Today, twelve or fourteen or sixteen hours later, Frankie sized up Ezra. At least now she knew how she’d been concussed. And she had solved the mystery of the keys. How generous she wanted to be with this information with Ezra was now the question. She didn’t think she owed him anything, but then she didn’t want to be in his debt either.
“I found your phone,” she said flatly. Then pointed toward the ice where only plastic shards and a few buttons were identifiable. “And that right there is Gregory’s blood.” Frankie had discovered her own phone—dead, naturally—under the bleacher seat where she’d dumped out her purse.
Ezra’s gaze followed her gesture. “Gregory’s blood? Is he... ok?”
“You elbowed him. Then I fainted.” She clicked her tongueas if she’d taken one on the chin for him. “I must have hit my head.” Her hand moved to the lump. “I really shouldn’t be out here playing Detective Encyclopedia Brown, you know.” Then she cocked her head. “Your face looks better.”
He raised his hands to his cheeks as if he’d forgotten that he’d been assaulted by pepper spray. It was amazing, Frankie thought, how quickly we can all move past our trauma.
“We probably shouldn’t be here,” he said finally. “In my legal opinion.”
“No shit,” Frankie said. “No wonder you didn’t take the bar.”
“I didn’t take the bar because—”
“I’m kidding, Ezra.” Frankie sighed.
Ezra stuffed his hands into his pockets and quieted. Then he said: “If you’re going to make a joke, you should at least make it funny.” But his heart wasn’t really in the reprimand, and Frankie suspected that for the third time in a single day, they had forged a peace.
TWENTY-SIX
Ezra
Time was ticking down, and though Ezra was relieved to have solved at least a few of the smaller mysteries of the morning, the larger ones, the important ones, still loomed. By Ezra’s calculation, they had about an hour left before they had to throw in the towel and either accept that they needed to find a divorce lawyer or resolve that since neither of them had a memory of a ceremony, it had never happened in the first place.
“Where to?” he said to Frankie once they were a solid twenty or so feet from Abel Rink’s entrance and thus could deflect suspicion should anyone find them there. He glanced over his shoulder toward the Zamboni, which he still could not believe had burst through the front door of the rink. He itched to make it right.
“No. No no no no no,” Frankie said, reading him. “There is nothing to be done about this right now. We’re not going to turn ourselves in; we’re not going to call security.”
“I didn’t—”
“You did. You were thinking about it,” she said. “If you want to anonymously call in a tip and, like, narc out Alec, then be my guest. Tomorrow.”
Ezra didn’t really want to call in an anonymous tip. He just didn’t like the loose end, the messiness of it.
“Fine,” he said.
“Fine,” she said. They started back up the path to Middie Walk. The snow was beginning to melt under the bright sun, and the branches overhead lurched and groaned and settled. “I think we went to Lemonhead next,” Frankie said, surprising him.
“For a clue? To the scavenger thing?” Ezra asked.Please God make it for a clue and not because he kept drinking.
“For Gregory’s nose. I mean, for ice,” Frankie said, then giggled. “Of all the luck—I think you broke his nose for the second time.”
Ezra hiccupped out a laugh. “No wonder he stood me up back there.”
“Might have to recommend a plastic surgeon.” Frankie giggled louder. “I think at this point, he’ll be lucky if it doesn’t fall off his face like a shriveled-up piece of fruit.”
“You’re the one in LA. If anyone has a Rolodex of plastic surgeons, I think it’d be you.”
Frankie stopped, took a beat to seemingly collect herself. Then, as if it had been building up in her and unexpectedly burst free, she said, “I’m really sorry about your mom, Ez.” She blinked quickly. “I guess I should have called. I didn’t know—” She stopped, shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted to tell you that. She was always kind to me.” She flapped her hands against her sides. “I mean, I’m not a monster.”
“You’re kind of a monster,” he said. Then quieter: “Thank you. I still sometimes can’t believe it.” Ezra fought the inexplicable urge to move toward her, to touch her, to hold her close. He didn’t have to fight it for longer than a moment though because then Frankie was leaning into him too, her arms around his neck, her cheek pressed against his chest. He squeezed her like the hug was a lifeline. She lingered in the embrace, then pulled back.
“Shit, sorry,” she said. “I don’t know where that came from.”
Ezra said nothing, not because he had nothing to say but because he had too much to say. Then, before he could think any of it through, and with her still so close, too close, just inches away, she tipped her head up toward his, raised herself up on her toes, and kissed him.
Frankie Harriman kissed him.
