Page 53 of Come Home to Me

Sarah

I text Frank the moment my flight lands. He responds to tell me he’s waiting at baggage claim. His words are curt. Informational. There’s no hint that he’s excited to see me. No hint as to how he’s feeling. No hint as to whether or not he’s sober.

Except I know he’s sober.

He has to be.

He drove here and Frank isn’t the kind of person to get behind the wheel while he’s intoxicated.

I hurry through the airport, desperate to see him, but my heart drops when I do. His hair, normally perfectly messy, is an actual total disaster. His beard has grown way past five o’clock shadow. His face is strained, and his eyes are bloodshot, but he smiles when he sees me, wrapping me in a tight hug.

“You really do bring me joy,” he says, his breath whispering past my ear. “I can’t tell you how glad I am to see you again.”

I inhale, checking his breath for any hint of alcohol and am relieved to find nothing but mint. I melt into him, the familiar planes of his body feeling more like home than Brookside. “I missed you, too.”

We hold hands through the airport and then again on the drive back to his apartment. He asks me about my father and I give him the last two days’ worth of information. I want to talk about him, but every time I try, he changes the subject.

“I overslept,” he says as he fits the keys into the lock on his front door. “And didn’t get to clean up before I left.”

I’ve never seen Frank’s apartment look anything but spic and span, save some unopened mail or the remnants of his morning coffee left on the counter. But, I’ve never seen Frank himself look anything but spic and span, and the man in front of me is a disheveled mess. “It’s fine,” I say, though the moment I step through the door, I pause.

This is not fine. This is the remnants of a breakdown. Or the beginning of one, whispers a horrified voice in the back of my head.

Books cover the floors with pictures, knickknacks, and the shelves they sat on thrown in for good measure. Remnants of a pizza sit in a box on the counter, half-eaten pieces of crust strewn around the inside. An empty bottle of Jameson lies on its side on the coffee table, which is sitting at an odd angle to the couch, and two more bottles, one opened, the other still full, stand like sentinels near the trash. I turn to Frank who runs a hand along his mouth, the stubble scratching across his skin.

“It wasn’t a good couple days.”

“I’d say not.” I step close to Frank and run my hands up his arms, my gaze locked on his. “You want to talk about it?”

“Not really.” He rolls his bloodshot eyes. “There’s nothing to talk about.”

There’s actually quite a lot to talk about, but I take a page from his book and don’t push. “Okay. But when you’re ready, I’m here.” I smile and Frank turns away.

I doubt he’s been sober very much in the last couple days and sadness settles in my heart. In my head, he was impenetrable. An almost inhuman example of how to live life. Seeing him like this is like watching a hero fall. Graceless. Disappointing. Disheartening.

It feels like I’m standing next to a stranger. My Frank would swoop me into his arms, kiss me like I’m oxygen and he’s starving for air, then drag me into the bedroom while telling me how much he missed me. This Frank can barely maintain eye contact. “You wanna take a nap?” I ask.

“Nah.” He scrunches up his nose and runs a hand into his hair. “Guess I should probably start cleaning up this mess.” He bends to grab a book off the floor, then stares at it like he’s never seen it before. “I didn’t drink all of it,” he says, indicating the bottles near the trash. “I started to, but I got control of myself before I went through with it.”

“Good.” I smile, eager to find something positive to focus on, then crouch to start picking stuff off the floor. What he needs is action. He needs his apartment back in order, so we can start working on a plan.

Frank snorts. “Good, huh? You telling me I’ve been a good boy for kind of doing what you told me to do?” His words are caustic and the look in his eyes tells me he intended them to hurt. I furrow my brow and refocus my efforts on cleaning up. There’s no telling how long he’s been sober, though I’d venture to guess not long. He’s definitely hungover and probably feels like shit. I can handle some mean words while he’s working all this out. If the tables were turned, Frank would stick by me until I got myself under control.

“Is there any place you’d like me to put this stuff?” I hold out the things I’ve gathered from the floor. I don’t bother to smile. He’s not looking at me anyway.

Frank drops onto the couch. “I’m kinda partial to where I had it.”

I glance at the space on the wall where the shelf used to be, only to remember the shelf itself is on the floor. “Well, the shelf is broken, so I don’t think this stuff will go back…”

“I mean the floor, Sarah. Just put it back on the floor.” Frank drops his head on the back of the couch and closes his eyes.

I take a long breath as hurt rolls through me. With anyone else, that would be my cue to leave, and leave permanently. I’d be gone faster than he could blink. And part of me is ready to go. Of all the people in the world, I never expected Frank to treat me this way. I thought he was better than this.

He is better than this.

This isn’t him.

This is the alcohol talking.

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