Page 17 of Love You A Latte

“Dinner is almost ready,” they say, then I catch a slight cringe as they continue. “Spaghetti and garlic bread.”

“That sounds great!” I don’t know what the cringe was about, but I love spaghetti and garlic bread.

“Make yourself at home,” Frankie says, gesturing from the kitchen. “Bathroom is back there.”

I wander into the living area, which is open to the kitchen, and start poking around. They have floating wooden shelves filled with books along one wall, and I grin when I see an entire shelf of spicy pirate romance novels, followed by another shelf of queer romantasy.

“See anything you like?” they ask, and I can hear the grin in their voice.

“How many can I borrow?” I say with a grin, pulling a pretty lavender book from the shelf to read the back.

They laugh, and I continue perusing, looking over the random knick-knacks, candles, and a few plants set in front of the corner window. They have a couple pillows on the couch that look out of place. They’re fuzzy and look incredibly soft, but don’t match the rest of Frankie’s decor. I pick one up and fluff it before setting it back down.

“I got those for Everly,” Frankie says, and I glance up in question. They seem to hesitate a moment, then shrug. “She likes them.”

My brows pinch, as that seems a bit strange, to have special pillows for a friend who doesn’t live with you, but then I realize, and nod in understanding.

“Her anxiety,” I say, and Frankie nods, a look of relief on their face. They must not have known how much Everly has told me about her mental health. She mentioned to me when I was having a hard time that certain textures, especially blankets and pillows, help when she’s feeling out of sorts. It’s sweet that Frankie has them here for her. Myheart swells with affection and gratitude.

We sit down to eat and I can’t help the moan that slips out when I take my first bite of pasta. It’s delicious, with mushrooms and fresh basil in the sauce, and the perfect amount of garlic and cheese.

“Oh my god,” I say around a mouthful of noodles. “I have no manners but this is so good, Frankie.”

They grin. “I’m glad you like it.”

I try to stop myself from eating too much, but I still end up feeling like a beached whale by the time we’re done.

“I tried to hold back,” I say with a groan as I sink into Frankie’s couch. “Clearly it didn’t work.”

Frankie laughs and flops down next to me, angling their body so our knees touch.

My phone has been vibrating in my pocket all through dinner, and it goes off again now, only this time you can hear it rumble against the couch beneath me.

“Ugh,” I say, leaning into Frankie so I can pull it out. I glance down, and all the tension I’ve been trying to leave behind floods back into me. My shoulders lock up and my jaw tenses.

I have notifications from both Sabrina and Benji. Multiple of them. So many that it doesn’t even show me previews of all of them.

“What the,” I mutter under my breath, my eyebrows drawing in with concern, a heavy dash of confusion muddling my thoughts.

“What’s wrong?” Frankie asks. “Who is it?”

“My exes,” I mumble, unlocking my phone to click through the messages. I check Sabrina’s first, and they start out tame enough. The usual pleading for forgiveness, asking me to give her another chance, telling me she wants me back. As I scroll down, though, she starts sending pictures. Selfies of her wearing increasingly less clothing, a missed video call notification and her scolding me to pick up, a blurry image of her and Benji making out. And then the messages turn mean. Telling me I’m stuck up, a rich bitch, that I need to put out more and be open to exploring things if I expect anyone to give me a chance.

I can feel my face heating up, embarrassed and ashamedeven though Frankie can’t see the messages. There was a time when I thought she was it for me; when I thought we were perfect together. Turns out, I didn’t really know her at all.

I click out of Sabrina’s thread, not having read the last ones, and check Benji’s. At first, his are similar to Sabrina’s, with words of how much he misses me and wants me back, then trying to convince me to join a threesome with the two of them. When I scroll past a missed video notification from him too, with an all caps message to “PICK UP” followed by another missed call, his messages also turn mean. He calls me names, tells me I’ve never been worth it, that I’m a mess and a failure, that I’ll never find someone better than either of them.

I don’t realize my eyes are filling with tears until I blink and one runs down my cheek. Frankie, who had been giving me space, hears the tiny sniffle I try to hide, and when they whip around to face me, their face turns to a mask of horror. I don’t blame them. Benji and Sabrina are right—I am a mess, and far more trouble than I’m worth. I’ve always been told I’m overly sensitive, and this is the perfect example.

Not wanting to face Frankie’s rejection, or disgust, or disdain, I quickly stand and turn to leave. Before I so much as get a foot away from the couch, though, Frankie follows and their arms are around me. They pull me into their chest, arms circling my back, one cupping the back of my head to pull it down to their shoulder and the other squeezing tight.

I don’t know the last time I was hugged like this. Maybe eight years ago, before my parents died? A sob hitches in my throat, and Frankie murmurs into my ear.

“It’s okay, sweet girl, let it out.”

So I do. I snot-cry into their shoulder, my chest caving in with the hurt that I’ve been pushing away and ignoring for months. I don’t know how long it lasts, only that my tears eventually dry and my throat feels raw and I have a massive pile of tissues next to me on the couch that we must have sat back down on at some point. I pull back and wipe my eyes.

“Better?” Frankie asks.

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