Page 92 of Gravity of Love
He wondered ifthiswas what the text from Frankie had been about—if this was the thing she needed to talk to him about. The confession she’d been building up to all day. Was it possible she was seeing Zion now? Was it possible that the thing she’d done was Zion?
Liam wanted to believe he knew her better than that. He wanted to believe that she was the same girl he’d known his entire life, whom he’d spent two nights in bed with, who he’d been inside of, and who he’d wrapped his arms around and held as she fell asleep and she whispered, “I love you, too. I always have.” But if there was one thing he understood better than most, it was that the people that you trusted the most and loved the most that could keep secrets, they could surprise you. He’d learned that lesson the hard way.
Frankie’s laughter cut through the music, bright and sharp, and he looked up just in time to see Zion spin her out, then reel her back in, like a magician with a silk scarf. The rest of the room blurred away. All Liam could see was her.
The music shifted to something even slower, something that had the kind of sentimental power you only heard at small-town weddings. Zion drew Frankie even closer, rubbing his hands up and down her back. Frankie sighed, content and peaceful, as Zion kissed her forehead. The same forehead Liam had kissed before he left for work fifteen hours earlier.
Liam felt like someone simultaneously punched him in the gut and kneed him in the balls. Every cell in his body felt hot, and then cold, and then nothing at all. He forced himself to breathe, to unclench his jaw, and to stop his hands from shaking. He told himself that none of it mattered, that he and Frankie weren’t anything to each other. They’d shared two nights together and hadn’t made any promises. But the words rang hollow, thin as tissue and just as useless, because all he could see when he closed his eyes was the way she smiled at Zion, theway she let herself fall into his arms. It was like watching a house burn down that you’d already lost the deed to. Technically, the fire wasn’t taking anything from you, but you still couldn’t look away.
He took a moment to collect himself in the shadowy corner of the tent. The coolness there was a small mercy, but it quickly curdled into a suffocating heat, a silence that pressed in around him. He pushed his thumb against the bridge of his nose and tried to count backwards from ten in Spanish, then in English, then in French just for the hell of it. It didn’t help. Frankie’s laughter was like a sonar ping, cutting through music and conversation, finding him wherever he tried to hide.
He needed to leave. He needed air. Most of all, he needed to not be there, not be a part of this slow-motion disaster where everyone seemed to know the ending except for him.
He slipped away from his brother, muttering something that was probably “bathroom,” and started weaving his way through the mass of partygoers. There was a brief moment where he thought about finding Cora, he’d promised her that he’d attend tonight. But he’d fulfilled that promise. He came. He saw. He definitely had not conquered.
The tent was even more crowded than before, the dance floor packed with bodies, the air thick with perfume and cologne and the scent of something caramelized from the dessert table. He moved through the space like a ghost, his height giving him an advantage, but not enough to stop people from reaching out to clasp his shoulder, shout his name, ask about the hospital or following his dad’s footsteps, or memories from when he was “ditching school and getting caught smoking.” He played the role—smile, nod, deflect with a joke—but it was pure muscle memory. He was somewhere else entirely, numbed-out and unreachable, watching from a distance.
He drifted outside, past the tent flaps, into the sharp, pine-edged air of the night. The cold hit him with a jolt, but it was better than the stasis inside. He made his way back up the path of solar lanterns, hands in his pockets, head down. Out there, the only sounds were the distant hum of laughter and the thudding bassline, barely audible. He tried to focus on the dark, the stars, and the way the wind whipped down from the mountains and rattled the branches overhead.
When he arrived at his SUV, he looked up. The sky there was wider than in any city, black and infinite, dusted with stars so bright they didn’t look real. It should have been beautiful. It probably was. But tonight, it just made him feel smaller.
He dug his phone out of his pocket and stared at it, thumbing through his notifications. There was a text from Poppy, asking which dress he liked best. There was another from a nurse at the hospital who had been on maternity leave and hadn’t been able to say goodbye. And then there was Frankie’s.
Frankie:We need to talk. I did something, and I need to tell you. Call me.
He considered texting her back, asking what the fuck happened, and telling her he’d seen her dancing and talked to his brother, but he didn’t trust himself not to say something he’d regret, something that would make things even worse than they already were. Instead, he just got in his SUV and drove home.
All he had to do was get through the wedding tomorrow. One day. One day of pretending everything was okay. It wasn’t even an entire day. It was a few hours. A wedding and a reception. Three hours of keeping his mask in place, of making sure no one knew what was really going on inside of him. He knew he could do it, he had thirty-three years of practice.
26
Frankie perchedon the window seat in Liam’s great room, knees drawn to her chest, playing with the white satin belt cinched around her waist to keep her robe in place. All of her theias (aunts) and her mom were gathered at Liam’s to get their hair and makeup done for the wedding. As the first to get the beauty treatment, she’d been ready for over an hour. Jenna, who owned The Beauty Spot, kept catching her fidgeting—twisting—her beach waves and demanding she ‘release the strands.’ She couldn’t help it, she was a nervous twister.
Across the room, Theia Joanne, Theia Dee Dee, and Theia Selene debated the merits of gel versus mousse, while Kiki, the town’s makeup wizard who rented space at The Beauty Spot, dabbed expertly at Joanne’s eyelids. The air in Liam’s great room swirled with the scent of coffee, curling iron, and the frosty snap of the morning mountain dew sneaking in through the barely cracked back slider, which had been opened several times to let Lucy out. Even though the voices bounced cheerfully from wall to wall, Frankie felt as if she were floating above it all, stuck somewhere between anticipation and dread.
From the kitchen, her mom’s laughter rang like a bell, and then Cora herself appeared, clutching a mimosa. She looked radiant. Just plain happy, in an effortless way, Frankie was crossing her fingers, toes, eyes, and legs, her mood would continue through the wedding, honeymoon, and her marriage. She wanted her mom to have her happy ever after.
Cora scanned the room. “Where’s the daughter of the bride?”
Frankie waved half-heartedly. “Present.”
Mentally absent but physically present,she thought to herself.
Theia Joanne, ever the nurturer, set down her coffee. “You all right, Mighty Mouse?”
Frankie pasted on her best smile, determined not to ruin her mom’s day. “I’m great, just tired!” Only one half of that statement was a lie.
She hadn’t slept at all last night. She hadn’t even rested her eyes. Her sleepless night was spent staring at the ceiling, clutching her phone as she lay in bed, waiting with bated breath for it to vibrate with a call or text that never came. After she sent Liam the text yesterday morning asking him to call, telling him she had something she needed to talk to him, she expected to hear from him, but he never got back to her. Apparently, he made an appearance at the welcome dinner last night, but she hadn’t seen him.
Henry Walker, the mayor, mentioned speaking to Liam. When she’d heard he arrived she’d gone looking for him, but he was nowhere to be found. When she got back to his house, the door to his bedroom was locked, and the faint trace of aftershave lingered in the hallway. When she’d knocked, there’d been no answer. When she’d texted, nothing.
She’d called him at least a dozen times from her room. Each time, straight to voicemail. She’d tried again this morning, but the result was the same. Voicemail. Unread texts. Total radiosilence. He was gone when she came downstairs at six a.m. His door was open, with no signs of life inside. He hadn’t returned.
Her stomach was all twisty and raw. She hadn’t been able to eat breakfast or even drink coffee. Her chest hurt, like something was crushing it. Her heart was a Billy Ray Cyrus song, achy and breaky. Frankie wasn’t the type to let a man get under her skin. She wasn’t this upset when she discovered Tristan’s infidelities, which should tell her something. This was different. Liam was different. A part of her needed him to walk through the door just so she could breathe again, even though every ounce of pride screamed otherwise.
Frankie’s fingers tightened around the soft satin fabric of her robe belt when her mom called across the room, “Mouse, do you know where to find extra towels?”
“What?” She blinked. “No. Why would I?”
