Page 70 of A Slice of Love

“That’s what I thought. I win.”

Frankie steps around me, taking in my childhood bedroom in all its original glory.

We didn’t have a lot of extra money when I was a kid, so I was surprised when I asked to repaint my room for my eighth birthday and my mother said yes. She bought the best can of paint we could afford, and we spent an afternoon together coating the walls.

Only we didn’t have enough to do two coats…or the money to buy another can.

The result was a putrid green and the Power Rangers border art still peeking through.

It’s an ugly room, but it’s mine, and the memories attached to the remodel are some of my favorites.

I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

Frankie doesn’t say a word about the paint, her eyes wandering around, skimming over every small detail.

In the far corner sits my lone bookshelf that’s full of everything but books.

Unless you count notebooks.

Ournotebooks.

Frankie’s eyes light up when she sees them, and she practically runs over, plucking one from the shelf.

She flicks through the pages, glancing over what we wrote, the things we shared, the small details of our lives that were so important back then.

There are tears in her eyes when she finally looks up at me, and I cross the room, not letting a single one trek down her cheeks.

“Don’t cry.”

“I can’t believe you kept them.”

“Of course I kept them.”

“Why?”

“You think I’d throw them away?”

“I-I wasn’t sure. I felt like you threw me away, so I figured…” She trails off, her tears overwhelming her.

I pull her into me.

“I didn’t throw you away, Frank. I was forced away from you. Well, I thought I was at the time. Your father used to play football at State. He had connections that could keep me off the team—at least I believed he did.” I squeeze her tighter. “I was wrong. I was young and stupid, and I let the fear of losing football control me when it should have been the fear of losingyouthat guided my decisions.”

“A part of me is glad you left,” she admits quietly.

I pull back. “What? Why would you say that?”

“If you hadn’t left, I’d have followed you. I would have gone to school for something that doesn’t give me the same joy football gives you. I wouldn’t have been happy in the long run.”

“I wouldn’t have let you follow me.”

“Maybe not now, but then you would have.”

I want to argue with her, but I have a feeling she’s right.

“Besides, back then I was kind of enraptured by you. I wouldn’t have noticed you’d let me follow you until it was too late and I’d already fallen out of love.”

My pulse quickens.

---