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My Attic (is Full of Bones and Full of Hopeless)
“Do you think it’s possible to really be this happy?”
“Hmm?” Franky felt two arms wrap around her waist, and a cheek press against her back. She dropped the cutlery she was holding and turned around, resting against the table now behind her. Bridget smiled at Franky, still shorter even though she wore heels; her look could only be described as content.
“I said, ” Bridget repeated softly, “do you think it’s possible to really be this happy?”
Franky pretended to think about the question for a split second, earning a scoff from Bridget, before she leaned in to steal a quick kiss. Bridget hummed her approval, keeping Franky’s lips against hers a beat longer than Franky intended. When they parted, Bridget squeezed Franky tighter.
“I guess it is possible.”
Franky’s hands moved down and patted Bridget’s arse.
“Your friends will be here soon,” Franky responded. Bridget groaned and pushed away from her, “I gotta finish setting the table, good impressions and all that.”
“They’ll love you,” Bridget stated easily, as if it were second nature, “ I love you.”
It was a relatively new admission between them both, though they had known since the night Franky had walked Bridget home. Still, it had taken months up until just a week ago when Franky had accidentally let slip those three magic words, the words that Bridget had been longing to hear. It was fast, of course it was, but it was right. It was them.
“ You have terrible taste, Gidge.”
Franky turned back around and continued placing the knives and forks in their respective places. Bridget watched her, a small something in Franky’s stiff mannerisms concerning her, but not enough to warrant interception.
It was the first time Franky would be meeting all of her friends; it was natural for her to be a bit nervous.
The doorbell rang out, echoing through the hall and into the open-plan kitchen and dining area. Franky tensed, while Bridget’s face lit up in excitement.
“They’re here.”
****
Franky had hoped that dinner conversation would flow seamlessly.
There were five of them; her, Bridget, and three friends from Bridget’s work. Franky hadn’t had many friends in her life, at least hardly any that she could count on to ever come to dinner. Susan ‘Boomer’ Jenkins, Bea Smith, and Allie Novak were all people she could count on in a pinch, but they were a far cry from who sat around this table.
Vera Bennett, stuffy manager-type who just looked stern every time Franky talked. Will Jackson, a kind and gentle man who seemed to spend too much time trying to come up with responses to anything Franky said. And finally, Ann Reynolds, a hoity-toity bitch that looked at Franky like she was shit on the bottom of her perfectly expensive shoe.
It was the worst dinner of Franky’s life.
“So, Franky,” Ann said, looking entirely disinterested as she loaded her plate with salad. Bridget had proudly commented on Franky’s impeccable cooking skills, and Ann had taken the opportunity to then avoid everything that Franky had prepared, “tell us a bit about yourself?”
“Uhhh,” Franky glanced over at Bridget, uncertain, “not much to tell, really.”
“No hobbies? Tennis? Horseback riding?”
“I love to cook,” Franky replied, “and I fly kites with my little sister too sometimes.”
Ann kept a straight face, though it was obvious that she was baffled at the inexpensive choices.
Horseback riding, Franky wanted to roll her eyes, these people.
“Right,” was all Ann said.
“What do you do for a living?” Will inquired. Unlike Ann, he helped himself to Franky’s food, for which she was grateful.
“I currently work at a restaurant downtown,” Franky replied.
“Oh wow,” Will took a bite of the steak and his eyes lit up, “that makes sense. This is amazing, you must be a sought-after chef!”
Franky frowned, and Bridget took the chance to intervene.
“She’s not a chef,” she watched Franky’s hand clench and squeezed it comfortingly, “but she’s just as talented. The chefs rely on her a lot to make their signature dishes.”
“Nice,” Will smiled, “so chef is the next step, right?”
“I don’t want to be a chef,” Franky shook her head, and Will looked taken aback. What was with these people? Why were they questioning her so much and assuming that because you had a job it must be what you wanted to do? Had these people never had a run-of-mill, pay-the-bills job before? Did they get their dream job on the first try? She hardly suspected that Will Jackson was born wailing that he wanted to be Deputy Governor at a women’s correctional facility.
“You don’t?” Ann cut in, “what do you want to do, Franky?”
“I-I am studying law,” Franky said quietly.
“I’d rather be a chef,” Ann snorted.
“Well that’s a great subject,” Vera drowned Ann out, as she took a sip of wine, “which university are you going to?”
“An online one.”
Vera nodded, but said nothing more.
“It’s cheaper,” Franky felt the need to defend her choice, though she didn’t know why. Why should she be ashamed of that? “And it allows me to work shifts to pay for it, so it’s also flexible.”
“I’ve always wondered if those universities weren’t just one big scam,” Ann laughed. She continued eating her meal, completely unaware of the effect the words had on Franky, who was sitting there seething.
“They’re not a scam,” Bridget said, her smile now gone and her brow furrowed, “and Franky has managed to-”
“- don’t bother,” Franky interrupted, cutting Bridget off. Bridget looked taken aback for a split second, but acquiesced.
“So how did you two meet?” Vera intervened. Franky was grateful, as it gave her a chance to sit back and admire Bridget in her element. So much more at ease than she would ever be. The thought made Franky tense up, and she had lost count of the amount of times she had done so throughout the dinner.
She really felt like an outsider.
“It was the night we were out,” Bridget responded happily, taking a sip of wine and looking over at Franky with such affection, “remember? Well, there I was waiting outside the bar when Franky appeared and saved me from some leery drunk idiots.”
Franky cheered up at that and snorted at the memory, and Vera looked over, eyebrows raised. She felt her cheeks tinge red in embarrassment - fucking undignified, Doyle, come on.
“Did you beat them up?” Vera asked curiously.
“Did I…” Franky took a deep breath. Did she beat them up? Seriously? “No, I didn’t. Despite your best assumptions, I am not a violent thug.”
“That’s not-” Vera reared back immediately.
“ Franky, ” Bridget intoned. There were equal parts warning and concern in her tone, but Franky was starting to have enough.
“Nuh,” Franky said, putting down her cutlery with a loud bang, “I have one of you thinking I’d come along and beat up drunk people, one of you lookin’ down on me for not having a career, and one of you judging that I don’t go fuckin’ horseback riding and have afternoon tea.”
There was silence around the dinner table at her outburst. Vera looked at her plate studiously, as if counting every vegetable, and Will looked flabbergasted at the turn of events. Ann watched Franky closely, then looked over at Bridget and let out a peal of laughter.
“Where on earth did you find this one, Bridget!?”
Bridget tightened her hand around her fork as Franky slumped further in her chair.
****
Franky huffed as she turned over in the bed. She looked at the digital alarm clock sitting on the bedside table.
3:24.
Fuck.
No rest for the wicked. Franky had blown up a perfectly good dinner with Bridget’s friends, and though Bridget insisted that she had done little wrong and that her friends were outlandishly snobbish at times, she felt guilty at the way she had acted. Franky had let anger rule her, just like she always had.
“Fuck,” she whispered.
With a sigh, she flopped once more onto her back and looked over at the sleeping woman beside her.
Bridget was elegant, classy, professional, insightful, responsive, and kind-hearted. She was everything that Franky felt she wasn’t. Just as those words came to Franky, Bridget snorted in her sleep and turned over with a loud groan and a flailing arm. Franky let out a quiet chuckle.
Okay, so maybe only elegant when awake.
Bridget had been the only one to ever make Franky see that she was good enough and kind enough and deserved every bit of love that she was offered. But as true as that all was, a harsh reality had come crashing down and confronted Franky tonight.
She would never fit into Bridget’s life.
Bridget’s friends had proven that much. It was a bitter pill to swallow, but Franky was grateful for the wake-up call. Bridget had a life, a good life, and Franky would only bring trouble to that. She didn’t want to get too far down this idyllic road and reach a point where Bridget felt stuck with her, and inevitably resent her.
She knew that Bridget would never be the one to cut her loose, love rendered her blind and she’d never see it, and so it fell to Franky to be the brave one and do it.
Brave… to a point.
Franky looked around at the bedroom. In the months since they’d met, Franky hadn’t quite moved in, but she’d left her fair share of clothes and toiletries around the place. Bridget’s house was the much preferred option for their time; Franky’s smaller rented apartment was a dive, and one she realised- with a heavy heart and a shaky breath- that she would have to return to alone.
With slow and light movements, Franky sat up in the bed and tried her best not to stare at Bridget, memorising everything about the amazing woman beside her. It felt wrong somehow. She shifted to the side of the bed and planted her feet firmly on the ground and got up.
All was silent. Perfect.
Franky did her best to get changed in the dark and without a single noise, and Bridget slept on, completely unaware of what she was going to wake up to. Each time Franky paused, and had a single doubt, she thought of Ann Reynolds’ sardonic laugh, Will Jackson’s stumbling words, and Vera Bennett’s severe frown. She thought of her life prior to meeting Bridget, and she felt justified once more in her crusade to let Bridget lead a happy life, happier life, without her in it.
In less than thirty minutes, Franky had gathered what she could as quickly and quietly as possible into her now-bursting overnight bag and hoisted it on her shoulder. She was ready.
Though knowing that she shouldn’t and that it would only make things harder, Franky looked back at Bridget’s sleeping form. Bridget’s face was one of contentment, though her hand had instinctively slid out, searching, and tracing the empty bed beside her, though not enough to wake her.
That’s how it should be, Franky thought desperately, not enough to disturb her life.
Franky opened the bedroom door, spotting her coat on the rack by the door. Her final item. She gripped the door handle and took a deep breath. This was so much harder than she thought it should be.
Must be love.
Franky offered one last longing look at Bridget, memorising everything. Her face, her lips, her body; the junction of her neck and shoulder that she loved to be kissed on, her soft but capable hands, her beautiful messy hair that Franky had run her fingers through only hours ago. All of it.
No, she thought sadly as she turned back around, it was not possible to really be that happy.
With that Franky walked through the door and out of Bridget’s life.