Page 22 of Slow Burn
He shrugged without looking at her. “Sure.”
Cole appeared, setting a beer in front of him. The two men exchanged a look Jocelyn couldn’t read, leaving her with an inexplicable sense of exclusion that ran deeper than the moment. She rolled her shoulders to chase away the feeling.
Cole moved on, leaving the silence to stretch between her and Frank. What sat in that gap was heavy, and her heart strained under the weight of it.
“I’m sorry about the other day,” she said, trying to ease the pressure. “I shouldn’t have come at you like I did.”
Frank shook his head, never looking away from the beer in his hand. “No, I’m sorry. I was off-kilter, and I didn’t handle it well.” He finally lifted his head, meeting her eye. “God, you’re the spittin’ image.”
Heat rose in her cheeks. She wasn’t sure if she was flattered or unsettled. Especially knowing how in love with her mama he’d been.
He turned away. “It just knocked me sideways.”
A glass appeared in front of her—an old fashioned. Jocelyn blinked, then looked up in surprise. It was a good guess, but even if it hadn’t been, it was a quiet gesture of support she wouldn’t have expected, even from Cole.
She gave him a grateful smile then took a sip to steady herself. “How have you been, Frank?”
He lifted a shoulder and brought the beer to his lips, maybe to buy time—either to talk himself into being honest or to carefully craft a falsehood. The air felt heavy with both.
“Been alright,” he said finally. “Plenty to complain about, but plenty to be grateful for.”
Diplomatic. So neither. Or both.
She tapped on the sides of her glass, waiting for the liquid courage to kick in. “Well, I guess that’s good.”
Sighing, Frank folded both arms on the bar and turned to her. “Jossie, why are you here?”
She winced, taking a long stall sip. So much for easing in. The hurt and history between them had more of an impact than she’d care to admit. Why couldn’t there be some part of her that wasn’t bruised?
If anyone knew how the town had treated them, how badly her mama had wanted to leave Cedar Hollow, it was Frank. With his offers of marriage more than once came suggestions of moving, starting over somewhere people didn’t know them. Frank would know there wasn’t much reason for Jocelyn to come back now. The case was closed, even if none of them were healed.
She swallowed and almost told him the truth, but instinct held her back. His grief was still too obvious. She settled on a half-truth.
“I’m the same age Mama was,” she said softly.
Frank went rigid, staring at her until he forced himself to take another drink of his beer. It would’ve looked normal but for his tension.
“I guess I just wanted some way to feel connected to her again. To understand her life as it was back then. My therapist encouraged me to… to find some closure.”
Frank’s jaw ticked.
“Anyway, John’s award ceremony was an excuse to come. But she’s the reason I’m staying for a little.”
He rubbed a hand over his mouth, taking a long moment to digest that—or to hide what he didn’t want her to see.
She let him have the time to process and glanced down the bar. Cole was pouring drinks at the other end, but his attention was angled toward them. He said something to someone, his gaze unwavering.
“So why talk to me?” Frank’s tone held an edge she didn’t understand, like he blamed her—the nine-year-old who left—for the silence that had followed.
She turned back to him, ignoring that new sting. “You were part of our lives,” she said carefully. “You were important to her.”
“Was I?” His fist tightened around his glass.
“She wouldn’t have brought you around if you weren’t.” Jocelyn hesitated, thinking of how perceptive she’d been as a child, and how much she’d still missed.
Frank gave his head a small shake. “I loved your mama.” The unspoken words echoed beneath what he said:still do.
Jocelyn had seen it the other day, the way his face lit at the sight of her, sending him to another time and place, before he realized she wasn’t—couldn’t be—Bonnie. It made her reluctant to ask the questions she truly wanted to. But one memory pressed forward, something she felt wouldn’t tip her hand too far.
