Chapter One: Frankie

⚠️ Content Warning: This chapter contains depictions of alcohol abuse, addiction, and relapse. May be distressing for some readers.

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Ava POV

I was going to die.

Or at least, it felt like it.

I knew tequila was a bad idea.

Mixing it with vodka?

Oh, what a god-awful idea.

Well, it didn't feel so terrible in the moment.

I'd never forget that night for the rest of my life.

I barely remembered it—but at some point, I'd been on top of the table, dress askew, dancing to "Party in the U.S.A." by Miley Cyrus.

I mean, come on.

Who wouldn't dance to that song?

Then I was trying—and failing—to drive home.

Alex stopped that plan real quick.

I could still feel his scowl as he snatched the keys from my hands.

I stumbled forward to grab them back, eyes blurring.

"Please give them back."

I thought I landed that sentence, but it came out more like,

"Please g-e ack uh."

"The fact that you even entertained the idea," Alex said, shaking his head, "is bold for you, Ava."

I was walking home promptly after that.

Then I broke a heel and walked barefoot, feet cold against the wet concrete.

One hand holding my ruined heels, the other wrapped around myself.

And they were my favorite heels, too...

And then I was home—fumbling with the keys, racing to the toilet.

Throwing up had always been a mystery to me.

How the hell was I still retching when my stomach was emptier than a desert canteen?

Yet there I was—hunched over a toilet I hadn't cleaned in...

A month?

Maybe two.

Ew.

The sound of the door peeling open came later.

Still startled me, even though I knew it was coming.

I'd felt it—heard it—slithering through the silence of the house, dragging itself from the front door to find me.

I didn't move.

He had a key.

Of course he did.

The sound of keys fumbling, the familiar creak of the door—

He entered like this was still his place.

And in some ways, it was.

He'd lived here for years, floating in and out of my life like a ghost I couldn't bury.

A bolt of realization struck through the haze—

I looked down at myself.

Partially dressed.

Didn't matter. He'd seen—

Touched.

Gods.

Licked.

Every. Single. Part. Of. Me.

I shoved that memory so deep it scraped the inside of my ribs.

Then came another wave of nausea.

But this one wasn't from alcohol.

This one had a name.

Frankie.

My mother.

Who left rehab two nights ago without telling anyone.

Who didn't answer my calls.

Who was supposed to be sober. This time. Finally.

I'd spent all day looking for her. Calling hospitals. Driving around old haunts.

Nothing.

And when the sun dipped low and the sky turned that bruised, hopeless shade of violet—

I gave in.

A bottle was easier to find than Frankie ever was.

I felt him before I heard him.

Standing behind me like a question I couldn't answer.

"What the fuck, Ava."

"Pleased to see you too," I muttered, voice hoarse and nasal from puking.

He crouched beside me, jaw tight—disapproval etched in every angle.

But underneath it...

Pity?

I couldn't tell.

Didn't care.

He grabbed a washcloth and wiped at my face.

"You need a shower," he said, already turning the knob.

Water sputtered—wish, wish, wish—before falling into a steady sigh.

Then he began peeling off my clothes.

No words.

No shame.

Just that unbearable tension between us—familiar, aching, unsaid.

The kind you leave out in the open to rot.

"Where are Lilia and Elias?"

His voice was quieter now, as he slipped off my slip dress.

"My mother's," I whispered.

Not Frankie.

The other one. The one who actually answers the phone.

My stepmother—well, ex-stepmother.

My father fucked that one up.

She took the kids without question when she saw the shake in my hands this morning.

His cold hands made me gasp.

"Sorry," he muttered. "Just give me a second—I'm almost done."

When I was bare, he lifted me gently, setting me on the shower tiles like something fragile.

And that's when I reached for his face.

I hadn't really looked at him this whole time.

Maybe because—

God. Maybe it was shame.

I didn't know anymore.

"Don't leave."

He froze.

That look.

He was holding back.

"I won't—fuck."

He ran a hand through his hair.

"We can't do this right now, Ava. Harper—"

Ah.

The current girlfriend.

How had we always missed each other?

Like two cars, parallel—

Never colliding.

Just running alongside one another in opposite directions.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen of knowing each other.

How had the lines never completely crossed?

Never a couple.

Always together.

"Fuck Harper."

I couldn't think of someone else touching—

Holding.

Even smelling River.

Just.

Fuck that.

He looked at me, eyes burning.

...Shit.

Of course I said that out loud.

⸻

River POV

"She's on the table dancing, River," Alex said over the phone.

I could barely hear him over the music blaring through the bar.

Specifically—"Party in the U.S.A."

Okay.

That did sound like her.

I couldn't help the small smile that crept onto my face, imagining her.

Hair wild. Heels off. Arms up.

"She okay?" I asked.

There was a long pause.

"Wait—hold on," Alex said, muffled.

It sounded like he set the phone down.

A minute passed.

Then—

"Fucking Ava. She tried to drive home." He said, voice tight.

My heart stopped.

"I know you guys aren't... whatever," he added after a beat. "But please check on her, River."

She tried to drive? Even Ava wouldn't do that.

What the hell had gotten her that worked up?

The Ava I remembered was mostly sunshine.

Loud laughter.

Stupid jokes.

Messy buns and unapologetic joy

But something had shifted before we broke up.

She'd shut down.

And when I asked, she just said:

"I'm done."

No explanation. Just gone.

"I understand," I said. "I'll be there in fifteen."

The drive was probably faster than her walk.

And I was right.

I parked just in time to watch her stagger into the building.

When I reached her apartment, I simply walked in, opening the door with the key she'd given me months ago.

I know. I should've returned it.

But I hadn't.

Because part of me always hoped we'd find our way back.

I headed straight for the bathroom.

I could hear her—getting sick.

The truth slipped out before I could stop it.

"What the fuck, Ava."

"Pleased to see you too," she mumbled, slumped over the toilet, her head half inside the bowl.

I crouched beside her. My jaw locked tight.

I wanted to say it.

Do you want to end up like Frankie?

I wanted to hurt her a little—

Like she'd hurt me.

By shutting me out.

By deciding for both of us.

By leaving without letting me understand.

To say it wasn't fair.

That I hadn't agreed.

But I didn't.

I just felt that familiar ache bloom in my chest—slow, heavy, impossible to name.

Was it pity?

Was it guilt?

I didn't know.

She never let me in far enough to tell.

"You need a shower," I said, rising to turn it on.

Steam filled the bathroom.

I steadied my hands as I helped her undress.

I'm a doctor.

I've seen hundreds of bodies.

Still—my ears burned.

Pale, soft skin.

Curves I knew by memory.

Hair curling down her back.

Those relentless green eyes.

I peeled off her black silk dress, then her favorite heels—the ones with Gucci written in Sharpie on the bottom.

That was so Ava.

I'd tried to give her a new pair for her birthday once, after seeing how worn hers were.

She rolled her eyes. "Fuck expensive brands. These heels have lasted longer than Louis Vuitton ever will."

Then she grabbed a Sharpie from the kitchen drawer, flipped the shoes over, and scrawled across the soles.

"Now they're Gucci. See?"

That little twinkle in her eye—like it was the best idea she'd ever had.

God, I missed that.

⸻

"Where are Lilia and Elias?" I asked quietly.

"My mother's," she whispered.

My cold hands made her flinch.

"Sorry," I muttered. "Just give me a second—I'm almost done."

She didn't fight me.

Didn't speak.

Just let me help her.

When she was finally in the shower, I eased her down and propped her against the tile wall.

Steam curled between us.

Then she reached for me—

Hands on my face like I held every answer she'd never been given.

And maybe I did.

Or maybe she just wanted to believe that I could.

"Don't leave," she whispered.

Her hands slid down, fists clutching my shirt like a lifeline.

I won't.

Ever.

God, I wanted to say it.

That I'd stay forever if she'd just tell me what happened.

"I won't—fuck."

I ran a hand through my hair.

The guilt hit me hard.

I wasn't uninvolved.

Not really.

Harper was waiting.

And I'd let this drag out too long.

"We can't do this right now, Ava. Harper—"

Her grip loosened.

Her eyes lit up. Sharp. Angry.

"Fuck Harper."

I stared at her.

And for the first time in months—maybe longer—

I saw her.

Not the silence.

Not the distance.

Her.

She passed out not long after.

I dried her off.

Got her into her lilac pajamas.

Tucked her into bed.

Then curled into her old reading chair, blanket around my shoulders.

In case she got sick.

In case she needed me.

My phone buzzed.

Harper: When are you coming back?

I typed:

I'll be back in the morning. Just want to make sure she doesn't get sick.

Chime.

Harper: Can we talk about me officially moving in?

I stared at the bed.

Her hair splayed across the pillow.

That same spot on the right still molded to my body.

I typed:

We can talk about it in the morning.

But I already knew what I'd say.

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