We watched Albion’s choice of movie, filling up on chocolate, popcorn, and wine. Well, one glass of wine for me. Cain, Jude, Owen, and Liz were probably meeting under the ruin. Once or twice, I wished I was there with them; then I remembered how weird the whole thing was. I was much better off at home, all cozy with Albion in our little nest. I checked my inbox before bed. There were no less than thirteen emails from Starr, the messages increasingly frantic. She didn’t know the tracking details for the consignment of mirror dangle angels, she had got an unexpected bill for freight on Dad’s books, she didn’t know who to speak to about audio problems at tomorrow’s venue ... and so it went on. I couldn’t help a smile of wicked pleasure to see Starr discovering the PA gig wasn’t as easy as she’d expected. But then I felt guilty for being malicious and spent an hour and a half answering every single email with detailed instructions. I could copy my dad in on replies so he would see exactly how competent Starr was―but the Carver saint in me refrained.
I woke the next morning to the strange sensation of needing to see Cain again, despite my resolve. I lay in bed and thought about him. Every time I remembered that vision of him asleep on the ragged sofa, his face alight with a deep, weary beauty, I felt a peculiar kind of pain. But no, I did not want to go back to that weird place with those weird people to have those frighteningly powerful feelings again. I did not. By mid-afternoon I’d wavered to the point where I messaged Jude, asking what time he was going to Gaunt House. He replied just moments later, all misspelled in his excitement, to say he could pick me up at seven. Only then did I rethink it. I messaged back to say I couldn’t go after all.
I didn’t let that happen again. I focused on earning my driver’s license before college started. Albion rewarded me with the shared rights to his little hybrid, which he called Cut Grapefruit in color. I was grateful, even if the car was bright pink. Albion insisted on including me in his social scene so I often saw Jude, with that perpetual sunny grin. Jude paid me a lot of attention, much to the disgust of Olivia Ranford, the girl who had a special thing for him and a not-so-special thing for me. Once or twice Jude asked quietly if I wanted to go back to the ruin to hang out with his friends but I always refused. Although disappointed, he seemed to understand. The friendship from before my touring days picked up again and we hung together, visiting the lake and catching the occasional movie, always in the company of other people from our school days. Albion refused to believe it was friendship and dubbed us ‘the cute couple of the year.’
Not long before college started Albion organized a pool party. In typical Albion style it was a brunch, so people started arriving around eleven in the morning for sparkling wine, fruit platters, and croissants. Albion lay on a sun lounge in the middle of it all, looking like royalty. He’d invited Vanessa. She sat in the gazebo, where a group of people from her school year included her in their conversation. Jude was in the water, chatting with some of the non-swimmers, when his eyes landed on me.
“Hey, Frankie,” he called affably. “I was wondering, how come you’re not living with Vanessa at your Dad’s place?”
Several people nearby pricked up their ears, including Olivia Ranford.
I shrugged. “Dad wanted me to live with Uncle Max.”
He gave me a bemused look. “Just you? Not Vanessa?”
“Vanessa’s older than me,” I said.
“You’re eighteen,” he pointed out. “An adult.”
“I guess Dad didn’t want to leave me without a respon―” I stopped myself. “Without an older adult. Yet.”
Olivia exchanged a disdainful look with one of her friends. Albion caught wind of the conversation.
“Uncle Don left us in charge of Frankie to make sure she doesn’t get up to mischief,” he said with a grin. I wanted to throttle him.
“Ohhh, your father left you with your uncle so you don’t play too hard.” Olivia used a faux-sympathetic tone, her words carrying over the pool. “That’s so cute. Saint Francesca has a Virginity Guard.”
I suffered it out, the giggling of Olivia and her dumbass friends, and the unashamed guffaws of everybody else. Even Albion laughed like Olivia’s quip was hilarious. I smiled, thinking dark thoughts about my father and his books; wishing there was a way I could show these jerks I wasn’t prim or saintly without losing my self-respect.
The sad thing was, it was probably that incident that triggered my change of heart. I broke the promise I’d made myself keep for the past few weeks: I would go back to Gaunt House. And not with Jude or Owen.