Page 26 of Summer Breakdown (Training Seasons #2)

“You have to turn around,” Jasmine says, and Frankie spins to face the blinds. It’s quiet, and she can hear Jasmine’s zipper roll down. God, she wants to see her. Then her dress drops to the floor, and Frankie almost dies. It’s too quiet. Jasmine’s going to hear the beating of her heart.

“Were you on a date?” Frankie asks, even though she doesn’t want to know the answer.

“Yeah,” Jasmine says quietly. Frankie’s jaw tenses. At some point, Jasmine will like someone she dates. Everyone likes her, so Jasmine only has to pick and choose. And Frankie will lose her, because she knows if she was lucky enough to be with Jasmine for real, she’d never let her go .

“I want to be…” Frankie starts, but she’s not sure where to go with it. Frankie could say she wants to be her friend, but she’d be lying, because she wants to kiss her all the time. She wants to be whatever Jasmine wants. “I want to be close with you.”

“What?”

Frankie sighs and turns around. Jasmine has her sweatshirt on, but her shorts are in her hand. “I want to be your friend. I want to know how you are. I want to know you went on a date.”

“Okay,” she says, but she’s not smiling. She’s looking at the floor, and her brows are practically vibrating with the fact that she’s not telling the truth.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Frankie asks.

Jasmine sighs. “Don’t ask me that.”

“What, why?”

“I am trying so hard to get over you.”

“Get—get over me?” Frankie says, tripping over her words. “Don’t. Don’t get over me. Please.”

“I wanted to go on a date with you,” Jasmine says, looking anywhere but at her. Frankie’s heart might stop when she finally looks up at her. Jasmine hasn’t been annoyed every time she saw her. She’s upset. “And you pretend I never even asked you.”

There is not a single part of Frankie’s mind that thought Jasmine would want to date her.

She asked her out, she kissed her, and it doesn’t make the slightest sense.

She knows it’s true while she’s here, telling her, because Jasmine doesn’t lie.

She’s wild and free and tells the truth the moment she can.

But the second she’s gone, Frankie can’t figure out how it could possibly be true.

“I was in a relationship for the longest time—one where I had to second-guess every message and every look to know if it was true,” Jasmine says, and Frankie has disliked Mike since the moment he walked in. Maybe before that. It turns out Frankie is just like him .

“If I was wanted there, or if I was just there already. I tripped over myself trying to be someone that he wanted to spend the night with, and now I’m almost fucking thirty and no one has ever liked me enough to hold my hand when I fall asleep,” she says.

“I do,” Frankie begs. “I do like you. Please, I am sorry. I want to talk to you.” How can she tell her she’s made her this sad because she uselessly can’t function as an adult? That it feels like there’s an elephant on her chest simply with the idea of asking her how she is?

“Then why don’t you? I keep doing what the books tell me too. I’m initiating conversations and I’m giving you space but you’re not … I don’t know what else I can do.”

“I am trying,” Frankie replies. She takes a deep breath.

“It sounds childish and so utterly ridiculous when I try and say it out loud, but I swear I spend all my free time thinking about what I’d say to you if I could just get out of my own head.

” She closes her eyes and thinks about what she can tell her.

What’s true? She chews on her lip as she trifles through thoughts she never tells anyone until she’s brought back to the room with Jasmine’s hand against her cheek.

“Tell me how to make it work,” Jasmine says faintly. “Risk something. Make it easier on me, please.”

Frankie tilts her cheek against her palm.

Jasmine’s brows are furrowed, and even with her red cheeks and her eyeliner smudged against her eyelids, she’s the best thing Frankie has ever seen.

It doesn’t take much to lean in. Frankie’s nose brushes against hers, and it feels different from the last time.

It’s not flirty and sweet. It’s the desperate need to feel her lips against her.

Jasmine opens her mouth slowly, but it’s enough for Frankie to know she wants to kiss her.

Frankie slides her tongue along Jasmine’s lip and grips the back of her neck.

Her breath is running out, but still, she keeps Jasmine close.

The warmth of her mouth brings her to life.

When her vision goes spotty, Frankie takes a short breath, but she’s back, her lips against Jasmine’s so quickly she’s not sure how to quantify it.

Her hands move to Jasmine’s thighs, lifting her until she sits on her desk. Frankie pushes anything that might be in the way onto the floor. Jasmine’s hands claw at her back, her neck, her waist, but this time, Frankie is in control.

Frankie’s hand slides up her sweatshirt to rest against Jasmine’s waist. Jasmine bites at her lip, pulling her closer by the band of her trousers.

It’s frantic, the way their lips move. The way Frankie pulls her close.

Jasmine moans quietly, like she’s trying to keep it behind her teeth.

Frankie wants to hear it. She needs to hear it.

Frankie pants. “I am always thinking about kissing you.”

Jasmine swallows. She might be thinking about how to kill her with a stack of accounting papers.

Frankie crosses her fingers against Jasmine’s waist. Then, the heavens align, and Jasmine pushes her tongue into her mouth.

Frankie sucks at her lip, cataloguing every moan, every gasp, every flick of her tongue.

Her skin is warm under Frankie’s palm, and she slides her fingers until they sit in the dip of her spine.

Jasmine’s hands tug at her collar, pulling her closer.

“God, you’re perfect,” Frankie mutters.

“You can’t—“ Jasmine responds.

Frankie moves back slightly. “What?”

It’s the worst thing she could have said, because Jasmine pulls back entirely. She’s frowning, but her hands stay against her chest. Then, Jasmine pushes her away, and Frankie stumbles back.

“Just because you look like that doesn’t mean you can do what you want,” Jasmine says.

“I am telling you I need you to talk to me. Don’t distract me with your beauty.

If you don’t want to, it’s fine, but you need to stop looking at me.

You can’t casually touch me. It’s not fair to pick me flowers and draw me and then refuse to do the one thing I’m asking of you. ”

“I’m—“

“If you say you’re sorry once more without proving you are, I will scream,” Jasmine replies. She’s sad—Frankie can tell that—but she doesn’t know how to fucking fix it. She doesn’t know what she wants.

Frankie taps her toes. “I think about you, and I hope you miss me and that you think about me too,” she says, pulling the inside of her cheek.

“I have dreamt about nothing apart from telling you about every thought in my mind and kissing you. That’s it.

” Frankie swallows. She’s practiced this.

It’s written on the notes app of her phone.

“It’s not because I don’t want to talk to you,” she continues quietly.

“I do. I want to talk to you all the time, but I don’t know how to talk to you.

I try and message you or I go to call you, or I think about walking over when you’re in the office, and my throat closes.

I don’t make new friends for real. I’ll be friends with the cabbie, or a girl in the bathroom at Carl’s, but no one I want to keep,“ she says, with a wave of her hand.

“Mali is an anomaly because she works here, and she seeped into my personal life. I can be friendly here because I’m in charge, so they have to do what I want regardless.

I’m practically a dictator. But you—I swear you are in every thought that I have, and I hate that I can’t be normal around you. You’re too important.”

Jasmine’s eyes are wide. “I am?”

Frankie rubs her hand over her jaw. “You are. I think about what I could possibly say, and I panic. Every time I think about something I could say that would make it even the slightest bit better, I learn something else that just—fuck, it destroys me. And it’s my fault.

I know it is. The thought of being around you when I haven’t fixed anything makes me break out in hives.

But everything I do is a desperate attempt to be where you are.

I am always waiting to hear your voice.”

Jasmine’s head tilts to the side with a frown. “Actual hives? ”

Frankie laughs, but it’s watery. “Hypothetical, but they’re just as bad.” She looks up at Jasmine. Her face is open and far too kind to be dealing with Frankie’s bullshit.

“I want to be your friend so badly,” Frankie says. “I want to be the person you come to the office for. I am always waiting for someone to bring you up in conversation.”

Jasmine chews on her lip. “Is it anxiety that stops you talking to me? Or something else? Because if I know that, I can talk to you first.”

“Yeah, but I know that’s not reasonable.”

She shrugs. “I’m not going down the mines,” she says, with a smile. “I want to talk to you. I just need to know you want to talk to me too.”

“It’s all I want. Well, that’s not true. The night I left,” Frankie starts, tapping her thighs. She takes a deep breath.

“You can write it down and leave it under a bench if you want,” Jasmine says, her ankle rubbing against Frankie’s thigh. “I’ll go and get it under the cover of darkness.”

Frankie laughs. She’s cute. She pulls the inside of her bottom lip and sighs. “I’m ugly.”

“What?” Jasmine asks.

“Okay, wait,” Frankie responds, with a self-deprecating groan. Her throat burns, and she’s going to cry. Jasmine moves, but Frankie pulls her back. “It’s supposed to sound better than that.”

Jasmine frowns. “What are you talking about?”

“Please. Just… wait until I’m done?” Frankie tries not to panic. Embarrassingly, she’s already crying. To be fair, Frankie cries often and easily, but Jasmine’s eyes are wide as the tears drench Frankie’s cheeks anyway.

“No,” Jasmine says, her voice a broken whisper. “Don’t cry. Please don’t cry. I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me.” She wipes her thumbs to dry Frankie’s face, but it’s a futile attempt. “Please, I’m sorry. I don’t care.”

Frankie smiles, pressing her lips to her palm. “Sweetheart, I cry all the time, and you’re not allowed to be sorry. ”

“But—“

“Jasmine,” Frankie says, with a sniff. “It’s okay.”

Jasmine places her hands against her waist lightly. “Touch helps, right?”

Frankie huffs out a laugh and leans until their foreheads touch. “Yeah.”

Jasmine runs her hands down the side of Frankie’s neck until they land against her waist. “Okay.”

Frankie takes a deep breath. “I base a very large portion of my self-worth on how other people see me. I think you probably figured that out already because you’re annoyingly smart, but I do.”

Jasmine pulls Frankie closer so they’re touching everywhere. She’s kind even when Frankie has given her no reason to be.

“I like being liked. I like being wanted. It’s supposed to be some deep thing.

Some groundbreaking reason that I left that night.

I was hoping I’d figure out something monumental so I could give you something.

You didn’t do anything, I swear. I had the best time with you, and I wish it was longer.

I wish I was able to stay and not—“ She finally takes another breath.

“I have thought about the lunch date that never happened, like, every second of my life. I thought about you and what it would mean to want someone the way I want you before I even knew you could exist. I am always thinking about it.”

Jasmine strokes down her spine, her fingers applying more pressure with every pass. She might be the only thing keeping her here.

“You’re not straight,” Frankie says, “and the moment you told me that, I panicked, and I was already halfway there because you’re stupidly charming and kind and statuesque with your beauty, but being a lesbian set it off.

Straight girls love me, because they don’t have to like my face and they won’t stay.

I’m a big lesbian; that’s all they need. ”

“You’re tiny,” Jasmine whispers, and Frankie laughs, leaning against her. Jasmine wraps her arms around her shoulders.

Frankie takes a deep breath. “I’m used to being the one that does everything.

The one that makes sure the other is having a good time, and you took over like a whirlwind in the best way.

You wanted me, and I couldn’t figure out why.

There was a chance you actually meant it when you asked me out, and I spiralled because, as I mentioned, I’m crazy, and I just—I had to leave, and I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve it.”

“Frank,” she whispers. “You’re exquisite.”

“Don’t,” she mutters. “You don’t have to do that. I’m fine with it. Honestly.”

“Frankie—“

“I’m terribly hard to like, and even harder to love. But I want you to stay,” Frankie says. “I will fix it. I want to fix it.”

Jasmine’s hand rests against her jaw like it did the first night, and she tilts Frankie’s face to hers before she replies. “All I need you to do is talk to me. That’s it, even if it doesn’t make sense. I want to figure this out with you.”

Frankie doesn’t believe her, even though she has no reason not to. It’s just that her whole heart is thrashing against her chest and she feels ready to vibrate out of her own skin. As if her whole body is humming with the question: Is this what it feels like?

God, no wonder people go feral for love.