Page 51 of Summer Breakdown (Training Seasons #2)

Jasmine smiles with dinner. She dances with Marcel as they clear up, and she makes up another excuse when Lani asks if they can call Frankie to do voices when she goes to sleep. She does it all, and she’s not sure how.

Ezra told her to let her go. Not forever, but right now, Frankie will be panicking and terrified, and Jasmine didn’t want her to be either of those things. She doesn’t need to be something Frankie worries about right now.

Besides, Frankie broke up with her. Jasmine said she’d never be back in a situation like before.

She didn’t want to be anywhere she wasn’t wanted.

She knows it to be true, but the idea that she could keep Frankie weighs on her mind.

How awful could it be to know she doesn’t love her, that she never would, but at least she’d be able to see her sitting at her dining table?

Jasmine wants to be sure it’s her pushing her away, but she can’t be. Frankie pushed her, that’s true, but Jasmine told her she knew what she was doing, and she didn’t give in. She didn’t do anything.

Somehow, Jasmine knows it gets worse than this.

Right now, she’s sure she can feel the beat of her heart slowing.

She’s so sure that she’ll go to get up and she’ll fade into nothing.

She’s so fucking sure that when she stands up, her heart will stay right here, a bloody mess on the floor.

And it’s going to get worse. Lani will start school and wear the backpack Frankie helped pick out for her.

Marcel will start year eleven, and he’ll use the schedule planner Frankie taught him to use, and she’s not sure how to survive it.

There’s no part of her that wants to let her go.

She wants to see her walking around with her claw marks on her arm.

Proof that Jasmine didn’t want this. There is no corner of her heart that Frankie does not belong.

Jasmine takes a breath. It hurts when she does, but she was expecting it to. She flinched all the same.

Jasmine waited as long as she could before coming to bed. Last night, she slept on the sofa. Her pillows are going to smell like Frankie. The bedside table has her pill bottle on it, her lip balm, and the book she was trying to read to talk to Jasmine about.

Her bedroom isn’t dark—the ceiling is covered in hundreds of glow-in-the-dark stars.

Jasmine was so sure Frankie was having a low moment when she stopped going over, and soon, she’d want to have it at home, and she stuck them all up in the hopes it would make her smile.

That she’d feel comfortable enough to share that part of herself with Jasmine.

Frankie’s life is here, within these walls.

Jasmine was so sure of it. The sideboard that Frankie saw at the charity shop and asked Jasmine if she wanted it.

She did, and Frankie hired a van to get it for her.

She didn’t need it. Frankie knew she’d like it, and it was bigger than the one before.

It meant there was space for Frankie’s jumpers.

The blankets she has a million of because she gets cold.

From now until forever, Jasmine’s heart will break at the sight of fluffy socks.

Jasmine slides into bed, but she can’t sleep. She misses her girlfriend.

Frankie’s not dead, but it’s close. She’s sure it’s close. The floor has moulded to her. There’s a chance she hasn’t moved in days. Her throat is dry, and she’s cried out any moisture she might have in her body.

Somehow, she forgot how it felt to be so down she’s not sure she’s breathing. Yet, when she thinks about it, it’s the only memory she has.

That, and Jasmine. Oh, Jasmine. She was so hurt, and it doesn’t make any sense to Frankie, but she was hurt anyway.

There’s a chance she’s not here anymore.

She might have moved; she might have blocked Frankie from knowing anything about her.

She can’t live like that—without knowing whether Jasmine is safe or happy.

That’s not living; it’s barely surviving.

Frankie’s door latch moves, and it’s possible the hallucinations have started.

That’s good. It’s progressing. The hallucinations scared her the first time, but she’s not a teenager anymore.

There’s no one to help her through them.

It’s what she deserves. Ezra didn’t like it last time, even if he pretended he didn’t mind.

She scared him, and she never wants to put him through that again.

She was smart this time, scheduling messages until it was too late.

The door opens, daylight shining on her face, and she groans.

“Hi.”

Ezra? Frankie looks over, but the door has closed again, and it’s too dark.

“Frank,” he whispers, closer to her this time. His hand rests behind her neck, lifting her from the floor. Oh, the hallucinations are good. They’ve got the furrow of his brow perfect.

“Ez?” she tests. It might be nice to die with someone’s hand in hers, even if it’s make-believe.

“Hey,” he says quietly. “I’ve got your pills.”

Frankie licks her lips. “I can’t… They don’t…” She can’t go through trialling new pills for the next four years. It almost kill ed her last time, and she wanted to go. She didn’t want to try. She’s not doing it again.

“The old ones, Frank. I spoke to your therapist. She said you haven’t been cleared for these new ones,” Ezra says, and Frankie doesn’t even flinch. Still, Ezra rubs his thumb along her eyebrow. “We need to swap them out, okay?”

Frankie opens her eyes, and it burns from her face to her toes. It won’t change anything. It’s too late. She did what she had to do. She told a new doctor all about her messed-up mind, she took the pills, she did it all, and she still can’t get off the ground.

“Frankie, look at me.” She doesn’t, and he holds her jaw in his hand so she has to.

“I know you’re scared. I know you think it won’t help,” he says, taking a deep breath. “After the last time it got really fucking bad, you begged me to make you take them.”

She shakes her head. “You can’t.” They delay the inevitable. She hurts too many people.

“You made me promise that I’d force them down your throat if you refused. Frank, please. Don’t do that to me. You could die. Please. Please take them.”

Frankie tries to shuffle back, but her feet slip against the floor, and Ezra is faster than her.

“Frankie,” he begs.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine,” he says calmly, but his brows are lower than usual. The thing about Ezra is that he never shouts. He shouted at her once, and Cam flinched, and he hasn’t shouted since. He’ll yell on the pitch and at training, but never if he doesn’t have to.

“I will call her,” he warns. “I will call Jasmine and ask her to come over here, even though that’s unfair, and she will do it.”

“You can’t,” she starts, panic rising in her chest. “I just—I saved her. You can’t.”

“Saved her from what?”

“Me,” she cries. “It’s too much to ask.”

Ezra looks at her with a mixture of pity and probably disgust, but she’s crying too much to figure it out.

“I can’t stay here,” she begs. “I can’t do this for another sixty years.”

Ezra shushes her, and she tries to hit him, but his arms are wrapped around her.

“Frank, you are so happy,” he whispers, as she wails. “You can’t see it right now because your pills are wrong. Please. You are so happy.”

She shakes her head. She can’t remember. All she can remember is how hard it is. How much energy is takes to wake up. How desperately she doesn’t want to be here anymore. Frankie wails as Ezra holds on to her.