2.0 The Chronicles of Us - Shame & Blame

Chapter thirty-two

•★ Tex ★•

Last night was strange. I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel about it. On the one hand, I feel really fucking good about the fact that she came to see me. On the other hand, why didn't she tell me she was going to be in L.A? I could've picked her up from the airport and spent some time with her before we had to do our own thing. I could've taken her to that new ice cream shop I walked past last Monday. Giovani's Gelato obviously has a thing for alliteration, which is fine with me. They sell flavors like Rainbow Raisins, Butterscotch Bonanza, Wacky Walnuts, Caramel Confusion and Profoundly Peanuts. Right up Ellie's weird alley.

Instead, she never told me and then showed up, just to leave like fucking lightning after she got laid. I'm not complaining about the getting laid part, that was definitely some wannabe rock-star bucket list type of shit, but still.

Did she really have to work or didn't she want to come back with me? Does she consider Los Angeles an inconvenience? I could ask her, but I don't wanna come across as pushy. I mean, we're taking things slow. That probably means that I shouldn't badger her with questions like that. Maybe I should just patiently wait for her to come to me.

It's fucking annoying, though. I feel like I'm holding myself back; constantly watching my words. I just wanna grab her by the shoulders and tell her to move her ass back into my apartment already. After all, she's pretty small and fucking bendy. I could probably fit her in a suitcase and simply take her home. Trying to be wise and responsible is no fucking fun.

Time ... we need a little more time.

Just when I play some major scales—ascending and descending—to keep my fingers quick and my skills honed, the doorbell rings. Who has the nerve to disturb my moment of peaceful practice?

I press the button on the intercom. "There's a 'no solicitors' sign underneath my bell. Go sell your homeopathic scam-medicine somewhere else."

"It's Frank."

Oh.

Did I ever give him my address? Doesn't really matter, I suppose. "Come on up."

I buzz him in and leave the front door open while I return to my guitar. A moment later, he appears in the living room. After my nearly fatal accident, I made sure to stay away from anyone who could tempt me back into drug use. In all honesty, I do feel bad for ditching him ... again. He's a good guy.

He slumps down in the La-Z-Boy recliner I bought recently. Why did I get it? No clue. Okay, it probably has something to do with the fact that my apartment feels empty without Ellie. Not that an overpriced grandpa chair will fix that, but it was worth a shot.

Frank pulls the lever so his feet kick up and grins. "I can see why you never invited any of us over. This place is a real shithole."

I snort with humor and play the first two bars of Iron Man. He's obviously joking. My place is actually pretty nice. "So, what brings you here?"

When he doesn't answer, I look up from my guitar. "Frank?"

His feet go down again. Apparently, a comfortable position doesn't fit his suddenly uncomfortable mood. "Remember that time when you told me I could ask you for help?"

Yeah, I remember that alcohol-and-coke-fueled night. I observe him for a moment. He looks slightly better, clearer skin, but still tired and worn out. If he's asking for my help, he must be desperate.

I put my guitar away and give him my full attention. "What do you need?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his faux-hawk. "I'm really trying to turn things around. You know, for Maggie."