Archive of Our Own

Mel finds him on the roof. Or maybe she doesn’t find him, because that would imply some kind of purposefulness to her presence here with him, but rather she goes to the roof, and he’s already there.

It’s fucking cold, that pre-dawn time when it gets colder before it gets warmer. Frank’s shift ended 20 minutes ago, and he should be leaving so he can get to sleep before the sun comes up. The roof feels like a better option. He never thought he’d have a hard time adjusting to going home to an empty house.

His life used to have so much noise in it is the thing, and now everything’s quiet and still. His days are an endless cycle of sameness, uninterrupted by his wife or kids. Even the dog is gone, still with Abby in Frank’s old house and old life.

“Dr. Langdon, hi!” Mel greets, sounding surprised. Didn’t seek him out, then.

“Good morning, Mel,” Frank replies. He’s long given up on asking her to call him Frank. “Welcome to the roof.”

He gestures expansively, as if welcoming her into his palatial home. Mel smiles indulgently.

“It’s colder than I thought it would be.” She’s rubbing her hands over her arms, bare in a short-sleeve scrub top. Frank wishes he had a jacket to offer her.

“It always is this time of day. Darkest before the dawn and all that. Is it cool if I smoke?”

He holds up the cigarette he’d been about to light. She nods, and Frank flicks his lighter on.

He takes a drag. “So what are you doing up here? Your shift over?” They’d overlapped for a few hours, so Frank doubts she’s done yet.

“Oh, no, uh—there was an argument between a father and daughter, and it got kind of chaotic. I just wanted a moment alone.”

“Oh, shit, I can leave,” Frank says, already moving to stub out the cig.

“No, no,” Mel rushes out. “It’s fine, really. I don’t mind your presence.”

Frank, who knows that Mel doesn’t lie, not even to spare someone’s feelings, still can’t help but not believe her. Everyone minds his presence; his wife minded his presence.

But Mel was telling the truth. They pass a few minutes, the length of his cigarette, in companionable silence. Frank always finds it easier to quiet his mind with Mel around.

“What are you doing up here?” Mel asks as he stubs out his cig.

Frank starts, not expecting her to speak. “I, uh, don’t want to go home,” he says even though he knows how pathetic it sounds. “It’s too empty.”

She’s looking at him, eyebrows drawn together beneath her glasses. Soft strands of blonde hair have shifted loose from her braid over the night, and they blow in the wind around her face. Frank has the absurd thought that he’s never seen Mel with her hair down.

“You must miss them,” she says, tone kind.

He breathes out slowly, the cold making his exhale visible. He watches it mingle with hers, a cloud of heat in the cold.

“Every day,” Frank admits, spinning the friendship bracelet around his wrist absentmindedly. “Abby lets me see them on my days off, which is nice. Hopefully, now that I’m an attending, we can hammer out a more steady custody schedule.”

That’s one of the things Frank is dreading about the ongoing divorce proceedings. Abby has been surprisingly understanding about the whole addiction thing, but if she wanted, she could easily restrict Frank’s time with the kids. He’s hopeful that’s not the case, since the two of them have agreed on how important it is for the kids to have Frank in their lives. But still, it’s scary knowing she has all the cards to play, another aspect of his life seemingly out of his control.

“So you’re seeing them this weekend, then?” Mel asks, seeming genuinely interested. Frank tries not to read into the fact that she knows his schedule.

“Ugh, no,” he groans. “I have an awful wedding to go to on Saturday."

Mel’s lips press together, and he realizes that she’s trying not to laugh. "What makes it awful? Is it themed?”

Frank’s mouth twists. “Luckily, no. I just don’t particularly care about the couple, and I have a plus one that I completely forgot about, so I have to either find someone or eat it.”

She’s looking at him oddly. “You’re not going with Abby?”

It’s interesting that she thinks he’d go with Abby. Mel knows about their divorce, and probably knows more about the gory details of it all than anyone else, except maybe McKay. There’s not really that much anger between him and Abby, more just resignation, but it’s still not a happy dynamic.

Frank finds it too easy to tell Mel things. Mel is patient, so much more patient than any of them, and she's always more understanding than he deserves. So Frank tells her things, about his divorce and his kids and his addiction. And now, apparently, about this wedding he has to go to this weekend.

“I RSVP’d before the divorce was filed,” he explains, carefully watching Mel’s face for any sign she’s uninterested in hearing him talk. “We RSVP’d together, actually, but now we’re divorced and Abby fucking hates them, so it’s my job to go to the wedding. I haven’t seen any of these people since,” he waves his arm vaguely, “since everything.”

She looks at him with empathy but doesn't say anything. Frank can feel the familiar, uncomfortable sensation of being too much for his body, and he desperately wants to get out of there.

“I can go with you,” she offers suddenly. “If you want, I mean. I have that day off.”

Frank frantically backtracks through his conversation, trying to see if he in any way implied he was expecting this of her. It’s not that he wouldn’t like that. It’s just that he doesn’t want her to feel obligated. People already act like he’s so fucking needy all the time. Like one misstep, and they’ll be the reason he goes off the deep end. A bit self-centered of everyone, Frank thinks.

He’s also afraid he’s been too obvious about it. About the crush he’s had on Mel since he returned a year ago. Everything had felt so new that first day back, like the world was opening itself up to him for the first time again. New and scary and overwhelming, and right in the center of it was Mel, anchoring him, he anchoring her. And ever since, Frank thinks he’s been halfway in love with her, through divorce finalization and sobriety milestones, and now this.

Sometimes, a lot of the time, he thinks Mel knows. She seems to know everything, and while he’s as subtle as he can be, she looks at him like she’s actually seeing him. But she looks at everyone like that, even the patients who test the limits of the most forgiving of them. She’s looking at him like that, now, though Frank can see something else in the pinch of her mouth and the furrow of her brow. Nervousness.

“You really, really, don’t have to,” he emphasizes, then pushes on before he can lose the nerve. “But if you truly want to, I’ll text you the information.”

Which is how Frank finds himself sitting in his car outside Mel’s apartment on Saturday, drumming his fingertips on the wheel and glancing frequently at the door.

Mel texted him that she needed five more minutes, which, considering Frank is ten minutes early, is perfectly reasonable. Still, he feels the anxiety settle over him as he waits, the in-between times always his most stressful ones. The ones that make him itch and thrum with the need to be doing something. Though, his life seems full of in-between times now.

Yesterday, Mel sent him three dresses and asked him which one would be most appropriate. She wasn’t actually in any of them, thankfully, or Frank would’ve done something stupid like make it his lockscreen or jerk off or both.

He picked the blue one because he thought it would bring out her eyes. He hopes she wears her hair down.

When she does emerge from her front door, Mel’s hair is in some half up half down style, and her dress is green.

“What happened to the blue?” he asks as she slides into the car.

“I looked up the wedding website. The bridesmaids' colors are blue,” she replies.

That’s maybe something Frank should know about, wedding guest dress etiquette, having been married, but to be honest, he and Abby led pretty separate lives. They only ever really spoke about the kids and money. Frank’s unaccustomed to having someone he actually talks to, which might explain why his chest gets so tight as Mel leans over to buckle her seatbelt and her hair fans out, brushing Frank’s hand on the gearshift.

“Right,” he says, throat scratchy. “Well, you look nice. I like that color on you. And we’re matching.”

He gestures to his pocket square, a deep emerald that almost exactly matches the shade of Mel’s dress. Her cheeks are slightly pink as she tracks his movement, staring at the scrap of fabric,

“Oh,” she squeaks. “I definitely didn’t plan that.”

Frank smiles, starting the car. “I know, Mel. Me neither.”

It should probably be awkward, considering the two of them haven’t spent much time together out of the hospital, and none alone. But the conversation flows easily between the two of them, not just about work but also about her sister, his kids, the Steelers' chances this year. She even starts to call him Frank, something he noticed immediately but didn’t comment on.

The car ride isn’t long; the wedding is at a venue just outside the city. They’re early since, Frank discovers, they both are chronically early people. Frank, because he’s used to building in time for his kids, and Mel for Becca. The church is still pretty empty, and Frank guides them to seats in the last row.

The church fills up quickly then, and Frank keeps his body carefully turned towards Mel in hopes of going unnoticed. Mel doesn’t seem to mind, and in fact shifts towards him as well. There’s less than an inch between their knees, and Frank focuses a lot of his energy on maintaining that distance.

“I’ve never been out here before,” Mel says, studying the architecture of the church. “It’s nice, quiet.”

“I used to live around here, before I moved out. The commute sucked, but it was nice for the kids.”

She hums. “I can’t really imagine you in the suburbs,” she admits.

“I do prefer the city,” he says. “Abby and the kids are still in the same house, so I’m there a lot. Sometimes, I can’t believe I really lived there for years.”

It’s the silence, maybe, that he doesn’t like. Or maybe it’s how everyone in the neighborhood always wants to know everyone’s business, the kind of busybody that doesn’t survive in the city. Or maybe it’s all the space, stretching out around him like its own kind of prison.

“So how do you know the couple, again?” Mel asks, leaning over to whisper even though they’re all the way in the back.

“She’s Abby’s sorority sister. He was our neighbor, and they met at a party we threw when we first moved in.”

“Where’s Abby, then?” Mel scans the crowd in front of them with a frown.

Frank laughs. “She hates Charlotte. She’s using her dad’s birthday as an excuse. If I knew we could RSVP no, I wouldn’t be here either.”

“But it’s her sorority sister.” Mel’s frown deepens, her innate sense of fairness emerging. “Also, didn’t Abby get the house? So it’s her neighbor, too.”

This time, Frank bites the inside of his cheek to keep himself from guffawing. He tentatively places a hand on her knee. Mel starts, but ceases searching the crowd like a bloodhound and relaxes into her seat.

“It’s fine, Mel,” he says to her. “I certainly owe Abby a few favors.”

She looks at him oddly, mouth slightly open. She starts to say something, but the bridal procession begins, and she shuts her mouth, turning away from him to face forward. Frank doesn’t move his hand.

“Thank you,” he tells her later, as they’re waiting for the bride and groom to make their entrance at the reception. They’ve been seated at the less-than-honorable place of table 11.

“You really don’t have to thank me,” she says. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”

She seems so nervous about it that Frank stumbles over his words in an effort to get them out fast.

“Yes, yes, we are friends. Honestly,” he says wryly, “you’re one of my closest friends right now.”

Mel’s eyes go wide in shock, then settle into something softer. “You’re the same for me, Frank,” she says quietly.

They look at one another for a long moment. Before Frank can do something stupid, like kiss her, Crazy in Love blasts over the speakers, and the wedding party starts their entrance.

After the entrances and the speeches and the first dance, Mel and Frank are finally able to get food. They stand shoulder to shoulder, debating the merits of chicken or beef until someone behind them politely clears their throat. Panicked, Mel puts one serving of chicken on her plate and one of beef on Frank’s, and they depart back to their table.

“Frank!” a familiar voice trills. Frank winces before turning around.

“Lorraine,” he greets with gritted teeth. His former neighbor is smiling benevolently at him. “It’s good to see you.”

“And you! Imagine my shock when Abby told me you were coming to this wedding, and not her. I could barely believe it! I mean, after ever—“

“Lorraine, this is Dr. Melissa King,” Frank cuts her off, proffering Mel like a shield. “We work at PTMC together.”

Lorraine’s face shifts immediately, and Frank feels instant regret. He can always picture the text about to be sent out to the neighborhood group chat, emojis and all.

“Oh, hi,” Lorraine says to Mel, much more subdued. “You’re a doctor, too?”

“Yes,” Mel confirms, even though Frank did, in fact, introduce her as a doctor. “How do you know Frank?”

“We were neighbors,” Lorraine says, like she’s sharing some unfortunate news. “You know, before all that business.”

Mel’s face is frozen in place. “Right.”

Before Mel can say anything else, Lorraine barrels on. “Of course, you’re missed in the neighborhood, Frank. But we can all understand the separation, I mean, what else was Abby to do?”

“Frank!” Mel suddenly interrupts, looking at her phone. She’s deposited her plate unceremoniously on the table next to them. “They just sent out a text asking for people to report if they can. Since we didn’t have anything to drink,” she says this part pretty pointedly, head inclined towards Lorraine, “we should probably go. Since we’re so close.”

Frank spares a glance at Lorraine before grabbing Mel’s hand. “Yes, sorry, Lorraine. We’ve got to go.”

They practically rush outside, and it’s not until Frank’s hand is on the door handle to his car that he realizes Mel is laughing.

“What?” he asks her, confused.

“I can’t believe she bought that.” Mel holds up her phone to show no texts. “Really, we’re not even that close to the hospital.”

Frank can’t help but join her in laughter. “I fell for it, too! You know, you’re a pretty good liar. Have you ever tried poker?”

“I don’t actually think I’m a good liar,” Mel muses, climbing into the car. “I think people just trust me, and that means they always believe me. I’m always so nervous about it, though, which is why I never even try.”

“You didn’t seem nervous. All cool and collected, making me worry about the lives of innocent yinzers,” Frank teases.

“Oh, sorry!” Mel says, sounding sincere. “I really thought you knew I was just trying to get us out of there. You seemed like you needed an out.”

Frank smiles, keeping his eyes on the road, though he wants nothing more than to look over at her. “I did, Mel, thank you. I swear, not everyone there was that bad.”

He watches her crinkle her nose in the rearview mirror. “If they were even half that bad, it’s a good thing we escaped so early.”

He has to agree, though he knows the word will make it back to Abby, and he’ll get shit for not saying hi to the couple. Still, he counts the day as a win, mostly. He showed up, stayed for most of it, and now he gets to watch Mel pull out her bobby pins, wincing as she tugs her hair loose. She’s placing them into her clutch purse, and Frank glances over occasionally, almost mesmerized by the slow reveal of her hair.

There’s more than he could’ve ever guessed. By the time he drops her off, half of Mel’s hair is still pinned to her scalp. The rest falls in heavy, shiny waves over her shoulder. The smell of her shampoo permeates the car.

“Thank you, again,” Frank says before she gets out. “Really, you didn’t have to come at all, and you made so much of it actually bearable.”

She looks at him, moving her hand back and forth before finally deciding to let it rest over his. “You don’t have to thank me. I had fun, actually. It was nice to do something on my day off, you know?”

Frank does know. The feeling of being a human again, doing something by yourself, and reminding yourself that there’s a world outside the walls of the hospital. He’s glad he could give that to her.

“See you at work,” Mel says, opening the door.

“Just,” Frank starts, making her pause. “If you ever want to hang out outside of work, just let me know. I’m always happy to give you something to do.”

He forces himself not to outwardly wince at how awkward that came off. Mel doesn’t seem to notice, though; her face splits into a wide grin.

“Yeah, okay,” she says, still smiling. “I will.”

Frank drives home grinning the whole way.

-

Three months later, they’re getting lunch at a cafe before her shift and after his, when Frank asks, “Are you doing anything this weekend? You have the day off, right?”

He can tell immediately it was the wrong thing to say, though he doesn’t know why. Mel frowns, then shakes it off, then sighs, avoiding eye contact the entire time.

“I have a wedding this weekend, an old college friend, and I asked for a plus one,” Mel says slowly, seemingly not wanting to actually get into it. “But now I’m no longer seeing someone, and I really, really do not want to tell the bride.”

“You were dating someone?” he can’t help but ask, caught so off guard that he must sound ridiculous.

Mel frowns, which makes Frank wince when he realizes she took his tone to heart. “Yes, though it wasn’t much of a relationship,” she says. “You know, with my hours here, and he’s a paramedic, so he was also working a ton. I met him on those ride-alongs we have to do.”

Frank’s brain kicks into overdrive, scanning through everything he can remember about the paramedics. Mel did her ride-along 6 months ago; he remembers how excited she was about the pickaxe they have for ice-related incidents. There was a baby-faced paramedic who, now that Frank thinks about it, was always lingering when Mel was at the nurses’ station.

“You were dating Evans?” he asks eventually. Mel squints at him, brow furrowed. He heats in embarrassment, remembering that he probably shouldn’t have been able to figure that out.

“Yes,” she confirms with a sigh. “I think he mostly liked trying to figure me out. Anyway, I was mistakenly optimistic about the whole thing and asked for a plus one 6 weeks ago.”

Frank can’t help but feel hurt that she never told him about Evans. If they met 6 months ago and were serious enough for Mel to ask for a plus-one 6 weeks ago, then they were probably dating when she went to Charlotte’s wedding with Frank. When she told him that he’s one of her closest friends.

“So, uh,” Frank racks his brain looking for something to say that isn’t just asking her why she didn’t tell him. “Why don’t you want to tell the bride?”

Mel winds and winds the straw wrapper through her fingers. “It’s a bit embarrassing, you know? And I’m sure they don’t want to deal with the logistics of this so close to the wedding.”

Frank speaks before he can even think about it. “I can go with you.”

She pauses, looking up at him. “Really? You don’t have to.”

“Really, Mel.” The solution seems so obvious that he can’t believe she didn’t come up with it. “It’s in Pittsburgh, right?”

She nods. “Just outside, about an hour's drive. I’ll drive you!”

The drive is closer to 45 minutes, and when they pull up, Frank realizes the venue is more of a mansion, with acres of land surrounding it. Having gotten married himself, he vaguely recognizes the place as somewhere Abby wanted, but they could never afford.

“You went to college with the bride?” Franks asks as Mel hands her keys over to the valet. She’s in the blue dress this time, and he was right about it bringing out her eyes.

“Mhmm,” she hums in agreement. “We were freshman year roommates, actually.”

“Northwestern, right?” he asks, though he knows he’s right. His catalog of Mel facts only ever grows; he never loses any of it.

Mel grins, as if pleasantly surprised that he remembered. “Yes! And for med school. She, Ava, the bride, wasn’t pre-med, though. I actually haven’t really spoken to her, or anyone from there, in a bit. Been so busy, you know?”

He does know, but Frank still frowns. “Is Ava in Pittsburgh?”

“Uh, no, actually.” They’re walking across a stone path towards the back of the mansion, and Mel’s looped her arm through Frank’s for balance, her strappy brown heels occasionally catching the edge of a paver. “I think she lives in New York now. I guess I haven’t spoken to anyone from college in a while, since I can’t remember where Ava even lives.”

Frank’s honestly a little surprised that Mel got an invite, considering how little she seems to know about her college friends. “Lucky, then, that she’s getting married here.”

“Her family’s from here,” Mel says, a little distracted now as they try to find seats. “The groom’s too; they’re old family friends.”

Now that they’re seated and watching the aisles fill up, Frank realizes why Mel was invited. It’s easily the biggest wedding Frank’s ever attended, with at least 250 people already there and more still streaming in. Between that and the venue, he can only imagine how expensive the whole thing is. Maybe Mel’s friends with a rocket scientist or a Kennedy.

“It’s funny, actually,” Mel continues to talk, so Frank dutifully turns his attention away from trying to estimate the bill and fully towards her. “I forgot she was from Pittsburgh until I got the save the date. I wonder how she got my address, now that I think about it. How did you get them?”

Frank blinks. “Get what?”

“Addresses. For your wedding invites.”

There’s nothing he wants to talk about with Mel less than his failed wedding and marriage, but he soldiers on. “We had a pretty small wedding; it was all we could afford. So, we knew everyone we invited well enough to have their addresses.”

“Huh,” Mel says. “You were in med school when you got married?”

The conversation, like many with Mel, has veered off into a path that is assuredly well paved in Mel’s mind but a mystery to Frank. He’s not exactly thrilled to talk about his wedding (and subsequent doomed marriage) with Mel, but he also hates ever to leave her dangling in conversation.

“Yeah, in my last year. Abby was, well, pregnant,” he laughs uncomfortably. “So we figured, why the hell not? In hindsight, not our wisest decision. Getting married, not having a kid,” he rushes out at the end, not wanting to give any impression that he regrets having Tanner. His kids are the best thing to come out of the past 5 years.

“I do think we loved each other at first,” Frank continues, because Mel has that look on her face. That ‘tell me all your secrets, Frank Langdon’ face. “But it didn’t last very long. It wasn’t bad or anything, just not what marriage between two people should be. We weren’t partners. We didn’t talk.”

He does, all the time, still think about whether they really should’ve gotten divorced. It wasn't that bad, their life together. They didn’t hate each other. The kids could’ve grown up in the same house as both their parents.

“My dad left when I was 6,” Mel says, frowning. Frank never knew that. “It wasn’t—obviously, it was a very different situation. We never saw him after, but we rarely saw him before he left, too. Kids can…they can feel it, I think. When there isn’t love in the house.”

Frank’s heart is in his throat. “Yeah,” he says thickly. “It’s probably for the best for everyone. Abby deserves to be happy, truly happy.”

She’s looking right at him, direct eye contact and everything. “You deserve it too, Frank.”

He’s saved from having to answer by the start of the procession.

At the reception, held in the majestic banquet hall, they’re seated with a group of women who must be from Mel’s college days. They all know her, at least by name. About half the women have husbands next to them, but they seem uninvolved in the conversation happening and uninterested in being included.

It takes Frank about an hour to realize that none of these women actually like Mel. He blames the long period of discovery on how easily these women can flit in and out of saying what they actually mean. But their speech is full of off-handed comments and light barbs in Mel’s direction, about her food preferences and her recreational interests.

He keeps glancing at Mel to see if she’s getting uncomfortable, but either she doesn’t notice it, or she’s very good at hiding it. Mostly, she sips on her water slowly and listens to this group of vapid girls.

Frank noticed it first when Brielle said, “oh, of course,” when Mel introduced him as a work colleague and then again when Diana laughed as the fish was placed in front of Frank (since the dinner is seated rather than buffet; another dollar sign to the price tag) and said, “we we know that’s definitely not Mel’s.”

He does frown down at the fish, wondering why Mel’s…boyfriend would order it when Mel can’t even stand the look of fish. Even now, with it a seat away from her, Mel’s face has scrunched up in disgust. Frank excuses himself with the plate and finds a caterer, making up some story about being allergic to the fennel in the reduction, and the chicken dish is brought to them just 10 minutes later. Mel’s face goes all soft when the new plate is placed down in front of him, and it’s worth the silent, constant observation of the rest of the women.

He doesn’t like the way Cat, one of the single women with fried blonde hair and an expensive purse, is looking at them, eyes squinted and tongue running over her teeth like she’s trying to figure out what they are to each other. Frank’s seen these looks before, from women hoping that he’s Mel’s platonic, sexually incompatible friend or her cousin or something. Like there’s a long list of possibilities of what they could be to one another before a romantic relationship pops up.

Slightly annoyed, Frank wraps his arm around the back of Mel’s chair. She starts slightly, shooting him a look but mostly ignoring him.

“So, this is a pretty extravagant wedding,” he comments, investigating his reflection in the salad fork.

“Yeah, Lizzy’s family is, like, loaded,” Cat says, even though Frank clearly directed his comment towards Mel. “Her father owns Sheetz.”

He scrunches his brow. “They have this much money from owning a gas station?”

“No, her dad owns all of Sheetz,” Mel clarifies. “Her grandfather founded the company. His name is on the Lymphatic Disorders center.”

He gawps at her for at least 20 seconds. “And she went to Northwestern?”

Mel frowns up at him. “What’s wrong with Northwestern?”

“Nothing,” Frank laughs. “Just, the family name is on a library at Carnegie Mellon. Couldn’t she go there?”

“Northwestern’s just as good as Carnegie Mellon,” Mel grumbles. “And it’s not like she’s actually using her degree.”

The last part is said quietly enough just to be meant for Frank. It doesn’t actually matter, since the women around the table stopped paying attention to them when they realized Frank wouldn’t return the favor. Still, Frank attempts to muffle his laugh in his napkin.

He spends most of the next hour trying to convince Mel to dance to no avail. She seems absolutely convinced that not only is she terrible at it, but that it therefore can’t be any fun. Frank, who’s never been good on his feet, tries valiantly to argue otherwise, but Mel won’t have any of it.

“Dancing is, like, the best part of going to a wedding,” Frank insists. It used to be the open bar, but, well, not anymore.

“That is not true,” Mel says emphatically.

“Then what is? Certainly not the food. Or the speeches. Or company.”

She considers him, then the room, and then gets up. “Leaving,” she says, and turns on her heels.

Frank follows her out with a laugh.

There’s already a line at the valet stand despite it being early, so they wait, leaning against the wall and watching the intricate movements of the valets maneuvering Range Rovers and Jaguars around each other.

“Why’d you never tell me about Evans?” he asks, scuffing his shoe through the dirt. No longer able to hold in the burning question.

Mel’s quiet for a long moment, staring out at the fairy-light-lit yard. Finally, she says, “I don’t tell anyone when I’m dating someone. You, uh, saw what they were like in there. People don’t see me as someone who can be romantic or sexual, and sometimes it’s just not worth dealing with it.”

Frank’s stomach rolls over at her words. He feels a bit foolish that he thought Mel wouldn’t notice how her so-called friends looked at her. He thinks about work, how everyone treats her like she’s Doogie Howser or something, instead of a grown adult. Frank can’t comprehend it, really. He’s never seen Mel as anything but who she is. And he certainly sees her as a romantic and sexual being.

“Mel, you have to know I would never be like that,” he says quietly. “I don’t, uh, I see you as you are. The full you.”

She finally meets his eyes, her own wide and shimmering. She looks as if Frank just told her the most shocking thing he possibly could.

“I want you to share things with me,” he continues, nervous he’s overstepping his boundaries but unable to stop with Mel looking at him like that. “If we’re friends, truly, then we should be able to talk about anything.”

“We are friends,” Mel says fiercely. “I’m sorry; I should’ve told you. I know you’re…not like them.”

“They really do suck,” he says idly. He can see Mel’s beat-up sedan coming up the hill, a sore thumb amongst the luxury cars. “Why’d you even RSVP yes?”

Mel shrugs, back to looking forward into the distance. “I don’t know. I don’t have many people who would invite me to their weddings; I guess I thought it might be nice. Plus, when I had a boyfriend, it seemed almost exciting. Like it would make everything different, or at least feel like how it’s supposed to feel.”

Frank takes a beat, truly digesting her words. Mel’s good at making him do that, take a step back and actually think about what he wants to say before he says it. She deserves him being deliberate.

“I get it,” he says. Mel shoots him a look like she doesn’t believe him at all, so Frank continues. “I really do, Mel. Why do you think I went to that wedding a few months ago? My life blew up in my face two years ago, and with it went pretty much everyone who gave a shit about me. I went to that wedding just to feel like I was a normal person, with friends and a social life.”

Mel’s not looking at him, but they’re standing close enough together that he can see the goosebumps on her arms. “It’s not the same,” she says quietly.

“Mel,” Frank starts, but she cuts him off.

“I know you’re trying to help, but it’s not the same, Frank. You had an addiction; what happened wasn’t your fault. It’s not the same.”

He would argue with her about it being his fault, but he’s more concerned with what she’s implying. “It’s not your fault, either, Mel. You’re not—you’re wonderful.”

She turns sharply towards him, and their noses almost touch. His breath gets caught in his throat. Her eyes are shining with tears, bright and wet in the dim lighting. They stand like this for one beat, two, and then Mel’s license plate number is called out. She pushes off the wall with alacrity, leaving Frank to slump against the wall and inhale the waft of her perfume.

-

“Moira invited me to her wedding,” he says, lowly so no one else hears. It’s been 6 weeks since the last wedding, and neither of them has broached the subject of what was said. Which is fine by Frank.

Mel gasps. “No way! She didn’t invite me?”

“Don’t worry, she said I had to bring the illustrious Dr. King.” Actually, what Moira had said was that Frank had better bring his doctor girlfriend. “She said it’s going to be a small, city hall thing with a reception in a bar downtown.”

Mel’s eyes are sparkling. “Who is she marrying? I didn’t know she was even seeing anyone.”

Moira’s a frequent patient, one who always insists on seeing Frank, and if he’s not available, Melissa. She was one of Frank’s first patients as a PGY-1, a COPD patient who comes in for flare-ups. They bonded immediately over the Pens and the shit hospital coffee. She was one of the first people to help Frank feel like a real doctor, not just a kid dressing up in a lab coat. The same was true when he came back from his sabbatical. She met Mel during Frank’s time away, and now she’s always got to see one of them.

“Apparently, she's been keeping him from us,” he says conspiratorially. “They met a year ago. I think he works in construction or something, not really sure. Anyway, the wedding’s on Sunday and we’re invited to the reception. Wanna go?”

Frank hears someone, Dana probably, calling his name over his shoulder, but he ignores it. He waits for Mel’s answer, practically tilting forward on his toes towards her.

“Yes!” she practically exclaims. “Of course. I know we’re not supposed to, but—”

Frank waves it off. “Who gives a fuck; it’ll be fun! And I won’t tell Robby if you won’t.”

Feeling particularly jaunty, he caps it off with a wink, grinning at Mel as he walks backward to where Dana was calling his name.

As is now customary, they carpool there. Mel’s between Frank’s apartment and the bar, so he picks her up.

Mel’s dress is simple this time, a pale yellow sundress. Her hair is all down, thick blonde tresses blanketing her shoulders. There are two butterfly clips in her hair, holding it back from her face. She’s not wearing her glasses.

“You’re wearing contacts?” he asks as she gets in the car.

“Oh,” Mel blushes, which Frank can’t understand why. “Yes. Becca insisted.”

He smiles, watching her fidget nervously. “Why did Becca insist?” he asks slowly, observing with amusement as the blush creeps its way to her hairline.

“No reason,” Mel squeaks, and though Frank is still completely confused as to what Becca’s motivations could be, he decides to drop it.

“You look nice,” he offers, turning the key in the ignition.

“Thank you,” Mel says, voice somehow higher.

“But I prefer the glasses,” he continues, turning to her with a grin. “It’s more Mel.”

She’s speechless at that, her mouth opening and closing a few times. Frank settles into the drive with a self-satisfied smirk, thinking about what else he could say to get her to react like that.

They’re early, which also seems to be customary now. There aren’t many people there, a smattering of what looks like friends and family. He and Mel are the only ones from the hospital, save a nurse Frank faintly recognizes. They weren’t even at the very small ceremony. Just the bride, groom, and two witnesses. The bar is dive-y, but nice, clearly one that loves Moira. There’s a banner hanging up congratulating Moira and her husband, whose name is apparently Dave.

Moira enters the bar beaming, her box-dyed hair a bright red under the lights. She’s wearing white, which Frank finds amusing, but the dress is clearly an off-the-rack cocktail dress. Gripped in her hands is a bouquet of flowers that Frank can’t name, and behind her is who must be Dave. He’s at least a foot taller than the diminutive Moira, bald but handsome with a thick salt and pepper beard.

“He’s legally stuck with me now!” she proclaims to the 50 or so guests, all of whom burst into laughter. Frank turns to Mel, who is grinning. “I need a drink.”

Immediately, someone places a gin and tonic in her hand, eliciting a cheer. Moira downs it in a few gulps, then slams the empty glass down on the bar. She looks behind her and winks at Dave, who’s watching her with impossible fondness.

With that, the party starts in earnest. Music pours from the speakers, with a couple of people making their way to the makeshift dance floor in the middle of the bar. He and Mel are at a high-top on the edge of the room, the dancefloor between them and the bar.

“Want something to drink?” he asks her. “I’m gonna grab another club soda.”

“A Coke,” she says. “Not—”

“Diet, I know,” he cuts her off, smiling. She can’t stand the taste of aspartame. “One full sugar soda coming up.”

There’s a line at the bar, but Frank doesn’t mind. He leans against the bartop, watching Mel through the dancers. She’s looking at her phone, every once in a while going to push her glasses up the bridge of her nose, and frowning when she realizes she’s not wearing them.

“Dr. Langdon,” Moira interrupts his contemplation of Mel. “So glad you and the good Dr. King could join us.”

There’s a glean in her eye. Frank refuses to blush. He knows he was being obvious, but if anyone knows about his helpless, hopeless crush, it’s Moira.

“Thank you for inviting us,” he says sincerely. “It means a lot, to both Mel and me that you wanted to share this day with us.”

“Of course. Hopefully, it can inspire some others to get down the aisle.” She winks, and this time Frank does blush.

“Moira, you know it’s not like that. Mel and I are friends.”

“Sure,” she says, looking over her shoulder. Whatever she sees makes her smile. Frank refuses to turn his head. “Now, what are you drinking. It’s on me.”

Frank smirks. Moira’s worked at this bar for 23 years, and he knows she’s only paying market price for the alcohol, with the labor provided for free. “Club soda for me, Coke for Mel.”

Moira scoffs. “C’mon, doc, it’s an open bar! Let loose!”

He’s uneasy, the kind of uneasiness that’s new with his sobriety. “Neither of us, uh, really drink,” he stumbles through explaining. “Plus, Mel’s on call, so. She can’t.”

That part is true, but Frank knows neither of them would be drinking even if it wasn't

“Nothing wrong with that,” Moira says, hands up like she’s conceding a point. “Just don’t want you skimping out because you think I’m a cheap host.”

Frank laughs, big and wholehearted, head tilted back. “Never, Moira.”

He takes the two drinks back to Mel, her can and glass balanced in one palm. She takes it from him quickly, like she’s worried he’ll drop something, fingers mingling with the cold condensation on Frank’s palm. He shivers.

“Thank you,” Mel says, pouring her soda over ice. “Do you have—”

“Straws?” He whips them out of his back pocket, relishing the satisfied grin on Mel’s face. “Moira insisted the drinks are on her. She asked why I don’t drink,” he says, aiming for casual, though he can feel how stiff his shoulders are.

“Oh?” Mel says with a frown. “That’s not really appropriate for her to ask. And you don’t have to tell her.”

Fondness unfurls in his chest. “I know, Mel,” he says softly. “And I didn’t tell her anything. It just caught me off guard a bit. I’m so used to everyone knowing all the gory details of my life, and it was a reminder that most people don’t actually know.”

“I think that’s good,” Mel says, smiling encouragingly. “It’s good to be reminded how much bigger your life is than this one part.”

It doesn’t feel like that to Frank. His life feels extremely narrow, defined almost entirely around his addiction. It’s certainly worse at work, but work is most of his life now. Lately, though, he’s been yearning for something bigger, broader. A more full life.

“I, uh, have my annual 'making sure you’re not fucking up again' HR meeting in July,” he says, twining a straw wrapper between his fingers nervously. “I have the drug tests every week, obviously, but this is a lot more formal. Documented performance review and everything.”

“Do you want me to—I can be there, if you want,” Mel offers quickly, words tripping over themselves. “Not in the room. Obviously. But we could talk, after, if you want. Not that you’ll need it! You’re doing great, Frank.”

His entire body warms, fondness seeping through him at Mel’s nervous blabber. At her steadfast belief in him.

“Yeah, Mel,” he says, accepting the proffered care in front of him. “That would be, um, really nice.”

His voice is suddenly thick, so Frank focuses on sipping his club soda and watching the adorably hectic, cramped dance floor.

The DJ seems to be a nephew or something, a pimply kid lazily leaning back on the booth. Frank guesses the extent of the DJ-ing this kid is doing is pressing play on a Spotify generated playlust and adding requests to the queue as people come up to him. Right now, he’s playing DJ’s Got Us Fallin’ in Love, which Frank thinks is a bit generous to this DJ’s abilities.

He glances at Mel from the corner of his eye, tracking her movements as she twitches and fiddles. She really does look beautiful.

The song shifts, and Frank makes his decision.

“Dance with me?” he asks, holding his hand out. “Moira will be disappointed if we don’t.”

It’s dirty pool, but it works, and Mel’s warm hand slides into his. Frank grins as he leads her onto the makeshift dance floor.

He figured a slow song would be better for Mel, since he can just guide her through it without her having to worry about missing a beat. It might be worse for him, though, with Mel’s face inches from his own and her hand burning through the fabric of his suit jacket. She wasn’t lying about her skills, though, so the occasional twinge of pain when she steps on his toes is a good distraction.

“I think if I got married again, it would be like this,” Frank says just to have something to say. “Simple. Cheap. Small.”

There’s a smile on her face, the same one she always gets when talking to him. “Penny as the flower girl, Tanner the ring bearer?” she asks knowingly.

He laughs. “Cliche, but yes. I’d do a potluck or something easy. Grilled cheese and tomato soup for all.”

“Too bad you don’t live in the suburbs anymore. No backyard for the ceremony.”

“I’ll have to settle for Frick Park or something then,” Frank says. “BYOB: bring your own blanket.”

Mel snort laughs at that, genuine amusement written clearly across her face. Frank lets himself join her in it for a moment, their laughs overlapping.

“I’ve never thought about getting married,” Mel muses after a beat. “I don’t even know the first thing about it, really.”

“Never? No fantasy wedding or Pinterest board?” he asks, thinking of the deluge of links Abby had emailed him when they first got engaged.

She scrunches her nose. “Oh, no. Marriage hasn’t ever seemed like something that would happen for me. If it did, there was so much else to consider that it would have to be something small.”

“But if you did have a dream wedding,” Frank presses, “what would it be?”

He doesn’t know why he’s asking. Probably for the same reason he asks anything of her; to be the only person in the world who knows it. Frank finds he likes being the foremost expert in Mel King. He likes collecting these pieces of her, these things no one else has ever looked at and realized mattered.

“Becca would be there,” Mel says, looking up in thought. “Obviously. I’d want to get married outside, I think. The botanical gardens, unless the groom is allergic to pollen.”

Frank isn’t allergic to pollen, but he wisely keeps his mouth shut. Mel continues, “Something small, not too loud or hectic. I’d want to be able to talk to every person there and not get overwhelmed at my own wedding. I’d want hyacinths,” she says suddenly, surely. “The ones that are so blue they’re purple.”

She’s looking at him now, their faces so close Frank can see the crinkles in the corners of her eyes.

“Why hyacinths?” he asks, practically whispering for fear of his voice doing something embarrassing like cracking.

The crinkles deepen as Mel smiles. “They were my mom’s favorite flower. I used to help her with her garden, and then when she was sick, I took it over for her. She used to,” Mel’s voice thickens, and without her glasses in the way, Frank can see her eyes are shiny. “She used to say that she wanted to look at something alive and beautiful so she’d know that life would go on after her. I haven’t…I haven’t thought about that in years.”

She looks up at him, sad and sweet, tears collecting on her waterline. Frank wants to pull her into his chest, crush her against him until all she can feel is him and his presence.

Instead, he rubs slow circles on Mel’s back and says, “I think that’s really lovely, Mel. You’d have her with you.”

He can forget, sometimes, that Mel has been alone for so long. For ten years. When Abby first left, Frank thought he might have suffocated from the loneliness. But like he eventually did, Mel must have become inured to it years ago. So used to doing things on her own that the prospect of companionship seems almost outlandish. And so here they are, two lonely people, dancing.

“Yeah,” Mel says, eyes distant. “Something blue, too.”

She seems so far away now, and Frank wants to pull her back in, ground her. He tries a joke.

“Maybe Moira would let you borrow something of hers. The garter belt, perhaps?” he says, referencing the rather lewd routine she and Dave put on earlier.

Mel shakes her head and laughs, placing a hand over his chest, resting on the breast pocket. The pocket’s empty, since Frank left the cigarettes at home out of respect for Moira. The heat seeps through the layers of his clothes. Frank spins her around and around and around.

-

“What are you doing on June 14th?”

“Um, working, probably?” he asks more than answers. June 14th is two weeks away, and Frank’s grasp on his own schedule is often tenuous at best.

Mel’s looking down at her hands, twining them together and avoiding his gaze. The diner they stopped in for a post night-shift breakfast has yellow, almost sickly, lighting, which makes Mel look extra tired. She’d ordered French toast, which she’s barely nibbled at, though Frank knows it’s her favorite.

“My dad is getting remarried,” she says evenly.

“Are you, are you going? Do you…need me to house sit?” Frank’s confused about what she’s asking of him and doesn't want to overstep.

Mel shakes her head. “I was wondering if you could come with me. It’s in Arizona. I’ll pay for your flight, of course,” she rushes out. “Sorry, it’s a lot to ask; you probably don’t want to go.”

“Mel—“

She cuts him off. “It’s just they gave me a plus one, which I guess is meant for Becca, but she obviously can’t go to Arizona for a weekend, and anyone who knew her would understand that. But I also don’t want to go alone, since the last time I saw anyone there, I was 19. I don’t really have a lot of people to ask, so I figured I would just see. If you’d want to go.”

“Mel,” he repeats more firmly. “Of course, I’ll go. And you don’t have to pay for the plane ticket.”

She looks so relieved, her entire body unclenching as she breathes out. Frank thinks he’d agree to anything just to see her like this.

“No, please, I know this is an inconvenience,” Mel insists. “I’ll get your ticket and your hotel room.”

Frank laughs softly. “Mel, I’m an attending physician; I can afford to pay my own way. Don’t worry about it. I want to go.”

She looks at him like she doesn’t quite believe it, but she also doesn’t argue the point further. And then she, finally, cuts a huge bite of her French toast and scarfs it down.

Frank knows a lot about Mel, more than he knows about most people. But there are still things she keeps close to her chest, that Frank tiptoes around because she makes him want to be gentle. Her dad is one of those things. She’s mentioned him before, always in a way too carefully constructed to be casual. Frank knows the broadest strokes, that Mel’s dad left when she was 6, that they don’t have much contact anymore.

He figures there must be more, a lot more, for Mel even to ask him to come. He’s noticed that Mel doesn’t ask for help easily, or at all, really. Years of doing things on her own, maybe, inuring her to a kind of self-reliance that seems almost unfathomable. It makes Frank a bit despairing to think about it too much.

He’s careful with it, though, careful with everything Mel lets him in on. Frank carefully doesn’t push for more and carefully lets Mel talk around her dad. He knows she’ll tell him when she’s ready, or in bits and pieces over the rest of their lives.

They’re not seated together on the plane, since they bought their tickets separately, and Mel outright refuses a ride from Frank to the airport. He tries not to read too much into why. They’re both there early enough to actually get a seat at the gate, though, so Frank buys them both coffee and lets Mel pick at the loose strands of his sweatshirt.

“Thank you,” she says quietly as the flight starts to board. They’re both in the glamorous group 7 and have time to kill before they have to get up. “Really, Frank, you don’t know what this means to me.”

Frank lets the words settle between them. She’s right: he doesn’t know what it means to her. It’s funny, how so much of Mel is on the surface except for the things she really wants to keep hidden.

“Why did your dad leave?” he asks carefully, searching Mel’s face for signs that she doesn’t want to talk.

“My mom cheated on him,” she says, and Frank fumbles with his empty coffee cup. She glances up with a frown and then turns back forward. “I didn’t find out until after she died, but my aunt told me at my mom’s wake. It was kind of funny, in an ironic way. All my life, I thought he was the bad guy.”

“What did he tell you? When you were a kid?”

Mel’s frown seems permanently etched on her face. She stands up, gathering their bags even though it’s only boarding group 4. A clear sign she’s done with the conversation.

“He didn’t tell us anything. Our mom just said they were getting a divorce; he’d already moved out.”

With that, Mel takes the empty cup from Frank’s hand and leaves, presumably to throw out their trash. A clear demarcation around their conversation. When she returns, it’s time for them to board, which they do quietly, each to a different row.

It remains quiet through the Phoenix airport and onto the hotel shuttle. Frank, who wants nothing more than to apologize for whatever faux pas he made and reassure Mel she can tell him anything in her own time, knows she would hate for him to bring it up in this enclosed space with strangers. Instead, he makes pleasant, if uninteresting, conversation with the middle-aged couple there for their high school reunion.

It’s late enough that it can be justified that they both turn in after checking into their rooms. Even though Frank wants to grab Mel by her wrist as she turns away from him and demand they have a conversation, he just reluctantly gets off the elevator one floor before Mel and tells her he’ll see her tomorrow.

An hour later, Frank gives in to frustration and texts Mel.

Wanna get dinner? he sends. It’s inching closer to 8, but neither of them keeps a strict mealtime schedule considering their jobs.

The response comes after 15 minutes of Frank pacing his small room.

I already ate. Ordered room service.

Straight and to the point, which isn’t out of character for Mel. Still, Frank's stomach rolls with a feeling of wrongness. Like if he hadn’t pushed her past on something off limits earlier, they’d be eating room service together.

I’m sorry, he sends before he can overthink it. You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.

Frank knows that’s true; he’s always known that’s true. The problem is that he can’t stop wanting her to want to tell him everything. He can feel it, the urge to push for it, like he can make her confide in him by just asking enough. By showing up.

Mel types for a long time, the bubbles disappearing and reappearing 7 times. Frank counts each with bated breath, awaiting whatever she could possibly be composing. When the text comes, it’s longer than he expected.

It’s okay. It’s not that I don’t want to talk to you about it. I just wasn’t expecting it. We can talk more tomorrow.

Frank lets out a long, controlled breath, deflating as he reads her message. It’s more than he thought he would get.

Of course, he writes back. Sleep well.

At the hotel breakfast, Mel meets him looking flighty and sleep-rumpled. There’s a crease in her cheek from her pillow, contrasting with the almost wild look in her eyes. She picks at a bowl of fruit after scarfing down a muffin nervously.

“The shuttle leaves for the wedding at 3,” Mel says, the first words she’s spoken to him that day.

“Okay,” Franks replies, watching her carefully. “How are you feeling?”

Mel shrugs, eating a piece of honeydew to delay her response. “I’ll be fine. It’s just weird; I haven’t seen him in so long.”

“When was the last time you saw him?” Frank treads carefully.

She scrunches her nose, thinking. “Ten years, maybe? He had to come settle some things with my mom’s estate when she died. Before that, another ten years. Guess we’re due.”

She says it like a joke, though it drops like a stone in Frank’s stomach. “So you guys aren’t, uh, in contact?”

“No, no,” Mel rushes to reassure. “We talk on the phone. More than we did when I was a kid.”

She says the last part like it’s a good thing. Frank doesn’t think it’s a good thing.

“So when you were kids, he didn’t see you and Becca? Or try to be in your lives?” Frank can hear the anger inching into his tone and takes a deep, steadying breath. Mel seems not to have noticed, shoulders more relaxed than they have been all morning.

Mel shrugs. “He would call on birthdays and holidays. It’s better now, that I’m an adult. He knows how to relate to me more, or, like, how to handle me, maybe. I was a precocious kid. It was a lot to deal with.”

Frank tries to imagine it, abdicating his responsibility as a father just because his kid is a little bit annoying. Because he resented his ex. Abandoning Mel. He can’t.

“All kids are a lot to deal with,” Frank says slowly. “That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t deal with them.”

“I don’t know if he ever wanted to be a father,” Mel muses, as if she’s discussing a movie character or a friend of a friend, not her own dad. She’s moved onto a yogurt, meticulously picking out all the berry bits. “My aunt said he asked for a paternity test before agreeing to pay child support. He was probably hoping for an easy out.”

“Jesus, Mel,” Frank says, mostly to himself, but he knows Mel hears it. He can’t believe he’s angrier about this than Mel. Thinks about her adapting, inuring. “It’s—that’s not okay. He shouldn’t have acted like that.

“It’s not really relevant if he should or shouldn’t have done it.” Mel’s voice sounds far away, like she’s narrating the experience rather than right in front of Frank. “He did it. And we all have to deal with it, however we want. I can either be angry about it for the rest of my life, or go to my father’s wedding.”

Frank has to close his eyes and breath in deeply to calm down enough to speak. He knows that if he reacts poorly to this, Mel will think he's reacting to her, not to what she’s saying.

“Do you want to be close to him?” he asks. “You would like him in your life?”

Mel considers it for a moment, chewing on the inside of her lip. “I want to try. I don’t have a lot of family.”

Frank has that itching, burning feeling under his skin that he sometimes gets around Mel. This frustration that Mel deserves so much more than what she has. More of a father, more of her friends, more of him. The best versions of everyone in her life, and most people can’t even give her half that. Much less him.

“Okay,” he says slowly. “Let’s try.”

She smiles at him, small, sad, real, the crease from her pillow almost gone but tucked up under her eye. He presses down on his thumb to keep from reaching out to smooth it.

The ceremony is on a golf course, of all places, under a gazebo by a fountain. Mel’s dress is fancier than her previous ones, a dusty pink that flatters her skin tone. It’s long; she’s wearing heels that bring her a couple of inches closer to Frank. She still has her glasses on, which Frank makes sure to compliment when he sees her.

She blushes the same color as her dress, but doesn’t look away. “Thank you,” she says, “you look nice as well.”

The prefuctoriness of her compliment flusters him, making him stumble as he follows her to the shuttle.

If Mel recognizes anyone in the van, she doesn’t say anything. She drums her fingers on the armrest rhythmically, tap tap tap, the entire time. She’s not looking at Frank; she’s not looking at anything, really, eyes glazy and unfocused behind her frames.

“Mel, is that you?” a voice breaks through about halfway to the venue. It’s a woman, a little older than Frank, maybe nearing 40, with familiar dark blonde hair.

Mel blinks, turning her body towards the woman but not her face. “Julia,” she says, voice almost flat. “Hello.”

“I didn’t know you were coming!” This Julia barrels on, either not noticing or not caring about Mel’s clear disinterest. “Gosh, it’s been so long. We have so much to catch up on. I heard you’re a doctor now?”

Mel’s grip on the armrest gets steadily tighter, her knuckles now white. Frank lays his own hand over hers and interjects.

“I don’t think we’ve met,” he says smoothly, redirecting Julia’s attention. “I’m Frank. Mel’s plus one.”

Julia has that expression that Frank has long gotten used to when people see them together. Mel adds, distantly, “We work together.”

“At the hospital,” he tacks on. “We’re both doctors in the ER.”

“Oh!” Julia sounds delighted. “So you are a doctor. You know, Owen was thinking about pre-med. Though I’m sure your dad has talked to you about that. Or if not, he’ll be sure to corner you both at the reception.”

She lets out a loud laugh, as if this is some joke they’re all in on together. One glance at Mel, and Frank can tell she’s just as lost in the conversation as he is.

“Oh, we’re here,” Julia exclaims, cutting herself off. Thankfully.

Mel and Frank wait until everyone else has disembarked before climbing out of the van. He leans over to her when they’re on solid ground and asks, “Who is Owen?”

One of Mel’s shoulders shrugs. “I have no idea. Julia is a cousin. I think she only recognized me because she’s Facebook friends with Becca.”

“She seemed…eager.”

Mel snorts. “She comments on every photo Becca posts. And Becca posts a lot. I think she’s bored.”

Frank grimaces, knowing the exact type.

They chatter as they scope out seats, Mel filling him in on other relevant family members. Frank catalogs them all, the aunts and uncles, cousins and in-laws, the family friends. All these people who haven't been in Mel’s life in years. He wonders how they see her, this beautiful, accomplished woman. If she’s just an unfortunate side effect of her father’s first marriage, the awkward topic to avoid at holidays. Maybe they just don’t think about her at all. No option sits well in Frank’s stomach.

He settles them towards the back, not the last row, but near to it. Mel still seems nervous, uncertainty humming under her skin, so palpable it comes off her in waves. Frank tries his best to comfort her. He offers her his hand when the flower girl comes bouncing down the aisle, and then presses his leg against hers when her dad enters. Mel shifts closer when the bride starts her procession.

There’s a pimply kid standing up next to Mel’s dad that the run of show says is the bride’s son. Owen, it seems. Her daughter is on the other side. They look like the picture-perfect blended family, and Mel is sitting in the seventh row.

The ceremony is fine. They don’t even write their own vows, and there’s no unusual song choice for the entrance. Mel watches the whole thing with her brow scrunched up, the corners of her mouth tight. She grips Frank’s hand the entire time, tight and unyielding, not relaxing until every member of the wedding party is out of sight.

After, Frank doesn't know what to say. He lets her take the lead. Mel, for her part, looks down at her hands, now extricated from Frank’s, and picks at invisible hangnails.

When they’re ushered in for the reception, Mel tells him she’ll meet him inside and disappears. He only starts to worry when the bride and groom arrive, and Mel’s still not back. Luckily, they're seated on the edge of the room, and Frank can sneak back out into the park.

He spots her sitting on the rim of the fountain, near the edge of the park. Mel’s kicked off her heels and is barefoot, cross-legged in her long dress. Her hair has started to fall out of the elaborate hairstyle, despite the bobby pins he saw earlier. There’s a cigarette in her hand.

“Are you smoking?” he asks, not believing it even as he says it.

Mel frowns, then glances down at her hand. “Oh, no. I just have this so people think I have a reason to step away.”

Frank can’t help but smile. “Where’d you even get the cig?”

“From your coat pocket,” Mel admits. “Here, I didn’t even light it.”

She hands it back to him, and their fingers brush as he grabs it. He can see the faint outline of Mel’s lipstick around it, and a thrill shoots up Frank’s spine. He lights it immediately and wraps his lips around the mark.

“Thanks for coming,” she says, squinting up at him. Her lenses have transitioned, and he has to strain to make out her eyes behind her glasses.

“I wouldn’t miss it. It’s my dream to watch your shitty dad get remarried surrounded by people neither of us know.”

Mel smiles weakly at the joke. “I mean it, Frank. I don’t know how I’d do this without you.”

Frank sits down next to her, and she lets his thigh brush up against her knee. He takes a drag from the cigarette.

“Also, don’t call him shitty,” she adds. “He’s not—he did his best.”

Frank can’t help but gape at her.

“What?” Mel asks self-consciously.

“You know, sometimes I think you should be more discerning about where you place your care. But then I realize that if you were, I’d no longer be one of the people you’re always looking out for, so selfishly, I love that about you. But that doesn’t mean that I have to be as benevolent as you to a room full of people who’ve hurt you. And continue to do so.”

Mel’s cheeks have gone pink. “I don’t quite think I like what you’re implying. But thank you, I guess.”

Frank really wants to kiss her. He knows he shouldn’t, though, not here and not now, so instead he holds out his hand. “C'mon. Let’s get out of here.”

Mel’s eyes go wide. “They haven’t even served dinner yet.”

“We’ll order room service.” He grasps her hand and pulls her to her feet. “My treat.”

Mel doesn’t want to talk when they get back to the hotel, so Frank orders them both burgers and finds a channel airing a Die Hard marathon. They watch one and a half movies in companionable silence, sharing a plate of fries.

After they finish eating, they talk incessantly about anything and nothing, about work, Becca’s new obsession with Survivor, Penny’s woeful ballet lessons. Over the commercial breaks, of course, since Mel doesn’t want to miss any of the movie. As Frank watches her watch Die Hard With a Vengeance, he has the thought that he could do this for the rest of his life.

“Have you never seen these before?” Frank asks during the next ad break.

Mel shakes her head, twirling a cold fry through a glob of ketchup. Frank watches the motion, eyes moving in circles with her wrist.

“Becca doesn’t like action movies,” she says as an explanation.

“You only watch what she wants to?” he asks before he can think it through.

Mel blinks, almost flinching. “Well, it’s, uh, it’s just easier. You watch what your kids want, right?”

“Sure,” Frank concedes, doubt still in his voice. He thinks they’re a bit different situations.”So you’ve never seen Die Hard. What about Mission Impossible? John Wick?”

“Hmm, nope,” she says. “I’ve seen Austin Powers.”

“But not any James Bond movie?”

“Never. Haven’t had a ton of time to watch movies, Frank. Unless you think I should pop these on during a shift.”

Frank snorts. “Still, there are gaps of time. You’re watching movies now.”

Mel shoots him a look. “This isn’t exactly a regular occurrence.”

He tilts his head in acquences. “Sure, but we get lunch enough times that you could've watched all Mission Impossible movies by now.”

Mel’s face turns, an expression Frank can’t quite parse written across it. She’s chewing on her bottom lip. “I don’t—do you want to stop hanging out?”

Frank’s eyes go wide. “No! No, I’m just saying we could’ve…watched them together.”

When the words are out of his mouth, he realizes what that sounds like. Wincing, he’s about to clarify that he didn’t mean it like it sounded, though he did, kind of, when Mel responds.

“Oh,” is all she says, turning back to the TV. The ads are over. “Sure, that could be nice.”

Frank’s buoyant mood lasts past when Mel leaves to go to bed. It lasts through his shower and brushing his teeth, through a quick call with Abby to check on the kids, and through til he falls asleep, hopeful for dreams of Mel influenced by his day.

He is wrenched from a decidedly less nice dream at one in the morning, a tentative knock enough to break his light sleep. Frank opens the door without even checking the peephole and is unsurprised to see Mel there, pajamas on and makeup scrubbed off.

“Can I come in?” she asks weakly. Frank steps aside easily. She’s so much more fragile than just a few hours ago, when she left his room smiling, shoes in hand.

“Sorry,” she says with a sniff. Frank realizes she’s been crying. “Sorry, I shouldn’t have some here.”

“Mel,” Frank says, as gently as possible, and places a hand on her arm to keep her from turning around and walking out. “You don’t need to apologize to me. Never apologize to me. What’s wrong?”

She sniffs again and looks up at the ceiling, like that will keep her from crying. “I didn’t—I thought—he didn’t even realize I had left. I haven’t heard from him all night.”

Frank slowly winds his arms around Mel, bringing her in for a hug. Mel’s face settles against the crook of his neck, glasses smushed against his skin. He sways them for a moment, like when he would rock Penny as a baby.

“Do you want to come lie down?” he asks quietly. “C’mon.”

He doesn’t give her a chance to answer. She follows him easily to the bed, hand clasped in his weakly. Mel lies on top of the unmade bed, not getting under the covers but resting her head on the pillows. She immediately closes her eyes, though Frank knows she’s not asleep. She seems tired, though. He wishes he could help her sleep.

“He sends a check every year on Becca’s birthday for $10,000,” Mel says. She’s curled in on herself, words half muffled by the pillow. “I put it directly in a trust I use for Becca’s care that has some money from our mom’s estate. I didn’t even know he was seeing someone until the save-the-date showed up.

“He didn’t even want me at the rehearsal dinner. I asked, and he said it wouldn’t be appropriate. I try, every time I try, and he just does this shit over and over again. I don’t know what else I can even do.”

“Mel,” Frank says, almost desperate. He gets on the bed next to her, lying as her mirror. She looks straight ahead, at a point that’s probably his chin. “You don’t have to; he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve you.”

“Why not?” her voice cracks, raised almost hysterically. “It’s not like there is a line out the door of people who want me in their lives. He’s my dad, he loves me. I just, I don’t know why we can’t figure it out.”

Frank can feel the moment the switch in him flips, when he knows he has to say something, push past what Mel might be ready to hear, and just say it.

“Mel, you don’t need to do this. You don’t need to accept whatever bullshit they give you as love because it’s not love.”

Frank props himself up, looking down at Mel. Her eyes are wide and wet, and she looks like a child, almost, in this dim light. His chest aches.

“You don’t know that,” Mel says quietly. “It’s—what they can give. What people can give.”

There’s a lump in Frank’s throat, and it’s anger that spurs him to keep talking. “I do know it. Because I love you, Mel, me. Not your shitty family or your fake friends, but me. I know you, and I see you, and I love you.”

He can see her crying now, tracks of tears on her cheeks, dripping into the pillows. Frank gathers her in his arms, feels the wet press of her face against his shoulder, cool through the fabric of his t-shirt. Mel sniffles against him.

“Just, don’t take something inferior because it’s all you think you’ll get. I love you, believe that, feel that.”

She shakes her head against his chest, constricted by the crush of Frank’s hold. He strokes her hair, quiet now as Mel shakes slightly against him. Tentatively, he kisses along her hairline.

Eventually, Mel’s breathing evens out, and she’s asleep against Frank’s chest. He surges with fondness and worry, looking at her still face and watching her chest rise and fall as she breathes. He knows he should maneuver her onto a pillow, but he can’t bring himself to. Instead, he falls asleep with her weight atop him like a blanket.

Mel’s gone when he wakes up, her side of the bed cold. All he has from her is a text confirming the hotel shuttle will leave for the airport at 11. It feels…like something. Frank doesn’t know if it’s good or bad. Mel needs time; he knew she’d need time as he was speaking to her last night. He wishes she could say that to his face.

She’s the last to arrive for the shuttle, and takes the passenger seat since the rest are full. Frank’s not sure how she does it, but she finds excuse after excuse before they board to avoid him. Bathroom trips, buying a neck pillow, a call from Becca. And then they’re on the plane, in different rows.

Mel’s silent the entire drive back from the airport. She was silent on the plane, too, pretending to sleep. Frank, as the father of two small children, is very good at spotting when someone is faking sleep. Plus, she looks exhausted, in a way Frank’s never seen. He wants nothing more than to follow her into her apartment and be there for her. To do her laundry or clean her bathroom, anything.

She leaves his car with a small, “thanks,” not even looking at him.

“Mel,” Frank says, and maybe it’s the way his voice cracks over her name, but it makes her turn to look at him for just a second. He’s never seen her so afraid. It freezes whatever else he was going to say.

“I’ll see you at work,” she says clumsily, slipping away as quickly as possible.

-

So much of being a doctor is wait and see. Wait and see if a symptom gets worse or gets better, wait and see if a treatment plan is working, wait and see if he’ll ever be accepted back into the fold. Wait and see if Mel will show up for him.

It’s been two weeks since her dad’s wedding. Two weeks of Mel turning the other way when she sees him, ignoring his text messages, speaking to him only about work. And Frank would be fine with it. Or not fine, per se, but he’d understand her need for space or her quiet rejection or whatever this is if she hadn’t promised him she would be here.

She’s not even on shift today. Frank had almost caved and asked her if she was still planning to meet him after his HR meeting that morning, but when he opened the thread and saw his 4 unanswered messages to her, he chickened out. It’s what he deserves, maybe. Ruining the best thing in his life because he couldn’t keep his feelings to himself. And after he’d been doing so well modulating himself for her, around her.

Whatever. He started this sobriety journey without her, independent of her. He can deal with his annual Robby and Gloria Interrogation without Mel. It was just nice to think that for once, there’d be someone on the other side for him.

When Frank emerges from the conference room on the floor of the hospital that he never goes to (they seem to delight in making him trek to the opposite end of the building for these), he’s in a daze. Everything was mostly okay, despite some snide comments from Robby. He’s doing everything he’s supposed to do, even the humiliating parts, without complaint, and will continue to do so as long as it means he can be a doctor. He assured the panel of this enough times that they finally released him into the fluorescent-tinged, windowless hallway.

Mel is sitting on the bench across the hall, dressed in jeans and a t-shirt, hands tucked under her legs. She’s bouncing her legs, chewing on her bottom lip. Frank stares at her, mouth agape, for a few moments, trying to shake the daze

off himself.

She spots him before he can, offering him a small smile. Frank takes slow steps towards her, the silence stretching between them.

“I didn’t know you’d be here,” he says eventually, sitting down next to her.

“I promised I’d be here, so I’m here,” Mel says. “Of course I’m here.”

He looks at her skeptically. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“You’ve been mad at me,” she accuses straightforwardly. “I don’t know why, but I can guess. That’s why I’ve been avoiding you.”

“I haven’t been mad at you,” he lies, which makes Mel glance at him, unimpressed. “Maybe a little. I told you I loved you, and you left. I’m a little angry that you couldn’t just say what you wanted to my face, but I’ve been trying to respect you and let you process this on your own.”

Mel frowns, opens her mouth to say something, then the door to the conference room opens. The HR rep and Robby come out, both glancing at Frank and Mel with bewilderment before heading to the elevator.

“Can we go somewhere a bit more private?” Frank practically pleads, not having the energy to spend even more time under the microscope of PTMC higher-ups.

Mel blinks at him once, twice, then nods. “The roof?”

There’s no one up there, probably due to the near oppressive humidity, and they lean against the door to the stairs, the building throwing off a little shade. Mel sighs, leaning against the wall and closing her eyes. Frank itches to say something, but he can tell Mel is gathering her own thoughts. He waits, if impatiently, grinding his teeth together.

Suddenly, Melt bolts upright, straightening her shoulders and turning to look directly at Frank.

“I won’t be pitied,” Mel says firmly.

“I—what?” Frank splutters.

“No ones ever told me they love me,” Mel says evenly. “No one’s ever been in love with me. So it can’t—it can’t be because you pity me or see me as something to take care of. I don’t…I don’t think that’s what love is supposed to be.”

Frank can’t believe what she’s saying. It seems so impossible that he’s the first person ever to love Mel; it seems, frankly, unfair. She deserves more than him, who’s already so unworthy of her that it’s almost laughable.

“I don’t pity you,” Frank says, his own voice distant over the sound of blood rushing in his ears. “I mean, I want to take care of you, but that’s because I love you and you deserve that. Is that…do you think that about me?”

She looks a little guilty, a little defensive. “I showed you part of me and my life that I don’t show anyone. It wasn’t…I didn’t like doing it,” she grounds out. “And I felt like an idiot or a child who didn’t know what love is supposed to be like, and you just confirmed it. Or that you were just telling me something you thought I wanted to hear.”

“Mel,” he breathes out. “I would never tell you something I don’t mean. I told you I love you because I want you to know you’re deserving of it, that you’re capable of being loved like I love you. Unreservedly.”

“Oh,” Mel says, small and uncertain. He thinks she might be crying. He thinks he might be, too. “That’s, that’s very nice, Frank. I think I’d like to kiss you, now.”

He barely has time to laugh with the delirious joy that overcomes him before Mel’s arms are wrapped around his neck and she’s leaning up on her tiptoes. Frank swoops down to meet her halfway, lips slotting against hers with a soft noise dislodged from Mel’s throat.

She leans her entire body against his, like she knows Frank will keep her upright. He kisses her softly, slowly, letting the warm, fuzzy feeling of it diffuse through his whole being. Mel kisses back more urgently, flicking her tongue along the seam of Frank’s lips and making him groan. She clutches at the back of his head, tugging his hair.

Distantly, Frank knows he needs to tell her something else. Something important, though it’s almost lost in the sweep of Mel through his thoughts. He carefully, regretfully, pulls back from her, lowering Mel back down to her heels and stepping back so her arms fall down. They’re still close, breathing each other’s air, but there’s enough space for Frank to think.

“I want to do this,” he says immediately, to chase away the brief look of distress on Mel’s face. “But you have to understand, if we do it, we do it all the way. You have to love me, Mel. I don’t ask for a lot, but I’m asking for this. I can only do this if it’s as real for you as it is for me.”

She’s gawping at him, and he kind of wants to fling himself into the Monongahela River.

“I don’t—do you think I don’t love you? Frank, do you think it’s not real for me?”

“I don’t know what to think, Mel,” he answers honestly, because he doesn’t know what to do with the hope filling his chest. “But for me, this is it. It’s you and me and full sugar Coke and diner breakfast and hyacinths.”

Mel sniffles, and Frank’s heart clenches. “Dancing and room service and Tanner and Penny and Becca?”

Frank could cry. He probably is. “Yes, all of it. You and me.”

Mel nods. “You and me. I do love you, Frank. I honestly thought you knew.”

He can’t help it; he laughs. “It doesn’t matter; I know now. We love each other.”

“We love each other,” Mel repeats in awe.

Frank sweeps her back into his arms, kissing her desperately, up on their roof.