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Frankie never gave much thought to her attraction—in the sense that she never once questioned her sexual orientation or anything like that. She simply let those feelings flow through her, and yet, her lack of questioning was always questioned.
Grace, on the other hand, had always fixated on that tiny detail: She had never loved a man. At least, not romantically. Only societal pressure had forced her to marry a man she could tolerate, to maintain the façade of a perfect family, and to end up crying at night, feeling filthy after fulfilling her marital duties.
Maybe that’s why they were made for each other—their souls fitting together like puzzle pieces.
When Grace divorced Nick, a whole new weight settled on her mind. The last time she had sex with him, it wasn’t for pleasure—it was more about forcing herself to feel a false sense of satisfaction, trying to convince herself it was enjoyable. But it wasn’t.
"Frankie?" Grace began, her feet propped on the coffee table as a martini glass rested in her right hand. "This might sound odd, and it might even seem like I’m having a dementia episode." More than convincing Frankie, she was saying it to convince herself, searching for a logical reason why, at eighty-one years old, she was questioning her sexuality.
Frankie looked at her with that skeptical expression she always wore whenever Grace started a sentence like that, scooting closer on the couch. The scent of weed clung to Frankie, as always.
"Have you ever questioned your sexuality?"
The white-haired woman’s voice was laced with doubt, as if she were standing in a courtroom pleading her own defense, unsure of the right words. "Wow," was the only thing that escaped Frankie’s lips before she took another hit from her joint. "Not really. But it’s not like I’ve always assumed I was straight—I just love." The younger woman answered without a trace of hesitation.
"Are you in love with me?" Frankie teased, leaning in. Grace rolled her eyes. "This is serious," was all the older woman replied, standing up to leave when she realized Frankie wasn’t taking it seriously. "I am taking you seriously," Frankie said, noticing Grace’s irritation.
The curly-haired woman grabbed Grace’s wrist, not letting her go. "I swear on my granddaughter, I’m taking you seriously." She smiled, pulling Grace closer—who knew Frankie didn’t swear on her granddaughter lightly. "Sometimes I feel like I never loved Nick. Or Guy. Or Phil. Or any man," Grace admitted, looking down and fidgeting with her shirt collar. "But I don’t know if it’s because they weren’t the right ones... or if it’s something worse." Grace’s internalized homophobia hit her like a punching bag.
She knew the warmth blooming in her chest whenever she was near Frankie wasn’t normal, but she always chalked it up to the other woman’s radiant energy seeping into her cold soul.
"I’m not a lesbian, Frankie," she denied before even getting an answer, the air leaving her lungs as she struggled to breathe. The mere 'L' word terrified her. Sure, she’d seen Frankie bring women into her studio (sometimes more than one at a time) and felt a pang of envy, but she had no issue befriending lesbian women. Her issue was with herself being a lesbian.
Frankie leaned back, making the couch creak. "I think you’re overthinking it." Her voice was steady as she shrugged. "What’s so bad about being a lesbian? Our husbands were gay for twenty damn years, and your problem wasn’t that they were gay." Grace envied how easily the word 'lesbian' rolled off Frankie’s tongue.
Grace’s manicured nails dug into her palms, hating and loving Frankie in equal measure right now. "You don’t get it, Frankie." A sigh escaped the blonde’s lips as long-buried, denied feelings finally surfaced. "I don’t like women. I like you." She clarified—Grace didn’t like women. She liked Frankie Bergstein, who just happened to be woman.
Every night Frankie asked her to sleep together, Grace stayed awake until dawn, inhaling the scent of her hair, listening to the soft sounds she made in her sleep, or simply watching Frankie’s peaceful face. It might’ve sounded strange or obsessive, but that woman drove her insane in the best and worst ways.
She loved hearing Frankie’s voice even when she didn’t understand a word—because she wasn’t really listening. She just adored the sweet comfort woven by her Frankie’s words.
The silence was deep. As deep as the daggers buried in both their hearts—though they were different kinds of blades.
The dagger in Frankie’s chest was almost tender, splitting her open and unleashing an explosion of flowers in its wake—lilies and sunflowers, brimming with the warmth of love. A passion akin to teenage infatuation, yet carrying the wisdom of her seventy-six years.
Grace’s dagger was painful, twisting deeper with the silence. The wound birthed deep burgundy roses, their thorns leaving a bloody trail as they bloomed with the passion that flower was known for.
"I love you, Grace Hanson."
Those were the last words Grace heard before lunging at Frankie. Grace was never good with words, and though she’d improved over time, she decided to let a passionate kiss speak louder than the ones stuck in her throat.
Tears ruined Grace’s makeup as she cradled Frankie’s face tenderly, their foreheads touching. "Do you really?" Her trembling voice brushed Frankie’s lips, who whispered the words she longed to hear.
"I promise."
She sealed the vow with a kiss to Grace’s forehead. For the first time, the taller woman didn’t feel filthy for loving. She didn’t feel pressured to be pleasant. She didn’t feel like love was conditional.