by Brea Brown
Her jaw slackens. “Uh…” she grunts as she expels her held breath.
“Don’t bother trying to figure out how to spin this. I’ve already met Dr. Nathanson… and Frank Lipton, both of whom seem very familiar.”
“Which one are you more upset about?” she asks.
“Does it matter?”
“Of course.”
“I’d say I’m equally pissed off about both. For different reasons.”
She gulps. “Okay. Well, which one do you want to yell at me about first?”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and stand, so I’m no longer close enough to smell the cold, smoky outdoors still lingering on her hair and clothes. I show her my back to avoid seeing her infuriating victim’s eyes.
“I don’t even know where to start,” I tell her.
“Dr. Nathanson isn’t you,” she chooses for me.
“Fuck me,” I say with my hand over my burning eyes. “If we’re going to have this discussion, you’re at least going to respect me enough not to lie.”
“It’s true!” She comes up behind me and rests her face against my back.
I shrug her off and move away, but the room’s not big enough for me to get as far as I want to be from her. I’m afraid the state’s not big enough. But the rest of the house will have to do.
I rush from the bedroom and lead her on a speed-walking chase to the living room, where she’s smart enough to keep her distance. She sits on the brick hearth in front of the fire. I pace behind the couch.
“So, what did you do? Start writing that book the minute you got home from our first date?”
“When I met you, I got the idea for this character,” she admits. When I huff like a sullen teenager, she rushes on, “But you were just the start! Most of his traits are made up. Anyway, the guy’s not all bad. He loves kids, he’s a registered voter, he donates to worthy causes…”
My stomach knots. “He’s also a passive-aggressive, whiny asshole who reads chick lit and constantly wonders why he can’t find his other half. You know why he can’t? Because he’s a passive-aggressive, whiny asshole.”
“But—”
“I’m not done. I’m assuming at some point in the book, this Dr. Nathanson’s personality does a complete one-eighty, and he becomes the type of guy worthy of being a chick lit leading man, not an oaf.”
“It’s an affectionate label!”
“My ass.”
She sighs. “I can’t believe this! He’s not you!”
I stop pacing and stare her down. “You’re right; he’s not. You gave him plenty of upgrades. He’s a doctor, for one. I guess nursing isn’t glamorous enough for your hero, huh?”
“Oh, come on!”
“And he’s hung like a horse. Not that you’d have a clue about my dick size, since you’re not interested in seeing it.”
She shoots to her feet. On her way out of the room, she yells, “You’re being a dick!”
I figure I’ve earned the right, so I’m not going to apologize for it. This time, I’m the one following. I arrive at the door to our room in time to see her throw her bag on the bed and stomp into the bathroom. She comes back with her toothbrush and other toiletries and throws them slapdash into the open bag.
“Where are you going?” I demand.
“Away from you!”
“I don’t think so. You still haven’t explained yourself about using my picture for your literary identity.”
Without a glance at me, she zips her bag. “You said you’d be Frank Lipton.”
“In what parallel universe?!”
“At the pub, way back in December.”
When I continue to look blankly at her, fearing she’s had a complete break with reality, she adds, “When you first met Betty. We were talking about pen names and ghostwriters. You said you’d be my ‘face.’”
I laugh bitterly when I finally remember the conversation. “I was kidding!”
“No, you weren’t. At least, I didn’t think you were. I took you at your word.”
“My ‘word’? It was a joke!”
“How was I supposed to know that? You don’t have the best sense of humor.”
“Hey! My sense of humor is—” I stop, refusing to allow her to distract me with something unimportant. “Never mind. The fact that I was half-drunk that night may have been a clue.”
“You’re the one who kept insisting you were fine!” She crosses her arms over her chest. “So… what? Now, you’re going back on your offer?”
I release a frustrated moan. “My offer was never a serious one!”
“Well, I took it seriously. I take my writing seriously. I’m sorry it’s such a joke to you. I’d think you, of all people, would understand how hurtful it is when people don’t place any value on what you love to do.”
Her statement brings me up short. I open my mouth to say something, then close it again. Suddenly, I’m too tired for this conversation. Too tired for this scenario. Too tired for life.
She slumps next to her bag and stares at her hands in her lap. “I’m sorry. I thought you were sincere and wanted to help me with my writing.”
“Then why didn’t you tell me what you were going to do, before you did it?”
“I thought it was already understood and agreed upon!” she says irritably. “I didn’t think you wanted a play-by-play. Sometimes when I talk about my writing, your eyes glaze over. I figured you weren’t interested in the details.”
“What?” I breathe the word more than say it. “Where did you—”
“And anyway, it was an experiment. I didn’t expect it to work. I thought I’d put the books out there as Frank Lipton, and nothing would happen, so I’d go back to Plan A, submitting to agents and publishers, trying to get published the traditional way.”
“Still using my face?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I didn’t have to think that far. The thing is…” She stands and slinks toward me, part hesitant, part eager. “…it has worked. I mean, the books have only been out there for about a month, but… they’re selling. A lot. Based on the emails Frank gets, most of it has to do with… well… you.”
I look down into her wide, brown eyes. Envisioning one of our future children looking up at me with those same eyes, I feel something in me soften. I try to regain my grip on my righteous indignation, but it’s running away from me, and I can’t grab it in time.
“Frankie…”
“Nate, please. Don’t be mad at me. The readers love the idea that you’re the face behind the stories. I can’t do this without you.” Now the eyes go from glistening to full, and she chokes, “I just want to write. And be with you. Maybe this was my way of combining those two things.” She blushes and looks down at her chest. “I don’t know. It sounds stupid when I say it out loud.”
I chuck her under the chin to entice her to look at me the way she did before. It’s intoxicating, and I want more. “No. It’s not stupid. I wish you’d told me yourself sooner, that’s all.”
She smiles self-consciously. “I realize that now. I’m sorry.”
Weakening. Weakening.
“I guess you’re forgiven.”
“And Nate?”
“Mmmm?”
“I like Bing Nathanson.” She pulls me closer to her with a tug of one of the belt loops on my jeans. “A lot. And I’ve seen—and felt—enough of you, pressed against me, to know his physical traits aren’t exaggerated.”
My breathing speeds up in direct relation to my heart rate. “Oh. Well. I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” She trails a finger lightly along the zipper of my jeans. “All of his best attributes are yours. The others are fiction, to make him less perfect, more believable.”
I gulp. She kisses my bobbing Adam’s apple. Against my neck, she whispers, “I love you.”
Before I can return the sentiment—true or obligatory—she catches my lower lip in her mouth and sucks on it. I wrap my arms around her back and let lust kick aside what litt
le remains of my anger and hurt. After all, lust feels so much better than anger and hurt.
Chapter Eleven
I’ve never understood the concept of social media, but Frank Lipton loves that shit. And to help Frankie out and allow her to have more real writing time, I’ve taken over Frank’s online presence. It’s not that big of a deal. Twice a day, I sign in as him and drop a line or two. I’ve been instructed to be self-deprecating, yet confident, whatever that means. I usually talk about what “Frank” had for lunch. Isn’t that what everyone else does?
However, I’ve drawn the line at writing Frank’s blog, Quite Frankly, a collection of “his” rants about… everything. Mostly about publishing, some about writing, and a little about being a man in a woman’s world. Like I told Frankie when she suggested I pen the posts, I haven’t written anything since college, other than a strongly-worded email (and I conveniently left out that it was to a TV station that pre-empted Dancing with the Stars to air a football game), so she’s better off writing Quite Frankly herself. Or not blogging at all. (Again, what’s the point?)
Frankie doesn’t share my opinion about the uselessness of blogging, but she did see the detriment to letting someone like me write more than 140 characters at a time, so I dodged that chore. Unfortunately, that means she dedicates an afternoon every weekend to writing several posts she can schedule to publish throughout the upcoming weeks, at her convenience, and that’s one less afternoon she spends with me.
I didn’t mean that to come out as petulantly as it did, but… I’m going to let it stand. I have a right to be petulant, anyway. Right now, I spend most of my weekends either cleaning Frankie’s apartment and doing her grocery shopping and laundry while she writes, or working shifts (for real) at Urgent Care. I figure I might as well be making some extra money if I’m not going to spend time with my girlfriend. And I don’t count scrubbing mildew from her shower in a room adjacent to her as spending time with her.
Thankfully, my family’s in all-out wedding mode, so they don’t miss me. But even if they did, I’d be “working at Urgent Care” every single weekend to avoid them. Mom was leery enough about Frankie’s proposed pen name; if she knew what was going on now, she’d come unglued. She’d invoke my middle name and everything. (It’s Arthur, if you must know. Nick got Andrew; I got Arthur. It’s like he and I were a huge psychological experiment from the get-go.)
And things are about to get even more interesting. Betty’s been recruited into this scheme as the marketing guru, so she’s been lining up… gulp… public appearances. You know, signings and readings at book stores, conference panels, and the like. I wanted to say, “No way,” but Frankie shot me a look I interpreted as, “I’ll give you a b.j. later,” and at that point, I would have plotted to kill my own mother for one of those, so… I capitulated. I know, I’m weak. I’m not proud of it, but there’s no use being less-than-honest here.
As it happens, I’m rusty on my nonverbal cues, so that delightful, implied favor never happened. Frankie got wrapped up in her writing; then it was late, and she had to get ready for another week on the road.
I guess I could have gone home and taken care of business by myself (well, in some other way, since I’m not that flexible, and if I were, I’d never leave my house), but for once, I can’t be bothered. I’m using every ounce of energy to do whatever I need to do to keep Frankie happy. It’s my new purpose in life.
Sometimes I’m more successful at it than at other times. For example, the other day, before I left for work, I got a rare early-morning text from her. The thrill I felt at hearing the text chime reserved for her quickly nosedived, though, when I read it.
Don’t forget to tweet today.
I stared into my cereal bowl, watching the shredded wheat bloat, while I absorbed the disappointment. Then I dutifully logged into Twitter, my hands shaking so much that it took me three tries to key in the password, and I thumbed in, Frank Lipton is pussy-whipped.
I had tweeter’s remorse almost immediately and added, April Fool’s! as a reply to my own tweet. Unfortunately, it was April 3, so that didn’t quite work. So I deleted the tweet altogether. But Frankie obviously saw it before I performed my lame damage control. The silent treatment I’ve received ever since can’t be a coincidence.
I guess she’s right to be pissed. But seriously? Her texting me to do my “job” as Frank is like me texting her to remind her to drink plenty of water and eat her fiber so she’ll stay regular. At least if I sent her a health tip, it would be because I cared about her as a person, not because I was treating her like a personal assistant.
So she can give me the silent treatment all she wants, because I don’t want to talk to her right now, anyway. I’d rather hear nothing from her than any Frank-related whip-cracking. Maybe it’s best if we lie low this week.
Plus, we’ll get plenty of together time this weekend when she and I fly out to Arizona with Betty as we combine Frank’s first author appearance with an impromptu visit to Frankie’s parents’ house.
I’m not a fan of “impromptu.”
I’m also trying to block out the visions of me hooked up to a lie detector machine in her dad’s basement.
“Are you doing this Frank Lipton thing for my daughter just to get laid, Nathan Arthur Bingham?”
“No.”
ZZZZAAAAAAAPPP!
Did I mention his polygraph includes a taser connected to my testicles? Yeah, in my nightmares, Frankie’s dad makes Robert DeNiro look like a teddy bear.
But I don’t have time to indulge in silly daydreams that place me in the role of fellow murse Gaylord Focker; I have a clothes shopping date with Betty.
*****
“Explain to me, again, why I can’t wear something from my closet,” I say to Betty as she buries me in stacks of clothes amongst the disheveled racks at T.J. Maxx.
“Frank’s not a khakis-and-Oxford kind of guy,” she states, adding another two layers to the crippling pile in my arms.
“What’s wrong with khakis and Oxfords?” I grumble.
“Nothing. For you. But they’re not the image we’re going for with Frank. Plus, you don’t have enough clothes. You can’t wear the same thing to different appearances.”
“Why not? There will be different people at each one.”
The look she shoots me clearly conveys her assessment of my intelligence, but in case I’m not sure, she follows it up with, “Don’t be a dumb-ass, Nathaniel. People will take pictures with you and post them on Facebook. At least, we hope they will. And we also hope the media will show up at a couple of these readings.”
“We do?” I’m not sure if her vision of my future or the mound of clothes I’m buried under is making me sweat more.
“Yes. Exposure is important. I don’t expect a lot of buzz at your first few appearances, but… as word spreads…” She pushes me in the direction of the dressing rooms. “Okay, that should get you started.”
When the dressing room attendant balks at the number of items I’m proposing to take into the stall with me, Betty levels him with a withering glare. “Just go with it,” she commands him. “We’re about to spend a shit-ton of money here.”
He grudgingly allows me to stagger past, with Betty calling after me, “Even if you don’t like the way something looks, come show me. I’ll be the judge.”
“Great,” I mutter, throwing the heap of garments onto the floor in the nearest open stall I can find. I guess I should be glad Betty didn’t insist on joining me back here.
Sixty sweaty minutes, half a dozen flashbacks of shopping trips with Heidi, and two near-panic attacks later, I have a whole new wardrobe for Frank that includes skinny jeans and pants in nearly every shade of the rainbow, denim and plaid flannel shirts with pearl snaps (I thought only cowboys wore those, but Betty told me to stop thinking and try on more clothes), wing tips, waistcoats, scarves (scarves!!!) and knit beanies to go with the black-framed glasses Betty already procured to match the Photoshopped ones in Frank’s author photo.<
br />
As I hand over my credit card to the clerk, it must be obvious how sick I feel to be spending so much money on such ugly clothes, because Betty pats my arm and says, “Frankie will pay you back.”
Not in the way I’d like, I can’t help but think, but I smile bravely and say, “Whatever.”
“No, really. It’s part of her marketing budget.”
Of course. All business.
I sign the receipt with the staggering total and grab the bags full of mass-market hipster clothes.
“Well, it’s been real, Betts,” I say in front of the store, stepping off the curb to walk in the direction of my car. “See you next—”
“Wait a second!” she interrupts. “We’re not done. I told Frankie we’d work on your image today.”
“Done,” I state, lifting the shopping bags as evidence.
She laughs. “The clothes are only the beginning.”
My heart plummets into my stomach. “Oh. Really? Because… I was hoping to get some stuff done around my house today. You know, since we’ll be gone next weekend, and—” I back away from her, but she doggedly pursues.
“You’ll have to clean out your gutters some other time. Put those clothes in your trunk and meet me over at that coffee shop.” She nods in the direction of the café nestled in the strip mall. “I’ll have a drink waiting for you. What’s your poison?”
I debate running, but that’s not very dignified. Plus, I wouldn’t get far with all these bags, and I’m not dropping them, considering how much debt I went into to buy them.
Flatly, I reply, “Salted caramel latte,” ignoring her barely contained smile and apparent judgment of my sodium-and-sugar-laden choice. She can bite me.
“Don’t strand me with your fattening girlie drink,” she dictates to my retreating back.
Confident she can’t see it, I roll my eyes and stick out my tongue.
“And don’t make faces at me! I’d rather be shoe shopping!” she shouts as she takes her X-ray vision in the opposite direction, heading down the strip mall’s sidewalk.