How to love

eighteen: Alone.

Frankie's point of view:

His eyes rack from the pink towel on my head to my red painted toes, and only then did I realise I was standing in front of my boss, in a towel. A towel. My knuckles were turning white and felt like they would combust at any moment with the tight grip I had around the white fluffy material. His shy smile tightened and his cheeks flushed, descending down his neck.

"What are you doing here?" I squeak, feeling the rapid pulse pick up pace in my throat. I cough, although it was fake and move aside, hiding my exposed body behind the door. "Come in - uh, you know where everything is I'm just going too, uh - yep!"

Rushing off without a second though and swearing I could hear his cheeky chuckle following me, I pin myself against the closed bedroom door and try to calm my panicked breathing. I rummage back through my drawers, pulling on a pair of cropped leggings and a t-shirt, tugging a cardigan as I creep back along the hallway. He remained stood in the middle of my living room, pizza boxes and wine still in hand.

"Jason?" I speak, catching his lowered guard that caused him to crane his neck quickly. "What are you doing here?"

He holds up his gifts. "I heard you were having thanksgiving alone - and you also usually order pizza. I'm sorry for not warning you. I wasn't sure if you would have let me join you if I asked."

David.

He sets the boxes and bottle carefully on the coffee table, returning his hands to the pockets of his jeans. It was the first time in the three months of becoming inseparable, and the three years of working together, I had seen him in something so comfortable and effortless. Even on our night to Dave and Busters, although he was in jeans, he was wearing a buttoned shirt and boots.

We stand in silence, the cheers from the parade ringing out from the television but neither of us paying attention. Instead, we were staring at each other. Like we were longing for something, missing something so intensely but neither of us wanted to admit what.

"I'm sorry." He speaks first, though eyes never leaving mine. "I'm truly sorry, Frankie."

I tug on the sleeves of the thickly knitted cardigan. "You have nothing to be sorry for."

"I do." He tells me, those crystallised orbs never leaving mine. He heaves a deep sigh. "God Frankie, I'm so sorry that you had to see those photos before I could explain to you what was going on. I should have told you as soon as I left dinner that she was there. But I can promise you - there's nothing between Natasha and I anymore, Frankie."

He takes a step forward, closing in the gap that was between us. My heart rate quickens and a strangled breath gets twisted at the back of my throat, but again, never once does his eyes leave mine.

"I promise."

For the first time in a very, very long time - I trusted him. I trusted someone that wasn't family, or Hannah.

My soaring heart began to ache as the tingle starts wrap around my heaving lungs. A wave of goosebumps scatter across the nape of my neck, prickling my skin and sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. He wets his lips, as if he were wanting to speak again, but he doesn't.

So I do.

"Red's my favourite."

A overwhelming sigh of relief leaves his solid chest and he beams widely, showing of his perfect pearly whites and the crevice dimple on his smile line. The worried wrinkles that were forming above his brow bone drops and he nods. "Good. Mine too."

I scamper into the kitchen, reaching on my tiptoes for the hidden wine glasses in the top cupboard and tugging out two plates to return back to the living room where Jason had settled himself down ontop of my comforter. I blush. "Sorry - I'll move that."