Worth Living For

Chapter 9

~Frank’s P.O.V.~

The chair at my kitchen table had become very familiar to me in the last week, but sitting at it now was a whole lot different than before. This time, someone was sitting at the table with me, occupying the chair directly across from me. He looked straight into my eyes, but for some reason, I didn’t feel the need to avoid his eyes. I somehow felt more comfortable around him then I did just ten minutes ago. Even though I was still in my pajamas, I hadn’t taken a shower in days, and there were bags under my eyes, I let his eyes study my face in silence.

“You can talk to me about anything, Frank.” he started.

I nodded. “I know.”

“Then talk to me.” he said, moving his right hand to emphasize his point. “I know you need someone right now. And I’m here to help you.”

I sighed. Although I felt a little bit more comfortable around him, after what happened the second time he knocked on my door that day, I didn’t know if I was ready to open up to him. I know that he just meant that he was there to help me through my mom’s death, but there was so much more I needed help with, and I was afraid that if I got too comfortable talking to him, those things would slip out. And I didn’t want him to find out my feelings for him. That couldn’t happen. Not today.

“Please?” he pleaded, cocking his head to the side.

My mouth opened, and before I could even think, words were spilling out of my mouth. Words describing my mom, telling stories about good times I had with her and everything that she used to do for me. I even found myself pointing at pictures that hung on the walls and sat on tables, describing when the photos had been taken. I told Gerard about how my mom supported me and what I wanted to do, and defended me when my dad told me that I couldn’t move to New York when I graduated high school. I told him about the last time I saw her, which had been so long ago I couldn’t even remember exactly when it had been.

Gerard just sat there, watching and listening silently, as I went on with my stories. He didn’t say a word. I told him everything I could remember about my mom, not caring if I was boring him or not.

I didn’t shed a single tear the whole time I was sharing these memories with Gerard, though. I had never been much of a cryer. I hadn’t cried at all since the phone call from my dad. I just moped around miserably. I couldn’t recall the last time I had cried. It wasn’t that I felt like I was too manly to cry; it was just that I didn’t cry, ever. It just never happened, no matter how bad things got. I wasn’t sure what it would take to make my cry, if this didn’t.

I stopped talking when there was absolutely no more stories to tell. I sat there silently, waiting for Gerard to say something, but he just remained silent. I hoped that I hadn’t bored him, or made him think that I was weird in some way. Was I expecting too much from him? He did say that he was there to help...but maybe he just meant he would listen.

“Are you okay?” he finally said, breaking the silence. There was a worried expression on his face, and in his eyes. It comforted me in a way, just to know that he cared enough to be worried about me and if I was okay.

“I think so.” I shrugged. “I just wish I could have said goodbye. I regret not visiting her when I knew she was sick.”

“It’s not your fault, you were busy. You work a lot, I’m sure she understood that.”

“My dad will probably never forgive me for skipping the funeral...I just don’t want to go. I’d have to comfort my dad and the rest of my family, because I’m expected to. Everyone sees me as the caring one in the family. And I wouldn’t be getting any sympathy. I mean, I don’t want the sympathy, or the attention. I just don’t want to be expected to help everyone when I lost her too. You know?”