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Another Reason, Another Way Out
by Nicola
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: drug use
It took several minutes for Tom to answer the door, and when he finally did, it swung open with a loud bang.
"It's not working," Frankie announced, without waiting for his greeting. She pushed her sunglasses up onto her head, so that she could look him in the eye. His eyes, as it turned out, were glassy and unfocused.
Frankie squeezed past him, inviting herself into the apartment. "Are you high right now?" she asked, perfectly calm and matter-of-fact. It was Tom's business if he wanted to fuck up his entire body with drugs. And also—"You got any you want to share?"
Tom's response was slow—Frankie guessed that this amply answered the first question—and what finally came out was a wry mutter: "Gee whiz, Frankie. You come barging in and treat me like your pusher. Remind me why I don't invite you over more often?"
"Well fuck me, Tom. My relationship has gone to shit. I've got a boyfriend who's pathologically intent on pretending everything is fine. And I'm such a saddo that the only person I could think to visit is his strung out fucktard of a brother. You wanna play the whose-life-is-worse game? 'Cause I think I'm gonna win."
Tom said nothing. He merely raised his eyebrows, pantomiming shocked horror. He closed the door behind Frankie and ambled across the vast, open-plan apartment. He gestured vaguely at the couch. When she sat down, he slumped next to her, allowing his eyelids to drift half closed.
"This really is a fantastic place," Frankie said, striving distractedly for polite conversation. "Great view." The floor-to-ceiling glass revealed sweeping views of the harbour, and at that moment the darkening sky was tinged pink and orange by the sunset.
"Great view for someone who isn't me," Tom mumbled. He began poking listlessly at his drug paraphernalia, coaxing a pile of cocaine into a line with the same deft touch that he used when making a soufflé. He looked up suddenly, meeting Frankie's gaze. "I have until the end of the month."
Tom's lips curved into smile. He began rolling a twenty into a narrow tube. "I'm losing the restaurant." He held out the rolled banknote to Frankie. "Go crazy."
"Shit, Tom," Frankie said blankly, unable to articulate a better response. She did not move to take the note.
"…do I win? Is my life officially shittier than the great, maligned Frankie Page?" The sarcasm hung low and weary in his voice. He pushed at the cocaine using the makeshift straw, but he did not begin snorting it.
"Are you leaving Charlie?" Tom asked in a low voice. "Really?"
"Yeah." Frankie stared blankly at the sinking sun. The weight of the decision pressed suddenly on her lungs. "I guess I am."
Tom nodded, without looking at her. Frankie was grateful that he left the follow-up questions unsaid: how could you? what about Lou? And finally: what's wrong with you, you selfish bitch?
Tom gestured to the coke again. "You want this?"
Frankie exhaled; it was just short of a sigh. "No."
They fell into silence. The sun finally crept behind the horizon, and a murky, light-polluted gloom was all that was left in its wake. It was such a cliché to cite freedom as a feeling when you make the decision to end a relationship. There was always too much guilt and squirming emotion to feel much peace when you figuratively trampled on someone's heart. But Frankie felt unaccountably better. In her mind's eye she saw all the mundane things she'd need to do: moving house; buying new furniture to replace the shared sofas and chairs; custody meetings; dates with new men; sex with strangers. The tiny building blocks of a new, separate life. Exhausting and exhilarating in equal measure.
Frankie glanced at Tom. "It's not so easy, letting go… is it?" she murmured, without quite knowing what she was saying.
She moved to kiss him, closing the distance between them. Then she hesitated, placing her fingertips against the side of his face instead. In the half-dark she could barely see his expression. Then he kissed her quickly—double-dare!—and pulled back. Elation, like a line of coke, slammed against her chest.
"You didn't come here for this," he said, expressionlessly.
"No," she said, without having to think about it. She glanced at the cocaine lined up on the coffee table, like an '80s flashback. She hadn't come here for that, either, not really.
Frankie found herself relaxing into Tom's arms. She rested her head in the curve of his neck and drew her legs her legs up, tucking them under herself. She realised, with a faint smile, that it was the same way Lou would curl herself around Tom—as if he were her anchor.
"Don't know what I'd do without you, Tom," she said, sadness and mocking vying for space in her voice.
Tom brought his arms around her in a loose hug, and she continued, "Things'll get better. Things always have to get better, right?"
April 2006
Muse music: Waikiki's I'm Already Home
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