Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  “Of course, Mr. MacDonald. Thank you. Have a good evening.”

  Kyle cups Frankie’s elbow in his hand. “We will, thanks.” With a nod to Betty and me, he steers Frankie away.

  “Wait a second!” I hiss at their retreating backs, mindful of the stares of the other diners.

  I take a step to go after them, but Betty says, “Don’t even think about leaving me here like I’m some kind of a loser, Nathaniel. Sit down.”

  I’m aware that by not following them, I look like the loser here, and there will be hell to pay later, but I couldn’t possibly deliver an apology right now, and it’s clear Frankie’s not going to be apologizing anytime soon… or ever. I’m also not the type who would ever challenge another man—especially not a mountain of a man like Kyle—to a Neanderthalish duel over a woman. So what’s the point in following?

  Does it suck that some other guy is taking my girlfriend home right now? It should probably suck more than I think it does. But at this point, I’m relieved not to have to spend any more time with her tonight.

  Plus, I don’t want to be the jerk who deserts a woman in a fancy restaurant to finish her meal alone, so I retake my seat and drop my head in my hand.

  Betty sets down her fork. After draining the remainder of her wine, she states calmly, “Well. We seem to have fucked that up hardcore.”

  What else is new?

  Chapter Sixteen

  Loud knocking on my front door wakes me from the soundest sleep I’ve had all week. It takes me a few seconds to realize the rhythmic pounding isn’t part of the dream I was having about… well, never mind. I collapsed here what feels like seconds ago after working a thirteen-hour day that started before sunrise, and I’m not in the mood for visitors.

  When the banging fills the living room after I’m fully aware I’m awake, I groan and sit up on the couch. And nearly poke out my own eye.

  I call out groggily, “Who is it?” hoping I don’t have to answer the door with a giant erection.

  “It’s Betty. I need to talk to you.”

  Dismayed for a number of reasons, I look down at the highly visible one in my lap. “Alright. Uh… hang on a boner— I mean, a moment!” I push down on it, but that only seems to be encouraging… things. Cursing under my breath, I hobble to the door, my hand cupped over my crotch, and pull open the door the smallest crack I can without looking like Jack Nicholson in The Shining.

  “Hey!” I say to her, trying to sound normal. “What’s up?” Besides my pecker.

  My silent addition to the innocuous greeting makes me blush.

  She looks askance at me. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “Do you want to come in?”

  One of her eyes narrows while the other widens. “Do you have someone in there?”

  “What? No!”

  “Why are you acting so shifty? Why don’t you invite me in?”

  I pull the door wider and, without thinking, remove my hand from in front of myself to make a sweeping, welcoming gesture with my arm. “By all means…”

  Her glance is drawn immediately south, but she quickly looks away and shields her eyes from the sight. “Good grief, Nathaniel! What the hell are you doing?” She turns completely away from me.

  “I’m sorry!” I say, mortified and contrite, covering myself once more and turning my back to her. “I just woke up.”

  “You’re not the only one who’s wide awake and perky,” she observes.

  “You act like you’ve never seen one before!” I snap, my embarrassment, stress, and exhaustion contributing to some wild mood swings.

  “Not yours!”

  “Well, you still haven’t. I’m fully clothed.”

  “Those thin scrubs aren’t leaving much to the imagination.”

  We stand back-to-back until finally, my little… er, perfectly average-sized… buddy gets the hint and returns to his relaxed (more like humiliated and hiding) state, so I adjust myself and turn to face her, crossing my arms over my chest. “What are you doing here, anyway?” I ask, dreading the answer but figuring it would be best to just get the conversation over with, like ripping off the proverbial Band-Aid from one of my hairy legs.

  She bats her thick eyelashes at me over her shoulder and advances into the house, dropping her thirty-pound purse onto the floor by my couch. My heart races, but she simply says, “It’s good to see you, too,” so it’s impossible to tell if she’s being coy or truly doesn’t remember what happened last weekend. I wish I could say I didn’t, that I haven’t been thinking about it constantly.

  After Frankie and Kyle left the restaurant, I was too mad to eat or even get drunk on Kyle’s sixty-thousand dimes, so I sat at the table and pouted while Betty got drunk enough for both of us. Eventually, I started talking. Then it was like I couldn’t stop. I whined about everything from never having a day off (thanks to being Frank) to my lack of a sex life (yep) to being treated like an employee by my own girlfriend (oh, yeah). It got ugly.

  “What happened to, ‘I can’t do this without you?’” I wondered aloud over and over.

  Thank goodness Betty was too drunk to comprehend half the things I was saying. She kept slurring, “Fuck yeah!” to everything I said.

  That was the extent of her engagement for the rest of the evening… until she French kissed me when I saw her to her door. But I told myself she was drunk and merely keeping with the French theme of the evening.

  I took possession of her keys and unlocked her door, through which I firmly guided her and said a quick goodnight.

  Remembering it brings a flush to my cheeks.

  “Oh, good grief. Just forget it,” she says to me now with a flippant laugh.

  I shake my head at her. “What? I mean, I’m trying, but—”

  “You had nap wood. Whatever. Moving on…” Looking around my living room, she nods her head. “Nice place. Did your mom decorate it for you?” She shoots me a teasing smile and wink.

  Trying to keep up with her chaotic conversation, I blurt, “No! I’m an adult.”

  “Relax! I’m only kidding. This is the first time I’ve ever been inside your house. And it’s… nice. Probably not as nice as your brother’s place around the corner. My gosh, Frankie drove me past there one day when we were bored, and… What type of surgery did you say he does? Plastic?”

  I open my mouth to correct her, but she waves away my answer.

  “Anyway. Whatever. This place is much cozier. And very tastefully decorated. You know, I’ve been in some bachelor pads where the owner obviously thought Lego models made for some sweet tchotchkes, the picture frames still held the photos of the model families, and the household’s most sophisticated reading material featured women in their underwear… and was located in the bathroom. And don’t even get me started on the housekeeping. No, this is nice. You get major points for being a big boy.”

  Murmuring a sarcastic thanks, I pray she doesn’t need to use the bathroom while she’s here as I picture that Victoria’s Secret catalogue on top of the toilet tank. “So, uh, what can I do for— I mean, what’s up?” I inquire, wishing I didn’t feel so tired and wrong-footed.

  She looks like she’s about to answer my question, and it’s not going to be something I want to hear, but then she stops short and scrutinizes me. “Seriously. Are you okay? You look… awful.”

  I rub my eight o’clock shadow. “Thanks. And yes, I’m fine. Exhausted, that’s all. That’s what happens when you work an Urgent Care shift the day after your brother’s bachelor party.”

  She winces.

  “Yeah. I didn’t have any more Saturdays to trade with people, since I’ve been gone so often lately on the weekends.” I look pointedly at her, but she raises her hands in front of her chest as if to say, Don’t blame me.

  I narrow my eyes and snort at her, because it’s absolutely her fault. Before I can remind her she’s the one who sets the public appearance schedule for Frank, she shakes her head as if trying to puzzle through something.

  �
�Now, explain to me why you had the bachelor party the week before the wedding.”

  I sigh. “Heidi didn’t want Nick to be hungover on her wedding day, so she forbade a wedding-eve bachelor party. I couldn’t throw my brother’s party in the middle of the week, could I?”

  “No! Completely lame-o!” She plops on the couch and sits sideways, her head propped against her hand.

  “It was still kind of lame, since I couldn’t drink, but everyone else seemed to have a good time.”

  “So do you have pictures from last night, or is that against some Man Code?”

  “It’s the ‘Bro Code,’ first of all; and yes, I’ll probably be breaking every rule in it when I show you the pictures, but… I’m going to, anyway, because they’re epic.”

  And if it keeps us from talking about that kiss, I’ll gladly bust wide open the precious Bro Code.

  She gleefully claps her hands while I come around the back of the couch and sit next to her, pulling my laptop closer to me on the coffee table and opening the files I uploaded from my phone as soon as I got home in the wee hours of the morning. We settle next to each other and cycle through the tame snapshots from the beginning of the evening (Nick and his other groomsmen hamming it up for the camera in the back of the rented limo, everyone taking their turns saluting the camera with their drink of choice, etc.). She giggles as the subjects of the pictures become progressively rowdier, and her jaw drops at a photo of Nick in his underwear on a mechanical bull.

  “Oh my gosh! What the…?”

  We’re still laughing at the picture when my phone rings.

  “Speak of the devil… He’s probably only been up for a few hours. Bastard,” I grumble jealously and tap my phone screen to answer as loudly as possible, “YELLO!”

  “Oh… you are such an asshole,” he rasps in my ear.

  I put the call on speaker so Betty can enjoy the conversation, but I place a finger against my lips. Nick won’t say anything interesting if he knows she’s listening.

  As it is, he immediately asks, “Hey, am I on speakerphone?”

  “Yes, but I’m alone,” I lie. “I’m… uh… cleaning, so I need both hands.”

  Since that’s consistent with my personality, he doesn’t question it but starts moaning about how sick he feels, hypothesizing that someone put something in his drink (singular, as if he only had one).

  Betty, pointing to the laptop monitor mouths, “He’s so hairy!”

  I cover my laugh with a cough. “Uh… what? No. Nobody put anything in your drinks, Bud. C’mon! Would I, your brother and best man, let anything like that happen?”

  He mutters, “I guess not.”

  “I had your back. Maybe you can’t hold it like you used to. You’re gettin’ old.”

  “Nah, Bro. I’m fine,” he quickly reverses his earlier claims. “Just a little dehydrated, I guess. I’m glad we did that last night, though. If I was getting married today, I’d be hurtin’.”

  “That Heidi… she’s a smart one,” I gush, making a gagging face at Betty, who covers her mouth to contain her laughter.

  I motion for her to keep looking through the pictures but move away from the couch, knowing she’s about to come across one that I won’t be able to see without losing it. I turn my back to her and the laptop and walk to the kitchen, where I open the fridge to grab two bottles of green tea.

  “Listen, Bro,” Nick says now. “You didn’t happen to, uh, take any pictures last night, did you?”

  Smoothly, I answer, “Just a couple, before things got… fun. I sort of forgot to keep taking them. Sorry.”

  “No, no. That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It’s probably for the best. I mean—”

  Suddenly, Betty’s throaty laugh echoes in the high-ceilinged living room, and I know she’s reached my favorite pic. It’s Nick, drinking from a bottle of beer with one of those novelty penis straws, popular at bachelorette parties. His eyes rolled back in his head, he looks like he’s giving a blow job to a Keebler elf.

  “What’s that?” Nick demands.

  Merely imagining the photo makes me giggle. “Nothing,” I say, deep breathing to keep it together. “I… I have Pretty Woman playing in the background while I clean. You were saying…?”

  He pauses. “Shit. I can’t remember. Never mind. I’m glad you didn’t take many pictures. Although… it would be nice to fill in the blanks. I can’t remember getting home, or anything. That freaks me out.”

  “Well, you were perfectly safe. I wasn’t even buzzed.”

  “Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

  I wonder if he’ll still feel that way after I post his bachelor party photos on Facebook, tagging both him and Heidi in every one of them. I figure I’ll wait until a couple of weeks after their honeymoon. I want him to be both humiliated and firmly wed to the woman who sleeps in full headgear and spends the equivalent of a small country’s annual gross domestic product bleaching every hair on her body… and her anus.

  It’s taken more than two decades, but the time has come to get back at him for blaming me for the slingshot murder of Mom’s beloved parakeet, Snacks. This is going to be some sweet, sweet revenge.

  Since Betty’s now no longer making any effort to be quiet, and she’s taken to slapping her hand against the couch, I tell Nick I’m getting ready to vacuum and say a quick goodbye after imploring him to drink plenty of water.

  I return to the living room with our beverages and stand over a prone Betty. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “No,” she gasps. “I’m not. Those… are… incredible.”

  I grin proudly. “Yeah. I know. By the end of the night, they were all so wasted, they were doing everything I told them to do, no questions asked. I felt like a hypnotist. ‘Cluck like a chicken.’ ‘Eat that peanut off the floor, but pick it up with your mouth.’ ‘Drink from that bottle with this phallic straw.’”

  “You’re evil.”

  “Maybe.” I give her a hand up, and she takes the tea from me as she swings her legs in front of her and makes room for me to sit.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’d offer you something more… adult… but I don’t have any wine in the house, and I know you don’t drink beer,” I say, trying to sound casual. It’s true I don’t have any wine, but I’d rather not go into why I’m glad I don’t.

  “This is perfect,” she says over the crack and subsequent pop of the seal breaking on the glass bottle’s metal cap as she twists it off.

  “So, what’s up?” I ask for the third time, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Lonely this weekend, since Frankie’s stuck in Chicago?” I stare at the wooden beams over our heads and wait for an answer that never comes. The tense silence holds until I find the courage to glance her way.

  She swipes at the lipstick on her bottle. “Um… about that…”

  Suddenly terrified about what she may have come here to say, I babble, “I, for one, am kind of relieved. Does that make me a bad boyfriend?”

  A tiny head shake is all the response I get, so I continue before she gets the wrong idea, “I knew I’d be busy with Nick’s party and work and… I’d love to have some alone time, especially since the wedding is next weekend, and we have a book signing in Eau Claire the weekend after that, but my parents have claimed at least part of the day tomorrow. Dad’s dusting the snow off the grill, or something. I guess I can’t blame them; they haven’t seen me in weeks. I wish they’d just wait until the wedding.”

  Betty suddenly stands. “Well, as long as you’re okay with it.”

  Oh, gosh! She does remember the kiss. And she’s here to hash it out with me. And am I okay with it? Is it okay for me to be okay with it? Probably not. I should probably say something responsible here, like, “You know, Betty… that was wrong. And I know you were drunk, but it still wasn’t right. And that can never happen again.” But all I can do is squeak a stalling, “Okay with it?” and wait for her to say the next thing.

  “Frankie staying in Chicago,” she answers with a tin
y shrug, heading for the door.

  Oh. That. Am I okay with that? I’m much more okay with it than talking about that kiss on Betty’s front stoop.

  My hair scratches against the upholstery as I crane my neck to follow her retreat, but I don’t move any other part of my wasted body. “What’s not to be okay about it? She missed the last flight to Green Bay last night. It made no sense to get a flight today, only to turn around and fly back out Monday morning.”

  “Right. But… Never mind. You’re right. I’m being weird.”

  I laugh. “Kind of. What’s going on?”

  She attempts her own laugh, but it comes out more like a croak. “Nothing. Probably. I’m sure.” With a determined head shake, she holds up the bottle of tea, backtracks to get her purse from the floor, and says, “Thanks for the drink. I guess I’d better go. I don’t even have a dress yet for the wedding. I have the perfect shoes, of course, but the dress… well, almost anything will do with the shoes I have. Nobody’s going to be looking at the dress. And I don’t want to show up the bride. That’s bad form.”

  I thought for sure with Frankie’s newfound jealousy, she’d rethink her brilliant plan to have Betty go as my date to Nick and Heidi’s wedding, but it seems Frankie’s envy is situational, which is convenient for her. Not so much for me.

  Plus, maybe this is Frankie’s way of punishing me. She apologized for telling Kyle about Frank and for leaving the restaurant with him last weekend, and she’s been sweet as can be this week, sacrificing her evening writing time to talk to me every night on the phone, but that only makes me feel guilty and puts me on alert, waiting to see how she’s going to make me pay. I have a feeling she thinks taking Betty to Nick’s wedding as my date is my penance. I’m just not sure how. And that makes me even more nervous, of course.

  Considering how much time Betty and I have been spending together lately, it doesn’t seem as big of a deal as it was when Frankie first proposed the date at my parents’ house four months ago. (Has it only been four months? Seems like a lifetime!) Then again, considering what happened last week after the double date… But Frankie has no idea about that, of course. I hope.