Page 72 of When Lemons Give You Life

His grip tightens slightly. “Do you have it?”

“Maybe. I thought I didn’t. It usually shows up earlier in life.”

“And it’s genetic? Does Griff have it too?”

“No, he didn’t inherit it. Our mum had it. She died of complications from it just before her sixtieth birthday.”

My lower lip quivers as I sit back down. I want to tell Frank everything.

He touches my cheek, studying me. “Please don’t hide. Not from me. Are you in pain?”

“My back’s been a bit sore, but that might be a coincidence. The main thing is . . .” Don’t say rosé wee, don’t say rosé wee . . . “Rosé wee.” Damn it.

“I’m sorry . . . ?”

“My wee.” I point to the pink wine in my glass. “It’s like that.”

His mouth drops open. “Lisa! That sounds serious. When is the scan?”

“I, um, haven’t booked it yet.”

“What? Why?”

“I’m hopeless with paperwork and am the queen of procrastination. But to be honest, I’m petrified to know the truth.”

“Lisa!” He stands up, clenching his fists. “The truth exists whether you know it or not. You can’t mess with your health like that! It’s so irresponsible.”

My eyes sting.

He exhales sharply, his face softening. “I’m sorry, it’s just I don’t want anything to happen to you.” He sits again. “Because I’m starting to really like you.”

I peek at him through my fingers.

“Truth be told,” he continues, “I haven’t felt this way in years. If ever. I’ve been kind of a hermit lately.”

“Why’s that?”

He shrugs. “Bit of a rough patch after my dad died. Grief, mostly. And burnout. I kept busy helping other people, but I didn’t let anyone in. Not really.”

“You mean emotionally?”

“And literally.” He fiddles with a button on his shirt, unable to make eye contact. “You know how I said I have a tiny kitchen?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s because I live in a caravan.”

“A caravan?” I almost spit out my drink. I’d wondered why we hadn’t been to his place yet.

“Yep.” He chuckles. “Under a gum tree, behind my aunt’s house, with dodgy wi-fi and two possums I’ve named Grogu and Chewbacca. They’re dying to meet you.”

I try to picture it: seven feet of Frank folding himself into a tin can. “That must be a tight fit.”

He laughs. “It has a really impressive pop top and a king bed. It’s a squish, but it’s mine.” He pauses. “You remember what I said about not fitting in with people my own age? The caravan makes sense—no flatmates, no parties, no pressure to perform or be someone I’m not.” He shrugs lightly. “And for a long time, that felt sufficient.” There’s a beat of silence. He meets my gaze. “I’ve always been scared I’m not enough.”

I inch closer. “And I’ve always thought I’m too much.”

We sit a moment in that soft, shared truth then lean in and kiss again, longer, deeper.