“Really?”
“Really.” I nodded. “I wish I never wrote it, never sang it . . . I never will again. I promise you.”
Frankie exhaled. “And your drink and drug problem? I’ve never brought it up because I didn’t want to upset you, but I’m so mad right now that I don’t care. I won’t have you in my life if you take that poison again. I swear, Risk.”
“I’ve been sober from both for six months, remember? I’ve got my coin to prove it.”
She stared at my coin then flicked her gaze to mine.
“Stay sober and I’ll be impressed.”
“I’m working on it every day, Frank.”
She nodded, satisfied with my answer.
“You didn’t mean what you said right?”
“What’d I say?”
“About me getting out of your life.”
She sighed, long and deep. “No, I didn’t, I’m just really mad at you.”
“Then take it back,” I prompted. “Tell me you want me in your life.”
I needed to hear those words to feel like I could breathe.
“I take it back,” she frowned. “I didn’t mean it. Of course I want you in my life, you big dope.”
I relaxed. She reached out with her right hand to lean on the counter-top, but instantly she hissed and brought her hand up to her face and thoroughly inspected her palm. Her bloody palm.
“What the fuck happened to you?”
“I cut myself.”
She said it as casually as wishing me a good morning.
Frankie turned and walked over to the other side of the kitchen and retrieved the first aid kit from its spot on the wall. It was clearly difficult for her to unzip it with one hand but she didn’t have to worry about it for much longer because I moved behind her, plucked the kit from her hands without a word, barely a second later. With a grumble, she turned to face me and sighed. She knew she wasn’t going to win this battle with me so she didn’t even bother to start arguing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw she cradled her injured hand against her chest while I removed the items I would need and placed them on the counter. Silently, I held out my hand and when she didn’t give me hers, I rolled my eyes. I turned my head, looked at her and waited. Slowly, Frankie moved her trembling, injured hand towards mine and when my fingers skimmed over the back of her hand, she shuddered. I gripped her wrist and turned her hand over so I could see her palm.
“Just put a gauze and bandage on it. It’s only a little cut, it’ll stop bleeding soon.”
I didn’t look up at her as I said, “There’s dirt in it.”
It wasn’t a deep cut but it was wide and just over an inch long. I knew it was hurting her and I wanted to do nothing more than quickly bandage it so it could begin to heal, but I had to clean it first.
“I could just run it under the tap,” she hurriedly suggested. “That would clean any dirt away.”
She was scared, which didn’t surprise me; she never did have a high threshold for pain.
“Or you could be a big girl and let me clean your hand correctly so you don’t get an infection and have to get your hand amputated down the line because you were too chicken to let me do what needs to be done.”
She squeaked. “You’re such a little prat, I hope you know that.”
I made a point not to smile.
“Can I please clean your hand?”
“Oh, go on then! And be quick about it!”
I grabbed a small, sterile bottle of water. I twisted off the cap and poured it onto her hand. Frankie didn’t make a sound. The water just washed away some surface dirt. It was the alcohol wipes that I knew she was worried about. I was worried about them too; I was sober and I hadn’t been around alcohol of any kind since my stint in rehab. I was worried that the strong smell of the wipe would tempt me but I figured I needed to be tested because I couldn’t go through my life hiding from drink. Like a hawk, Frankie watched as I ripped one of the packets open and removed the tiny, white antiseptic sheet. The smell was strong but I was relieved to find it didn’t give me the urge to find the nearest bottle and down it. I focused on Frankie. I didn’t give her a moment to prepare for the pain, I simply shook the sheet out and pressed it against her cut and rubbed away any visible embedded dirt.
Frankie’s whole body jerked and I had to hold onto her tightly to keep her from going anywhere.
“Bastard!” she shouted. “Son of bloody whore!”
“My mum probably was a whore,” I mused. “So you’re not far off.”