Page 46 of Unloved

How come you’re suddenly okay with everything?

Taken aback by his questioning, I narrow my eyes at him. “Do you not want me to be?”

He shakes his head vehemently and types as quickly as his fingers will let him.

That’s not what I meant and you know it.

“I don’t know what you want from me,” I say, my tone annoyed. “My choices are wallow or don’t. The only productive thing I can do is move forward. Iwantto move forward.”

Frankie climbs off the recliner and comes to sit on the couch. Both of our bodies are turned to face each other, my legs crossed, his with one on the couch and the other hanging off the side. He takes hold of my shoulders and brings me in for a hug.

His arms wrap around me, and I feel the tension leave him when I hug him back.

We sit there in silence, and I realize Frankie has taken this whole thing harder than I have. I don’t rush the hug or push him away. I could empathize with the brother who feels responsible for things that were out of his control, the same way he was forever empathizing with the boy who feels unloved and unwanted.

Family isn’t always rational, but we do what we have to do.

Letting me go, he reluctantly pulls away and continues texting.

I’m sorry. I keep thinking of that scared little eight-year-old boy, with only his backpack, nervously walking into the group home. And I don’t ever want you to feel like that again.

We’re finding our way back to each other again, learning how to live in the same world, on the same wavelength. There are going to be some teething issues as we become acquainted with the adult versions of one another.

Wanting to steer the conversation to something other than myself, I tip my chin up at him.

“So, you and Arlo? Finally get your shit together?”

Frankie can’t hide his smile, or the blush in his cheeks either, but he tries to, using texting me as an excuse.

Speaking of Arlo. He told me you asked him if I could move back home.

“Well, it didn’t seem like you were going to ask him. And it’s your house too,” I remind him.

When we all aged out of the foster care system, the five of us moved into one house, and apart from Frankie, we all still live there.

I know he doesn’t want to commit to staying in LA, especially since he’s built a successful life for himself in Seattle. But I also know after everything he and I have been through this last month, and he and Arlo slowly finding their way back to each other, the decision isn’t going to be an easy one.

I give his knee a reassuring squeeze. “Just tell me when you’re ready to leave this rental, and I’ll move back home too.”

Nodding, he covers my hand with his and then raises it to his chin to sign “thank you.” I couldn’t see any of us attempt to sign without thinking of Rhys. He’s effortlessly weaved his way into all our lives, and it’s where I desperately hope he’d stay.

Frankie’s hand repeatedly hits my knee.

“What?” I ask.

The message comes through almost immediately.

There’s that smile again. What are you smiling about?

Climbing up off the couch, I jokingly give him the finger. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. Now, I have my first physical therapy appointment in forty minutes,”I tell him, changing the subject and giving myself an out. “Can you drive me?”

* * *

Two hours later, the physical therapist is helping me put my arm back into the sling, and Frankie is taking notes on how I can replicate these exercises at home. He is more parent than brother, and as I navigate meeting new people in different circumstances and have to find creative ways to communicate, his presence is invaluable.

“Want to have lunch?” I ask him as we climb into his car.

Closing the doors, we both put our seat belts on and I poke around at my phone and pull up the notes app. I’m sure it’s frowned upon, but I hold up the cell in between us, not too close to make it obvious, but close enough the talk-to-text feature could pick up Frankie’s voice as he drives.

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