Archive of Our Own

“Hey, uh, excuse me.”

Robby looks toward the voice, away from the line of the horizon she was examining. It’s a dark-haired woman with an angular jaw, cheekbones high and firm; she has a shy half-smile on her lips, and Robby assumes she’s going to ask for one of the cigarettes Robby just stuffed in her pocket.

So she pulls out the pack, holding it out. “Smoke?” she offers.

The stranger considers the offer, looking down at the pack and then back up twice. “I’m actually good. I wanted to just—I’m Francine Langdon. Everybody calls me Frankie.” She offers a hand, and it’s Robby’s turn to consider an offer. Eventually, she accepts the handshake. “I’ve seen you at these meetings a couple times. You seem really—with it. You know. The program.”

Robby takes a drag on her cigarette and then drops it onto the sidewalk, crushing the flame between her booted foot. “Twenty-six years, seven months, four days. I think. How old are you? Thirty?” It strikes her as kind as funny that the age of her sobriety is only barely younger than the age of the new girl. Robby has seen her a couple times now that she thinks about it, but only recently.

“Thirty-two,” Frankie says. “Uh, look, I sorta need to put a sponsor down on paper for my—never mind. Would you consider it?”

Robby’s been a sponsor a few times; she sees it as a responsibility of hers as an elder addict, comfortable in her recovery, giving the important pieces of advice to the newbies that her supporters gave to her when she was young. It’s been a while, though. People at the meetings she goes to tend to be a little…intimidated by her.

Robby prefers meetings designed for people in medicine—they’re more focused, more helpful. And even though she goes pretty far from her own hospital for such meetings, she still has a reputation. Apparently, however, Frankie doesn’t know or doesn’t care.

“Let’s start by not obfuscating,” Robby says. “What do you need a sponsor down on paper for?”

Frankie’s smile twitches a little bit. “It’s a condition of my probation at my job. I’m in the ED at Mercy, and I’m supposed to get to start again next week but they said I need a sponsor first.”

“Someone tell you to ask me specifically?”

“No,” she says, “I just heard you talk about being in emergency medicine and I figured—it would be a good match.”

“How many days you got?”

Frankie shifts her weight, tucking her hands deeper into the pockets of her thin hoodie. “Hundred and four. I did ninety days inside.”

“So you have fourteen days, basically,” Robby says. “Fourteen days in the real world, with the real temptations. And you haven’t even gone back to work yet.”

“Is that a no?”

Robby sighs, shakes her head. “It’s not a no. You got time for a coffee after this?”

Frankie’s smiling when she nods. “Sure. That’d be great. Thanks.”

**

Robby remembers, when she’s up in the middle of the night to answer the phone, that being a sponsor to the newly sober is fucking difficult. She loses some sleep, spends more time in coffee shops and church basements, but she generally feels good about being there for Frankie.

“I signed the divorce papers,” Frankie announces one afternoon, when they’re leaving a meeting in search of drinkable coffee.

Robby nods. “That’s good. And it sucks.”

“Yeah. Were you ever…?”

“I’ve had a couple serious girlfriends,” Robby says with a shrug. “Never got that far, though.”

“Oh,” Frankie says. “I didn’t—I mean, the short hair doesn’t automatically mean you’re gay—I’m gonna shut the fuck up now.”

Robby smirks, shrugs. “It’s alright. I’m not shy about it. Look—this is a big deal. You should be prepared to go through the gamut of emotions, the whole thing. It’s not a bad thing to lean on your shortcuts at times like that, whatever works for you. Distraction, candy, whatever.”

For Robby, like a lot of other addicts, it was sugar for a long time. Then she overcorrected and it was exercise. She’s had different distractions, different interests over the course of her sobriety. These days, though, it’s just—routine. She goes to work and doesn’t use drugs. She comes home and doesn’t use drugs. She hardly even gets cravings anymore.

“I’m going through a lot of peanut butter, weirdly,” Frankie says. “And I’ve been trying to keep busy with my hands. I learned how to knit when I was in rehab—I’m making a sweater.”

“How’s that going?”

“I’ve restarted it like a dozen times,” she admits. “I made a couple good socks, though.”

“You’ve only been back at work a week. Pretty bad timing to be signing divorce papers.”

“As if there’s a good time,” Frankie says.

“Fair enough.”

They pause at a street corner, waiting for the light to turn in their favor.

“I really benefitted,” Robby says, “from people at work who knew I was struggling. It might be a good idea to confide in some of them.”

“Trust me, they know,” Frankie huffs. “It was the gossip of the ED for ages, and now that I’m back…” She shrugs. “Everybody already treats me like I’m made of glass. Or worse, like I’m a—” She cuts herself off. She’s said it before, tried to separate herself from people she sees as “junkies,” and Robby always reminds her: she’s not better than any other addict; she’s not different just because she’s a doctor. “I just wanna finish my residency and try to switch hospitals. Get a fresh start.”

“You’ll still be an addict at a different hospital,” Robby tells her. “You know that. And rumors are gonna follow you no matter what. It’s a small city in the end.”

Frankie doesn’t say anything. When they get to the coffee shop, she changes the subject.

**

It’s a little weird, to feel so close to someone so quickly. Three months into knowing each other, Robby realizes that Frankie is probably one of her closest friends at the moment. They see each other every morning at the same meeting, and sometimes they meet up for extra ones too, or just to chat. They’ve started getting together to go to the batting cages; Robby told Frankie how much it helps her to hit something really, really hard when she’s in a pissy mood, and they ended up going together. So they drink coffee, sit in meetings, and sometimes go to batting cages.

**

“Can I ask you about a work thing?”

“A patient?” Robby asks, frowning. 

“A colleague,” Frankie says. 

They’re sitting across from each other in a semi-packed café. It’s Robby’s day off, and normally she’d love nothing more than to crawl back into bed, but now hanging out with Frankie is part of her routine.

“Shoot,” she says.

“There’s a doctor, the one who reported me. My counselor from rehab and I talked a bit about the whole making amends thing. But I kind of hate her guts.”

Robby smirks to herself. “She did you a favor. Saved you from hurting yourself or anyone else.”

“Not really what it felt like at the time.”

“It never does,” Robby assures her. “A nurse reported me. New nurse, fresh on the floor—her first week. She caught me shooting morphine into my wrist while I was meant to be cleaning up after a trauma.” She worries, for a moment, that describing her drug use in front of her sponsee is a bad idea, but Frankie’s a doctor; she has to work with and talk about drugs every day. “I was pretty pissed at her for a while because of that. But she saved my life.”

“Did you talk to her about it? After you got clean?”

“Yeah,” Robby says with a nod. “She became a very good friend of mine.”

Frankie makes a face. “I don’t think I can be friends with her. I can barely be in the same room as her without feeling like—like I wanna throw something.”

“Well, you should figure that out. Whether that means changing shifts or talking to her, I guess that’s up to you. But big emotional triggers like that, they’re gonna keep coming up. So you’re gonna need to learn to handle them.”

Frankie drums her fingers on the table. “Once you got clean, you stayed clean?”

It’s a sudden change in subject, and one that raises Robby’s hackles. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I just—people sometimes talk about relapse like it’s inevitable. I think that’s why—that’s part of why this doctor bugs me so much. When I look at her, it’s like I can see this expectation on her face, like she’s just waiting for me to use again.”

“Seems to me like you’re projecting,” Robby says confidently. “You’re worried about relapsing so you’re seeing that worry in other people. What’s scaring you? Work?”

Frankie shrugs. “Yeah. Partly.”

“Kids?”

She sighs. “Honestly, it makes me feel like a piece of shit but no, the kids are not a current stressor. I’m actually—grateful not to be responsible for them at the moment.”

Robby doesn’t judge, and even if she did that would hardly be the worst thing she’s ever heard someone say about their kids. But the sentiment hits her anyway; she feels bad for Frankie, bad for whoever her younger self was when she got into the marriage that she clearly wasn’t happy in. Robby can imagine why the kids might not be a huge priority for her at the moment.

“It just…would be really easy,” Frankie says. “To relapse. I think about it every day.”

“But you don’t do it,” Robby says. “That’s the important part. This is why it’d be good to have someone there at work—you can call me, but it’s even better if there’s someone there with you.”

Frankie nods, shrugs. “Yeah. Okay.”

“You can call me,” Robby says again. “You know that.”

“I know. Thanks.” Frankie looks at her phone. “I’ve gotta run. Shift starts at noon. On until midnight.”

“Be smart. Be safe.”

She scoots out of the booth. “See you tomorrow.”

**

Robby thinks she’s pretty. Frankie. Long, black hair, always sleekly pulled back into a ponytail. Big, beautiful blue eyes. A little dimple right in the middle of her chin.

Pretty. Straight. Addict. Sponsee.

Also twenty-two years younger than Robby. 

She cannot catch a break. Of course the first woman in months that she’s actually wanted to—

Oh well. Robby will get over it. She’ll go back on the dating apps that she thinks are embarrassing and demoralizing, and she’ll fool around with age appropriate women. 

She’ll get over it.

**

They’re at the batting cages when Frankie asks her how long into her sobriety she was before she started dating again.

Robby stares straight ahead, focused on the pitching machine. “I don’t know. I didn’t wait the whole year like they tell you to, I remember that.” She was young and in love and probably pretty stupid. It didn’t last, obviously.

The ball comes screaming at her; she hits it with a satisfying crack and steps back, watching it soar into the net.

“I miss sex,” Frankie says, getting her attention again. “I don’t really miss men or dating but I—I really miss sex. My husband and I weren’t the most functional couple in the world but the sex was—ya know. Probably how we ended up with two kids in the first three years of marriage.”

“You just have to be careful,” Robby says. “They tell you not to date because you’re supposed to focus on yourself and your own needs.”

“My needs include sex. I haven’t gone this long without it since I lost my virginity when I was 16.”

Robby bites the inside of her cheek and does not think about a teenage Frankie having sex for the first time.

“Your turn,” Robby says, gesturing at the pitching machine. Two balls have already flown past them.

Frankie sighs and gets up to bat. She’s quiet, focused, and she hits the ball with a determined strength. She’s gotten better and better every time they’ve come here. A quick study.

“The problem,” Frankie says, “is that it’s not exactly easy to hook up when you’re trying to avoid bars and clubs.”

“I use apps,” Robby admits. “You can filter for substance use on some of them. It helps.”

“Huh. That’s pretty smart.”

A ball whips past them. Frankie laughs.

“Your turn.”

**

Overdoses in the ED are a mixed blessing. They’re triggering, sure—but they’re also a brutal reminder of why Robby’s sober. At the same time, cases she relates to are…more emotionally complicated. More taxing. Even though she’s grateful to be sober, grateful to be in recovery, she’s worn thinner and thinner each time she comes face to face with someone else’s addiction.

On this particular Saturday, they’ve had three ODs come through the doors before it’s even dark out. Which means it’s going to get worse when the bars open, when the club kids get where they’re going.

“She’s just a fucking kid,” Robby spits, throwing an empty blood bag against a wall. The third one through the door never had a chance. “A fucking—a fucking kid.” No one reacts, just lets her knock over a tray littered with the devices and drugs they were trying to use to save the girl on their table.

She takes a deep breath, looks up at the clock. There’s no family waiting. No ID. The patient was probably unhoused, a runaway; she was down too long, hunched over on a bus bench for who knows how long before someone called an ambulance—she never even had a pulse.

“Time of death eighteen-eighteen. Nice even number.”

“Robby,” Dana says.

“S’alright,” she dismisses. “Sorry about the outburst, everybody. Let’s, uh, take a moment.”

So Dana turns off the monitors and bows her head, like the other three people in the room. Robby feels like crying, feels like shouting, feels like throwing everything that isn’t nailed down. Instead, she clears her throat, trying to banish the threat of tears, and closes her eyes, praying to whatever higher power might be up there that there’s some kind of meaning, some kind of purpose to this loss. And it feels like a loss to Robby, even though she doesn’t even know who the girl is.

“Kiara’s around,” Robby says, clearing her throat. “If anyone needs to talk.” She claps her hands. “Back to work.”

Robby avoids potential ODs for the rest of that shift. Dana helps.

Later, she texts Frankie and asks if she wants to hit a late meeting. There’s one at 9 PM that Robby goes to sometimes when she’s had a bad shift, and right now it’s less about the drugs and more about feeling—furious. Helpless. Useless. But she’s smart enough to know that if she wallows in those feelings, it’s a short road to temptation.

They’ve hugged a couple of times, Robby and Frankie. Usually hello or goodbye. Brief and polite.

When Frankie meets Robby in the basement of an uptown community rec center that night, Robby goes to her without really thinking about it, hugging her hard and long, lingering.

“Damn,” Frankie says, patting her back gently. “Bad day, huh?”

Robby doesn’t answer, just squeezes. It feels better, being body-to-body like this. It feels regulating, comforting.

“You wanna stay?” Frankie asks. “Or we could go talk?”

“Let’s stay,” Robby says, finally releasing her. She smells nice, like some floral deodorant, clean laundry detergent, and coffee.

The meeting is good. Boring, but good. Exactly what she needed. It reminds her that she has more control than she thinks, and also that she’s still just a human, fragile, emotional, needy. Both are true, and the balance matters.

After, Frankie grabs onto her elbow. “Hey, you hungry? There’s pizza around the corner.”

So they sit in a greasy booth and pick at pizza slices while they talk about Robby’s shift. It feels weird, off, to be focusing on Robby instead of Frankie. But it also feels—good. Robby can see how far Frankie’s come, how good she is at talking about the hard stuff now. And that makes Robby feel proud of Frankie and of herself.

When they say goodbye, they hug again. Robby can breathe a little easier.

**

“So when do I get to meet the new girlfriend?”

Robby looks up, meeting Jake’s eyes across the kitchen counter. “There’s no girlfriend,” she says. 

Jake gives her a skeptical look. “Really? ‘Cause every time I come over it seems like she’s just been here.” He points at a scarf that, to be fair, is not Robby’s slung over the back of her couch. “That’s hers, right?”

“I have a friend,” Robby says. “The sponsee, I’ve told you about her.”

“Hm.” Jake goes quiet, refocuses on his breakfast for a minute. “You know Mom’s getting pretty serious with her new girl. I just think—it’d be good for you to get out there too.”

“I’m out there,” Robby assures him. “Don’t worry about me.”

“Do I meet the sponsee?”

“Not yet,” Robby says. “Maybe one day.”

Jake hums. “Good talk. You’ve definitely convinced me that you’re a social butterfly.”

Robby rolls her eyes. “I do alright, kid. If there’s someone important, you’ll meet her. I promise.” She claps her hands together. “C’mon, let’s hit the record store before the hipsters get there.”

**

There’s something—weird. With Frankie.

Robby can see it as soon as they sit down together at a meeting on Monday morning. She’s nervous, fidgety in a way she normally isn’t, and it sets Robby’s hair on edge.

“Tell me,” she prompts when they’re leaving. Frankie didn’t share during the meeting, rarely ever does despite Robby’s encouragement.

“Tell you what?”

“Whatever’s on your mind.”

“You have to get going for your shift,” Frankie says.

“I can hang for a bit,” Robby dismisses. She’ll text Abbot and Dana and it’ll be okay; they’ll make it work. “Let’s go get a coffee.”

They’re quiet as they walk to their usual spot. Robby orders drip coffees for them and they sit down, cups in hand.

“Go on,” she encourages. 

Frankie winces, avoiding eye contact. “I sort of did something stupid.”

Robby automatically assumes the worst, but tamps it down after a second. Frankie would’ve called her—she knows that with utter confidence. If Frankie were about to relapse, she would’ve called.

“I hooked up with my ex.”

Robby exhales a sigh of relief. “Okay. Okay, that’s—that’s normal. That’s life.”

“Now he sorta thinks that I wanna get back together.”

“Ah,” she says. “And you don’t.”

“No,” Frankie all but hisses. “I was just—depressed and lonely and vaguely horny. And I haven’t actually had sex with anyone but him since I was, like, 22. The thought of trying to hook up with someone new was even more stressful than the thought of crawling back to my ex-husband. Fucking pathetic.”

“It’s normal,” Robby says again. “But it can be triggering, going back to a relationship you were in when you were using.”

“I don’t wanna use,” Frankie says. “Or—you know what I mean. I’m not planning on using.”

“Good,” Robby says with a nod. “How are you gonna break the news to the ex that you don’t wanna get back together?”

“I already told him it’s not good for my sobriety, but then he got pretty pissed that I used him if I wasn’t planning on, you know. Fixing our family.”

Robby can imagine. “Sounds like you probably learned your lesson about hooking up with exes.”

“No fucking kidding,” Frankie half-laughs. “You ever make that mistake?”

“Once or twice,” Robby tells her. “But I don’t have kids with any of my exes. At least, not really.”

Frankie tilts her head. “What do you mean not really?”

Robby shrugs. “I dated this woman Janey on and off for, like, five years. Her kid and I are close. He’s 17 now.”

“Wow. Ya know, I can totally see you with kids. You’re, like, nurturing.”

“That’s not what most people say,” Robby says with a smirk. “Look, do you have a plan? For dealing with the ex?”

“More or less. Basically I was gonna ignore him for a couple weeks until our custody hearing.”

“Bad idea.”

Frankie shrugs. “Considering I’m not actually planning on challenging him for custody, I think it might be fine.”

Robby moves her coffee cup around a little, trying to pick her words carefully. “Kids can be triggering too. It’s not polite to talk about but—we have to acknowledge our own limitations, our weaknesses. It doesn’t make us bad people.”

“I don’t know if my kids are triggering,” Frankie says, “but I know that right now I’m not ready to be responsible for them. I love them—I love them so much it hurts sometimes. But a custody battle would be bad for all of us, and Abe wants the kids so that’s fine for now. We’re gonna reevaluate after I get my one year chip. My lawyer put it in the deal.”

“That sounds smart,” Robby says approvingly. “Any visitation?”

“Holidays, in theory, and I can request it on a case-by-case basis. I have to give 48-hours notice.”

“Not a bad plan.”

“Well my lawyer’s not cheap,” Frankie laughs.

“Tell me where you’re at,” Robby prompts her, a familiar phrase between them. It means: give me a status update. Tell me where your control is. Tell me how worried I need to be.

Frankie shrugs. “I’m somewhere in the middle of it. Not desperate but not particularly zen either. Not any closer to using than I was yesterday, though.”

“Good. That’s good.”

“You have to go.”

Robby glances at her smart watch. There’s a text from Abbot, telling her to take her time. “Why don’t you come see me later? If you want. We can grab lunch.”

Frankie smiles, nods. “Yeah, alright. Thanks.”

**

So they have lunch sometimes while Robby is on shift. Not often, but sometimes—when Frankie’s shifts work out that way. And sometimes Robby goes and picks Frankie up after work at Mercy, takes them to another meeting, then dinner.

By the time Frankie is getting her six-month chip, Robby realizes that they really are spending a lot of time together.

They’re friends. Or something like it, anyway.

It’s different from the other relationships she’s had with sponsees. And she tries to reflect on what her sponsors were like. She had one at work, an older doctor with a drinking problem. And then she had one from her meetings, a nurse just about her age with multi-colored hair and a lip ring. Later, when she was a little older and the nurse moved away, her sponsor was a gruff older guy, a retired doctor with little patience but quite a bit of wisdom. None of them were really ever her friend, if she thinks about it. She did have friends from meetings, but the people she went to for help, the people who talked her off of ledges and gave her the best advice, weren’t friendly to her. They were—strict. Distant. For as intimate as their relationships were, for how much time they spent together and the secrets they shared, they were little more than colleagues in the brutal work of staying sober.

It’s not like that with Frankie.

**

Robby realizes that she needs to start looking for someone else to be Frankie’s sponsor on Thanksgiving.

She thinks—she really thinks—that she’s doing a good job staying professional, staying realistic, staying helpful, until Thanksgiving.

Frankie doesn’t have anywhere to go; her ex is still being prickly, and he said it was too soon for her to be around the kids, so they’re going to try again at Christmas. Maybe. So Robby invites her over after her shift, with the intention of drinking warm apple cider and maybe putting on a Charlie Brown special.

And they do that. They do.

But they also—

There’s a moment, Robby thinks. A moment between them that isn’t just in her head. They’re close on the couch and it’s warm and comfortable in the apartment while wind blows fiercely outside; they’re speaking quietly over the low sound of the TV, only half-watching. And they look at each other and Robby is pretty sure that they have a moment. Like if she lingered in that moment, if she waited and waited and lived in that moment, eventually Frankie would kiss her. Like if she leaned in and kissed Frankie, it would be well-received. Wanted.

But Frankie jolts to her feet and starts making excuses about how late it is, and they share a brief hug before she leaves.

Robby stares at the door for a little while afterwards, pondering.

She’ll need to find Frankie a different sponsor. Even if—even if nothing happens between them. They can’t go on like this.

**

Robby is 27 years clean in December. Whenever the anniversary rolls around, she has to take time off to think about it, to find meaning in it. She wants it to mean something, instead of it just being another day of sobriety. It helps her if it means something.

So she hosts a little gathering, small, intimate. Janey and Jake, Dana, Abbot, a couple of people from the program, including Frankie. They have dinner and they share memories and Robby is happy. Really happy.

“I like her,” Jake says when they’re in the kitchen refilling mocktails. “Your sponsee.”

“Yeah,” Robby says with a nod. “She’s nice.”

“Actually, she seems like kind of a dick,” Jake says, “but you do too sometimes. So I see why you’re friends.”

“Rude,” Robby chastises, whipping him gently with a dish towel. “How was she dickish?”

“Not to me,” Jake says. “I thought she was funny. But it seemed like she made Mom a little uncomfortable.”

“Huh. I’m sorry.”

“Nah, I’m sure it’s fine. You know how Mom is.”

“Sure.”

“So, still not a girlfriend?”

“Still not a girlfriend,” Robby says.

“But you kinda want her to be, right?”

Robby gives him a look. “Why do you say that?”

Jake shrugs, but he’s smiling. “Dunno. The way you look at her, I guess. Like you don’t even realize you’re doing it. But you have to make sure you know where she is at all times.”

“That’s just because you’re here,” Robby teases, “and I need to make sure you don’t give away any of my secrets.”

They both laugh. Then they fall quiet.

“Seriously, though,” Jake says. “You know we’d be happy for you. Me and Mom.”

“It’s not like that,” Robby says. “She’s straight.”

“Hm.”

“Believe me,” Robby says, “we’re just friends. And the sponsee thing—it sort of sets a boundary, you know?”

“Sure,” Jake says, nodding. “You’re like a mentor.”

“Yeah. Exactly.”

“I think people probably end up dating their mentors a lot.”

“You’re relentless,” Robby laughs. “Christ, kid—I promise I’ll tell you if I’m dating someone. I swear.”

“Okay,” Jake says. “You just, you know, deserve it. You deserve to be happy.”

“I’m happy,” Robby tells him, and hooks an arm around his neck, pulling him in to kiss the top of his head. “Don’t worry about me. That’s my job. Hey, speaking of which, you hear back from any colleges yet?”

They change the subject.

They move on.

Robby wonders if she really does look at Frankie in a particular way. Or maybe Jake is just being dramatic.

**

The thing is, it’s been really smooth lately. Simple. Even the hard days have been pretty easy, in the end.

Robby’s been lulled into a sense of normalcy, of security. She’s not even thinking about the holidays as stressors, not thinking about how things are going to be different and harder in the new year.

It doesn’t occur to her that Frankie is struggling. Because she knows—she assumes—that Frankie would call her.

And she does, eventually. It’s late on New Year’s Eve when Robby’s phone rings. It’s raining out. They met up in the morning for a meeting and Frankie seemed fine. A little fidgety, maybe, but that’s not unusual, given the ADHD.

“Hey,” Robby says as she answers.

“Are you—are you busy?”

“Nope. What’s up?”

Frankie sniffs. Robby can hear noise in the background. She wonders if Frankie’s at work. It sounds pretty loud.

Eventually, Frankie says, “I’m… I’m at a bar.”

Robby shoots to her feet, pulling on her hoodie and her winter coat. “Tell me where,” she says.

“Look, I don’t need you to—”

“Tell me where,” Robby insists. “I’m coming to get you.”

“I’m not a child. I just—I just wanna talk to you.”

“Francine,” Robby says, “tell me where the fuck you are.”

She sighs. “It’s called Victory Pub, it’s—”

“I know where it is.” She shoves her feet into her boots, grabs her keys from the hook by the door. “Can you go stand outside? Ask someone for a smoke and just wait for me—I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I just want to talk to you,” Frankie says again, and Robby isn’t sure if she’s imagining the sadness in her voice, the pain. She hurries down the stairs, not bothering with the elevator, and as she gets into her car, she wishes that the door to the fucking parking garage wasn’t so goddamn slow to open.

“I’m right here,” she tells Frankie. “You can talk to me. But I need you to go outside and wait for me. Can you do that?”

Frankie sniffs again. “I really—I don’t know what I’m fucking doing, Robby. I’m trying to—to keep it together, I really fucking am.”

“I know,” Robby says. “I know you are. Tell me what’s on your mind.”

“I can’t,” she says, and it sounds like a sob, sharp and breathy and pained. “I can’t—I can’t handle it. It’s all just—it hurts too much.”

“Is it your back?”

For Robby, it was an injury at work, which led to pain meds, which led to enjoying those pain meds a bit too much, which led to stealing pain meds even after her script ran out. It’s a classic story—she’s heard it a million times from a million other healthcare professionals. I never thought it could happen to me.

Robby knows that Frankie’s pain started during her second pregnancy. Tylenol only, back then. But then she wasn’t pregnant anymore and the pain was still there and she was an intern, surrounded by drugs all the time, and it was easy. It was easy to self-medicate.

“My back,” Frankie scoffs. “My back is fine. It’s my fucking—I just want to talk to you, Robby. I just wanna talk.”

Robby has a terrible feeling. “How much have you had to drink, Frankie?”

“Fuck you,” she says. “I wasn’t—I’m not—just one. Okay, two. I didn’t think it would hurt anything. I don’t—I’m not an alcoholic.”

“You’re an addict,” Robby says, and doesn’t add, you fucking idiot, even though she wants to. “You’re in pain and you’re trying to numb that pain and that’s a goddamn slippery slope—why didn’t you call me.”

“I did,” Frankie says. “I am.”

“Next time,” Robby says, “call me before you decide to go into a bar.”

“I thought you’d try to stop me.”

“No shit. Go outside, Frankie. I mean it.”

“Can you just talk to me? Tell me—tell me something. Something about yourself I don’t know.”

She’s only halfway there. She has to keep Frankie talking for another seven minutes at least. “I was in a band for a minute in med school. I play the bass.”

Frankie laughs a little. “That’s cool. I don’t have any musical talent.”

“I learned as a kid because I really liked The Cure. AC/DC. Aerosmith. I also had a thing for Fleetwood Mac, but don’t tell anyone. It’ll ruin my street cred.”

“You’re not that old,” Frankie protests. “I thought Fleetwood Mac was from the 60s.”

“They were still pretty popular when I was young,” Robby says. “My first girlfriend liked them.”

The light up ahead turns yellow—Robby speeds through it, even though she knows she shouldn’t.

“Did you always know?” Frankie asks. “That you were gay?”

“No, not always. I think my parents knew before I did. I wasn’t…girly. The way they wanted me to be.”

“I wasn’t either. As a kid. Total tomboy. And a future doctor, so—you know. I liked to look at dead things and do messy science experiments.”

“Yeah,” Robby says, smiling. She can picture that. A pre-teen Frankie poking at some roadkill or making a mess in the kitchen.

“When did you come out? Is that—is it okay if I ask that?”

“It’s okay,” Robby tells her. “I wasn’t out until med school. I dated a little in secret before that obviously, but I was closeted in practice. We used to call it being on the down-low.”

“It must’ve been hard.”

“It was,” Robby says. “It was really hard. Not a lot of people trying to out themselves in the medical field in the 90s.”

“I’ve never—I mean, I kissed a couple girls in college, like everyone does I guess.”

Robby bites the inside of her mouth for a second, stopping herself from saying something stupid. “You said you’re in pain, Frankie. That’s why you went to the bar.”

“Can we just—can’t we just talk?”

“Let’s talk about this,” Robby says. “Talk to me. Just tell me what it is.”

She’s quiet, but she’s breathing down the line. Robby can hear the bar in the background. She wonders if Frankie really only had two drinks.

“Frankie,” she says.

“I’ve never,” Frankie says. “I’ve never wanted—I didn’t know that I—it’s just not what I expected. It’s not what I thought would happen.”

Of course, a classic existential crisis. Robby shouldn’t be surprised. This probably isn’t the first for Frankie, and it certainly won’t be the last.

“I know,” Robby says, hoping that it’s soothing in some way. “Look, I’m two minutes away. Can you come outside now?”

The streets are packed. It’s half an hour to midnight. Half an hour to the new year.

“When I got married,” Frankie says, “I thought I had it all figured out, you know? Got the thoughtful, secure guy who didn’t mind that I wanted to go to medical school, who was willing to support me while I figured it out. And we had kids and it was—it was picture perfect, you know? A postcard. Something out of a fucking Norman Rockwell painting. And I kept waiting, I kept thinking—okay, it’ll kick in now. I’ll be happy.”

Robby stays quiet, waits to see if she’ll keep talking. There’s too much traffic around the bar district; she’s stuck at a light five blocks away.

“I have this therapist, right? And she’s effective because she’s actually fucking mean—she asked me the other day if I even loved my ex. Ever. At any point.”

“Ouch,” Robby says.

“Yeah, but—but she was right. The more I thought about it the more I realized that I actually really didn’t love him. I just wanted to love him so badly that I talked myself into believing that I did. I wanted—what he was offering. The Norman Rockwell painting.”

“Only it didn’t make you happy,” Robby surmises.

“It made me miserable.”

“I’m sorry,” Robby says. “I hear you. Sometimes you don’t really know what you want. You just know what you don’t want.”

“I don’t want him,” Frankie says. “I haven’t wanted him for a long time, I think. And that sucks—that makes me feel like shit.”

“So that’s why you’re drinking.”

“Yes and no.”

“Frankie,” Robby sighs. “Just—come outside. I’m down the street, just come outside.”

“I’m scared of what I’ll do when I see you.”

“Don’t be scared,” Robby says. “You can cry or scream or puke—I’ll survive. Just come outside and let me drive you home.”

“I’m really sorry, Robby.”

“I know. I know you are. It’s okay, Frankie—come on. Come outside.”

When she appears, she looks even worse than Robby could’ve imagined. Her hair is tied up in a messy bun but she’s practically soaked to the bone from the rain and her cheeks are dark with running mascara. It breaks Robby’s heart in half.

She smells like cigarettes and sweat when she gets in the car, but no booze. “Hey,” she says, quiet, practically timid.

Robby signals, turning down a less busy street in an attempt to get away from the traffic. “Buckle up.”

She does. “I’m sorry.” Her voice is wobbly, like she’s on the verge of tears again.

“I know,” Robby says. “It’s okay.” It’s not, not really, but there’s nothing else to say at this moment. She’s sure that Frankie feels bad enough without a lecture.

Frankie leans forward, grabbing the sun visor and flipping it down. “Fuck me,” she sighs. “Waterproof my ass—can I sue Maybelline?”

Robby doesn’t respond, just maneuvers through the busy streets. They’re not far from Frankie’s apartment, which is probably why she ended up at that bar in the first place.

“Are you gonna look at me?” Frankie asks in an almost whisper.

“I’m driving,” Robby says.

“I’m really sor—”

“I know,” Robby says, insistent. “Just—you should’ve called me. That’s what I’m fucking here for—why didn’t you call me?”

Frankie doesn’t answer. Robby grabs a spot on the side of her building, parallel parking with ease. She turns off the engine and unbuckles her seatbelt.

“I’m coming up,” Robby says. “You’re gonna have some coffee and some water and we’re gonna talk.”

“Whatever,” Frankie says, already getting out of the car.

“Christ.” Robby scrambles to follow her, almost tripping on the curb as she chases the younger woman into the building and out of the rain. “Fucking hell, Frankie—what’s with the attitude!”

“You’re not my mom,” Frankie tells her, scowling. (It’s kind of precious, Robby thinks, considering she looks like a drowned rat.) “You don’t get to just boss me around—”

“I do when you’re drunk,” Robby argues. “I do when you call me this late at night and you’re at a fucking bar—then I get to boss you around as much as I fucking please.”

They get in the elevator. Frankie stands in the corner, arms crossed over her chest. “I’m not drunk. I had a couple drinks. Different thing.”

“Spare me.”

“So what? You’re gonna tuck me into bed and stay with me to make sure I don’t do anything stupid?”

“Basically,” Robby says with a shrug. The elevator door opens on Frankie’s floor, and Robby follows her into the hall, down to her door. “This is a relapse, Frankie—let’s not pretend like it doesn’t matter just because alcohol wasn’t your main vice.”

“I can’t drink, I can’t take a fucking Tylenol, I can’t do anything except go to work, go to meetings, and not do drugs.”

“Yeah,” Robby says shortly. “That’s the way it is.”

Robby is a little annoyed at the moment, a little frustrated that Frankie is being so stubborn, but it’s not actually surprising, or even unusual. It was going to happen eventually. Addicts have bad days—they slip. Especially at the beginning of recovery, when everything is so hard, sobriety so tenuous. Robby should’ve known that it wasn’t going to be smooth sailing forever.

They stop at Frankie’s door; she fumbles with her keys. Robby almost offers to help, but she has a feeling it wouldn’t be well-received.

When they’re inside, a lot of the fight seems to go out of her. She slumps toward the couch and drops onto it.

“You want a towel for your hair?” Robby asks, peeling off her coat so she can leave it by the door. She kicks off her boots too, so she doesn’t get water all over Frankie’s hardwood floors.

“Sure,” Frankie mutters.

Robby’s been in Frankie’s apartment a few times. It’s nice—two bedrooms, in-unit laundry, a gym downstairs. It’s a little messy, but Robby’s place isn’t exactly spick and span. She goes into Frankie’s bathroom and grabs a towel from the rack. Then she goes into the kitchen and fills a glass with water from the fridge.

When she comes back into the living room, Frankie is standing, kicking off her shoes and peeling off her jackets. And Robby—Robby’s a little breathless, a little struck, more than a little affected by the image of Frankie’s clothes sticking to her torso, the rain-soaked blue T-shirt clinging to her breasts, her tummy, riding up a little bit so that Robby can see the jut of her hip, the low waistband on her jeans.

She has to look away, has to catch her breath. She feels like a Jane Austen character, caught up in the tiniest sliver of skin, as if she isn’t a woman in her fifties who’s had plenty of sexual partners.

Robby tosses her the towel and she catches it, shaking her hair out before wrapping it up. “Here,” Robby says, offering her the water glass. “Sit down and drink the whole thing.”

Frankie looks, for a moment, like she’s going to argue. But she doesn’t. She accepts the glass and sits down and Robby stands there feeling—a lot. Feeling everything.

“Why didn’t you call me?” Robby asks for what feels like the hundredth time. “You should’ve called me.”

“I called you eventually,” Frankie says. “Just—cool it with the lecture, okay? I went out and had a couple drinks, I didn’t knock over a pharmacy.”

“There you go, minimizing it again.”

“God—you don’t fucking get it!” Frankie shouts, pulling the back of her hand over her cheeks to try to clear her running makeup.

“So tell me!” Robby shouts back, letting herself be drawn into Frankie’s anger. “You said you wanted to talk, right? You want to talk to me? So let’s talk, Frankie. What is it? An existential crisis? You feel like shit because you’re supposed to be a big doctor and life didn’t turn out the way you wanted it to, huh? Grow up!”

“Fuck you!”

“You know I’m right,” Robby practically spits. She’s pissed now, pissed that she’s putting all this energy into Frankie when Frankie seems like she could hardly give a fuck.

“You,” Frankie laughs dryly, “know fuck all. You haven’t been fucking listening to me, have you?”

“Well you’re not saying a hell of a lot,” Robby tells her. “You say you want to talk, you say you’re broken up about your marriage—”

“See!” Frankie insists. “You’re not listening! It’s not about my fucking marriage, Robby!”

“Oh my God,” she sighs, dragging a hand down her face. “You need to just sleep this off. I can’t talk to you like this.”

Frankie gets to her feet, water glass set aside, and she’s gesturing toward Robby with one outstretched hand, mouth open to (no doubt) continue yelling. She looks kind of ridiculous, heartbreakingly messy, and she’s saying something but Robby can’t hear it because all she can think about is what might have happened if Frankie never called her. She can picture it so clearly, so suddenly—Frankie drowning her sorrows, ending up with some guys promising to show her a good time, getting lost in it so easily. Robby can picture her rolling into some fucking emergency room, can imagine how easy it would be to lose her—

She doesn’t make the conscious decision to move, but she’s standing right in front of Frankie in the blink of an eye, hand coming up to touch her face, to hold her.

They’re kissing before she even knows Frankie’s moved. And she’s not sure who started it, who was the first to lean in, but it doesn’t really matter. They’re kissing and Frankie is holding onto her shirt with tight fists and she tastes like—like lime juice and cheap liquor and unscented chapstick. It makes Robby feel fucking insane, makes her want to start yelling all over again, but she can’t work up the energy to separate when Frankie is kissing her like she’s starving for it.

If she were a better person, Robby would push her away. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that if Robby were a stronger person, she’d be able to turn down the opportunity to kiss someone she’s wanted for ages. Someone she’s wanted even though she shouldn’t. But whether it’s a defect of her character or some other kind of weakness, she doesn’t really know—and she doesn’t care. All she cares about is the fact that Frankie is right here, close and warm and safe.

So Robby holds onto the back of her neck and deepens the kiss, taking control of it. She wants more, wants it now, and she needs to show Frankie how important she is, how much Robby feels for her.

Robby isn’t surprised—but is pleased—to learn that Frankie’s a good kisser, eager, confident. She slides her hands through Robby’s hair and down her back, drawing her closer, pressing flush against her. When Robby slips a hand carefully up under the back of her still-damp T-shirt, Frankie arches into her, encouraging.

Frankie is the first to pull back, after what feels like endless minutes of desperate kissing. Robby is—tongue-tied. Uncertain. She hasn’t felt like that in years.

“I have to,” Frankie says, fighting the towel off of her head. “This fucking thing—sorry.” She tosses the offending fabric elsewhere and grabs a hold of Robby’s shirt again. “Where were we?”

Robby’s hands find her hips. “Frankie.”

“I know. Trust me, I know—I know what you’re gonna say.”

“You really don’t,” Robby exhales, and captures her mouth again.

**

“The conversation is not over, by the way,” Robby says when they’re naked in Frankie’s bed. “I’m—fucking hell—I’m still upset about the drinking. For the record.”

Frankie is flat on her back, hair spread out across her lavender-colored pillows, knees up and legs open. She looks—needy. Desperate. “I’ll make it up to you,” she promises. “Just don’t stop.”

Robby is only human, and a fucking weak one at that. She’s kneeling between Frankie’s open legs, strap secure in place, feeling like a fucking virgin. She wants—everything. All of it. And part of her also wants Frankie to know how fucked up this is, how stupid she was, how dangerous this could be—

“Fuck me,” Frankie insists, arching her hips. “I know you’ve wanted to for ages—what are you waiting for?”

Robby blushes furiously with the shame of being known. She thought she was keeping it together, being cool, but apparently not. “Shut up,” Robby scolds. “You’re the one spreading your legs like a fucking—” She stops herself, biting the inside of her mouth.

“Say it,” Frankie taunts.

“Slut,” Robby finishes, the word shooting from her lips like a bullet from a gun, deadly.

Only Frankie grins, laughing at the ceiling with her head tilted back, exposing the delicious and tempting line of her throat. Her hands come up, reaching for Robby. “C’mon,” she encourages, grabbing at the air between them, “get over here before I start without you.”

Robby is very briefly tempted to see what such a thing would entail, but she thinks better of it pretty quickly. She grabs the lube she set aside earlier, dribbling it over the head of the silicone cock between her legs; it’s a pale red, mostly translucent, not too thick but ridged, with a vibrating base. Frankie had moaned when Robby showed it to her—after Robby had suggested that she run down to her car and grab her bag of optimism that she’s had locked and loaded (with evolving equipment) since 1994. Robby felt pretty fucking proud of her planning when Frankie touched it with reverence and so much interest that she might as well have been touching Robby’s clit—now Robby is fucking desperate to get it inside her.

She rubs the head of the toy carefully up and down Frankie’s labia, spreading her, teasing her clit, the fluttering entrance of her cunt. Frankie moans and squirms and hooks a leg around Robby’s hip.

“Do it,” she demands, back arching. “Fucking—show me what you’ve been thinking about for months. Show me how bad you want me.”

“You have no fucking idea,” Robby says through gritted teeth. 

The harness she has on is comfortable, functional, like a pair of briefs with the strap slotted into the front. It has a ridged sort of mound at the end that curves against her clit, giving her pressure, something to rub off against. As she settles close and Frankie’s hands go to her, she focuses on guiding the head of the toy past the resistant ring of muscle between Frankie’s legs, but she’s distracted by the feeling of Frankie’s fingertips around her waistband.

“Don’t distract me,” Robby warns her.

“I like this,” Frankie tells her, dipping under the fabric. “I wasn’t sure what it would be like—how it would work. But it’s like it’s really your dick, like you’re really gonna fuck me.”

“That’s the idea,” she says dryly, and eases her hips forward, driving her cock slowly but surely into Frankie’s cunt.

“Fuck,” Frankie sighs, fingernails digging into Robby’s lower back. 

Robby pauses, deep inside her. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” she affirms, already arching, changing the way her legs are wound around Robby. She’s getting comfortable, feeling it, enjoying it. “Yeah, I’m—don’t stop. I can take it.”

“Of course you can,” Robby mutters mostly to herself. “Fucking—fucking eager for it, aren’t you?”

Frankie’s only response is a wobbly moan, eyes slipping closed as Robby starts to move with purpose, building a slow, intentional rhythm with her hips. Robby knew she would be gorgeous like this, in the throes of pleasure, biting on her bottom lip as her eyebrows scrunch in concentration. It makes Robby feel fucking crazy, lustful and possessive, makes her want to demand that Frankie look at her. But she also thinks that if she and Frankie locked eyes right now, she would lose any semblance of control.

“You feel so fucking good,” Frankie tells her, breathy. “God, I’ve wanted—I didn’t even know it could be—fuck.” 

She keens, pulling her knees up even higher, tilting her hips up up up. So Robby adjusts too, grounds her weight on her knees and pulls Frankie closer by the thighs so she doesn’t have to thrust as much; in this position, tucked so close against Frankie’s body that she doesn’t have the leverage to really drive into her, all they can do is grind and gasp and roll their hips, seeking friction.

“Yeah,” Frankie whines approvingly, when Robby sets a brutal, short pace. She’s holding Frankie’s hips carefully, driving into her at an angle meant to brush up against her g-spot, and it seems to be working because she’s practically shaking, breaths coming fast and hard, doing little more than moaning and moaning and moaning.

“I need,” Robby says, trying to fumble for the vibrator button on the strap. “Can I turn it on—please?” 

She’s so desperately aroused that just the gentle pressure of the strap end against her clit would probably get her off eventually, but she’s really not that patient. She wants the vibrations, wants the sensations, and she wants to know that Frankie is feeling it too, feeling her orgasm—sharing their pleasure.

“Oh, god,” Frankie gasps. “Oh fucking hell—yeah, do it, do it.”

Frankie’s rubbing her own clit before Robby even gets the toy on. The vision of it is—breathtaking, mouthwatering, probably the most erotic thing Robby’s ever seen. She’s fast, brutally impatient with herself, not bothering to tease the little nub at all, and it occurs to Robby that this is how she likes it, how she touches herself when she’s alone, what gets her off.

She hums with a deep satisfaction when Robby turns on the vibrations, smiling up at the ceiling. “God, that’s—that’s—wow.”

“Good?” Robby grunts, barely holding it together. She wants to rut against the buzzing silicone and come her brains out, but she’s trying to get Frankie there first. 

“Don’t stop,” Frankie encourages. “M’gonna come like this.”

Robby can’t help it, pitches herself forward to take Frankie’s mouth in a biting kiss. It’s not all the way there, not perfect, but she needs it so bad, needs to taste her, to love her. Frankie moans into it, kissing back with messy tongue and too much teeth, desperate and unkempt.

“Good,” Robby says. “Good girl—wanna see you come for me.”

“Yeah,” Frankie sighs. “Yeah, fuck—can you—” She chokes on the words, stops herself with her teeth in her bottom lip.

“Tell me,” Robby demands.

“Call me a slut again,” she says in a rushed exhale, like she’s embarrassed to admit that it worked for her.

Robby has to shake off the shudder down her spine, the way her whole body feels like it’s glowing, pulsing, needing. “Slut,” she says, not very convincingly. She shakes her head, focuses. “Fucking—you really are a slut, aren’t you, Frankie? Didn’t take any work to get you into bed, just a ride home and you spread your legs for me—needy, desperate thing, eager fucking slut.”

“Yeah,” Frankie whines, high and tight. “Fuck yeah, Robby, don’t stop.”

“You just need it so bad, don’t you? A big fat cock inside you—you need it more than air. You’re so lucky you’re gorgeous, you don’t have to put any fucking effort into it, just pout your lips and spread your legs—and you fucking love it. You’re practically begging for it, aren’t you?”

“Yeah.” Frankie’s turned her face into the pillow, hiding, eyes shut tight.

“Come for me,” Robby encourages. “Come for me, show me how much you love it—show me how you love coming on my cock, my little fucking slut.”

It sounds more like a sob than anything else, the way Frankie inhales and whines and makes this ragged sound in the back of her throat. The shaking starts in her knees, Robby’s pretty sure, but it’s hard to actually pay attention to the details of Frankie’s orgasm when she’s hurtling toward her own. It doesn’t take much, just a couple purposeful thrusts and she’s gone, gasping like a dying fish while she trembles, falls apart, fists holding Frankie’s thighs in a death grip.

**

They don’t talk in the afterglow. Which is more of an after-shame in some ways.

They don’t talk when Robby gets up and shoves out of the harness, leaving it on the floor.

They don’t talk when she leaves the bedroom, still naked, and grabs her cigarettes and her lighter from the jacket she discarded by the door.

The first words are Frankie’s: “Open a window. I have smoke detectors.”

So Robby opens a window in the bedroom and lights a cigarette, standing basically as far across the room from the still-prone Frankie as she can get. There’s a chill from the winter air, but she’s too hot anyway, sweaty.

“You make me fucking crazy,” Robby says, not looking at her.

“I think it’s clear the feeling’s mutual.”

She sighs, examines the glow of her cigarette. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to say right now. There’s—things we should talk about. But fuck me if I have any room to—” She stops, shakes her head. “Sorry,” she says, looking at the way ash is falling on the windowsill. “I’ll clean it up.”

“What? Oh, the—yeah. It’s fine. Just don’t burn anything.”

Robby focuses on the cigarette for a minute, the familiar drag of it, the warmth going into her lungs, the comforting visual of the smoke coming out. Like seeing proof that she’s still alive, still breathing.

“So, you just, like, have a dildo with you all the time.”

Robby smiles a little. “You never know where you’re gonna end up.”

“What’s the boy scout motto? Be prepared?”

“Yeah, think so.” She only wants half the cigarette, but putting it out on the windowsill would break Frankie’s rule about burning things, so she takes another drag. “I need a shower. But I don’t think I should let you out of my sight.”

“There’s nothing in the house,” Frankie tells her. “I’m not gonna go on a binge if you leave me alone for five minutes.”

Robby shrugs. “It’s partly the relapse. It’s also partly the…” She hesitates, finally glancing over her shoulder at Frankie.

She’s strewn across the bed, a blanket pulled up over her body, her breasts. In the light of the moon, she looks like some kind of painting, all soft lines and smooth skin. “The what?” she prompts.

Robby blinks. “I thought you were straight.”

Frankie purses her lips. “Yeah, I thought I was too. Hence several months of additional crisis over wanting to bang my female sponsor.”

“I’m not,” Robby says with a wince. “I’m not your sponsor anymore. For my ego, maybe we say I stopped being your sponsor about an hour ago.”

“That’s not very responsible,” Frankie teases, amusement clear in her voice. “You would abandon your sponsee like that?”

“Frankie,” she sighs.

“Relax. Have a sense of humor.”

“Christ,” Robby practically spits. “You think it’s funny? You think I was having a fucking laugh when I was driving across town picturing you wasted and hurting and—” She feels sick, pained, furious. “You scared the shit out of me.”

Frankie’s smile falters and falls off her face. “I’m sorry,” she says. “That’s not what I wanted.”

“Well, it’s what happened.”

“Are you freaked?”

“I’m not thrilled,” Robby says, “but I’m not scandalized. Christ, I’ve done a hell of a lot worse—and with flimsier excuses. But in the morning we’re going to a meeting and we’re finding you a new sponsor.”

“Sure,” Frankie agrees easily. “Do you wanna get back in bed? ‘Cause I’ve been watching you smoke that naked and it’s kind of like porn.”

Robby licks two fingertips and puts out the cherry. She leaves the cigarette on the windowsill, intending to dispose of it later.

“Well fuck me,” Frankie exhales. “That’s hot too—is everything you do hot?”

Robby crosses the room, slipping under the blanket with her. “You might have a slightly rosy perspective at the moment. Given several contributing factors we can discuss with a qualified counselor at some point.” 

Frankie moves closer, hand around her neck. “God, you’re even sexy when you’re being all responsible and shit. You wanna do it again?”

They shouldn’t. They should clean up and go to sleep and face the morning with clear heads. But Robby’s already given into temptation—why not linger a little longer? 

**

Robby is late to her shift the next morning, which is happening more and more lately. The good news is that it’s rarely frantic at 7 AM (although last night’s festivities mean the shift can’t have been that smooth), and Abbot is usually willing to hold down the fort.

As happens on occasion, Abbot is on the roof when Robby arrives. Dana sends her up there with a pat on the shoulder.

“Bad shift, huh?” Robby greets her old friend.

Jacqueline “Jack” Abbot is staring out at the horizon, hands in her pockets, and doesn’t even glance at Robby as she approaches. Her gray-tinged auburn curls glimmer in the rising sun.

“Rarely ever a good shift,” Abbot says. “You get to a meeting this morning? New Year’s is a tough one.”

“Yeah,” Robby says, and clears her throat. “You wanna talk about it?”

“Nah. Just—you know. The usual.”

“Sure.” Robby settles next to her, bumps her elbow.

Abbot finally looks at her, and she laughs. “Holy fuck—I say this with all the love in the world, but you look even worse than I feel.”

Robby can’t help but smile. She’s wearing yesterday’s clothes, and the lines on her face that reveal her age are probably deeper than usual, especially around her eyes, given that she’s hardly slept. “Just tired,” Robby dismisses. “I kind of—made some poor decisions last night.”

Abbot hums. “Not that poor, I hope.”

The thing is, Robby knows she needs to talk about it, to tell someone. She was too embarrassed to admit it during the meeting she went to this morning with Frankie, especially given what they were there to do, but it’s going to eat her up inside if she doesn’t come clean to someone.

“You remember my sponsee,” Robby says, not looking at her. She picks a spot on a roof far in the distance and focuses on it. “You met a couple weeks ago.”

“Sure,” Abbot says. “Langdon, right? From Mercy?”

“Yeah.” She clears her throat again, the words threatening to choke her. “She relapsed last night and we had sex. A lot of sex.”

Abbot is quiet for a beat. And then another. And then another. Finally, she says, “I guess I don’t need to tell you—”

“You don’t,” Robby cuts her off. “I know.”

“Cool,” Abbot says. “Then I’m allowed to laugh, right?” She’s smirking now, amusement clear on her face. “Because holy fuck do I need a laugh—wait, wait, was it tragic sex? Crying sex? That wouldn’t be very funny.”

“No crying,” Robby says. “Not that kind of crying anyway.”

“You dog!” Abbot laughs, bumping Robby’s shoulder with her own. “What is this, like, the fifth straight girl you’ve turned?”

“You can’t turn—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Abbot dismisses. “Look at you—sleeping with a girl twenty years younger. If the whole thing weren’t so fucked up, I’d be jealous.”

Robby nods. “It’s not ideal, huh.”

“You love her?”

“I think so. Pretty sure.”

“Hm. Tough to be in a relationship at that point in recovery. Especially if she’s starting over.”

Robby knows that’s not the only complication. Because there’s also Frankie’s family—her ex and her kids. Her entire life has changed so dramatically and Robby might only be making it worse.

“Look, if you want me to call Shen—”

“No,” Robby says, “it’s alright. Lots of staff today, I’ll basically just be reviewing charts anyway. Hey—what happened to the laughter?”

Abbot huffs, shaking her head. “You look like a kicked puppy. I’d be a dick for laughing at that.”

“You are a dick,” Robby teases. “Thanks for—you know. Listening.”

“Any time.”

“How about we take the stairs down?”