First, Frankie does what any smart chica who doesn’t want her happy ending interrupted by a couple of jabronies would do: demands to see some receipts.
This leads pretty quickly to her standing with Grace, rubber boots on, in the soggy hot mess that was once Robert and Sol’s house. There are work trucks parked along the driveway, and somber-looking dudes in construction gear are swarming around. It’s hard to believe it’s the same day she was spending hand in hand with Grace on the beach, feeling like her life had been handed the ultimate blessing by some benevolent goddess of best friendship and patriarchy-smashing.
“Well,” Frankie says, “shit.”
“Yeah,” Robert says dryly. “Shit.”
“A ‘fuck’ or two wouldn’t be uncalled for,” Sol pipes up, morose.
“Rule number one of moving into the beach house,” Grace says. “We don’t hear about your sex life.”
“Not the fun kind of ‘fuck,’” Sol says.
“Right,” Grace says. “Sorry.”
Robert and Sol wander off to speak more to a workman, Carl trailing after them with his poor little doggo feet splashing in the shallow layer of water on the floor.
“I guess things were getting a little too happily-ever-after,” Grace mutters, slipping her arm through Frankie’s as they slosh out to the patio, “considering it’s our lives.”
“We do court disaster like Leo courts hot boat girls that just aren’t right for him,” Frankie agrees with a sigh.
“So what do we do now?”
“Convince Kate Winslet to divorce her husband,” Frankie jokes in her most serious tone. “She’s always going to be the one, Grace.”
Grace gives her that little ‘You’re a loon but in my most secret heart of hearts, I find it cute as hell’ look that Frankie never gets sick of. “I mean about the Rise Up. Do we let it … fall down?”
“Nah,” says Frankie. “We’ve made it this far, and we’ve got buttloads of billionaire couch cash. We just need to find a toilet scientist that stops us from ruining anybody else’s homes.”
“I don’t think that’s a thing. At least not with that official title.”
“Dr. Toilet PhD is out there somewhere, Grace. It’s just up to us to find him. Or her. Or them.”
“Hey,” Grace says, her gaze warm like it was earlier on the beach, “apart from researching Dr. Toilet--”
“Dr. Toilet PhD,” Frankie corrects.
“--maybe we should take a little break from work and do some us stuff. We’ve got a lot to catch up on.”
“Oh Grace.” Frankie lunges forward, water singing underneath her feet, so she can throw her arms around her number one lady. “I do!”
“Frankie, you’re splashing me!”
“With sewage water!"
Undeterred, Frankie twirls Grace around like they’re the most joyful dancing team since Gene Kelly and that lamp post, and the sound of Grace’s laugh in her ears -- bright and clear, thanks to her shiny new hearing -- is better than any song even Jerry Garcia ever sang. (Don’t tell his shoe.)