Timeline: Set during "5x12: The Wedding"

Stare Into The Sun

You wanted to teach her a lesson. You wanted her to fall apart without you. You tell yourself you left for a good reason – to give you both a breather, to make her stand on her own two feet. But really, you did it to show her how much she needs you. To make her appreciate all the small things you do for her, day-in, day-out. Without thanks. Without recognition.

But she's thriving without you. She's as magnificent as you always knew her to be. Even in the wilderness years, when you were still shackled to Robert, you watched her from afar, clutching your martini glass at Robert's work dinner parties and wishing you could be as free. You saw the looks of condemnation from the other wives, would catch their eye and share a smirk, partake silently in their judgement, but secretly, you envied her.

At the Christmas Gala held by Robert's firm every year Frankie would take to the dance floor, hippy tie-dye skirts swirling, untamed hair swaying, and dance alone, wild and free, lost in her own world, while straight-laced couples floated past her. Those grey couples faded into rigid lines, stiff lips and scowls of disapproval. Frankie stood out. You watched her closely, it was like staring into the sun: flares of colour emanated from her, sparks and blinding light surrounded her. You tried to look away but she lit-up the room. Lit-up something inside of you.

Frankie has the Vybrant situation under control. She's following a plan of her own making and didn't needed to be cajoled or coaxed into it. You're mostly proud but a little resentful and hurt. Her success makes a mockery of you. You knew this day would come. She's already left you once – to pursue her dreams, that didn't contain you, in Santa Fe. Left you for a man. Left you for an idea. Well, here it is at last. Fait accompli. The real crunch time. The real ending. You feel it in your bones.

The fake smile you plaster across your face starts to crack. Your knuckles whiten as they grip your glass: a Bloody Mary you've been forced to improvise because Allison is allergic to olives and so Martini's are off the menu. Nick leans close to you, full of concern and comforting words, and you know you should be grateful but you can't help begrudge him for not being her. He'll never be her and that's all you really want.

You want Frankie to look at you the way Nick does, not feel relieved every time you leave the room.

You stand to get another drink from the makeshift bar in your living room because you can see Frankie perfectly from your seat at the kids table. Can see her framed in the doorway talking to Allison's Mother and the sun is starting to set and the light catches her hair and the infernal clunky necklace of black beads about her neck glitters and she smiles and your heart stops and your chest expands and you can't breathe. So you turn away, get up on shaky feet and move towards the makeshift bar. Fuck it if you drink the whole house dry. Fuck it if you're a total mess. She wrecks everything – the kitchen garbage disposal, the dishwasher, the shower, your heart.

You ignore the catering staff who try to pour your drink for you and reach for the bottle of vodka behind the bar, you fill your glass to the top, take a large gulp and then replenish it again. Your hand is shaking and then you feel warmth at your back. Remember those mornings after the break-in when you'd awake with Frankie in your bed, curled round you. The delicate essence of her organic herbal shampoo lingering in the air, her arm absently slung across your stomach, her warm breath against the back of your neck, the gentle rise and fall of her chest pressing against your back. It had been too confusing, too much, then, to admit what you felt.

You feel a presence close to you now. A hand touches your lower back and you turn, it's Nick. You feel a pang of guilt for wishing him a million miles away right now. He's been nothing but patient with you.

"You okay?" he asks.

You nod.

"We can leave if you like?" he offers.

You wouldn't like. What you'd actually like is for everyone else to leave, save yourself and Frankie. Just you. In the house, alone, together. As it should be. To hash this out once and for all. No interlopers and no more distractions.

You tried to be honest before but Frankie had just laughed at you. You'd been serious when you'd asked, at 79, at your first ever slumber party, "Okay, you wanna have sex with me or what?"

The innuendo, ambiguous intimation and forthright propositions have been there from the start, laced in your every interaction with her. And when you worked-up the courage to call Frankie on it, entirely sincere and full of curiosity, Frankie had laughed. So you pushed the feelings back down and far, far away. That was the night you made-up your mind about Nick. He never laughed at you. He wanted you. That was the moment you decided to be with someone who took you seriously.

"Let's stay a little longer, for Bud," you hear yourself say. You always, grudgingly, liked Bud. He was the least annoying of the Bergstein clan.

Nick nods but he knows you too well to be convinced. His hand stays on your back as you sip your drink.

Just then Frankie breezes past, bestowing fervent attention on her granddaughter. She's giggles and smiles and a whirlwind as she spins Faith in her arms. The pain in your chest intensifies. She's ignoring you and it stings. So much for you swooping in and saving the day. So far all you've done is spoil it.

Despite this, you're not ready to leave just yet. If there's even the slightest chance, the tiniest window, you want one more chance to speak to Frankie. To fix this.

Those two weeks in the Maldives were blissful. You had time to stop, to relax, to think – you saw your potential future laid out before you. A life filled with Nick. It was pleasant and grandiose and comfortable and what you've always told yourself you wanted. But then you had more time to think. To realise what lay beneath all the frustration and hidden longing, and it was Frankie.

You're still furious that she endangered Vybrant, something you built together, so casually. Still livid about the apology video she posted to the Vybrant website without your knowledge. Still fuming because she publicly outed your most private thoughts without realizing. Took a private game you played – the flirt game – and aired it in a public forum where it had no business being.

Sometimes you wonder how on earth this happened. How did you, Grace Hanson, cool-headed and emotionally void, fall in love with this fireball of chaos? This frustrating, rash, careless and clumsy person. Because Frankie is careless with your feelings. She tramples on them, unknowingly, all the time. Trespasses across your boundaries and bulldozes your barriers. You spent so long confined in your marriage that you weren't equipped to deal with Frankie's intrusions into your psyche, your emotions, your every thought. But you trust her completely. Nothing Frankie does, no disaster she's brought about, was done with malice and that's why you forgive her, constantly. That's why you fix it, if you can. You'd do anything for her. Asked and unasked. You can't think of another person you love so unconditionally. It's terrifying. And fortifying and wonderful and overwhelming… and you know she loves you too. She tells you all the time, it's a fact. Unavoidable and declared. What you don't know is how she loves you. As a friend? Family member? Romantically?

She doesn't like labels, nor do you, but you want a name for this thing between you. Maybe you could suggest a naming ceremony. Name that relationship. Have a Sharman lead a chocolate fondue blow-out with interpretive dance and whale music. Maybe she'd buy into that bullshit. Maybe then you'd finally have an answer. You snort into your drink. Yeah, and pet pigs might fly.

You see Frankie head into the kitchen and follow, to explain about the back-up wedding cake. You fight. It's vicious. You throw cruel words and recriminations at each other and then you storm away. Because none of that is what you meant to say. You always seem to underestimate her capabilities and she always seems to overestimate your emotional armour. Your battlements aren't as robust as they once were, because of her.

You stand in the background, feeling fragile, and watch Bud and Allison cut into the rainbow piñata cake that is surprisingly perfect and hear Bud call Frankie the most amazing Mom in the world, and you realise then how selfish you are because you don't want to share her. She's yours. You don't want to be witness to how many other people she's important to, how much she's loved. It makes you feel hollow and lonely. Like you have no right to be here, to intrude. You decide in that instant that you won't pour your heart out to Frankie after all. Why give her the opportunity to reject you again? And she could, so easily. She has alternatives. She has a sea of people.

Robert moves beside you. "You look particularly fetching today," he says with no trace of sarcasm.

You smile your reply. You're wearing the pale pink dress because it's one of Frankie's favourites. She said it made you look like Grace Kelly, "the second coolest blonde I know," she'd teased and winked at you. Your heart had involuntarily started to hammer and your mouth became dry. You shrugged off the compliment but now, you only wear that dress on special occasions, and only when Frankie will see it.

"It's been a good day," he continues.

You make small talk for a while. You've grown to like Robert. This version of Robert. The anger doesn't boil to the surface like it used to. You can converse civilly, even laugh together. Eventually he goes in search of Sol, leaving you to your thoughts. They immediately turn sour.

Frankie hasn't looked at you once in an hour and suddenly you can't be here anymore. It's too painful. You scan the room, see Nick talking to Brianna and sneak away. You want to be by yourself.

It's only when you've left the party, when you're on the beach, wrapped in a shawl, and feel the sand between your toes and the wind in your hair that you realize you're crying.