Page 18 of Summer Breakdown
Jasmine smiles. It’s easy, like she doesn’t mind making her come and then having to stop. Like maybe she’s not embarrassed by it. Like maybe getting water for her isn’t a big deal.
“Of course, my girl.” She kisses her on the nose. “BRB.”
“You’re so old.”
“You’re older than me,” she says, while she moves from under Frankie. Frankie watches her the entire time. The slight jiggle of her bum, the light sheen of marks against her hips. She wonders if she’s ever been asked to pose for a painting. “You’re basically a cougar.”
Frankie laughs, but it does nothing to settle the panic in her chest. She can’t leave… right? Jasmine doesn’t deserve for her to leave. Frankie’s never had this issue before. Either someone kicks her out, or she leaves when everything is said and done. This feels worse. She could tell Jasmine she needs to go. She’d let her; Frankie is sure of it. However, she might ask her why. She might offer her a lift home. She might want information that Frankie has spent her entire thirty years keeping to herself.
If Jasmine asked her, she’d tell her. She knows it to be true. But it’s not fair to start manically sobbing in the kitchen of a one-night stand. Frankie knows in her heart of hearts that it’s unkind to leave, but she’s moving anyway. Her vest is on, her trousers are in her hand, and she sneaks down the hall while listening to Jasmine hum in the kitchen. She tries to figure out what she’s singing along to, but she’s neverbeen much use at the music round of the quiz, let alone now, when the stakes are so high.
The water runs, and Frankie hates that she knows Jasmine is waiting for it to be cold for her. She probably chose a fresh glass and got some ice and a slice of lemon for an after-fuck glass of water. Even something as simple as a glass of water is done thoughtfully.
Frankie waits in the shadows of the front room like a creepy loser. Her forehead rests against the half-open door, and she hates herself, as she should. It’s calculated—the way she waits for Jasmine to pitter-patter back down the hall. Tears fall down Frankie’s cheeks so quickly.
“You know,” Jasmine starts, and she’s far enough away for Frankie to tiptoe to the front door. She chokes on a sob as she opens the door, thankful that they were too into it when they got in for Jasmine to worry about the deadlock. Even as Frankie creeps out, she wants to text Jasmine with the number she never asked for because she was too terrified that she’d say no, even as she held her hand on the walk home, to remind her to lock it now.
The only thing she hears after the soft click of the front door is a distant,
“Frank?”
CHAPTER SIX
“Baby,let’sgo,”Jasminecalls out. Somehow, Marcel is the slowest person in this household to get ready, even though he only has himself to look after. It’s Jasmine’s fault, really, because she bought him new clothes over the weekend. He’s in his skater-boy era, and he won’t even let her put photos of him on Instagram with the Avril Lavigne song. He’s ruining her life.
Jasmine, however, is ready, and she got Lani ready (who wanted her hair in four braids with flower bobbles and has no ability to sit still) all while mulling over the decision to not throw out the large package that arrived this morning. Jasmine had managed to get Frankie out of her mind for a whole day. It’s not Frankie that’s in her mind but the event. The way she left.
Jasmine doesn’t give a damn about Frankie whatever-her-last-name-is.
And she’d succeeded in not thinking about her, until the memory of her returned with the knock on the door. The postman on the other side with a discreetly packaged item. He doesn’t care that she managed to fill her day with so much that Frankie’s smile didn’t invade her frontal lobe. Twat. (Frankie, not the postman. He’s only doing his job.)
God, the way Jasmine’s heart had dropped when she realised Frankie wasn’t joking around. She wasn’t hiding in the bathroom to jump out at her. It was thought about, planned, and executed, all while Jasmine thought about her the entireway back from the kitchen. Trying to tamper down her smile so Frankie didn’t think she was a loser, when Frankie was halfway home.
Jasmine hadn’t realised how badly she’d wanted her first time with a woman to be good. It didn’t need to be life-changing. It didn’t need to be the best thing that ever happened to her. But she needed it to feel like it made sense. Like everything she’d ever thought she was missing was true. And Jasmine can’t figure out if she’s hurt because all those things were true—every touch, every kiss, every look with Frankie made sense—or because after all the heartache, she turns thirty this year and still can’t get someone to spend the night with her.
“Mama,” Kehlani says, her little legs swinging on the bench at the dining table, “do we need my grass wheels?”
Lani has been in a wheelchair for basically her whole life. She can walk if she has to, but it wipes her out for days, and her muscles aren’t as strong as they could be, so she might not make it wherever she’s going. Sometimes, if she twists the wrong way, her knees dislocate. They still do physical therapy so that if she ever was stuck, she’d be able to walk for help. But Lani likes her chair, and Jasmine likes her.
“I don’t think so, baby,” she replies. “It hasn’t rained in a few weeks, so I think the ground will be hard, but we can take them if you’d like to be sure?”
Lani thinks about it, and Jasmine tries to remember if they’re in the garage or in the boot already. Lani would always rather be safe than sorry.
“Is it silly to take them?” she asks. Sometimes, Jasmine wonders if she forced Lani to grow up too fast. She’s only four, and she talks like an adult. An adult with a tiny, childlike voice and cute curls on her forehead, but an adult all the same. It was difficult, trying to keep her a child and grown up enough to deal with multiple hospital visits and surgeries.
“Nothing you think is silly.”
Lani giggles, holding her hands in front of her face. “’Kay.”
“’Kay,” Jasmine replies, with a smile, then yells, “So help me, Marcel Bailo Kieta, if you don’t get in this kitchen right now…”
“I’m here!” he says, running through the corridor.
“Get in the car,” she says, but she kisses him on the forehead. Lani shuffles along the bench, and he picks her up with one hand, the skateboard in the other, before heading out to the car.
“The board isn’t going to move along the grass, Marcy,” Lani says.
“It’s for my aesthetic.”
