Page 97 of These Thin Lines

And Vi never needed to sell the pictures to break her up with Frankie…

“I don’t want you to hate me like Renate does. At death's door and she’s refusing to see me, Chiara.”

Tick Tock.Time was running like sand through her fingers, the sensation so real she lowered her face to her hands that lay limp in her lap.

“Iam not at death's door.” Her own voice was muffled, but Chiara heard the note of steel in them, nonetheless.

“No, but you and I are. I saw Vi earlier. I saw her face. It was the face of a someone who’d been exonerated, someone who won—”

Chiara’s head shot up, her eyes on Frankie. “Maybe if you’d stop talking about me like I am some kind of damn prize to win, to hold, to conquer! Maybe then none of this would have ever happened!”

Her own outburst took her by surprise, her mood careening from heartbroken to angry—and no longer at herself. For once, that made her feel good. It made her feel strong. Vindication tasted sweet, and so Chiara allowed it to flow.

“Don’t drag Vi into this. She has nothing to do with you and I or this goddamn notion of winning. She did notwinme. I almost ruined her, and she never asked for anything. Instead, she paid for those damn pictures for years, and I have continued to punish her ever since she came back into my life.”

At Frankie’s utterly blank stare, Chiara barreled on.

“I used her five years ago, and I thought she used me, and we never forgave ourselves for any of that. All that guilt, choking us both. So don’t tell me she was in here gloating, because there is absolutely no way she’d ever do that, despite having every right to. And also, why can’t you see how all of this is just so wrong?”

Frankie blinked at her a few times before shaking her head like she was trying to clear it. Chiara tsked, impatient. Frankie’s eyes widened.

“My god, you still believe she sold the pictures, don’t you?”

“No!” Her own response was so quick, too quick, and she saw the realization in Frankie’s eyes. “Not anymore.”

“But you did?” Frankie shook her head and turned away. “Of course you did. I mean, I was nasty enough to insinuate it just weeks ago when I saw her at your atelier.”

“Yes, you were. Nasty. And for the longest time, I was sure she’d done it. For years.” Chiara closed her eyes, the bright lights too much for her.

“Ah, well, that would make sense. She had a massive crush on you that summer, though. Maybe not even a crush, because it sure looked like love. When she caught me with that model in Como, she was so broken… Only a person in love can be that devastated when the object of their affection is about to be hurt. I wish you’d known.” Chiara opened her eyes to find Frankie staring at her intently. “That kind of love? I didn’t even wonder why she never came to you to warn you, to tell on me. But now I get it. She would have never been able to. She loved you. Hurting you? That wasn’t an option for her. She would have taken my secret to the grave, Chiara.”

Chiara lowered her face again, and now her hands were no longer limp, fingers balled so tightly, knuckles white, and the short-filed nails about to break the skin of her palms. But she didn’t relax them, something needed to tether her to this moment, and pain was certainly appropriate.

“I guess this is another check in the column of my sins—you believing for five years that she’s at fault.” Chiara looked at Frankie then, who was running her hands through her hair. “I think I can at least strike this one off the ledger. If you’ll let me.” Unable to sit motionless anymore, Chiara stood up and walked towards the large window overlooking the East River and Roosevelt Island in the distance over the water. Frankie cleared her throat, waiting, and Chiara simply nodded for her to go ahead, unable to find her voice.

“The Courtenays’ lawyer reached out to me late that night. I was drunk. I don’t even remember where I was. I had a ton of missed calls. From Renate, from Aoife, and all sorts of unknown numbers. And you weren’t among them, you weren’t calling me. So I finally picked up, and this man said they had pictures. Of me and of you. And they would publish them, unless I paid.”

The first rays of sun were making their way onto the horizon, and beneath Chiara’s eyes, the FDR Drive was getting busier with the early morning traffic. Her mind refused to allow the magnitude of the coming revelations to penetrate, not just yet, so she listened as a detached observer, as if nothing Frankie was saying could touch her.

“The damn magazine was offering them sums that I simply couldn’t get my hands on, not without Renate co-signing, and I knew she’d never agree. So we made a deal. The magazine would get the pictures, but only ones that would be less damaging to me. And in return, the Courtenay name would be kept out of the press.”

Behind her, Chiara could hear Frankie taking a deep breath, but she still refused to turn around. Not yet.

“I have no idea how they got the photos, but they were very careful in trying to make sure nobody knew the source of them. I was raging and told them I would sue every single one of them, and the lawyer was so exacting, trying to make sure Vi’s name was never part of the conversation, to make sure I never reached out to her. It dawned on me very early on that whatever they did, they’d simply used her. She might have taken the pictures, but she had no idea what they were doing. She was never in on this, Chiara.”

And now her mind finally allowed Chiara to fully immerse herself in the narrative and damn, if it wasn’t painful. Because what Frankie just revealed wasn’t quite true. Vi had known who was responsible and kept that secret. She’d also known Frankie cheated and didn’t reveal that either. All the while taking all the blame and allowing Chiara to walk away. Vi had accepted the punishment, as if earned, as if deserved. And Chiara? What had she done? Believed the worst. About herself. About Vi.

God, this jumping to conclusions really needed to stop. Now that so many things made sense. Now that Renate had imparted her wisdom on forgiveness.

Isn’t that what was supposed to propel the main character into changing her ways? Into realizing that she had been wrong? Into fixing all the wrongs she herself had committed? An honorable and beloved supporting character pushing the protagonist to do right just as things are about to come to a head? Such a literary cliché.

Well, it was time to fall back on some of those.

“I don’t hate you, Frankie.” Well, cliché one down. “I hate what you’ve done. I despise that you allowed me to loathe myself for years. But then look at what I've done? Absolutely the same thing. I let Vi believe she was to blame. I didn’t believe her, and I let her burn for someone else’s sins.” The second cliché off her list.

She laughed, a broken, awful sound that further scraped raw her nerve endings. “We seem to have this whole theme of sins and damnation going here, Frankie. How very morbid of us.”

“Chiara—” She turned around to see Frankie looking at her with trepidation and not a little fear.

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