doesn’t know when she fell asleep, but she wakes up to Frankie’s side of the bed cool and his pillow missing. He must’ve come in to get it at some point during the night. 

It’s still early, her alarm has yet to go off, but she climbs out of bed with a dull throb between her temples, opens the door and sees the living room empty, with a blanket folded up and slung over the armrest. 

She steps into the hallway and walks past Sage’s room, past the bathroom, and out to the back where she looks through the screen door to see Frankie swimming laps in the pool behind the house. 

And there she stands, leaning against the wall, watching him until he spots her and swims over to the edge closest to the house. He rests his forearms on the tile and looks up. 

“What are you doing up?” he calls to her from the water. 

She shrugs. 

It’s hot outside already. The heat creeps in through the open door, past the mesh of the screen, before it’s pushed back out by the air conditioner. 

“Are you hungry?” he asks. 

Not really, she thinks, but she nods. 

“I’ll be there in a sec.”

—

Drops of water cling to the ends of his wet curls when he makes breakfast too. 

It’s been quiet since he stepped across the tiles and followed Hailey into the bathroom. Since he spun his finger around until she turned, and he shampooed her hair, massaged conditioner into it and put it up in her hair clip. 

He flips the pancakes in the pan while Hailey sits at the table, stacking them on two plates he sets down on the dining table before stepping over to the fridge and pulling out the syrup. 

“I have to pick up Sage today, her mom called me at three in the morning,” he says as he sits down, and his brows pull together. “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t have to say sorry.”

“You don’t have to stay, Hailey. I won’t be offended if you go.” 

“I know,” she says, and she can’t decide if she believes him. 

He nods and takes a tired breath. She wonders if he slept at all. 

After breakfast, they part without saying a word, getting into each of their cars and shutting the doors. 

—

When Hailey comes home from work, Frankie and Sage are waiting for her outside. 

He’s sitting on the steps outside of their house, holding her hands and shuffling her back and forth. She’s wearing her fairy wings, transparent and purple with silver around the edges. She shifts on her feet, left to right, dancing to the music coming from the living room window next door. 

He’s smiling, with one eye closed and squinting, his face turned up toward the sun. He’s wearing his hat again, his too-long curls stick out underneath the edge of it, on the sides of his neck, and his t-shirt is taut over his shoulders. His biceps stretch the fabric of the sleeves. 

Hailey climbs out of her car, watching as Sage turns around and puts her arms up. “She’s here!” the girl exclaims, “Let’s go!” 

Going to the grocery store means treats for Sage, Hailey has learned. 

Frankie stands up and brushes off his pants while his daughter bends down to look at something on the pavement. She reaches down and picks a lizard off the ground, stands to her full height and observes it. Frankie takes a few steps and she follows him slowly, studying the creature in her hand.

“Come on,” he says, holding his hand out for her, and she places the lizard on the grass before she grabs onto him, but they only get a few feet away from their property before she stops and crouches down to pick a flower. 

She picks several along the way, as Hailey trails just behind them and Sage holds her father’s hand, until she has a small bouquet that she hands to Hailey, and insists on holding her hand too. 

—

When they come home, there are divorce papers in the mail for Hailey. Frankie gives her half a smile before he goes inside with Sage.

Chapter Text

The showerhead sputters when Hailey turns the handle, shooting out little splashes of water before the stream is steady and it’s still weak. She gave up on asking two weeks ago, gave up on reminding him that she needs access to their storage locker to get some of her things out of the bedroom, gave up on waiting for him to give her time to talk about the day she left her home for the last time and shut the door behind her, on wedding photos and monogrammed crap in the kitchen. 

Dishes pile up in the sink, laundry accumulates in the hamper. Frankie is asleep when Hailey comes to bed, a goodnight muttered under his breath before he shifts onto his stomach and faces the other way. 

One time he said to her, a time that feels like yesterday and very long ago , I couldn’t be much of a husband when I was barely a present father. What little I had, I gave to Sage. And it’s true — what little is left of him when he comes home from work and his pants are dirty and his knuckles are smeared with motor oil, he gives to his daughter. Relentlessly, he gives. 

He is always patient with her. He smiles up at her when the sun shines bright in his eyes and she sits on his knee, when she crouches to pet the neighbor’s cat, when she points up at the sky to show him a cloud and when she pulls a watercolor painting out of her backpack to show him. She needs help reaching things, putting things together, cleaning up her things, putting away her clothes, sleeping, waking up— 

Things never seem to get any easier for him, and it hurts to see. 

It hurts to watch his smile not reach his eyes when his little girl turns to him when she sits on her floor in front of her Lego set or her stuffed animals, when he braids her hair or gives her a shoulder rub, and there’s love in his eyes but there’s so much tiredness too. 

She was a really big baby, Frankie said over dinner last week, tilting his head towards a girl with a toothy grin and bows in her hair. Must have been ten pounds, that girl.  

I held her while her mom slept, he told Hailey later that night. And I cried for an hour straight. Sage was so calm and I was the one crying. 

She was a surprise, right?

Yeah. A surprise I had less than five months to prepare myself for. 

Were you sad when she was born?

In a way, yeah. It was the best day of my life, and I love her more than anything, but I was sad. I was sad and scared. 

The handle squeaks when she shuts the water off, and she can hear Frankie waking Sage in the next room. His days off didn’t come after all, and now the days on the calendar are all blank, no little pink S marking the days she’ll be there when it’s so rare that she’s not. 

He works long hours too, but Hailey’s offers to pick Sage up are refused with a shake of his head, brows sunk together, his hand pushing through the front of his hair before he puts his hat back on. 

I’ll handle it, he says. About everything, these days, he says it. He only ends up handling the things that have to do with Sage, and he is forgotten in the midst of it all.

So is Hailey. 

—

“Frankie, I have— there’s kind of a lot of stuff here, do you know when we could head to the storage locker?”

“Maybe sometime next week.”

“Okay.”

—

For a month, things go up before they go down, always reverting to the starting point, the bottom, to days going by with barely a full conversation, and Hailey backs further and further into the wallpaper. Frankie doesn’t try to pull her out, and maybe it’s selfish to think that he’ll notice and care, she’s only a guest after all—

But it’s just so lonely. It’s lonely to sit on the couch, wrapped up in a blanket when everyone else is asleep, and watch the glowing light of the windows across the street, hear the sirens passing and the bark of a dog before a door slams. She doesn’t belong here, but there is no house where she is welcome. She’s safe but stranded, unwanted where she’s stuck. 

Sometimes Frankie’s phone lights up on the coffee table late at night, when Hailey feels like she’s drowning in her own self-induced misery, soaking wet in a storm she invited. It must be self-hatred that pushes her up from the couch, sets the tip of her finger to his screen and swipes it open, then scrolls up. The recent messages are unanswered, left out to dry by him while the number with no name attached sends more. 

Dave’s out tonight, could use some of that D instead. Call me 

Part of Hailey wants to laugh. The other part of her has a pit in her stomach so deep it feels like it’ll fall out of her butt, like she’s being strangled and choked and the nausea gets worse and worse the farther she scrolls, the more lazily typed messages she sees from him promising a good fuck or basking in the attention of yet another woman. They go back a while too, his messages with this number, months of planning meetups late at night, of Frankie saying he’ll come over. 

She taps out of the conversation only to find more, to find a mountain of them, all unsaved numbers. Some message threads have photos in dressing rooms, outfits they want his opinion on, naked tits, bikinis, the unmistakable image of someone’s labia up close. His responses to all of them seem to drop off around a similar time, but they keep messaging him, they never stop asking for cock, for attention, more photos sent as bait when he doesn’t reply. 

Some look younger, some look like they have children of their own. Some have rings on their fingers, fat rocks and gold bands, sparkling against the backs of their phones when they pose in front of the mirror, their shower in the background, everything shaved and perked up. It almost feels violating to tap through the images, but Hailey has tunnel vision — there’s tingling, shaking silver at the corners of her eyes, and all she sees is the screen. 

Frankie’s camera roll is all photos of him and Sage, of just Sage, of himself and their surroundings, taken by her. Some photos from work, screenshots of bills waiting to be paid. She feels sick, hunched over the coffee table with the blanket hanging over her shoulders, knees to chest like she’s nothing but a lump in the dark. 

At the sight of his dick in one photo, she decides she’s seen enough, and his phone is placed back where she found it. She stands up on trembling legs, steps back over the couch, and curls up in the corner with a stomach ache and tears in her eyes. 

—

She only sees him naked in the shower when they try to save time. His cock thickens at the sight of her, at the feel of soaped up breasts sliding past his stomach when they switch sides, but he averts his eyes, looks up at the ceiling and rinses out his hair.

—

“Is everything okay? Like, between us?”

“Yeah.”

“But we haven’t— it’s been almost two weeks since we—

Frankie? Are you asleep?” 

—

On the side of the road, at the edge of Frankie’s part of town, there’s a FOR RENT sign outside of an apartment building. 

Hailey slows to a halt, rolls down the window and leans out with her phone in her hand, taking a picture of the number below the advertisement. She looks side to side before she texts the agent, and pretends to work late that night.

—

The lightbulb above the front door buzzes and flickers when she comes home, takeout box in hand and an application for an apartment stuffed in her bag. She turns the key in the lock and pushes the door open to a dark living room that smells of weed, and switches on the light before she looks towards the black screen of the TV. The burnt filter of a joint sits in a small tray on the coffee table next to the remote and a wad of tissue. Against her better judgment, she steps over and separates it with two fingers, only for her stomach to sink when she sees the glossy white between the paper, and hears the shower running in the bathroom. 

The warm box of food is set down a little ways away, roach and tissue tossed in the trash, and she settles on the edge of the couch with her head tilted against the cushion, waiting for Frankie to emerge when the water shuts off. 

His brows sink together when he steps out and spots Hailey. 

“Hey,” he says, but he doesn’t ask where she’s been.

She doesn’t volunteer it either. 

“I think we should talk.” 

He nods, rubbing the back of his neck with his hand, and throws his towel in the hamper before he steps over, on big feet over carpeted floors, not making a sound until the other end of the couch creaks as he sits down.

“What’s up?” he asks, and Hailey wants to cry at the sight of red rimming the whites of his eyes, the habit of dropping Sage off and getting high the second he comes home. She doesn’t ask where his daughter is. She knows she’ll be back tomorrow, and that tonight is her father’s only reprieve. 

Hailey’s lip twitches, hiccuping breaths catching in her throat while she tries to find her words. Tears pool in her eyes faster than she can hold them back, spilling into her lashes, getting wetter every time she blinks. She tries to find the right words, to find her voice at all, but the words don’t come, and Frankie pulls in a long breath before he shifts closer to her. 

“You're not happy. I know. I’m not— this isn’t good for you,” he sighs with a defeated sort of smile. There’s care in the way he says it, like a soothing hand, a thumb over her knuckles. 

“Don’t say that, Frankie.” It squeaks out of her, weak and just as defeated, laced with heartbreak for the thing she cannot have. 

He breathes a laugh, it almost sounds like he’s relieved. “You weren’t gonna say it yourself, sweetheart, and someone has to.” His hand comes to her jaw, to her cheek, sweeping away a lock of her hair too heavy to rest behind her ear. 

She shakes her head, conceding. 

“I should move out, shouldn't I?” she asks, and he nods just barely, with something pulling his brows together, a little grimace she’s unsure if he senses himself. “And we should stop seeing each other.” 

It’s not a question, but he nods at that too. 

—

“Hailey, I—”

The last of her things are loaded in her trunk and she slams the door shut. There’s a knot in her throat, aching when she swallows around it like a tight, painful gulp ever time, jaw tensing to keep the tears at bay when she pulls her keys out of her bag. 

“Don’t.”

—

She crouches down in front of Sage with two little hands in hers. 

“Thank you so much for letting me stay here with you and your dad,” she says, and smiling hurts . She tries not to look at Frankie standing a few feet behind with his arms folded, looking away, out into the alley where the sun still shines and the day has only just started. 

“Are you gonna come visit?” the girl asks, her eyes wide open. 

“I’ll try to,” Hailey says, swinging their hands side to side. “Be good, okay?”

In her rearview mirror, she sees another family there is no room for her in, and Frankie looks towards her while Sage dances around him, his arms hanging limply in front of him, swung around by her hands. 

—

He listens to a Spice Girls playlist through the open window while he turns burger patties on the grill, looking towards the empty spot in the driveway where a Jeep used to sit. And it wasn’t for long, he knows it shouldn’t feel like anything that she’s gone, but when he sits at the table and only Sage is there, he thinks of his divorce. 

When he sits on the floor, his back stiff from being hunched over, searching for a puzzle piece that fits into a jagged, cut-up piece of the New York skyline, he thinks of the night he took off his wedding ring and tossed it into his nightstand. 

When he puts Sage to bed and reads to her, he thinks of the first night she spent in this house, and how she stood in the doorway with her whale in her arm, asking to sleep in his bed after a siren woke her up. She sleeps over them now, unfazed by the sound and the flashing lights, and he hates it.

—

The apartment is fully furnished, warm beige and rusty shades and earthy tones in every room, warm light in the hallway when Hailey tosses her keys onto the dresser, with groceries in her hands. 

She eats dinner alone at her dining table every night, Monday to Sunday, with her laptop in front of her, season after season sliding by on the small screen and then on her TV, until she falls asleep on the couch, waking up at two in the morning to shuffle into the bedroom, half awake. 

Red and blue lights flash through the gap between the window and her curtains, the noise of the sirens keeping her awake before she’s lulled back to sleep by the following silence, wondering if Frankie hears them too. 

—

At her office, she’s a ghost, drifting through the hallways and the open landscape, between desks and chairs, in the break room, in the meeting room. Nobody asks why her ring finger is bare, nobody asks what her and John are up to on the weekend. Her chair might as well be empty when she listens to her coworkers speaking about their holiday plans.

On Thursdays, she texts Claire and says she doesn’t feel well.

She moves through the aisles of the grocery store without a sound, at night when everyone is in their homes, eating dinner with their family, at the hour her parents say grace with their hands in each other’s, then eat the same thing Hailey cooks for herself with only the lights beneath the cupboards in the kitchen lighting the space. 

Only a suitcase is open on the floor of her bedroom — the rest sits closed and zipped in the hallway, the living room, and in what would be her office had it not been empty aside from three boxes and a duffle bag. They stay closed week after week, the wallpaper on her phone stays empty, and she is nothing but a human shape, flesh and blood in a blouse, in slacks, in heels with a keycard hanging from her waist. She drifts aimlessly from one day to the next, frayed at the edges, bleeding out but refusing to look at the spill. 

The screen of her laptop glares at her while she cooks, while she eats, sleeps, pulls yarn and needles out from a box and loops the yarn around her finger, metal rods clinking against each other while a scarf takes shape. 

It glows when she gets in bed at night, and although she has felt nothing for weeks, her nipples drag firm across the fabric of her top, and something twists in the pit of her stomach, pools between her hips, until she taps keys and clicks around until there’s a man on the screen who might, with squinted eyes, look a little bit like the man she tries not to think about. The black glare of the screen is the only light in her bedroom when she slips her hand into her shorts and her fingers move like his did, trace and tease and finger, like he knows her better than she knows herself. When she tries not to moan his name, her mind drifts to the shape of his cock, the stretch of it inside of her, his smell, the taste of his come, and she comes with three fingers inside of her, still not enough, barely satisfied. 

—

On a Sunday afternoon, when the sun sets over cardboard boxes stacked along a window, Hailey decides that it’s time to let go. 

The suitcases are first, zipped open and emptied onto the bed, empty and stored in the back of her closet, behind hangers filling up while darkness settles outside her bedroom window. The boxes are opened, shoes are lifted out and placed on the empty rack in the hallway, things that were only ever hers are pushed into shelves and drawers. 

It doesn’t feel like a coincidence when Hailey unzips the last bag and her Bible is sitting at the very top. An ambulance drives by on the street, its siren loud and jarring through the open window when she takes the heavy book out and sits back against the wall. Her head tilts onto the cool drywall while she listens to the whining, bursting sound of someone else’s emergency, further away but cutting through the silence of her new neighborhood. 

The white cover feels like it weighs a thousand pounds when she lifts it, feeling the gold details against the tips of her fingers, hearing the creaking in the margin when verses show themselves and it looks like a whole bunch of letters with no coherent meaning. The words just blur on the page, sink together, turn into squiggles through eyes filled with tears.

Are you there? she thinks as she looks up. When she blinks, the tears spill onto her cheeks, and she gazes at the white popcorn ceiling, the glare from her lamp, and in her ears there is silence. 

Are you still there for me?

I messed up, God. I strayed too far. 

I’m sorry. Will you forgive me?

She wipes her cheeks with the sleeve of her shirt. Her other hand curls around the pages while she licks her upper lip.

Is anyone there? 

And nobody responds. Nobody hears her until the texts are sent with shaking hands, and her phone is tossed to the side. 

I don’t know who else to talk to

I’m sorry

You don’t have to answer

Frankie is a shadow in the doorway, like it’s just his smell and the sound of him stepping over the ledge, snaking his arm around her waist and shoving his face into her neck. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, hands fisting in the bottom of her shirt to pull it up and over her head, crowding her against the edge of her bed, heavy and firm in his jeans, his t-shirt ratty, curls sweaty at the roots, palms dry. But his lips are soft and his tongue is hot and wet, his eyes a shade of dark brown she doesn’t see in anything else in this world. 

The only sound she hears is that of his belt, his zipper, the snap of his boxers’ waistband against his skin. And then his groan when he pushes into her, shorts and panties gathered in his fist and pulled aside to reveal her sex. 

Spit at the back of her throat, rough hands around the flesh on her hips, marks on her skin, curses in her ear, hair pulled, lips bitten. A Bible laying open on the floor, God watching, the bed creaking, shaking, headboard hitting the wall. Verses forgotten, purity ruined, a girl defiled, her eyes rolling into the back of her head. 

Francisco , a man, an older man with gray hairs and with deep lines, a father , dad , his sweat, his saliva, his scruff, his muscle. A cock that’s too big for her, a man too old for her, too tired and too stressed. 

The page is left open; So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your God. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand. The bookmark has fallen onto the floor, panties next to it, boxers and jeans in a heap. Shirts hanging over the bedpost, a flimsy top on a mountain of duvet. Birth control pills, small and white, sit in their tray on the bathroom counter, her ring finger is bare. A delicate ankle sits on a thick shoulder, her stomach is tight. 

Want, need . Worship at the altar of a middle aged mechanic. Frankie . No other god in sight. 

—

The alarm on his phone goes off too early, when her room is still dark and her breaths fan over his chest, slow and steady, deep in sleep until the buzz against her nightstand has crept into her dreams and she’s made aware of the repetitive jingle that makes him groan and reach over to turn it off. 

He settles back in with his arm under her head, but his spine cracks while he shifts, gently, flicking on the lamp next to them, making out their shapes under the duvet in a room isolated by heavy blackout curtains. 

“We shouldn’t do this,” he whispers, his fingertips brushing over her cheekbone and the back of her ear, tucking her hair back in place. He moves to the side of her neck, a big hand pushing at waves all tangled from being pulled and played with, still soft in his grip but messy and strewn over her pillow. “You need to… You need to get over me.” 

She blinks, groaning while she shifts against him, shoving her face into his armpit just to inhale him, to get dizzy off the scent of his sweat. “I don’t think I can do that, Frankie,” she murmurs. 

“It’s for the best.”

Hailey shakes her head, hips squirming against him, clothed cunt over his erection, rolling slowly up his length. “Don’t wanna.”

His laugh is just an exhale, a hand running along her spine, his lips pressing against her hairline. 

“Promise me you’ll try, though, okay? Just for a few weeks,” he bargains. His touch is warm and soothing on her back, his thumb calloused and brushing over the side of her waist while she refuses to listen. “A few more weeks apart and then you can reassess, but you need to be on your own, baby, it’s not good for you to be attached to me like this.” 

She huffs, clinging tighter to him with her arms and legs wrapping around him like vines. 

“It’s not good for me either.”

Chapter Text

“I’ve always dreamt about owning my own company,” Trey says. He has one of those smiles you see in yearbooks, a boy on a page compared to himself as a grown-up man with the same charm, the same haircut, just older, richer, in a suit and tie. “It’s a lot of work, a lot of paperwork, especially. But it’s worth it, you know? Doesn’t feel like it during tax season, though, I’ll tell you that.”

The restaurant is on the quieter side despite the Friday night rush, the type that has low lighting, mood lighting as it were, that only takes reservations and has servers in sleek, black outfits, and wine glasses already set out on the table when you arrive. 

“Sounds stressful,” Hailey sort-of laughs, pushing a straw around in her slushy drink, half empty, and she feels the buzz but her limbs are no less tense, just a little warmer at the back of her neck and behind her knees. 

“It’s not too bad,” he says then, and she really wishes she felt something when she looked at his face. He takes the last sip of an Old Fashioned and she looks at how his watch gleams under the light. “Tell me more about you, hun, my work is whatever.” He waves dismissively, scrunching his nose, “Boring. Blah . Maya mentioned you’ve been working together for quite some time?” 

“Yeah, we went to accounting school together. Or— we were in the same classes at University of Miami.” 

Trey nods in approval. “The campus looks really nice. I visited my nephew there once.”

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, he’s a sophomore.”

“That’s cool.”

“Are you from here, originally?” 

“I am,” Hailey says, sighing behind her smile, “Born and raised. How about you?” 

“Duluth.”

She breathes a laugh then. He seems very, very nice, and it’s going to be very difficult to tell Maya on Monday that she felt nothing for him, and have no ability to explain why that is. “Got sick of the cold?” 

“Yeah,” he nods again, “I really prefer the feeling of my clothes sticking directly to my skin, you know? Something about that layer of sweat just feels great when I’m already nearing a heatstroke.” 

She laughs. 

Maybe in a different life. 

—

“I had a really nice time,” Hailey says, handbag dangling from her fingers, heels sinking into the welcome mat outside her door. 

“I’m glad.” Trey nods, a warm smile on his face when he looks between her eyes. “Call me, okay?”

“I will.” 

He’s gone with a kiss to her cheek, and she turns the key in her lock, opening the door to a dark apartment. She kicks off her shoes, feels the hallucination of curves in the floorboards under her feet, and tosses her purse and keys onto the dresser, then takes a step into the hallway before turning back and slipping out her phone. 

The alcohol only serves to make her palms a little damp when she carries her phone and puts it on the kitchen counter, opening the fridge to pull out a seltzer and open it with her heart beating a little faster. She might as well replace the calendar on her fridge with one of those signs staying Days Since Last Incident, with a seven underneath for how many days she’s managed not to text or call Frankie since the last time he was in her bed. It had been five days since the last time before that, and eleven since the first time he set foot in this apartment. 

But she can only take so much, and when the scent of another man’s cologne lingers in her nostrils, when she has spent the evening with a man who she knows her parents would love to see her with, all she wants is the safe, warm embrace of Frankie’s arms, the smell of his shirts, and the deep, husky rumble in the chest of a man a decade older than the one she knows she should prefer. 

She leans over the counter and looks at the black screen of her phone. She knows he’ll answer. Sage only spends Saturday nights at her mother’s house now, and Hailey isn’t sure if Frankie prefers it that way. Either she has a mother or I get child support, he said one night, tracing circles over Hailey’s shoulder, covered only by her sheets from his waist down. Feels like a rock versus a hard place, you know? She needs both.

Hailey isn’t sure what she, herself, needs. But she knows what she wants, and the man she wants pulls into her driveway thirty minutes later, steps through the door, and scolds her while he pulls off her skirt, rips her panties into a useless scrap of lace, and throws her onto her bed. 

—

Days Since Last Incident, she thinks while she opens the fridge. Zero . 

He stays for breakfast, then leaves to pick up his daughter. 

—

“How was Trey?” 

Hailey’s eyes flick up to Maya’s across the break room table, swallowing a half-chewed bite of a sandwich before she answers. “He was good, yeah. Really— really nice. Not sure I felt, like, a spark, though, you know? But maybe.”

“Damn. I really thought he’d be your type.” 

“Oh,” Hailey scrambles, “No, he’s super attractive, I just… He’s maybe a little too attractive.” 

“Your mom would love him. All moms do.”

“I bet she would.” 

—

Every weekend is similar in this way; a text she shouldn’t send, a trip he shouldn’t make, sheets they shouldn’t soak, conversations they shouldn’t have until two AM. The hourglass is turned on its head, the stopwatch set back to zeroes, the count reset. It’s a matter of time, every time, before a text is sent one way or the other, and Hailey is beneath Frankie, her eyes fixated on the hair trailing down his chest, to his navel, becoming sparse before it thickens again, getting coarse and dense across his pubic bone, down to his root, where it glistens with wet arousal when he thrusts into her, thighs spread open and held down by his palms. Every night in his presence ends the same, with his cock pulling out of her while it’s still pulsing and spitting his load deep within. It trickles out while he kisses her, staying halfway inside just because he can, before he smears it on her nipples, on her lips, around her asshole — anywhere she feels him just a little more, a degree deeper, like a jolt under her skin at the slide of his finger. 

Every Sunday is also a repeat of the last, the count reverting back to zero when she shuffles into the kitchen in her robe, pushing buttons on the coffee machine with eyes half-open, and another seven days have gone by on the calendar. 

Seven days with no word from her family.

When she sits at the dining table and watches Frankie sip his coffee, rubbing his eyes, scratching his beard, tilting his head side to side to make it crack, she knows that her parents are getting ready for church. 

When she locks the door behind him, she knows they are finding their spots on the pews, smoothing down skirts and straightening jackets. 

She tries not to think about it too much, tries not to hear the echo of her mother’s voice commenting on the sermon, the clink of glasses in the kitchen when her father settles on the couch with a drink just after coffee hour, waiting for lunch to be served to him. 

And she can keep it together for a little while, absolutely. She can open her computer and type while the sunlight changes shapes across the floor, shining through the drapes in an office she uses for nothing in particular, just for making time pass, writing in a diary she remembers once a week. 

When she gets hungry, she slinks into the kitchen and tries not to wonder about what happened to dinners between her parents and John after she got the papers in the mail. She tries, diligently, not to count how many Sundays have passed since then. 

But family is family, and one time she was told that she chose her parents when she was in the womb. She chose her mom and her dad, they said, and when the sun begins to set on her balcony and her plate is empty and subtitles roll over the TV screen, she misses them. 

—

The next Sunday, when Frankie closes the door behind him and jogs down the stairs to the parking garage, Hailey pulls a skirt out of her dresser. She ties up her hair, straightens her shirt, and leaves with her heart in her throat. 

Everyone is welcome, it said outside the church, and she hopes they mean it. It’s an awkward shuffle behind a mass of strangers finding their seats, and the sound of the organ makes the hairs stick up on the back of her neck. Her skirt is too tight all of a sudden, buttoned up blouse too suffocating, but she wipes her palms on the black tights over her knees as she sits down at the very back, on the edge of a pew sparsely occupied. 

And when the sermon begins, she cries, a slow stream of tears dripping from the underside of her jaw, her eyes so blurry she can’t see the pulpit or the people in front of her. And through the avalanche, she waits for God to embrace her again, to welcome her home and take her into his arms. She waits and waits, opens her hands and closes her eyes, lets her mouth move along to the hymns she can’t forget. 

She might hallucinate the scent of her mother’s perfume next to her, or the sound of her father clearing his throat. She might hear the smack of one sister’s hand against the back of the other’s head, and then the reprimand. She might feel John next to her, and then Frankie on the other side. 

I was thinking I might go to church today.

Oh, yeah?

Yeah.

Tell the big man I said hi. Not that I’m the person he wants to hear from. 

He said it with a golden cross hanging from a chain around his neck, dangling in her face. 

—

The sermon ends when her cheeks are dry, and bodies shuffle around her, crowding into the aisle and heading towards the door in a haze of nice clothing and low murmurs barely audible over the organ playing again. She stays until she’s the last to leave, looking down at the colorful reflections of the stained glass against the floorboards, then the ledge, and then the dusty concrete steps outside, when the sun hits her arms again, humidity clinging to her skin like the only warmth she’s afforded now. 

She doesn’t think when she gets in the car and drives until she spots a diner in the town between where she finds herself and where she’s now supposed to call home. It’s nothing special — it has red leather seats and speckled tables, metal barstools, waitresses in aprons and puffy cap sleeves like a vague reference to an idealized past. Still, she sits down, smiles at the woman in a baby blue dress, and orders a coffee.

It’s not until it’s halfway empty that she notices a familiar face at the table in front. 

Her father smiles at her, puts his hands down on either side of his empty plate, and pushes up from the table, taking two long steps towards his daughter and sliding into the booth. He puts his arm over the backrest and looks at Hailey with concern marring the space between two bushy brows. 

“Hey princess,” he says. 

She looks down, resting her face in her palm and stirring her lukewarm coffee with a small spoon. 

“I’m sorry I haven't, uh—” Douglas scrubs his hand over his jaw and looks out of the window, eyes squinting in the sun. “I’ve been meaning to reach out but Anne’s been, well, you know what she’s like. Digs her heels in.” 

“It’s okay,” Hailey says quietly. 

He looks back at her, and his concern is clear now, in the lines on his face. “Are you alright?” 

“Not really.”

“Have you seen John?” he asks her.

“No,” she says, “Have you?”

Her father shakes his head, frowning. “Stopped coming around,” he says, “Told us what happened and that was that. Ran into his mom a few days ago, she said he’d been visiting his cousins in New York for a bit.” 

A little silence stretches in the clinking of cutlery and plates, coffee being poured, the bell above the door chiming as someone walks in.

“He sent divorce papers,” she whispers. “I think he asked Claire where I was.” 

Douglas leans forward, looks side to side, and asks, “Where have you been? Did you find your own place already?”

She cracks a smile, tries to laugh through her nostril to lessen the blow. “I don’t think you want to know that, to be honest, dad.”

“Okay,” he nods, “Well, as long as you’re somewhere safe.” 

“I am.” She chews on the inside of her cheek, looks at the waitress as she flits around behind the counter with a pot of coffee in her hand. Then she looks at her father, at his polo shirt and what’s left of his hairline. “Can you— can you not tell mom that we ran into each other? She’s gonna start calling me and I just— I can’t. She was so awful to me when she called last time and I just can’t talk to her right now.” 

“Alright,” he says, “Come see me at work then, one day. We can talk. I’ll take you out for lunch.” 

Hailey nods, and feels a large hand on her shoulder, squeezing, and then the light touch of his thumb, back and forth a few times before he retracts. 

“Marvin’s waiting for me at the range,” Douglas says, looking at his watch, “You want me to get you anything to go?”

She shakes her head, but when he’s out of the door, a sandwich and fries are placed into a paper bag and delivered to her table.

—

Zero Days Since Last Incident . 

Again.

But this Sunday, Frankie comes back in the evening and picks her up to go out for dinner. 

He carries a box of lobster rolls in one hand, his other on the small of her back, and they walk over the grass until they reach a little area away from everyone out for an evening stroll, below tall palm trees that sway in the breeze but don’t provide any shade. 

They eat on a blanket he grabbed on his way out of the house, and watch the cruise ships float by, one larger than the other, while the clouds shift above them, unfathomably big as they make their way across the bright blue water. 

The sun sets eventually, over Hailey draped in Frankie’s hoodie, and his arm around her. 

—

“I think I’m getting a… A promotion? ” he questions, looking down at his phone.

On a late Saturday afternoon, with clear, blue skies, smoke swirling up from the grill in the backyard, the pool shimmering, and Hailey laying in the hammock, things seem to be getting a little bit better for one Francisco Morales. Not in a big way, not in a way that would smooth out the stress lines between his brows, but just enough to make his shoulders sink and to let him breathe.

“Oh?” 

“I never meant for it to be more than a side gig, but— hold on, boss is calling.” 

He puts his phone up to his ear and looks at the metal tongs in his hand, shrugging while he answers. “Hey Marge,” he says, charming when he wants to be, his eyes shifting between Hailey and the grill, “I’m great, how’s your weekend?”

She lays down with her eyes closed, listening to Frankie speak. 

“Good, good. Yeah, I saw your text. You gave me about ten seconds to think, Marge, real impatient today.”

He clicks the tongs together before he turns the skewers. 

“Nah,” he laughs, “I’m messing with you, that sounds great. Oh, I’m sure Sage will appreciate it, absolutely. Alright, enjoy your weekend.” 

Hailey sits up as he clicks off his phone and slips it into his pocket. “Did you get it?”

He nods, and she can see the smile pushing its way out of him, “I did.” 

She can’t help but smile either, watching what must be hope in his eyes. It’s a beautiful and unfamiliar sight. “What does a promotion mean there?”

“Well,” he says, “I’ve just been doing on-call lessons before, twelve week packages and such for private clients like you. But the main instructor for the kids is moving out of state, so I’m taking his position and they’re getting a new on-call guy.” 

Reluctantly jealous relief settles in her at the news. 

“More hours but the pay is better, more consistent. Same schedule every week. I’ve covered for him a couple times and the kids are always fun to work with.” 

She smiles at him, reaching her arms up to invite him in for a hug. “Congrats,” she says with a grin. 

He leaves the tongs beside the grill and embraces her, kissing her neck while his arms wrap around her torso, leaning down to hold her where she’s suspended in the hammock, and she giggles into his ear before he pulls back to look into her eyes. 

It’s not all bad, he thinks. Some things do work out. 

He pulls her close to himself again, with his hands on the back of her neck and behind her waist, crouching down in the frayed pair of red flip-flops he knows she hates. 

“My boobs hurt,” she mumbles into his chest, and he laughs with her before he pulls back, gliding his hands down her arms to hold her hands in his. She looks cute like this, with her legs crossed, swaying a little, a pink bikini top and jean shorts on. 

“Getting your period soon?” 

“God, probably,” she groans, reaching down to the grass to pick up her phone. “I’ll check, hold on.” 

When she opens the app, she sees light pink circles where her period was predicted, and her brows sink together, smile waning quickly. 

“Everything okay?” he asks. 

“Uhh—” She scrolls up, looks at the light pink week that should’ve been vibrant, and then the following white circles. Frankie cranes his neck to look at the screen while her thumb moves up and down, her hand beginning to tremble. 

“I should’ve— I didn’t get my—” she stutters, swipes out to look at the date on her home screen, then opens the app again. “Fuck, I missed it completely,” she says. 

“Did you skip those sugar pills?” he asks, his eyes on her, and hers glued to the screen. 

“No.” She shakes her head, then tilts her face up to look at him, and the wrinkles between his brows are back, deep as ever. She can’t be the one to ruin it for him the one time he wins. “I’m sure it's just late,” she says dismissively, “Regular sex can do that, right? Hormones changing and stuff?” 

“I think so,” he says, as she looks back down. “You just wanna wait it out or should we go get a—”

She interrupts, “I'll just wait it out and see.” 

“You sure?”

“Yeah.” 

He nods, squeezes her hand and stands to his full height, blocking the sun above her. “Okay,” he says, “Let’s go eat.”

—

Another few days go by with blank slots and panties thrown into the laundry hamper without a trace of blood. Frankie glances at the calendar on the wall before he sets down the spatula, turns off the heat and steps over to the couch. He sits down on the edge of Hailey’s blanket, sweeping her hair away from the side of her neck, looking at her closed eyes. She’s been asleep for the last hour, arriving at his house after nearly falling asleep at work, obliterated by nothing but sitting at her desk. 

“Hey,” he says softly, and her lashes flutter as she wakes up. He takes a breath, treads carefully with words he chooses one after the other. “I think it's probably best if you take a pregnancy test, okay?”

She nods, just barely, closing her eyes again. 

—

“Stop looking at it,” Frankie says. He leans against the bathroom counter, arms folded until he reaches out and turns the test in her hands so it faces the floor. 

“What if it’s positive?” she asks, her voice shaky with the threat of tears. 

“Then we’ll deal with it,” he says, wrapping a hand around her hip and pulling her towards himself. She buries her face in his chest, and she cannot lie and say that she’s not praying for it to be negative. She cannot pretend that she does not cling to what little she has of her faith, hoping that she is not too far gone, that what she felt that morning in church was something .  

Her limbs twitch, trying not to faint while the timer on her phone ticks by on the counter. He looks towards it, sees the number lessening while his hand strokes up and down her spine, and he pretends that he’s only calm because because he’s a grown man, not because he’s been in this situation more times than he can count, and gotten away every time but that one six years ago. He’s too confident about it, bordering on cocky. 

The timer goes off, and he clicks the orange button while Hailey pulls away. 

She flips the test, and two pink lines glare against the white little window while her world collapses around her, the walls of Frankie’s bathroom caving in while her heart pounds. And she doesn’t want to believe it, the reality does not sink in, the two lines feel like nothing but a hallucination, like her eyes crossing to see two where there is one.

But the man in front of her shows that it is not her eyes deceiving her — it is, unfortunately, devastatingly real. 

“Okay,” he whispers, then pushes out a long breath while he nods. “Okay.” He takes off his hat, runs his hand through his hair and rubs his face. “Okay,” he says again. 

He hopes she can’t see his heart hammering in his chest. She hopes he can’t hear hers.  

“What do we do?” she asks, looking between him and the test. 

“That is not up to me, sweetheart.” 

“But it’s a baby,” she says carefully, her voice breaking on the last word. The sound of a youth pastor rings in her head, the dangers of sex written up on a whiteboard behind her. And the thing you never, ever do when you've had sex you shouldn't have had, and it has resulted in the thing you fear the most. Taking an innocent life and all that. 

We revert to what we know when we're scared. 

“It's not, Hailey, not yet. Don’t think of it that way or you’ll make yourself sick. You’re what, a few weeks? It might not even be viable for all we know. I know what you’re thinking but it’s not true, all of that is just fear mongering church shit. It’s not true, okay?”

“It could become one,” she squeaks, and he pulls her into his warmth again, watching the tears leak from her eyes as he pushes her hair behind her ear. “I don’t know what to do, Frankie.” 

“All pregnancies can, but I think this is one of those situations where, no matter what you do, you’ll look back and know that what you did was the right decision for you.” 

She blinks up at him, sniffling. “What would you prefer?”

“ Hailey —” he begins, a little bit chiding. 

“No, I mean it,” she insists, and he looks at her while he takes a breath, before his eyes move to the window, where drops of rain are barely beginning to slide down the glass. 

“It would be really hard, financially and logistically, to go through with this,” he says, “I can't lie to you and say it wouldn’t. But I'd make it work. I’d try to get full custody of Sage, child support, we’d move. I’d do what I have to do, okay? If that's what you want. And if that’s what you don’t want, then I’ll be there for you too. I’ll drive you to the clinic, I’ll take care of you after. You don’t have to worry about me not being there, either way, cause I’ll be there.” 

She nods, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. “I can't be a mom right now,” she whispers. 

“You don't have to be,” he whispers back. 

—

The lamp in the living room stays on all night, into the morning, while they sit on the edge of the couch, with his hand on her leg and a blanket around her, and they both know that nothing will ever be the same again. 

It’s okay, he whispers to her, it’s okay, over and over, and they don’t say the word out loud, but Frankie knows from her heaving sobs what will happen. 

She falls asleep in his lap, exhausted, cried out, and he is relieved, but he’s sad too. He knows that she feels the same. 

—

It’s the right decision, but she shouldn’t be here. 

This place exists inside the gates of hell, where flames lick at the feet of women who walk through the door and ask to do the unimaginable. If she looks in the mirror, she cannot see a murderer, but the echoes of those voices are there nonetheless, telling her that there’s a special place waiting for women like her — women who are so selfish and so immoral as to take the life of an innocent being. 

John would never sit in that waiting room and sift through the magazines. He’d never hold her jacket and her bag, waiting for her to come out. It wouldn’t matter if she wasn’t ready. It wouldn’t matter if she didn’t want it to happen, if she took her birth control every day at the same time and it still failed her. Nothing would justify her sitting in front of a desk after placing a cup on a little shelf in the bathroom, knowing the test would show what she saw at Frankie’s home. 

But somewhere in her mind, she hears an understanding man’s voice. Frankie's .She isn’t a bad person, he said, and she won’t go to hell.

You won’t go to hell.

You won’t go to hell, okay? Do you believe me?  

Maybe if she repeats it enough times, she’ll believe it.

Big keys click under the painted fingernails of a lady in a fleece zip-up. She has her hair in a claw clip and types quickly, taking down information and reviewing the test results delivered to her by the lab. The walls are stark white all around, and cluttered with informational sheets. She clicks around a few times, then turns. 

“I just want to make sure this is your decision, Hailey,” she says. Her expression is firm, but empathic. Professional, but still just a woman too, at the end of the day.

“It is. We talked about it, me and my— the f—” She points her thumb vaguely in the direction of the waiting room, stuttering. “He's— we agreed. He's supportive.”

“Okay, good,” she says, looking at Hailey once more, like a double check. “It is, however, a little bit too early. You're going to need to wait about two weeks to have the procedure done. How about we schedule you for the twenty-second?” 

“Sure.”

“Want me to write it down?”

And with the little card in her hand, she steps out to see Frankie’s hand held out for her. 

—

The heat and humidity feels nice against Hailey’s skin when she slips onto one of the benches a little ways away from the pool, where Frankie stands halfway submerged, the bottom of half of his t-shirt soaked, with his arms folded and a grin on his face, while a little boy swims by him in a circle. He says something, the boy laughs, and when they reach the shallow end of the pool, Frankie gives a high five and helps him out. 

The children around him are like rubber ducks in the water, floating by the puffed up pieces of plastic around their arms, some with little goggles on their heads, some with teeth missing. He splashes one of them with a tiny wave of water and they splash him back, over the front of his shirt, and he laughs like he only does with his daughter. 

He holds his hands out and a girl with bright pink goggles and bright pink floaties holds onto him while he slowly walks backward and she kicks her feet. “Amazing,” he says, then looks towards her friends, while he nods towards her, “Michael Phelps better start training a little harder, huh? He’s gonna get wiped out.” 

There’s not a doubt in Hailey’s mind that the little thing inside of her is, in a very heartbreaking way, lucky to be his. 

—

“I think you have mutant sperm or something,” Hailey whispers to Frankie across the armrest of her chair. There’s only a few others in the waiting room, with their noses in magazines or hidden behind their phone screens. 

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” she says, “Isn’t this the second time you’ve made birth control pills fail?” 

He rolls his eyes and nudges her shoulder. “Focus on the form,” he grumbles, pointing at the clipboard in her hands. 

She looks at the family history section, at the half not yet filled out. “Hmm… Anything interesting run in your family?”

He tilts his head side to side before he answers in a whisper. “High blood pressure but that's entirely self inflicted. Military family. Generations upon generations, most of them deployed, et cetera.” 

“Have you checked yours?” she asks. 

“You want me to put my arm in one of those tubes at the drugstore?” 

She huffs a laugh, and a woman appears at the edge of her vision.

“Hailey?”

—

“You’re gonna feel a little bit drowsy, okay?”

The sedative takes effect quicker than she predicted, slowing down every movement in her muscles, lowering the frantic beating of her pulse. She closes her eyes when she hears the rolling chair come closer, and then the clinking of metal. 

—

Frankie looks at the other men in the waiting room and wonders if he’s the only father. One of them has a wedding ring on his finger and a purse on the chair next to him. He doesn’t think much about his marriage these days, but he wonders what the world would look like had it been him and his ex-wife filling out the form that Hailey delivered to the front desk, seven years ago. He concludes, after very little thought, that the world would be much more gray had Sage never emerged from her mother, screaming, all arms and legs, delivered suddenly into the hands of her father right as the doctor rushed into the room. 

And for the first time, he hopes that this isn’t the last time he sees a positive pregnancy test. Because somewhere in his mind, in a place he has not accessed in many years, he finds something that feels like hope, and a strange, unfamiliar belief in that there might be a brighter future somewhere ahead, where his daughter doesn’t need to fall asleep to the sound of sirens, and where she can walk to school with her friends, where she can have a relationship modeled to her at home that’s healthy and loving. 

He slides the magazines on the side table aside to see what’s on the cover of the ones below. It’s all celebrity news, breakups and houses for sale, mansions with five living rooms and kitchens that are never in use. There’s advertisements for jewelry and fragrances on glossy, pink pages. The shiny covers don’t slip under the calluses on his fingers. 

There’s a clock on the wall. Sage is still at school. She needs a new book soon — the one he’s been reading to her at night is almost done, three hundred odd pages already flown by. Time flies by too, and it never feels like it’s been six years since the first time he put her to bed. 

He should’ve been ready. At thirty four, he should have felt ready to be a father, and he waited for the day he woke up and thought to himself that he was, but the day never came. It still hasn’t, and as he sits in the quiet waiting room with the blue walls and the sound of the phone ringing at the desk, all Frankie can do is hope that his all is enough for his little girl. 

—

Hailey squishes the edges of a paper cup between her fingers, looking at the single drop of water still left in the white crevices before the edges fold together. She can hear one of the girls in the room picking at her nails, and another clearing her throat, but she doesn’t look up at them. The floor feels cold, even in her socks, but she’s warm under the gown in a weird way. 

She wonders if her mother would comfort her now, or if the voices around her are so loud that she no longer hears her daughter calling for the person she has needed more than anyone else in this world. If the nights she spent awake, rocking her to soothe her cries, are forgotten now, under the haze of men in robes and the thin pages of an old book. 

It was one sin or another, she thinks, and lifts her head with her eyes closed, leaning against the wall behind her.

—

Frankie’s eyes flicker up at her the second she walks out of the door, and he rises quickly, comes over in three long strides and takes her into his arms carefully, kissing the top of her head before he looks down at her. 

“You okay?” he asks, and she nods. “You wanna go home?” 

She nods again, before she whispers, “They said to get painkillers for the cramping.” 

“Alright.” 

She looks behind her, as they walk out with her hand in his, and then at the curls sticking out under the edge of his hat. 

—

The leaves flow over and past each other in the breeze of the afternoon. It’s beginning to get rainy now, cooler under thick clouds covering the city. Hailey watches them through the window, past the empty parking spaces outside of Frankie’s truck, leaning against the headrest, and the drugs are still in her bloodstream, making everything move just a little slower, including herself, when she hears the door open and turns her head to see him throw a bag in the back, and get in the driver’s seat. 

“You alright?” he asks, with a hand soothing over her leg. 

She nods, and he asks again with just his eyes before he turns the key in the ignition and pulls out of the parking spot with a hand at the top of her seat and his head turned back.  

It begins to rain when they stop at a red light, and his hand is back on her thigh with a light squeeze while the turn signal ticks and the droplets of water barely start to patter on the windshield before they’re wiped away. It’s quiet in the car, the radio hums low on the speakers and Hailey pushes out a breath a little heavily sometimes, feeling the cramps begin to set in behind her seatbelt. She puts her hand on top of Frankie’s and looks back out of her window, at the passing cars, signs, restaurants and malls that they drive by, and they become blurry behind the tears that collect in her eyes, though she’s not sure why they come. 

“Was this our only chance?” she asks quietly, and she can see in her peripheral that Frankie glances over at her before he looks back at the road, frowning while he shakes his head. 

“Of course not,” he says, with another soft squeeze. “When we're ready.” 

She nods, then turns her attention back to the window while he slips his fingers between hers. 

—

The living room is already cleaned when Frankie opens the door and lets Hailey in, and there are blankets and extra pillows on the couch, a mug and a teabag wrapped in paper on the countertop, water in the kettle, and the shades are lowered just enough to let the light warm the room while the rain falls a little harder, sliding down the window. 

“Lay down,” he says, stroking her spine, then heads into the kitchen to flip on the hot water before he pulls a heating pad out of the bag hanging from his elbow. He rips off the tags from the blue, fuzzy material, and pulls off the seal from two bottles of painkillers that he sets down next to a water bottle in front of her as she stacks the pillows under her head. He drapes the blanket over her and runs his hand over her arm, and just as he’s about to open his mouth—

The front door handle turns, and he panics for a split second when she sees Sage, worried that a child might be the last thing that Hailey wants to see. She closes the door with both hands before she looks towards the couch, her eyes lighting up. 

“Hailey!” she exclaims, dropping her too-big backpack on the floor, kicking off her shoes so fast that they fly past the pairs just taken off, and running over. 

“I thought you were going to Isabella’s house?” Frankie asks, grimacing while he looks at the weak smile on Hailey’s face, rubbing his jaw and straightening up. 

“She got sick,” Sage says, turning concerned when she looks at Hailey. “Are you okay?” she asks with a little pout, and sweeps Hailey’s hair away from her shoulder. 

“Yeah,” she answers, “I just don't feel well today. But your dad is taking very good care of me.” 

Sage points to the couch and Hailey scoots back while the girl climbs up, getting under the blanket while Frankie takes a few hesitant steps behind the kitchen counter and fills the mug and the heating pad with water. 

“That’s good,” she says, before she closes her eyes, and Hailey puts an arm around her while she grabs the TV remote with the other hand and begins to click through the channels. 

Frankie leans against the counter and watches the two of them. His throat is tight, and he worries for Hailey, but in her expression there is only softness and warmth towards his daughter, even as she asks her to reach over and grab one of the two white bottles, and the girl obliges, holding them while Hailey picks out two pills. 

“What do you wanna watch?” Sage whispers. 

Hailey sets the bottles down and runs her thumb over the thick, silky braid running down the back of Sage’s head, passing her fingertips over it and down to the white little bow at the end. “I don’t know,” she says, then swipes through the movies available on the screen. “They’re showing all these old Pixar movies… Have you ever watched A Bug’s Life before?” 

Sage shakes her head, then twists until she’s facing the TV. She turns her head and asks, “Is it about bugs?” 

“It— yeah, I mean I wouldn’t call it a documentary, but—”

Sage laughs, and when Hailey laughs as well, Frankie clears his throat, turning to pull a frying pan out of the cupboard just as his eyes begin to water.

Chapter Text

Frankie’s house sits near the street corner, in the middle of a triplex and with a front door tucked behind palm trees on opposite sides. In the humid heat of Miami at two in the morning, when the light above the entrance brightens up the path down to the curb, a dog barks across the road. He barks once, prowls around the driveway, and settles on the pavement under the dark sky, where the air pollution of the city has blacked out the stars that would shine above him had he lived further away. He only lifts his head when he spots the red and blue flashes of the ambulance approaching the block, and the whining sirens get louder and louder the closer they get, making his ears twitch, though he’s used to the sound. He howls along for the few seconds that the noise is at its loudest and the vehicle is charging by like a lightning bolt in the dead of night, then he huffs and rests his jaw on his front legs. Back down against the warm, dusty concrete, he sleeps, although the screen door at the back of the house is open, and he is not chained to the garage. Every night, he sleeps there, emerging from the air conditioned house right as the end of the evening turns from scorching hot to pleasantly warm, although he wakes up at every flashing light, perks up at every lamp that flicks on in the houses along the block. His eyes slowly close when the sirens disappear into the distance, and the lights are switched off again, and the streetlights glow just warm enough for him to watch the clouds drifting slowly above him, and the wind moving the dark palm trees that look like nothing but shadows behind his neighbors’ homes, the crickets jumping along the grass that lines the curb. Out there, he can listen to the cicadas and let them lull him to sleep. 

—

Sometimes, Frankie gets to go home early and pick his daughter up on the way. She rides in the car with him, or with Hailey on her way home from a playdate, and she points at the dogs she sees. But most days are like today, where he leaves the truck in the driveway and sets off towards the school by foot, meeting Sage somewhere close to the gates lining the schoolyard and taking her backpack. He turns around, holds out his hand for her, and they walk together, derailed by the sight of flowers, of cats, of particularly interesting clouds in the sky, and make their way home slowly but surely, stopping on the way to get groceries. They stand in the pasta aisle for several minutes while she examines the selection, picking out which shape is most desirable out of them all, asking what will be served with it. When Frankie says chicken, the selection is narrowed down, and when he follows up with pesto, it’s narrowed even further. The way home is short after that, and Sage skips most of the way with flowers in her hand that will be placed in a jar she fishes out from the cupboard and fills with water on her own. 

Then it’s quiet for a little while, while Frankie pulls things out of the fridge and starts the pot of water and heats up a large pan. 

“Daddy?” he hears from behind him. 

“Yes?”

Sage’s eyes are on the paper in front of her, the halfway filled-in outline of a butterfly that stretches across the entire page. Her crayon moves fast, in short back and forth motions, filling in part of the butterfly’s wing in a bright pink shade. 

“Te vas a casar con Hailey?” she asks. 

Frankie pauses, flipping a chicken breast over in the pan before he turns to her. He smiles a little but he’s suspicious now, squinting at the girl sitting at their dining table, paying him no attention aside from her question. 

“Por qué me preguntas eso?” he asks back. 

“Porque… Es tu novia,” Sage says, casually, raising one shoulder. 

When he looks up at the living room window, he sees the woman in question arriving home, in a white Jeep rolling slowly into the driveway. He won’t see her for another five minutes, but he’ll see a shadow figure of her if he takes a step to the side, obscured by her windshield, sitting with her eyes closed and her head against the headrest of the driver’s seat. Too many months left as an accountant, at the end of her rope and he knows it.  

“We never actually told you that, though,” Frankie says to Sage, leaning over the table to look more closely at her drawing. Glitter pens lay scattered next to her, ready to be used for the finishing touches. 

She just shrugs, dropping the pink crayon and grabbing a yellow one. 

“How come you think so?” he asks her. 

Sage rolls her eyes, then looks up at him with the crayon safely clutched in her hand. “Porque la amas,” she says slowly, as if spelling it out for him, “Y ella te ama…” 

Frankie huffs as he stands up. 

She smiles at him, clasps her hands together and holds them to her cheek. “Es como un cuento de hadas,” she says, batting her lashes. 

“You scare me sometimes,” Frankie grumbles, running his hand down the side of his face. 

She sings, “Porque soy muy lista, papi,” tapping her fingertip against her temple. 

“Es mi culpa, verdad?” Frankie asks, somewhat sardonic in his tone. 

And sooner than Frankie expects, a key turns in the door before Hailey slumps in. Sage turns, tosses the crayon, and calls out to her, “Hailey!” 

She jumps off her chair and runs to the front door, where Hailey greets her with a tired smile. 

“Hi baby,” she says, pulling off a pair of heeled sandals. 

“Hi.”

Frankie stands back in the kitchen, leaning against the cupboards while his eyes slide up along Hailey’s body, over her slacks fitting tight around her thighs, in her own words too thick to fit into anything and just how he loves them the most. Over her silky top, her shoulders, her arms, the handbag around her elbow. He thinks that, out of all the outfits he has ever seen her in, her work attire turns him on the most for some reason. 

—

“Are those daddy's headache pills?”

Hailey looks down at Sage pointing at her open pack of birth control. Sage’s hair brush ended up in the wrong drawer and now Hailey finds herself in what must be her first real moment of playing the role of a mother, on a random Tuesday morning when Hailey is dropping the girl off at school. By headache pills, she's referring to her father’s Klonopin prescription. 

“No,” Hailey says with a laugh, deciding at a split second’s worth of judgment that a calm approach is probably best. Calm and factual, hoping it makes sense. “They’re mine. They're so that I don't get pregnant.” 

“Ooohh.” Sage grabs her brush but keeps eyeing the pills. “With a baby!”

“Exactly,” says Hailey, letting go of the claw clip holding her hair and sitting down on the edge of the tub, relieved at the girl’s basic understanding of it all. She knows that Frankie has had some talks with her, but wishes she knew the extent of them before she herself was thrown into the deep end of it.

Sage turns to her. 

“Can I get pregnant?” she asks. “Should I take them too? What if I wake up and I'm—” Sage’s hands move in a circle protruding from her body in a beach ball sized shape. “ Super pregnant and I can’t move?!”

Hailey laughs again. “That won’t happen, sweetie, don’t worry. It takes a lot more than that.”

So Sage nods, looking contemplative as she leans against the doorway, and her eyes are on Hailey now. “My friend, Jenny, told me that parents cuddle together naked and put their bits together and that’s how they make a baby.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah. I asked daddy and he said it was true. And then he said some more things about how it’s for grownups and it’s serious and bla bla bla.” She points to her stomach. "And then I asked how the baby gets into the stomach and he said it's not in the stomach it's in the uterus. My pancakes go in my stomach. Then I got it." 

Hailey shrugs. “That’s pretty much it, yeah. Anatomy is very strange and fascinating.”

"But you just want to look at people's bones and skeletons," Sage counters. "They're creepy."

"They can be a bit creepy out of context."

“Have you ever had a baby?” Sage asks then. Hailey has gotten used to the rapid-fire question rounds by now. 

“Never.”

“Do you want to have one?”

“I would love to, in a few years.” 

“That’s good,” says Sage, and Hailey smiles at the assessment, nodding. 

The girl turns to the mirror and begins to brush her hair, then rummages through the drawer below, picks out a hair tie with a white bow, and holds it up to Hailey, signaling for her to step over. She stands behind Sage and parts the top of her hair into three sections, then starts to braid it tightly. 

“You won’t forget me if you and daddy have a baby, right?” 

Hailey can see her own brows knit in concern when she looks up at the two of them in the mirror, then holds onto the half-braid as she crouches, and Sage turns to her. 

“We would never, ever forget about you, Sage. Ever.” 

“Never?”

“Never. I don’t know anyone who loves their child more than your dad loves you.” 

The girl smiles, and Hailey smiles back. 

“No one will ever replace you in his heart. When you get a little sister or brother, his love just multiplies, you understand? It doesn’t get split in two.” 

“Okay,” Sage says, and pushes into Hailey, resting her face on the woman’s shoulder. Her hair falls back into those sections as Hailey hugs her tight. “I’m glad you’re here. Daddy isn’t sad like he used to be before.”

“I’m glad too.”

—

The house is too small with its single floor, with its two bedrooms and one bathroom in between. It’s cramped with boxes in the garage, cluttered with too many products on the bathroom counter and on the shelves in the shower. The fridge is overstuffed, the freezer crowded with three flavors of ice cream. On the calendar, reminders are scribbled in pink, green, and blue. Pink for Sage’s dental appointment, green for Frankie’s eye exam, blue for Hailey’s work party. Therapy , it says in green and in blue on different days. 

Sometimes it hurts to look at that calendar, to reluctantly count the weeks and know that, in two months from now, Sage wouldn’t be the only one had things gone differently. But it was the right decision. Frankie knows that. He just has to remind himself sometimes.

And sometimes Hailey, too. 

“I submitted the application,” she says, raising her hands in surrender with her eyes still on her laptop screen. “Paid the fee and everything, so... It’s in God's hands now.” 

Frankie shuts the door to the oven and steps over to the dining table, resting over it on his elbows, gazing at the underside of Hailey’s jaw, and her neck, and her closed eyes, until she lowers her head and looks at him and he can kiss her. “It certainly is,” he says, “But there’s no way you’re not getting in.” 

“Are you sure?” she asks, just as he slides his hands across the table, bracketing her computer with his arms, taking her hands in his. 

“Never been more sure of anything.” 

Another kiss, and this one is deeper. This one sees their tongues slipping past each other, and Hailey’s soft laugh into Frankie’s smile. 

Dinner comes out to three-ninety-nine per person, and there’s leftovers for tomorrow. On the fridge hangs a magnetic clip, and from it dangles a collection of receipts due for review on Sunday, for scanning into two different apps on Hailey’s phone, not a single dollar missed out on. No cashback wasted, no rewards points redeemed. For seven months, it has accumulated. For seven months, Frankie has taken Hailey’s hands into his and said that he promises. From Sage, they are keeping it a secret. When the girl is still at school, they talk about what her new room will look like. Hailey scrolls and saves and signs up for discount codes with an email address she never checks. 

“Look at you, huh?” he says. “World’s best almost -X-ray technician.” 

She laughs, shaking her head. The medical radiography program at the college will take two years. According to Hailey’s calculations, they’ll be able to afford a downpayment on a house in about another eight months. 

Tomorrow, Sage will come home from school and it’ll be Frankie’s first day with full custody of her. It wasn’t much of a battle, and though he could choose to feel insulted on his daughter’s behalf, all he saw on his ex-wife’s face was fatigue, and she signed the papers with no qualms. She said that things had been difficult, that two parents in terminal stages and absent older siblings had stretched her so thin that she didn’t want Sage to see. Her door is still open, and their daughter is old enough to know that she can visit. It wasn’t much work for the lawyers, not the paycheck they’d hoped for. There were tears, but no raised voices, and tomorrow, Sage will be coming home every day to the same too-small house, but it won’t be for long. Frankie will make sure of that. 

“I’m gonna do yours first,” Hailey says, pointing towards Frankie’s torso and wiggling her finger. “Gonna see what all is in there, lurking around.” 

“Oh, yeah?” 

“Yeah. It’ll be like when the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes and it broke the machine.” 

He rolls his eyes. Feels like it already did, is what he doesn’t say. 

—

In a very real way, it’s their last night alone together and although Hailey’s moans echo off the walls and Frankie relishes in the sound, although he takes the opportunity to fuck her in the pool under the blue glow of the water while the sun sets around them, and then again in their bed, the house feels too empty. 

It feels like something is missing when there isn’t a six year old bolting across the room, clinging onto them, giggling, laughing, or demanding to hold hands. It’s a strange feeling to only serve dinner on two large plates, to watch whatever they want on TV, to only say goodnight to each other. But tomorrow isn’t only significant due to Sage’s return, there will be a shift in Frankie’s everyday too. 

“You’re gonna do great,” Hailey says, and he doesn’t quite believe her. It’s obvious, written all over his face. The man wears his heart on his sleeve, lets his features sink into sadness or into disbelief without noticing it himself. 

“You sure about that?” he asks back, taking a deep breath while he tucks his pillow under his chest, wrapping his arms around it. The two of them face each other, heads turned in the darkness, in the corner of the room on Frankie’s bed. Their bed. The air is hot, and there’s sweat on their skin. She has little red marks from where he held onto her hips and pulled her back against himself. There’s an empty condom wrapper on the bedside table, waiting to be tossed. 

“Yes,” she says, craning her neck to kiss him on the nose. To see, through the darkness of the night, in the little light from the moon through venetian blinds, Frankie’s shy smile. “You’ve been working there forever. He’s probably been waiting for you to ask for years.” 

Frankie grunts. “I doubt that.”

“I don’t.”

“And what do you know about mechanics?” 

Hailey shrugs. “Nothing,” she says, before she falls asleep. 

The following day, Frankie spends his morning and his break working up the courage. Inside his lunch box, on top of the paper wrapped around his sandwich, a little note from Hailey reads GET HIS ASS!!! Love you <3 

It could be divine intervention, or just coincidence, that the door to the back office is open and the garage is nearly empty when Frankie gets back from his break, keeping the Post-It folded and tucked into his back pocket as a lucky charm. 

The time has come to act, and he knows it. The time came when he saw two pink lines on a pregnancy test for the second time in his life, and he could no longer find it in himself to sit back and take it, to feel defeated, to think that all he deserves is what’s left when everything else has been picked over in the world. 

So he acts. With shaky hands, and a racing heart, he acts. 

The door shuts behind Frankie’s back with a screech, and the owner of Mickey’s Mechanics and Autobody , Mickey himself, looks up from the desk. “Frankie,” he calls out, cheerful, dropping the pen from his hand. “What can I do for ya?” 

Frankie glances out of the window and scratches at his cheek. “I’m here to— well, I— I wanted to talk to you... About some stuff.”

Mickey’s eyes flare open, taken aback with a small gasp. “You’re not quittin’, are ya?” he asks, and he genuinely looks concerned. His voice has lowered somewhat, keeping their conversation hushed behind the cracked-open door to the office. 

“No, no,” Frankie begins, and he doesn’t have the time to process Mickey’s reaction. “No. Definitely not. I’m—” He clenches his fists at his sides, slides the tips of his fingers along his sweaty palms. He can’t look his own boss in the eyes, and he lowers his gaze, feeling the sweat at the edges of his hat, focusing instead on a streak of motor oil on his forearm. He takes an unsteady breath, and then looks up. “I’m here to ask for a raise, actually,” he says. 

“Oh.”

That’s when he looks at Mickey, and he can hear his heart pounding but there’s no way back now. 

“I’m just—” Frankie swallows. “We’re saving up for a place. So—” He can’t get any more out than that, can’t formulate any more words, and so his sentence hangs in the air between them, the end of it missing. 

“Been a long time coming.” Mickey nods. “Have a seat,” he says, and he’s the first one to smile when their eyes meet. Frankie follows after, though shyly.

When he comes home, what feels like countless hours later, Hailey whips her head around, not giving him a second to take off his shoes before she asks him, “And?!” 

“And what?” she gets in return, with a smirk on Frankie’s face while he unlaces his shoes with one hand and tosses her a thick, stuffed envelope with the other. 

Inside, there’s an updated employment contract, and the number she sees under the salary section is more than she pushed him to ask for, more than he dared to think about. The stapled collection of paper is tossed to the dining table as she jumps up and runs over, throws her arms around his neck and squeals. 

“I’m so proud of you,” she beams, though it’s muffled against the side of his t-shirt as he leans down to fit his arms around her waist. “ Yayayayay ,” she says, moving the two of them side to side in her joy, and she hears one little sniffle before she pulls back to see the wetness in his eyes, and how warm his smile is when he lets it show. 

“Wanna go for a walk?” he asks, eager to change topics, clearing his throat and blinking to clear his eyes of the pesky tears. 

“You’re so silly,” Hailey says, pushing her hand into his stomach as she grabs a pair of sneakers from the overcrowded rack. 

Out on the sidewalk, reaching into his back pocket, Frankie fishes out a lighter and a joint. He glances over his shoulder as he sticks it between his lips, lighting up with one hand around, taking a few puffs to let the tiny flame eat up the tip of the filter and then begin to burn the crushed-up weed. 

“Where the hell did you get that?” Hailey asks. “And when ?”

“I don’t know,” he mumbles around the filter. “Want some?” he asks. 

Hailey shrugs and reaches for it, lifts the joint to her lips and inhales, holds the smoke in her lungs for a second as they turn a corner, and then exhales until she coughs. She repeats the process two more times before she gives it back to Frankie, who takes it between his right index finger and thumb. The fingers on his left hand slide between hers, locking them together. They walk down the street, past mailboxes, past free tiny libraries that they stop to gaze into with their heads pushed together, and Frankie hides his hand while he nods to Mrs. Bakirtzis. 

“Hey,” Hailey says, suddenly paranoid that the older woman can smell the weed. She waves as they pass by, then leans into Frankie, whispering, “She fucking knows we’re high, doesn’t she?”

He looks back, looks at Hailey, and shrugs, before snorting and erupting into a silent giggle. He lifts his hand to his mouth, sucks on the filter and blows out the smoke while he looks up, shaking his head. He hands the joint to her, and she takes a few ashy, cough-inducing hits before he stumps it out under the sole of his black Converse. 

They walk further, crossing the street, stopping in front of a store that sells neon signs. There’s a small selection of them hanging in the store window, buzzing in bright pink and red. VACANCY , one of them glows. Another is a cat in a cowboy hat, a green cactus. “Woah!” Hailey blurts out, dragging Frankie towards a big, bright, pink flamingo sitting up against the glass. “That thing looks sick.” 

Frankie looks at it through red-rimmed eyes and snorts. She looks up at him and attempts at being serious, but the two of them break into a fit of shared giggles in the reflection of the store window. 

“Should we get it?” she asks. “It’s only—” She crouches down, looking at the price tag. “Seventy dollars.” 

“You know what we should do instead? We should go on a—” Frankie begins to say, and his eyes narrow slowly as he looks at her. “A— Uhh —” 

The two of them stare at each other long enough for multiple people to pass by on the sidewalk, none of them entering the store but rather hurrying past with phones to their ears and takeout bags in their hands. 

“You’re fucking high,” Frankie says, and Hailey begins to laugh.

“I don’t know what you’re—” she mumbles, “I don’t—”

“I think we should just get ice cream.”

“I think so too.”

—

“Do you think we made the right decision?” Hailey asks Frankie in the dark. The cicadas chirp outside of the closed window, in the silence between them, over the faint sound of Sage’s white noise machine in the other room, faintly emitting the sound of waves that slip through the space under her door. Every month, she asks him this, close to the seventh. 

“Mhm.” He kisses the top of her head, traces his fingertips down her spine. Every month, he gives her the same answer, and he knows that neither of them are sure if it’s true. 

It’s still tender, and despite Hailey visiting the pharmacy to refill her birth control prescription every month, the trash bin in the bedroom still fills with gold wrappers. No chances are taken, and the drawer in the nightstand stays stocked. It still hasn’t been cleaned out — in the bottom drawer, there is still an old, unopened diaper, there’s still a Barbie, there’s still a pacifier. But now, there are also earplugs for when Frankie snores, and there’s prescription hand cream with Hailey’s name on it. There’s a bottle of lavender oil and there’s a scrunchie she thinks she has left at work. 

—

Somewhere in one of the boxes, her divorce papers lay signed and sealed in a folder. There has been no word from John since they came in the mail, no news about him since he supposedly spent some time in New York and then came back to work in Miami. It’s been radio silent, from him and from her mother. 

Only her father has appeared on her doorstep, on their doorstep, with flowers and apologies on his wife’s behalf. And Douglas has taken Frankie’s hand in his, crouched down and said hello to Sage as well, and the neighbor’s cat in her arms, and he has sat down at their dining table and talked through everything with both Hailey and Frankie there. Mom’s having a tough time , he has said, with their eldest daughter considering a divorce, one of two sisters who have become ghosts. But that’s no excuse . 

He shows up Saturday, bright and early, with a pair of small rainboots in his hands. They’re purple and sparkly, brand new. He has become sort of an extra-grandpa, a reserve grandpa maybe, volunteering to take Sage to the Everglades to check out the crocodiles. A swamp tour on an airboat would never have excited a seven year-old Hailey, but Sage has been hyperactive with excitement for the past week, counting down the days. 

Frankie offers to pack a lunch for her, but Douglas waves him off. “My treat,” he says, holding out his hand for Sage, but she zooms past him, heading straight for the black Jeep in the driveway. 

And then she zooms back for a hug from her father, then one from Hailey, before she’s back out in the sun. 

The house is quiet then, and Frankie isn’t working weekends anymore, he only spends Monday and Wednesday evening at the community center, teaching the kids. The sun bakes on the tiles around the pool, shines against the windows, warms the grass outside the small house that's more like an apartment with a driveway and a pool out back. 

“What should we do?” he asks, shutting the door behind Sage, eyes tracking the truck as it pulls out of the driveway and then disappears down the street. 

It’s not often that they find themselves childfree during the day. 

“Well,” she says, turning her wrists to glance at a skinny, gold watch. “The viewing isn’t until three, so...” 

The handles on said watch only show two minutes passing before she’s on the couch with nothing on below her waist, and Frankie is between her legs, licking every soft inch and every crevice, two fingers pushing in while her pussy drools down their lengths. 

It’s a good way to spend their free time, he thinks. 

—

Sage often has playdates on Thursdays, and it leaves the two adults two hours to kill, wanting to stay in the area and not stray too far, but quickly getting tired of going to the Sonic drive-thru, trying every menu item and doing thorough reviews in a parked car. Hailey begins to send some emails, a few months earlier than they really plan to look at places seriously, inquiring about viewings and setting them all up for Thursday at four, one week after the other.  

“Can I get popcorn shrimp after all?” Hailey asks, while Frankie looks over his shoulder to back out of the driveway, heading to the last one they have lined up for the month.

“Swear to god,” he mutters, turning the wheel and driving out into the street, “It’s like having two of Sage sometimes.” 

Hailey leans against her headrest, face turned to him, all soft smiles. Not a bad person to be compared to at all, especially not from the person who loves her the most in this world. 

“You egg each other on too,” he notes, as he flips the turn signal and shakes his head. “Two against one.”

“And you lose every time.”

“I do.”

“But you don’t mind it, do you?”

“I don’t.”

Hailey wipes the grease off her fingers before stepping out of the car and approaching a freshly painted, light gray three bedroom house with a small front yard. It’s fun to daydream, she reasons, to walk through the empty kitchen, fingertips dragging across the island counter, and envision how she might decorate. It’s fun to look at the bedrooms, to assign one to her and Frankie, one to Sage, and wonder what the last will be used for. The agents always make assumptions, always say straight out that this is an excellent nursery and hey, isn’t it great that the kids can have one bedroom each? 

She can play along, and Frankie does too, smiling and nodding and squeezing her hand just enough for her to notice. When he has stepped into the bathroom to look around while she stays in the main bedroom, the agent gives her a strange look and she asks plainly, “What?” 

“You're not married?”

“No,” she says.

“Huh.” The agent turns, and his attention is only on the other guests for the rest of the viewing. 

With an hour left to kill, the two of them leave the empty house and head to the water, moving a little bit further from Sage’s friend’s house than intended but opting for a walk instead of staring out through the windshield. Some of the cruise ships are so big that they block out the sun, and Hailey walks alongside Frankie, her hand in his, gazing up at the gigantic things. They can hear music blasting from the decks as they approach the harbor, so close that the two of them stand in the shade and watch those monstrosities move by slowly, only paying attention to those around them when the ships have passed and the water is still again. 

Two men walk in front of them, and it takes Hailey a minute to realize that one of them looks familiar, speeding up a little and tugging Frankie along until she’s close enough to see that it is , indeed, who she thinks. She feels slightly out of breath at the sight, nervously sweaty, hoping he won’t be angry with her. 

“John?”

Her ex-husband turns to her and, for some reason, he looks mortified before he puts on a smile, taking a step away from his friend.

“Hailey!” he says, surprised. “How are you?” 

“I’m good,” she says, apprehensively, and a beat of silence passes before a ton of words come flying out with no real purpose. “I know this is sort of… AA-style of me, and I’m not trying to go on an apology tour but I feel like I owe you some sort of— I mean, we haven’t really talked since the— Uh —” She gestures around vaguely, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry, you remember Frankie, right? God, I’m so awkward, I should’ve—”  

“I do,” he says, smiles again and holds out his hand. Frankie takes it, gives it a shake while he nods, eyes darting over to John’s friend, giving him a nod as well. Then he looks at Hailey and she can’t figure out what the hell he’s trying to tell her. 

John’s friend holds out his hand to her too. “Gerald,” he says. 

“Hailey,” she says back, and John is biting at his lower lip, looking out onto the cruise ships, with a hand on his jaw. He looks uncomfortable somehow. 

Her attention returns to him again, and she still can’t find the words quite right but she tries, glancing at Frankie once. “It was fucked up of me to— to cheat on you, and I’m sorry. I should’ve—”

“Hailey,” John interrupts, almost laughing. “You don’t have to apologize.” 

“No, I really feel very bad about how I—”

He smiles and lets out an exhale, and all three men’s eyes are on her but she can’t figure out why. John looks at Gerald, and then back at her. “It’s okay,” John says, “Seriously.” 

She looks at him incredulously. Nothing makes sense. “You’re not, like, upset with me in any way?” 

“Not at all,” he says.

Gerald looks at his watch, then catches John’s eye and nods towards his left. 

“I’m sorry, we’ve really gotta run,” John says, reaching out for a hug now. “It was good seeing you,” he says to Hailey while he embraces her, and Gerald says his goodbyes before he takes John’s hand and they walk away. 

Hailey’s jaw drops and she watches as they disappear into the distance, between some trees lining the gate outside the parking lot. She turns to Frankie, and he just shrugs at her. 

“See,” he says, “You did him a favor.” 

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah.”

“Oh my god.”

“I know.” 

Even after the car has left, she stares towards the parking lot, dumbfounded. 

“I wonder if his parents know,” she says, absentmindedly. “I wonder if my parents know.” 

Frankie shrugs again, with his hands in his pockets. “Good question.” 

“He deactivated everything,” she says, eyes on the pavement, “I tried to lurk on him and I couldn’t find anything.” 

Frankie holds his hand out, and she takes it as they begin their slow walk along the water. 

“He looked happy at least.” 

“He did.” 

They take a few more steps, and Frankie wraps his arm around her shoulder, reaches up with a hand over the side of her head and tilts her toward him so he can kiss her hair. 

“My coworker said he looked familiar when I showed him a photo but he couldn’t figure out why,” she says, then huffs a laugh, “Maybe he saw him on Grindr.” 

“Maybe.”

—

jsmith3005 requests to follow her on Instagram a few months later, and when she taps through his profile, she sees that John has moved to New York with the man they saw him with on the street. He doesn’t follow anyone in his family, and none of them are in his photos either.

She follows him back and slips her phone into her purse as Frankie cuts the engine. It’s a pastel blue three bedroom this time around, and she sort of wants to say a prayer before leaving the car, but her words will likely just hit the ceiling, so instead she takes Frankie’s hand and smiles to him and sees his smile back, sitting in the silence for a moment while Sage looks out of the window of the backseat, and thinks to herself that there is no one she would rather be here with. There’s no one she would rather stand next to as they introduce themselves to the agent and begin to tour the rooms, Sage’s hand in Frankie’s while Hailey holds onto the brochures and pamphlets that are handed out in the hallway to all of the guests. 

He fills out an interest form, leaning over the kitchen island with Sage on his back, while Hailey looks at the upstairs laundry room. It’s a new build, with more houses of the same style nearly finished and ready for move-in next month, within a five minute walk. 

She finds herself alone in the room with the agent, looking at the appliances, going over the list in her head that Frankie gave her.  

“He's a little older than you, huh?” asks the man. 

“Oh,” Hailey laughs, “Just a few years. He looks ten years older when he hasn’t slept well, so—”

“A few?” he asks, and he seems… Oddly serious.

“Twelve?”

He tilts his head to the side then, hands clasped at the front of his blazer while he leans against the doorframe. “And how do I know you're not just with this guy for his money?” 

“His money ?” Hailey asks, breaking out into a genuine laugh now, but her face falls when she sees that her humor is not taken well. 

“Why’s that funny?”

“It’s not funny,” Hailey says, clearing her throat as she stands up. “It’s not funny.”

There’s an awkward moment, before she holds out her hand to clarify. “Trust me, I'm not just with him for his money. We’re really interested in one of these places and—”

He interrupts. “I’m gonna give you a piece of advice.”

Hailey turns her head.

“Nobody wants to sell a house to an unmarried couple with unstable finances and a kid with one parent,” he says. 

The ‘unstable’ bit clearly refers to her being in school.

“Ouch?”

“Yeah, ouch. And you can hate me but it's the truth.”

“You're the realtor, though,” she says, “You don't own this place.”

“I don’t. But the board takes recommendations from me on who to select.” 

“The board?” 

She can hear Sage and Frankie downstairs, everyone else having left while the two of them make their way through the first floor again.

“Okay, so what are we supposed to do then? 

The realtor pushes off from the doorframe and begins to turn as he says simply, “Get married. Come back when your names match.”

Hailey is left inside the empty room, asking back, “You really think that'd make a difference?”

And his voice is just an echo when he answers, “I don't think . I know .”

—

“That’s bullshit,” Frankie says, dismissing the realtor’s recited lines as he sets down a plate of burger patties in front of Hailey, then glances to make sure Sage didn’t catch the last word from her seat in the couch. “It makes no difference. A mortgage is a mortgage, that guy was just up his own ass. Maybe the board's full of bible thumpers or something, I don't know.”

“Really?”

“Yep.” 

Frankie turns and picks out burger buns from the toaster, hissing at their heat before he tosses them onto a plate. His calluses aren't helpful when they should be.

“So what do we do then?” Hailey asks.

He shrugs, and he's still turned towards the cupboards, slipping two more half-buns into the toaster. “Just keep looking.”

Hailey sulks, and he spots it when he turns around, taking a step in the direction of the fridge before turning to her.

“What?” he asks. 

She picks at her cutlery, looking down, the worst liar that Frankie has ever met. “Nothing.”

“Come on,” he says softly, leaning over the table to look into her eyes. “What’s on your mind?” 

She faces him, looks between his eyes. He doesn’t really look concerned, there’s just always this weight to his expression, a heaviness that’s there even when he smiles. Not quite sadness, not tiredness, just something heavy. “This is a huge commitment,” she whispers.

“It is.” 

“And part of me feels like we should be married before we get a house together.”

Frankie smiles and squints at her. “What have I told you about ‘should’ ?”

She sighs then, dropping her shoulders. That word is not allowed in their house anymore, banned like the worst of profanities. Should is nothing but a gateway to shame after an upbringing like hers. 

She corrects herself then. “Part of me wants to.” 

“Only part of you?” 

A moment goes by, another exhale from her fills the silence between them. “I just want it to be real this time. I don’t want to feel like I fucked up my only chance at the house and the marriage and… You know, the other thing.”

“I know.” 

“How sure are you about me anyway?” she asks him, and Frankie smiles wider, shaking his head.

“I couldn't be more sure about you, Hailey.” 

She whispers, “Would you marry me?” 

And he lowers to meet her, to whisper back, “Of course I’d marry you.”

She looks over her shoulder. Sage is still occupied with a bracelet-making set. “But I just got divorced. I mean, how do you know I'm genuine?” 

“Do I have your permission to call that a sham marriage?”

“Yes.” 

There’s a jar of burger dressing in Frankie’s hand, and he folds his arms, resting them on the table between glasses and empty plates. He speaks calmly. “It was based on nothing but family expectations and social pressure, and it has no effect on your life now or on our relationship. Do you see that annulled marriage getting in John's way?”

She concedes to that. “You might be right.” 

“We got that confirmed, didn't we?”

“Yeah.”

He sets the jar aside and takes her hands, brushing the pads of his thumbs over her palms. “I do want to marry you,” he says, “‘Cause I have no doubts about what I feel for you, and I have no doubts about how you feel for me either. Can we afford the wedding you deserve right now? No, we can't, but if you want to get married, on paper, before we get this house, then let's do it. If that's how I can show you how serious I am about you, we’ll get the law involved. We can have a wedding later, and it can be exactly how you want it to be.” 

“Really?”

“Really. I also know you hate seeing Smith on all your mail.”

Hailey rolls her eyes, but it’s all true. 

“And I know you haven’t changed back to Banks cause you don’t want that either.”

She licks her lips, tilting her face up at him, cocking her head. “So you’re saying Morales is better?”

“I’m saying it sounds pretty good in my head,” Frankie responds, voice lowered, smoother. He grins while chewing on his gum, lifting his brow. 

“Sleazebag.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he groans, standing up again. “Just your type.” 

An impatient voice comes calling from the living room. “Habrá algo de comer pronto?”

Hailey looks at the table, then turns to Sage. “Three minutes,” she says, “Finish up then come sit.”

“Can you tie it for me?”

Hailey puts her hands out, and Sage approaches with her untied bracelet and an outstretched arm.

—

“You have to propose for real when you can buy a ring,” Hailey says. 

“I will.”

“Not now.”

“Alright.” 

The papers are slid under a glass partition with their signatures at the bottom. It’s even less romantic than she thought it would be, and about as interesting as paying for a parking ticket. It’s just a contract, no more and no less. The lady behind the counter types on her computer and Hailey reaches up to play with her necklace, smoothing two fingers over a Virgin Mary pendant and then a cross. 

It's just like any other day, but when she goes to sleep, she’s married to the man laying next to her. 

—

“Check it,” Hailey says with a piece of mail in her hand a week or so later, shutting the door behind her. She doesn’t look up from the letter, fumbling to drop her bag and pull off her shoes, eyes entirely fixated on her name in the middle of it.

Hailey Morales

“Isn’t this crazy?” she asks, finally looking up to see Frankie laying across the couch, taking off his hat before he pushes his hand through his hair and fits it back on. Then he waves towards himself with one hand while she comes closer, tossing her cardigan over the side of the couch while he begins to sit up, and looks towards the letter she’s holding. 

She turns it to him and he reaches up to snatch it gently from her hand. He reads it over once, and lifts an eyebrow. “I like that,” he says, “I like that a lot.” 

“Yeah?” she asks, with one knee on the couch, taking it back when he holds it out for her.

Her eyes track his hand then, as it lands on his stomach, then travels further, pushing under the waistband of his sweats to adjust his dick. She hears the scratch of his nails after, over that thick hair, and his eyes are on her the entire time, brows pushed together in slight confusion at what she’s watching. 

“I like your outfit,” he says, sliding his hand out of his pants to show half an erection bulging out over his hip. 

“This old thing?” 

He nods then, looking at her button down shirt and her slacks, both in blush colored shades, with a keycard hanging from her waist. “It’s sexy,” he says, fitting two large hands around her waist and pulling her onto his lap.

“Is it?” she asks. “I think your sweatpants are sexy.”

“Oh, yeah?”

She blushes, pink and bright over her nose and cheeks, hot on her skin. “Yeah, ‘cause I can see your dick through them.”

“Exactly why I wore these, baby,” he says, turning her face back to his when she looks away in embarrassment. 

His cock hardens when she settles her weight on him, thighs spread over his lap and the fabric of her pants straining and stretching across her legs. He touches them, pushes his hands from her knees to her waist, shifting so that he’s against the back cushion and can begin to move her slowly back and forth over his erection. 

“That thing is huge,” she says, giggling when she looks down to see the full size of Frankie’s dick, covered in jersey. 

“Stop stroking my ego,” he retorts, brushing her hair away to get at her neck with his lips. 

Hailey bites her lip, pretending to think something over before she says, “I think I wanna stroke something else.” 

He laughs then, and it rumbles against her in warmth. “You’re a little vulgar for being so innocent,” he murmurs. “Most innocent girl I’ve fucked since high school.” 

“Learned from the best,” Hailey purrs, winking dramatically when he pulls back to look up at her, at her chest, her arms and shoulders, her hair and eyes and lips, her brown curls and freckles and the bracelets on her wrists. 

“I worship you, you know that?” he asks her. “You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life. Every time I see you, I think that I’ve never seen anything like you before. I’ve never wanted anything half as bad as I’ve always wanted you, ever since I met you. Just wanted to take you home and get you into bed with me. I don’t think you even understand how much I want you. I can’t get my dick down when I see you in the shower, can’t stop thinking about you when I’m at work. I want to fuck you, Hailey, constantly . I want to touch every part of your body and mark it as my own. Just want to do the nastiest shit to you, cover you in my come and lick it off of you after. And fuck if I want to get you pregnant again. I get fucking hard just thinking about it, I can’t lie to you.” 

Neither of them take their clothes off — his pants are pushed down just enough and her one leg has been slipped out of her pants, lace panties dangling off the edge of her foot while he fucks her on the kitchen counter. She grips his hair, kisses him, pushes his face into the side of her neck and takes his cock the way he taught her so long ago. He withdraws and rips the condom off when he gets close, rubbing the underside of his cock against her bare pussy until he comes, holding her face while she holds up her shirt so spurts of his load can coat her tits, and he can look down at it, feel another shiver of arousal at the sight while he’s still ejaculating and he’s sure he won’t get his dick to calm down after this either. 

He kisses her after, over her cheeks and her nose, while his come cools on her stomach, until his phone rings. 

“That’s gonna be Sage,” Hailey whispers, and he reaches over to pick it up and see that it is, indeed, her friend’s mother calling. 

“How’s it going over there?” he asks, his cock still wet and hard up against Hailey’s center. He nods, listens, kisses her neck quietly. 

On the other end, with the sound of splashing and squealing in the background, Marge says to him; “She’s asking for Hailey specifically to pick her up in one hour.” 

“Alright,” Frankie says, “I’ll tell her.”

— 

It’s Father’s Day in forty-eight hours, and Hailey waits at a picnic bench in the schoolyard while masses of students run out through the main doors. All around her are colorful backpacks and light-up sneakers, shouts and laughter and kids calling out for their mothers, waiting by the gate. They run to them, arms out, and get picked up and held and brought to the car, even when they’re years past old enough to walk on their own. Still, they run to mom, and relax in her hold. 

Then Hailey hears her name shouted from afar, and watches a splash of purple running towards her at hyperspeed, little sneakers pounding the grass while her backpack shakes, and Hailey can do nothing but smile when she stands up, tumbling back a little when the girl reaches her and throws her arms around Hailey’s waist. 

She crouches, embracing Sage in a real hug, one where they stand there and move side to side, as if they were reunited after years apart, though it’s only been eight hours. 

“Are we going shopping today?” Sage asks, lit up like a Christmas tree, grinning.

“We sure are.”

And so the two of them browse the store windows, walking hand-in-hand. They look at clothes, at stuffed animals, they sniff candles and carefully select a soap for the kitchen. Sage tells Hailey about her day at school, about her friends and her teachers, and gets a piggyback ride through Target. They get to the art supply store and the Dollar Tree last, and Sage gets carte blanche with a twenty dollar bill, all of it going towards a card she will craft while the two of them eat dinner and Frankie works late. 

“What should we bring home for dad?” Hailey asks, as they browse the extensive menu at the takeout area of the Cheesecake Factory. 

“He eats so much,” Sage sighs, flipping through the options. “We need to get two for him.”

“The portions here are gigantic.”

“And?” 

Hailey concedes. He’s been at work since eight in the morning. 

They stand at the glass counter and look at the cheesecakes then, pondering which one he should get for dessert. The girls decide to share a raspberry cheesecake, and Frankie gets one with salted caramel. For dinner, Sage picks farfalle with chicken and roasted garlic (two thirds of which will become Frankie’s lunch tomorrow), Hailey gets Jamaican black pepper chicken, and Frankie gets a bacon cheeseburger with fries, as well as a chicken bellagio. Not a bite of his food will be left when he’s done. 

—

With half-empty takeout boxes crowding the dining table, the two of them eat while Hailey studies and Sage works on her card. 

The door unlocks, and Sage turns around while hunching over her work, not entirely happy with her father’s presence. 

“No peeking!” she says firmly, and holds a very stern finger out to him, that follows him with a point, every step he takes after throwing his shoes onto the rack. 

He holds his hands up in surrender and looks away, moving slowly toward the counter where his food is stacked in two boxes. He holds a hand in front of his eyes when he gives Hailey a kiss, then grabs his food and heads to the couch. Hailey can’t imagine he minds, and he turns the TV on while she continues to study, and Sage punches little star shapes out of her cardstock. 

—

On Sunday morning, Hailey turns the alarm off on her watch and gets out of bed as quietly as she can. Frankie snores lightly, head resting on his forearms, stirring a little but groaning and resettling while she stands up, taking one slow step at a time away from the bed and towards the closet, picking a shirt and a pair of pajama shorts off the recliner, and slipping them on with no sudden movements. 

The door shuts quietly behind her, and the door handle is turned slowly. A second of silence, ensuring the coast is clear, and she tiptoes to Sage’s bedroom. Her door has been cracked open since last night, so she carefully opens it a little further, whispering the girl’s name. 

“I’m in here!”

Hailey flips on the light, and Sage’s eyes are still closed while she holds around her stuffed bunny, with one arm folded under her face, just like the man in the other room. Hailey sits down on her bed, and waits for her to rub her eyes and begin to reach for the blinds over her window. 

“Are you ready?” 

Sage looks under her bed and fishes out the card, before the two of them tiptoe out, and open the door to Frankie with one eye open, looking relieved. 

“Happy Father’s day,” says Hailey, and Sage runs in, wearing purple pajamas with butterflies all over, jumping into bed and demanding a hug before presenting him with the card. With both arms wrapped around her, he squeezes until she squeals, closing his eyes and turning side to side, placing a kiss at the top of her head, and holding her tight for a few seconds longer. 

As she sits down next to them, Hailey wonders what Frankie’s love for Sage feels like, knowing that her own love for the kid is beyond anything she has ever experienced. It must be ten, a hundred, a thousand times stronger, and yet she doesn’t know how it’s possible to love Sage more than she already does, entirely unable, now, to see a future without her around. The girl and her father, a package deal like no other, the family Hailey never thought she would have. 

“Hice esto para ti,” Sage says, waving the card while Frankie releases her from his hold. 

“Para mi?” he asks. 

“Sí.”

She hands it to him, and he looks at it with wonder. “Wow,” he says, opening to see Hailey’s writing. “Hailey te ayudó?”

His daughter nods, then points to the inside of the card, where three little figures stand in a driveway. “Ella nos dibujó, mira.”

Frankie laughs — Hailey has included his hat, Sage’s backpack, her own reading glasses, and the neighbor’s cat on the ground next to them. The front of the card is a starry sky above a beach, in shades of blue, and gold glitter for sand. 

“Es hermoso,” he says, with his eyes still on the card, “Gracias, mi amor.” 

Then he looks at the drawing again. 

“Do you like it?” Hailey asks. 

“Lo amo,” he says, and she smiles at that, giving Sage a high-five for a successful joint effort. 

He looks at it for a full minute straight, while Hailey’s stomach rumbles and she mouths ‘pancakes?’ to Sage, who agrees wholeheartedly. 

“Yo también tengo algo para ti, de hecho,” Frankie says, looking at Hailey. 

She looks at him a little bit quizzically, unsure of what exactly she’s supposed to be getting on a day dedicated to him. “Oh?” 

He reaches for her, and pulls her closer, gently, by the back of her neck. “Mi bella esposa,” he says quietly, and kisses her cheek, then her forehead, “Of course I have something for you.” 

Frankie grunts as he gets up, dressed only in a pair of black boxers, grabbing his sweatpants on the way but disregarding his own lack of a shirt. When he walks into the living room, scratching the underside of his jaw, Hailey and Sage sneak under the duvet and steal his spot, nice and warm from his body heat, leaving him a skinny sliver of space on the edge of the mattress when he returns. There’s something in his hand, that his fingers curl around to hide. 

“Give me your hand,” he says as he sits down at the edge of the bed, and when she reaches out, palm-up, he places a small black box in the middle. 

Sage gasps, and Hailey glances once at her, then at Frankie, before lifting the lid to see a ring with a light blue sapphire, the same shade as the glowing water in the pool of the backyard, with little diamond accents and a gold band. It sits in black velour, glimmering in the morning light from the window. 

Her lips part and she looks at it with big eyes, only turning her attention to Frankie’s expectant expression when she begins to smile. 

“How did you afford this?” she asks, looking down at it again, lashes fluttering. The sapphire sparkles and it’s the most stunning piece of jewelry she’s ever seen. It looks like water, crystallized and set in gold. 

He shrugs, but he’s got the most cocky, pleased smile when he says, “I had a piggy bank.”

“You had a piggy bank ?”

He fakes insult, scoffing a little though he’s still grinning, and he doesn’t take his eyes off of her for a split second. Not a chance. “Can’t a grown man have a piggy bank anymore?” 

Hailey rolls her eyes and looks at the ring again, smiling with cheeks that burn while she runs the tip of her index finger over the little diamonds. 

“They’re aspirational,” Frankie says, “And I happened to have this piggy bank for quite some time.”

“How long?” asks Hailey. 

Sage climbs onto Frankie’s lap and settles there, peering at the inside of the little box, looking for permission from Hailey to touch. She nods. 

“Three years,” he says. 

“Why didnt—”

“I just threw random money in there and didn't think about it, you know? Won a game of cards against some friends, that’s a hundred. Found a twenty on the street, put that in there. It adds up.” 

“You didn't spend it on bills?” 

“You gotta keep the dream alive,” he says, shaking his head slowly. “That’s worth a few dollars in interest fees.” 

With her free hand, Hailey pushes it through his curls, traces her knuckles down the side of his face. “And what was your dream?” she asks. 

“To have someone like you in my life,” he says, then looks down at Sage. “In our lives. Right?”

Sage nods vigorously, and Hailey looks at them, gently touches the girl’s face too, and thinks to herself that the two of them are the greatest blessing she could wish for. 

Frankie looks up at her, and there’s something sneaky, something cocky again, in the way he smiles. “I have a real ring now, don’t I?”

Hailey breathes in and looks into his eyes, conceding. “I guess you do.”

“You know what that means.” 

“Do I?”

“Yeah, you do."

And so Frankie takes her hand, gently pries the little box from her, lifts out the ring, and when he says her name, it’s the beginning of a question.