Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(92)

I head up to my room, change into my reddest blacks and reddest-red sneakers, and quickly rummage to find a head-mounted flashlight. I tiptoe and check on Mom-n-Dad. They’re both asleep in Dad’s lazy chair. I scribble out a note.


GONE TO GRADUATION PARTY


Outside, I silently heave the Consta out of the driveway in neutral, waving hi as one of my unknown neighbors watches with his head cocked, and wait until I’m down the street to coax the engine to life.

I’m still a good climber, I think.

By the time I get to Crescent Cove, it’s night. There’s no official parking at this tiny local beach. Just a long shoulder flanked by blond grass tall enough to hide a car, which is good. Opposite the shoulder is a flimsy gate—easily hopped—and a fire road winding its way up.

She must be in bed by now, back from her big graduation dinner. She must be alone by now.

I want to pick up where that graduation-ceremony-appropriate friend-hug left off. I have in my bag this glass teardrop-shaped terrarium filled with moss and lichen as a gift for Joy. I will give it to her, and I know she’ll love it more than any bouquet of flowers. I’m getting this summer of love started right now, despite the hour. Because I say so.

I’m talking about will.

I know this fire road. When the Songs hosted Gatherings, me and the rest of the Limbos would jump the balcony above and hike down to the water with flashlights dancing.

Me and Joy.

Now, years later, I am the only Limbo here. My flashlight is steady against my forehead. And instead of down, I’m heading up. The dirt road dips and rises gently; I pass through rivers of warm and cool air as I travel. When I reach the huge concrete pilings beneath Joy’s house, I click my light off.

It’s easier coming down than going up, because of the climb. But I remember—my ten-year-old body remembers for me—how to brace myself on the massive I-beam and shimmy up to the narrow diagonal cross support, which, once traversed on tiptoe using the square rivets for extra grip, leads me up to the only scary part: a pull-up from a bar with nothing beneath it for fifteen feet.

Jesus, I think. We used to do this as kids?

Anyway, turns out I can still do pull-ups.

I throw one leg over and find myself staring at acres of pristine wood deck flooring. The house lights are off. I listen. Amid the warm breeze and faintly sighing ocean I can hear the far-off blabbering of a television, which means the Songs are home.

I tiptoe along—tripping a rude cone of light.

I make a pathetic attempt to hide behind a small cylindrical planter—the Songs always were so goddamn minimalist and tasteful with their decor—and wait for my heart to go from sixteenth, then to eighth, and finally back to quarter notes as no one appears to investigate.

I duck out of sensor range, wait for an eternity for the stupid light to go off, and press myself against the back wall of the house. Twenty feet to go.

A face floats in the black glass when I get there.

It’s Joy, reading a book by pinlight.

I tap as quietly on the glass as I can, just inches from her head, and give her a heart attack.

“It’s me, it’s me,” I hiss. I turn my flashlight on myself to prove it.

Joy stops herself from throwing her book through the window. She marks her page, opens the window, and then hits me across the face with it.

“You almost made me shit the bed,” she says.

“Doesn’t this bring back memories?” I say.

Joy’s eyes widen. “You climbed up here?”

I nod.

“Using the old way we used to?”

I nod.

“Oh, Frank,” says Joy, and looks about to cry.

“Are you okay?” I say.

“We need to talk,” says Joy.

She shoves a big beanbag against her door, locking it but not locking it, and perches on the open windowsill. She removes a sensor the size of a pill from the sash frame, tapes it to a corresponding sensor lodged in the side jamb, and hops outside.

“Last thing we need is the alarm going off,” she says.

It’s a badass bit of hackery that makes me grab her waist for a kiss. But her lips are limp. Her body is tense.

“Come on,” she whispers.

She leads me hand in hand into a moonlit clearing hidden among three Monterey cypresses. They form a kind of tent, hidden to the land but open to the sea before us. I can see the white of waves tumbling below.

We duck inside and sit. If I had a fool’s head full of fantasy, I would think she was taking me here to make love with this view of the ocean.

But right away I can tell this is no fantasy.

She tailor-sits, and waits for me to tailor-sit too. I look at her hand. There it is, placed right on top of mine. She painted her nails. In the dim light I can’t tell what color.

I am just thinking to myself, I need to kiss her now before she can say anything when she says it.

“I think we should stop seeing each other.”

“No,” I blurt, like a child.

“Frank.”

“You didn’t call me yubs,” I say with wonder. “I knew something was wrong.”

“Frank, listen.”

“This is a breakup, isn’t it.”

“How long do you think we can sneak around before something really bad happens?”

“Holy shit, we’re breaking up right now.”