Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  My brain’s pretty pissed off about it, too. After all, I’m botching what I know is my best chance at getting laid in… well, I’m not going to do the math, because that’s crude. Suffice it to say, it’s been a long time. And I wasn’t expecting it to happen tonight (hoping, maybe), but it’ll never happen if I don’t get past the first date with anyone.

  Nick claims I’m impossible to please, and nobody will ever be good enough, and I’ll die alone. (Okay, I added that last part.) I’m not impossible to please. Do I have standards? Yes. Everyone does. The women I’ve dated had their standards, too, and they seemed to spend a lot of time trying to mold me to fit them. (Ahem, Heidi!) So I don’t think it’s asking a person too much to cover her cough if we’re going to have a chance at forever.

  Anyway, let’s say I did get past the first date. And even the second and third dates. Even if I’m willing to invest the time and energy it takes to form a bond strong enough to lead to physical intimacy, then further, a long-term relationship, who’s to say that person won’t tell me it’s still not good enough, after months of my trying to be everything she wants me to be? Frankly, it’s not worth it. That’s what I read in a self-help book about commitment-phobia and self-sabotage.

  Fine, it was an article in Cosmo, and it was written with a female audience in mind, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t apply.

  Tonight, the scene outside the restaurant window—a usually-bland view of the strip mall parking lot—repeatedly pulls my attention from my date’s face. Mini mountains of plowed snow lend an otherworldly, unfamiliar feel to the view. Everything’s already decked out for Christmas in this town, although we’re still a week away from reaching Thanksgiving. With all the snow on the ground, though, we feel more justified hastening the arrival of the holidays than cities in more temperate climates. Winter is more than a season here; it’s a way of life.

  Looking at the white scene out there makes me cold. I’m not sure I’m ready for the next six months of snow chains and snow plows and snow shovels and snow and snow… and snow. As if on cue, the flurries ramp up their intensity into a full-out shower, coating the cars in a matter of seconds. I sigh.

  That’s when I notice how loud it sounded. Because for the first time all night, the other side of the table is quiet.

  As if in a trance, I slowly turn my head to look at my dinner companion.

  Her jaw juts to the side then resets so she can suck her lips into her mouth, clamping her teeth down on them. Not a good look, even on someone as pretty as she is.

  After an awkward pause that I’m too apathetic to fill, she opens her mouth and says primly, “I’m sorry… Am I boring you?”

  “No!” I lie.

  She makes a move to get up, but I place my hand over hers, which has landed on top of the table between us and is now gripping her clutch purse.

  “No, please. Don’t leave,” I implore.

  What are you doing, fool? Let her go! Then you can end this nightmare date and do what you really want to do: throw yourself a giant pity party at home. Alone.

  Lowering her chin, she looks at me through her eyelashes. “And why should I stay? I might as well be talking to myself in my own apartment.”

  I blush and sweat as my normal personality finally struggles to take control of this runaway jerk train. “I know. I’m sorry. I just… I got some really bad news right before coming here, and—Well, it wasn’t bad news, I guess. More like weird news. My brother’s getting married. Not that my brother is weird or it’s weird that he’s getting married. Actually, I guess he’s kind of a catch—a real doctor, not ‘just a nurse,’ like me—but his choice of bride is… unnerving. And not because I still have feelings for my former fiancée, but—”

  “Your brother’s marrying someone you used to be engaged to?” I feel her muscles slacken slightly under my hand as she decides to keep her seat… for now.

  The sick knot in my stomach tightens. “Yes. It was years ago, but still…”

  She wrinkles her nose. “Still…” she agrees. “You and she… I mean, I’m assuming… You two…”

  I shake my head and close my eyes, hoping she’ll stop. When she mercifully does, I say, “Right. Exactly. We have… memories… of each other.”

  Now I feel her hand slide out from under mine and cover it. “I’m sorry. I can see why you’re distracted.”

  With a weak smile, I open my eyes and lift my left shoulder in a half-shrug. “Yeah, well, it’s no excuse for being rude. I’m sorry. I… I just can’t help feeling like she traded me in for my more masculine, more successful older brother.”

  “Do you think they were… you know… while you and she were still together?” Her eyes widen at the possibility I hadn’t even gotten around to contemplating. (I’m sure it would have hit me eventually… at about 2 a.m.)

  Immediately, though, I dismiss the theory. “No! I mean…” I try to think about it more objectively, remembering their rare interactions with each other back then. “No,” I answer more surely. “Nick had just graduated from med school. He was working insane hours, and we never saw him.”

  “You never saw him,” she points out, smirking and leaning forward in her chair.

  If I didn’t know better—which I don’t—I’d say she was starting to enjoy this.

  I shake my head forcefully. “No way. Anyway, that was three years ago. Even if they had been doing something behind my back—which neither of them would ever do—it wouldn’t have taken them this long to go public. That’s extra-sneaky. Like, diabolical. Nick’s not smart enough to be diabolical.”

  Still looking skeptical, she says, “I thought you said he was a doctor. You have to be smart to be a doctor.”

  “He’s a surgeon, and yes, he’s book-smart, but he’s straightforward. And not very imaginative. He doesn’t have it in him to be deceitful. Or to keep a relationship with someone like Heidi a secret for three years.”

  She finally seems to believe me, and that’s when her interest in the topic wanes. “Well, then. What can you do? I know all about selfish family members, trust me.”

  “Nick’s not selfish,” I suddenly feel beholden to state. “He’s a good guy… mostly. And you can’t help who you fall in love with, but… Yeah. I wish they would have widened their dating pool a little to try to fall in love with other, newer people.”

  Her laugh is tinged with sympathy. “Yeah. Again, I’m sorry.”

  I rub my hand over my face. “No, I’m sorry. I really have heard everything you’ve said. You’re an only child, born and raised here in Green Bay, but your parents have lived out in Arizona for several years now. You work at Quimby-Rex, traveling during the week to educate sales reps about new product lines—Oh, hey… why is it that all prescription drug names sound like stripper names? Or is that just me?—You’re a University of Wisconsin alum—Go Badgers! You love the Packers. And what else?” I tap my lips, frantically searching my memory.

  “Okay, okay. Please!” She laughs. “You’ve proven you can listen while moping.”

  Fingering the edge of my frayed cloth napkin, I mumble, “Ouch. I guess I deserve that.”

  “Maybe I’ll give you a pass, since your situation is unique. And you seem like a nice guy, otherwise, like maybe I just caught you on a bad night.”

  I look away. “Oh, I probably would have done or said something even more repulsive if I’d been focused on this date. You’re… Well, you’re gorgeous. And smart. It’s a combination that usually results in my making a complete ass of myself.” Now, I chance a peek at her reaction to my confession. I can’t tell if she’s skeptical or scared.

  “Are you always this honest?” she asks, making it sound like it’s not necessarily a good thing.

  “What’s the point in lying about myself?”

  “Usually on first dates, guys try to put their best foot forward.”

  I wince. “This is my best foot.”

  She nudges my real foot under the table with hers. “So far, I’m intrigued. You’re not
like other guys.”

  God, if she only knew.

  *****

  Two hours later, we’re receiving dirty looks from our server, as if now that I’ve paid the tab, she’s annoyed we’re still breathing her air. Too bad. I’m amazed at my recovery. I thought this date was going to rank in the Top 5 Worst, up there with the one during which I talked about resuscitating a newborn who had stopped breathing in the office, and I started crying. In my defense, it had just happened earlier that week, and I was still shaken up from it.

  And she didn’t have to laugh at me. After all, I didn’t make her feel bad about her thinning hair, did I? No, I didn’t. I didn’t even mention it or recommend some simple changes in her diet to try before taking a more drastic approach, like investing in hair plugs. I stared at her three-inch part and nearly bit through my tongue, but I didn’t say anything. And why? Because I have feelings and care about other people’s feelings.

  Anyway, the point is, this date is going much better than that one did. Frankie seems fascinated by my unmanly (or what I like to call “non-traditional”) quirks. Her intense interest encourages me to keep finding more ways to surprise and delight her, too.

  “Oh! I just thought of something else! I love chick lit!” I boom, as if it’s the most brag-worthy trait of them all.

  This revelation garners more disdainful glares from our server and rapid blinks from Frankie over the edge of her water glass.

  Sure I’ve finally said too much, I laugh nervously. “I know… one more strike against my man card.”

  She deliberately sets down her glass and narrows her eyes at me. Rubbing her chin in an exaggerated fashion, she studies my face. “Chick lit, huh? You know, you could sell a million books with that face.”

  “No, no! I’m definitely not a writer. But every time I read something from another genre—what some may say is a more gender-appropriate genre—I find myself wishing I were reading something a little funnier, a little more romantic, and a little more… hopeful, happy.”

  “How did you find this out about yourself, though? I mean, most guys wouldn’t even pick up a pastel-colored book to read the first paragraph, much less read the whole thing, to find out they enjoyed it.”

  “I was in college; it was a confusing time,” I joke. Then I say more seriously, “It was during college, though. Freshman year. I was taking a gender studies course as part of my general education requirements. One of the assignments was to read a mass market work of fiction geared toward the opposite sex. I picked up Good in Bed, by Jennifer Weiner, thinking I would at least get to read some steamy sex scenes.”

  “No steamy sex scenes,” she confirms what my initially disappointed nineteen-year-old self discovered.

  “Nope. But an addiction was born.” My face burns. I’m committed to owning this peculiarity, though. “I mean, in what other genre do nice guys more consistently get the girl?”

  She laughs and shakes her head. “The good guys always win in those action books. You know, the ones with the complex military maps inside their front covers?”

  I dismissively wave my hand in front of myself. “Bah! I didn’t say good guys. I said nice guys.”

  She squints one eye at me.

  “It’s not the same thing!” I insist. “James Bond is a ‘good guy,’ but I wouldn’t call him a ‘nice guy.’ As a matter of fact, he’s sort of a d-bag. More than ‘sort of.’”

  She nods. “Yeah, well, most love interests in chick lit start out that way, too, right? The guy’s a jerk, usually some bossy cop or ranch foreman or some other macho profession; he and the protagonist don’t get along… they’re like fire and ice, blah, blah, blah—”

  I wrinkle my nose. We may have a problem here. If she lumps all women’s fiction—including those Harlequin Romance things—under the heading, “chick lit,” that could be a deal-breaker.

  That’s one of the hundreds of reasons it never would have worked out between Heidi and me. She thought the epitome of a romantic lead was a stalker-esque, sparkly vampire with control issues. She and Nick, who probably hasn’t read a book for pleasure… ever… will make a great couple.

  “You’re describing a romance novel,” I point out. “Chick lit is not strictly about romance. You don’t read it?”

  She smiles and looks at me through her eyelashes. “Of course, I do. I just wanted to make sure you really do, that you’re not feeding me a line.”

  My relief makes me laugh louder than I probably should. “Not a line. Haven’t I given you enough first-date confessions to reassure you that I’m not gonna hand you any lines?”

  The way she pushes her lips together and looks askance at me makes me think she still doesn’t believe me, but then her face relaxes into a broad smile. “Hmm. True.”

  “So why don’t you return the favor, then?” I goad.

  Her mouth drops open. “What do you mean? I spent the first forty-five minutes of this date telling you everything about me.”

  I fake-yawn. “I don’t mean your eHarmony profile.” When her eyes widen, and her tongue peeks at me from between her teeth, I laugh to let her know my teasing is in good fun. “I mean, tell me something you don’t tell just anyone.”

  Her smile completely gone now, she stares me down, and to keep from squirming, I analyze the precise shade of her irises. (Nutmeg? Milk chocolate?) Finally, though, I give up on classifying her eye color and getting more information from her. “Never mind.”

  “No,” she quickly capitulates. “I’m thinking, that’s all. Trying to decide if I want to tell you this. It’s something I’ve only told one other person, my best friend I’ve known since second grade.”

  I swallow loudly, suddenly afraid of the intensity radiating from her. “Wow. It doesn’t have to be something that secret. I was thinking more along the lines of, ‘I get chills when I hold babies,’ or ‘I pee in the shower.’”

  “Ew.”

  “I know, right? It was just an example. I don’t do that.” I rub my neck and continue to wait as she taps the toe of her shoe against the table leg. Here it comes. The deal-breaker to end all deal-breakers. “I’m married,” springs horrifyingly to mind, along with, “I used to be a man;” “I am a man;” “I came on this date on a dare;” “I don’t shave my underarms;” and “I’m a chip double-dipper.” (Because that’s just nasty.) Or worse, “I love Nascar romance novels.”

  Oblivious to my building panic—or getting off on it—she takes a deep breath and her sweet time before saying, “I don’t just read chick lit; I write it.”

  “Okay…” Still bracing for the bombshell, I ask, “So, why’s this such a big secret?”

  With a toss of her hair, she answers, “I don’t know. I could wallpaper Buckingham Palace with my rejection letters.”

  “Idiots, all of them. I’m sure you’re a great writer.”

  I’m not sure at all, but that’s what you say, right? I mean, for all I know, she’s terrible. It seems everyone—except me—fancies themselves a writer nowadays. There’s a ton of shit out there. I’ve read half a ton of it.

  She folds her hands on the table in front of her. “Oh, I’m an excellent writer.”

  Something tells me not to say, “Oh-ho!” or anything equally deprecating, and I’m glad I don’t when she continues, and it becomes obvious she’s being completely earnest in her self-assessment.

  “My writing’s not the problem; my image is the problem. I’m another thirty-something woman writing about women finding their way in their late twenties and early thirties, you know? I’m a staticky television in a sea of white noise. Not enough of a standout.”

  “A staticky television in a sea of white noise”? Yikes. I know it’s not fair to judge everything that comes out of her mouth based on the new knowledge that she’s a writer, but… she invited it with her “I’m an excellent writer” boasting. Bragging is such a turn-off.

  Still, I feel obliged to ask, “Can I read something you’ve written?”

  “No! I hardly know you. Plus�
�� what if you didn’t like it? I mean, it would be totally subjective, and I know it wouldn’t be a reflection of my talent, but… You’d be put in the position of lying to spare my feelings.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t lie. I’m picky about my chick lit.”

  “Then definitely no.”

  I laugh, suddenly understanding how “great” her writing must be. And it’s not nice to pick on someone’s weaknesses, so I steer the conversation back to the facts.

  “Your best friend is the only person who’s read your books?” I ask.

  “Betty’s the only one who knows about my writing, period. Or did. I guess you know now. But not even my parents know.”

  “For real?”

  I can’t relate to that at all. It was only until recently that my parents didn’t know everything about me, unfortunately. I think I’ll keep that information to myself.

  In response to my shock, Frankie asks, “Do your parents know about your hobbies?”

  “My parents are psychiatrists. They helped me choose my hobbies when I was a kid, based on complex profiling and personality algorithms.” I punctuate that with a laugh and turn it back around on her before she has a chance to think about how messed-up it is. “Man, I feel bad that I know something about you that your parents don’t even know…”

  “Well, don’t. Why would they even need to know? I’m not sure they’d be interested, anyway.” The way she says it brings the conversation to an abrupt halt. She smiles tightly. “That’s not a first-date conversation, anyway. Let’s save something to talk about on our second date.”

  Hmmm… Do I want a second date? Ah, what the hell else do I have to do?

  I grin across the table at her. “Deal.”

  Chapter Four

  Pastel-colored balloons tied to the mailbox by the street sway in the cold November wind. Wedding-themed paraphernalia dots the snow-dusted front lawn and lines the cleared and salted concrete walkway. Even if I’d forgotten in the past three years where my former future in-laws lived, there would be no mistaking which house on the block is hosting the engagement party of the year.