Za : where are u?
Za : Hello? Francine? Proof of life?
Za : i don’t even have Tasha’s #
Za : & u didn’t come home
Za : PLEASE TELL ME U NOT DEAD IN A DITCH SOMEWHERE!
Za : Dude, if u gonna sleep out, at least give me a heads up, I waited up all night for u.
Za : see u @ church i guess.
Za : U MISSED CHURCH?
Za : WHERE ARE U????
Za : PLEASE TELL ME YOU ARE NOT DEAD IN A DITCH !!!!
Za : FRANKIE!!!!
Za : FRANCINE CAMPBELL ANSWER YOUR PHONE OR IM CALLING YOUR MOTHER!!!!
“Frankie?”
I look up.
“Is everything okay?” he asks again.
I stare at him. Then I laugh. It’s not a normal laugh. It sounds scary.
“Okay?” I repeat. “Do I look like I’m okay? What typa foolish bloodclaat question that? ”
He sits up straighter, palms out. “Frankie?—”
“No!” I say, pointing at him. “No chatting.”
My brain starts spinning. I stand up too quickly, nearly stumble, and grab the edge of the dresser for balance.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. I cyan believe— I don’t even—” I gesture wildly. “I don’t do this. This is not me! I’m not this person. I don’t wake up naked in hotels with men I hate.”
“You don’t hate me,” he says quietly.
“Didn’t I say no chatting?”
Before he could respond, I scramble around the room, hunting for my clothes. Dress. Shoes. Bag. Anything.
“Francine,” he says gently, swinging his legs over the side of the bed. “Breathe.”
“I am breathing!” I snap.
He blinks. “I don’t know what you’re so upset about. I thought we had a great time last night. If you’re feeling guilty or ashamed about it, you shouldn’t. We?—”
“No, no, you don’t have to explain,” I wave him off, pacing. “Let me guess what you're gonna say. ‘We’re adults, we made choices, blah blah, growth, intimacy, healing’. Spare me.”
I grab the blanket and wrap it around me like a toga.
“Oh God. Oh my God. I slept with you. I am going to hell. Za’s gonna kill me, and then I’ll go to hell!”
