Bridget had always assumed when the time would come, she would take Franky’s last name. She remembered back to her childhood writing different last names attached to her first like some sort of mystery she was trying to solve. Occasionally as she sat in her office filling in hours of paperwork, she would catch herself scribbling over random bits of paper; Bridget Doyle. Mrs. Bridget Doyle. She’d quickly shove the random scraps into the drawer under her bills and other mail.
She wasn’t quite sure why she felt the need to take on her partner’s surname, aside from the fact that she envisioned taking the name of her spouse someday; she’d be a real bride. That and Franky was the literal wearer of the pants in their family. Figuratively the women took turns leading, like a well-oiled machine. There would be periods of time when Bridget’s work would drain her; a particularly sad case would consume her energy. Franky would nurse her back to life with warm tandem bubble baths, random dance parties in their living room, and culinary masterpieces with some of her favorite foods. Then there would be moments where Franky would hit the wall in her progress and her old self-sabotaging ways would desperately try to crawl back to the surface. A couple of times Bridget had been called to come pick her up from the bar when she’d gotten too pissed to drive herself home. She knew Franky expected to be served with a lecture because of the way she hung her head staring shamefully at the concrete like a naughty puppy. She’d expected the yelling and fighting, but they never came. Instead, as she hung her head out the window, Bridget would rub her thigh reassuringly. The blonde would buy her fast food that the brunette would inevitably vomit back up the next morning when the hangover set in. She’d bring her Motrin, Powerade, and even cool washcloths to press over her eyes. Finally when she was feeling better, they would sit down and talk about the feelings behind the actions. Franky would talk for hours about her fears. Bridget would smooth her edges with unwavering love and devotion.
The month before their wedding, was when Bridget discovered her secret had been found out.
“What do you think, Mrs. Bridget Doyle?” Franky smirked with her lips turned upwards as they sat next to one another at the kitchen table. The brunette had just learned how to make homemade ravioli, and had delighted with her culinary talents yet again. Bridget froze with a mouthful of food. What did she just call me? Franky held up a little scrap of paper before pushing it across the table towards her. Sure enough, Franky had found one of her swirled signatures. She grabbed it quickly with wide eyes feeling the blush creeping down her neck. She attempted to crumple the piece of paper up in her fist, but Franky stopped.
“Hey! No no, don’t do that. I think it’s sweet, Gidge,” Franky took the scrap back tucking it into the breast pocket of her flannel shirt. She squeezed her hand against her partner’s thigh. “I’ve been thinking about this name thing.”
“You’re not getting cold feet are you?” Bridget creased her eyebrows while she pushed her food around her plate.
“Fuck no, I’ve never been so sure about anything in my life. Sorry, you’re stuck with me.” The blonde breathed a sigh of relief. “I’ve been thinking about the name thing,” Franky explained. Her eyes were looking down at her plate as she took another ravioli into her mouth to buy her some time. Bridget sat by patiently, sipping her wine and waiting for Franky to continue. “I’ve never had any connection to my last name. I’m not close to any of my family, and I don’t see the point of passing it on to anyone else.”
“So what are you saying? Do you want to keep our names?” Franky shook her head, her bottom lip caught between her teeth. She wrestled to find the right words to explain. She sighed heavily. “Or are you saying you want to take my name?” The blonde asked very tentatively. She knew she had guessed correctly when the redness appeared on Franky’s olive-skinned cheeks. She then pulled out a small slip of paper from the back pocket of her jeans and placed it near Bridget.
Franky Westfall.
Bridget’s smiled wide as she held the words in the palm of her hand. She pulled Franky by the front of her shirt in order to kiss her properly. They stayed wrapped in each other’s embrace their meals completely forgotten.
"Franky Westfall, eh?" Bridget smiled with her lips still pressed against the brunette's. Franky nodded sheepishly burying her face in the crook of Bridget's shoulder. Shy Franky was by far Bridget's favorite. Her shoulders would instantly creep up towards her ears and she'd immediately cover her blushing face. It was very rare to see her, so any chance Bridget caught a glimpse, she was instantly smitten. She brushed her hand over Franky's smooth locks as she rocked them back and forth.
"Hey, Gidge?" she whispered against her ear. Bridget stopped the movement, but didn't separate her body from the other woman's.
"Hm?" she asked.
"Say it again, please?" Franky asked sweetly, finally locking those emerald orbs on her girl.
"I fucking love you Franky Westfall," Bridget smiled widely. She rarely swore, and she know how much it warmed Franky's heart to hear her do it.
"I love you more. You know what else is going to be awesome about no longer being Franky Doyle?"
"What's that baby?"
"Vera will finally call me by my first name. Because lord fucking knows she won't be calling me Westfall."
"Jesus, Franky," Bridget giggled.
"You know you love me."
Yes, she did. She really fucking did.