Rebuilding Ruins (BOOK 1)

2. SHE'S SO OVER ME

FRANKIE

I’m sitting in a swanky Thai spot, just admiring the dark‑theme woodwork on there while I wait for my brother to roll in for lunch. I didn’t suggest this place—he did, and of course he’s paying, so why would I argue?

A gaggle of women a few tables over keeps stealing glances.

“What?” I snap, glaring. They glance down, suddenly fascinated by the menu.

I know I look like a grease‑splattered superhero: a work shirt stained with mystery sauce, hair that could host a family of raccoons, and a beard that’s auditioning for a lumberjack commercial. Still, I don’t deserve their side‑eye, right?

Just as I’m about to march over and deliver a piece of my mind that would make a drill sergeant blush, my brother slides into the seat opposite me, immaculate in a suit that screams “I’ve got my coffee routine mapped out to the last detail.”

“What got you looking like you’re about to murder somebody?” he smirks.

“Why did you bring me to a place with snobs?” I clench my jaw, trying not to laugh at the absurdity.

“Cause I was hoping you’d dress up and look good, but I guess not,” he teases, flicking an imaginary lint off his lapel.

“It’s just lunch, Lorenzo,” I call the waiter over, because who needs a battle plan when you can order pad thai?

"What if Michael Bolton walked in right now, bro? He’d totally skip a selfie with you… especially because of that hair,” he jokes, eyeing my hair.

“Dude, I don’t even like the guy,” I scowl, though a tiny part of me wonders if his voice could melt the ice in my water.

“Says the guy who has Michael’s CD in his car,” my brother chuckles, tapping the steering‑wheel‑shaped keychain on the table.

The waiter arrives, we rattle off our orders, and he leaves.

“Look, if I wanted a pic with Michael, I’d go to his concert or something,” I retort, imagining the headline: Local Hobo Gets Selfie with Pop Icon.

The food arrives, and for a moment the only thing I’m fighting is the temptation to steal a bite of my brother’s fancy dish—though I’d probably just sprinkle some hot sauce on it and call it avant‑garde.

Michael Bolton was one of my dad’s favorite singers growing up, and even though my dad isn’t exactly my favorite person, I’m a total Bolton‑fan. I’m tracing the scar on my head that my dad left—a souvenir from his “sick‑MF” days when he abused his wife and kids—and I can’t help but scowl.

Every time a high note hits, I picture my dad in a glittery jumpsuit, belting “Love Is a Battlefield” while I dodge his temper. I roll my eyes, flash a grin, and think, “If only he’d sing a lullaby instead of a war‑cry.” The scar tingles, and I’m ready to turn this mess into a hit‑single of my own.

“Is that girl checking you out, bro?” Lorenzo says, mid‑lunch, eyes flicking to the table across the room.

“She’s probably just staring at the Massaman curry,” I mutter, not bothering to look.

“You should go ask for her number,” he says, leaning in like he’s about to hand me a famous secret reciepe.

“No, I don’t.”

“You need to let her go, Frankie,” he gives me that concerned‑dad look.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, clenching my fists until my knuckles turn white.

It always hurts when people bring that part of my life up, the past. Why can’t they just leave it where it belongs? In a time‑travel‑movie archive, maybe.

She’s moved on, but every time we cross paths I swear I see a spark of “I‑still‑love‑you” in her eyes. Probably wishful thinking.

“It’s been ten years, man. Get over it already.”

“I’m over her. Damn,” I push my plate away, appetite gone.

“Then start dating.”

“I’m good,” I gulp the beer, feeling the liquid courage do a little happy dance.

“You’re miserable. Just look at you.”

“Are we here to talk about how messed up I am or to have lunch, Lorenzo?” I tighten my grip on the glass, as if the tighter I hold it the less likely it’ll shatter.

“I’m worried about you, Frankie. Everyone is.”

“Well, don’t be. I’m fine,” I say, assuming he’s joking—because who isn’t fine at 2 p.m. on a Tuesday?

“Especially Mom. She calls your neighbor every morning to make sure you haven’t drunk yourself to death,” he adds, deadpan.

“Whatever,” I roll my eyes.

“I’m telling you, she’s gonna worry herself to death. Is that what you want?”

“Man, don’t you have kids to worry about?” I glance out the window, watching pigeons splash around the water fountain.

It’s always the same with my family—pressure to move on, and I keep telling them I’ll do it when I’m ready… which is never.

“Maybe you should go to therapy. Dad and I did joint therapy; I finally confronted him. He apologized for everything,” Lorenzo leans on the table, waiting for a reaction.

I should have known bringing me here was just a ploy to pester me about therapy.

Man, I’m sick of this.

“An apology won’t change a thing, Lorenzo,” I say, throwing my hands up. A simple “I’m sorry” can’t erase the emotional scars that bastard left on me.

“It’ll help you move on, bro. Trust me,” he replies, his voice smooth as the sauce on our noodles.

“Can we talk about something else?” I bounce my foot under the table, the anxiety humming through my leg.

I stare down at the table, feeling Lorenzo’s eyes on me. The clatter of chopsticks mixes with the low hum of conversation, and the scent of lemongrass drifts through the spacious dining room. I look up and catch him watching me—worry flickering in his gaze. I roll my eyes, take a long swig of my beer, and let the cold liquid cut through the chatter.

He smirks. “Okay, so the guys from work and I want to challenge your colleagues to a baseball match.”

“You girls are in the mood to lose again?” I raise an eyebrow, teasing.

“Shut up,” he snaps, crumbling a napkin and flucking it at me. He laughs, the sound echoing off the red‑paper lanterns.

“Your colleagues are soft, though. We should triple the bet just for the fun of it,” I say, the corner of my mouth quirking.

“You’re out of your mind,” he chuckles.

“That’s what a loser would say,” I retort, baiting him. I know it’s working; the spark in his eyes tells me he’s already gearing up for the challenge.

He’s always trying to prove he’s better at something than I am—ever since we were kids. When it comes to brute force, I’m the champ; when it’s a battle of wits, he walks away with the crown—classic brother balance.

***

It’s late evening and I’m chilling at home before my second job at the bar. I yank a cold can of beer from the fridge, pop the tab, and stare at the lit phone in my hand.

I scroll through messages, trying to decide which are worth my time, when Mateo’s name pops up. “Dress your best—bar’s gonna be packed tonight,” he writes. He probably invited his social‑media friends—his famous crew always spreads the word fast when they’re in town, and the bar ends up packed.

I swipe through my contacts, thumb hovering over a familiar number. I hit call and wait, the ringtone echoing in the empty kitchen. When her voice answers, my heart does a flip.

“Hello?” she answers, her voice still as beautiful as I remember.

“Natalya,” I say, trying to sound casual.

“I’m going to get Bianca for you,” she says, already sounding like she can’t hang up fast enough.

“I’ll talk to her when I’m done with you,” I reply.

“What do you want from me, Frankie? I’ve got things to do,” she snaps.

“Why so cold? Can’t you just say hi to the father of your kids?” I clench my teeth.

“Hi, Frankie. How are you doing?” she says, dripping sarcasm.

“I’m doing good. How are you?” I shoot back.

“I’m good. I’m going to get your daughter now. Bye.” She says, and the phone goes silent except for her footsteps.

(Translation: “I’ve got a life, Frankie, and it doesn’t involve you.”)

I stare at the phone. Why do I even try?

You ever tried dating someone that’s way out of your league? I did—back in my teens with Natalya. Got her pregnant… twice. And I fell short of her expectations. I married her anyway, then had to let her go. Years have passed, she’s moved on, and I’m still stuck in the past.

How do you let another woman into your life when you’re still in love with another? I haven’t figured that one out yet.

“Dad!” Bianca’s voice snaps me out of my self‑pity.

“Hey, sweetheart,” I answer, smiling widely.

“Dad! I told you to call me ‘sweet pea’,” she giggles, the sound bright as the sunrise.

“Alright, sweet pea, what’s up? How’s school treating you?” I grin, picturing her rolling her eyes in that exaggerated teen way.

“It’s… fine. Math is a nightmare, but guess what? I made the varsity swim team as a starting freestyler!” She squeals, and I can almost hear the echo of water splashing in the pool.

“Whoa, that’s awesome! You’re the only freshman on varsity. How does it feel to be the rookie in the fast lane?” I take a swig of beer, the cold sliding down my throat.

“It’s crazy. Coach puts me in the 100‑meter heat right away because I can hold my breath longer than most seniors. I’m still learning the turns, but I’m actually keeping up.” She sounds half‑proud, half‑exhausted.

“I’m proud of you, kiddo. You’re gonna have to teach me that whole ‘kick‑flip‑turn’ thing sometime. My legs still think they’re stuck in traffic.” I chuckle. She bursts out laughing.

“We’re all heading to Grandpa and Grandma’s for the holidays. Maybe you could come too, so we can spend Christmas together as a family?” she sounds hopeful. How can I say no to that?

“If your mom’s okay with it, I’ll be there. I’ll bring my famous dad jokes as a side dish.” I pause, hearing the sarcasm in my own voice. “You know, the kind that only a 15‑year‑old would tolerate.”

Bianca giggles, "Please do! And bring that ‘cooking’ you call a skill. Remember the time you tried to make pancakes and set off the smoke alarm?”

“Hey, those were experimental ‘fluffy’ pancakes,” I shoot back, a grin tugging at my lips. “Besides, I’m still working on my microwave lasagna masterpiece.”

“As long as you don’t try to fry the turkey, we’re good,” she teases, her tone softening.

“Deal. And hey, how’s Sean? Still treating you like a princess?” I ask, trying to keep the tone light.

“Sean’s cool. He actually helped me with my science project—something about water pressure. He’s not as bad as you think.” She pauses, then adds, “But you’re still my favorite dad.”

Sean is her stepdad—yeah, the guy I can’t stand—but he’s been playing a huge role in my kids’ lives. The least I can do is make sure he’s treating them right.

I laugh, “That’s the best news I’ve heard all day. Tell Ashton I said hi, and that I’m still working on being a better dad than he thinks I am.”

"Dad. I gotta go—my favorite show starts in five. Love you.”

“Love you too, sweet pea. Enjoy.”

She hangs up, and I stare at the silent phone for a beat, the weight of the distance settling like a soft blanket. I take another swig, stand up, and head to the garage. If I’m going to survive a Christmas with the ex‑wife’s family, I might need a new set of tools—and maybe a better cologne. Grin.