Page 122 of Summer Breakdown
“Hey.”
Jasmine wrings her hands. “Do you want a tea or something?”
“I made it,” she replies. Nerves wrack her body. This isn’t her home anymore, as much as she needs it to be. Perhaps she’s not allowed to do what she wants.
“Oh.”
“Sorry.”
Jasmine blinks at the ground. Frankie has never felt so disconnected from her. Even the night they met, she never felt like a stranger. It never felt like she was uncomfortable in her presence.
“It’s okay,” Jasmine replies, tucking a curl behind her ear. “Let’s go to sleep.”
Frankie follows her out of the kitchen, switching the lights off with the edge of the teacup. Muscle memory takes her towards her bedroom, but Jasmine turns earlier than that.The spare room. Frankie knew that. Her heart darkens with the flick of the lamp. She places the mugs on the windowsill because there is no coaster in here.
“I didn’t wash them that long ago,” Jasmine says, pulling the duvet back, “but I can get new sheets if you want.” Before Frankie has a moment to say anything, she’s talking again.
“The bathroom is across the hall, and you’re welcome to shower or whatever. I’ll get you some pyjamas.”
“Jasmine.”
But she’s gone, and Frankie swallows thickly while she waits for her to come back. When she does, there’s an entire pile in her arms.
“I don’t know if you’re cold,” she says quickly, “but there are blankets here, and the linen cupboard is at the end of the hall, so—“
“Jasmine.” Frankie knows where everything is. This was her home. Jasmine’s eyes aren’t focusing.
“So, if you—if you get cold, I can get you some.”
Frankie rests her hands against Jasmine’s arms. She’s shaking.
“Jasmine,” she repeats quietly, and she looks at her, her eyes wide. Jasmine’s waist is so soft under her fingertips. Oh, what Frankie would do to have met her at another point in her life. When she was twenty-four, she had eight uninterrupted months. She could have met herthen.
“Sweetheart, stop.”
Jasmine’s gaze flickers over her face. “The books say you might be cold.”
Frankie pulls her close, her hand at the back of her head. “You need to sleep.”
Jasmine doesn’t hug her back, but she does lean against her. Frankie bends, lifting her to her waist, and Jasmine makes no move to stop her. It’s possible she’ll be asleep by the time they get back to her room.
The tears stream down Frankie’s face when she walks in. It’s dark outside, and the light is off, but it glows in here—apleasant, low-level light from the hundreds of stars stuck to the ceiling. Frankie’s heart aches at the sight of it. How Jasmine was making it work for her, and she was telling her she’d never love her.
Frankie misses it here. Going to sleep on a dedicated pillow, with a side of the bed, with the woman she is so helplessly in love with. Frankie rests Jasmine lightly against the mattress while she kneels on the floor.
Jasmine wipes the tears from Frankie’s face and then rests her forehead against hers. “I’m so tired, Frankie.”
“You can go to sleep, sweetheart. What pjs do you want?” Frankie tries not to look around the room, but her eyes fall on the pile of books on Frankie’s side of the bed. The meticulous notes and the highlighting. God, Frankie makes her life so hard.
“Your top,” Jasmine says, with a yawn. Frankie searches through her drawer, but there’s nothing that would even fit Frankie in here. She’s terrified to go through her own drawer. There must be piles of her stuff ready to be shipped out everywhere.
“The one I have on?”
“Yeah,” Jasmine whispers. “Nothing else smells like you anymore.” Frankie takes it off. Thankfully, she showered not long ago. She kneels on the floor again.
“Arms up,” she says.
“I know you’re strong enough to do it without me,” Jasmine mumbles, but she sits up anyway. Frankie pulls her top off and replaces it with her own.
