by Brea Brown
*****
The early summer weather’s way too nice to have wasted the afternoon behind a table in a fusty bookstore. As soon as we’ve stowed the boxes of books and bookmarks and coffee mugs in the trunk of the rental car, we take off on foot in the direction of a park we drove past on our way to the bookstore.
We don’t say much on our way there. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t have to do with Frankie or Frank or selling books. Or heartfelt declarations. Or drunken kisses. Betty seems to be okay with not talking, so I eventually give up trying to conjure safe topics and decide silence is the best option.
When we get to the playground, I head for the seesaw and gesture to the lower end. “Climb on,” I tell her.
That bewitching right eyebrow goes all downward-facing-dog and makes my stomach twitch pleasantly. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah! Come on. It’ll be fun.”
She looks skeptical, but she straddles the tiny plastic seat on the equipment and supports her weight on straight legs to bring my side closer to the ground. I climb on, suddenly feeling stupid but also feeling committed to this activity, since it was my idea. I let my body weight tip the balance more to my side, and I sink toward the dirt patch underneath me while Betty rises to the apparatus’s maximum height.
“You better not pull any stunts, like dropping me from the top so I bust my ass. I won’t be amused,” she warns.
“I’d never do that! You could break your coccyx.”
She smirks. “You said ‘coccyx.’”
I push off the ground, sending her on a gentle descent, but her feet don’t even touch down before my weight lifts her once more. “That’s what it’s called.”
“It sounds dirty.”
“Well, I know from experience it hurts like hell to bruise it or break it, so I’d never do that to someone.” Again, I try to bring her down, this time with a stronger push from my legs, but she reascends before her feet contact the ground.
“You broke your ass once?”
“I’ve bruised my tailbone more than once, yes. Falls on ice, both times.”
“Ouch. You need to be more careful, Nathaniel.”
“I need to move to a place where there’s no ice.” After two more tries to make the seesaw work the way it’s supposed to work, I sigh and admit defeat. “This isn’t as fun when you’re a grownup.”
She laughs. “I guess when we’re kids, our weights are more similar. It would probably take two of me on this side to make this work with you.”
“Are you calling me chubby?” Again, I feel conspicuous in my tight-fitting jeans. I thought I detected the start of a muffin top when I got dressed this morning. Must make more time for exercise. I already get up at 7:00 every morning, no matter what day it is, but maybe on weekdays, I need to get up at 6:00, to work in a morning jog, or at least some crunches.
“Not at all!” She pauses to catch her breath after laughing at my indignant question. “But you’re a guy. More muscle mass. Everyone knows muscle weighs more than fat.”
“Damn right, it does.” I wink as if I’m not taking any of this seriously. “Alright, then. Off you go.”
I straighten my legs to support both of us. She swings one leg over and hops off. I drop my side and step over the seat, brushing my hands together to rid them of the dirt from the metal handle.
“Wanna try the swings?” I ask, nodding in their direction.
Sadness and weariness take up residence on her face again when she says, “Nah. We should probably get on the road. Long trip home.”
“Yeah. It’ll be late by the time we roll back into town,” I agree, closing the distance in the grass between us as we retrace our steps to the bookstore parking lot.
“Thanks for not dropping me.” She threads her arm through mine and gives it an affectionate squeeze. As quickly, she lets go, putting a couple of feet between us.
I tuck my hands in my pockets and stare at my shoes. “No problem. We’re in this together, right?”
She grunts, then says, “We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”
I laugh. “I guess not, at this point.”
Falling into step closer to me, she nudges me with her elbow. “Just kidding. Actually, you do have a choice. And I’m sorry if anyone has ever made you feel like you don’t.” She abruptly stops talking. In the dusk, it’s hard to read the expression on her face. Eventually, when I don’t rush to fill the silence, she continues, “I’m starting to regret my part in all this.”
“There’s no use regretting it. I mean, good things have come out of it, right?”
At first, I think she’s interpreted my question as rhetorical (which it may as well have been), because she says nothing to confirm or deny my theory. Then, as the rental car comes into view, I barely hear her whisper, “Right.”
It’s been so long since I’ve said anything that I’ve almost forgotten what she’s responding to. When I do remember, her sad tone makes me wonder if she truly agrees or is just humoring me.
“Hey, I—”
“Listen—”
We laugh nervously at our simultaneous speaking as we stop in the middle of the parking lot, several yards away from the car, and face one another.
“You go,” we say together, which makes us laugh harder and breaks the tension… somewhat.
Since I was about to propose something radical, something I think would make both of us happy while also making one of us quite sad, if that’s possible, I decide I’d rather hear what she has to say first. “No, really,” I insist. “You first.”
She gives a short nod. “Okay. Uh… I’m sorry I ran out on you at Nick and Heidi’s wedding.”
Not wishing to revisit that night, I wave away her apology. “Don’t worry about it.”
“But I do. It was selfish. I hope you didn’t look for me for very long before you texted me.”
“I didn’t,” I lie. “I assumed you were in the bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Or something.”
Her half-smile lets me know she’s well aware I’m lying, but she lets it drop. “Right. Well, it was rude to desert you. Like dropping you from the top of the seesaw.”
I smile. “Apology accepted.”
“I know you want to make this thing with Frankie work.”
I simply shrug, wishing I knew as much as she claims to know.
She slides her hands into her back pockets and looks down at her feet. “Other than that, I can’t figure you out.”
I take a deep breath and inject some uncharacteristic cheer into my voice, like I would for a nervous child about to undergo a procedure she’s fairly certain is going to be unpleasant. “What’s to figure out? I’m a guy, trying to do the right thing. I said I’d do this; I’m doing it. Doesn’t matter if I regret agreeing to it. The bottom line is, I did agree to it.”
“But things are different now.”
“Are they?”
When Betty’s head snaps up, and she shoots me an incredulous look, I explain, “Everything’s operating the same as it was when we started all this. Frankie’s the same; the agreement’s the same… The fact that I’m stuck doing something I don’t want to do is nobody’s fault but my own.”
“Why do you always blame—”
“Really,” I cut her off, voicing what I’ve said to myself a million times since the end of February. “It was my idea to be the face of her literary alter ego. I gotta live with the consequences of that suggestion and ultimately agreeing to go through with it.”
Carefully, slowly, she asks, “Don’t you ever feel like she’s taking advantage of you, of your generous nature?”
I set my jaw. “I’m not a victim, if that’s what you mean. Nobody’s manipulating me.”
She blinks at me for so long that I think she may be trying to send me a memo in Morse Code. I don’t like the message, either.
I spin on my heel and stride toward the car. “Let’s go. I’m tired and want to get home.”
Chapter Nineteen
&nb
sp; Betty falls asleep soon after we hit the highway, and while I’m glad she’s getting some much-needed rest, the silence gives me a lot of time to think. About four-and-a-half hours, to be exact. And my thoughts keep returning to this:
I’m so full of shit, it’s not even funny.
Even better, the only person I’m fooling is myself.
Frankie’s going to cash in her 401K to fund her dream life; well, I’m ready to collect on my investment, too. I’ve spent months pouring myself into a relationship that’s been far from ideal, all under the assumption that every good relationship is based on compromise and give and take. But good relationships have no room for resentment, and lately I’m starting to feel like I’m always giving, always the one compromising more, so the resentment is building.
I’ve been here before, facing this diagnosis, nearly four years ago. Back then, I chose the treatment plan with the most immediate results—people-pleasing, followed by major lifestyle changes. Oh, and large doses of denial.
This time, I’ve recognized the same things happening, and I thought I was choosing a different treatment plan. But it’s the same plan, only disguised as something “new and improved.” And now, unfortunately, my condition is too far gone to keep putting bandages on it and managing my symptoms.
My only option now, I’m afraid, is surgery. I need to cut out the disease before it starts to infect every aspect of my life.
The decision before me, is similar to the one many women face when undergoing surgery for breast cancer. I believe one breast can be saved, but is it worth the risk? Perhaps the safest choice is to remove them both and move forward with healing and possible reconstruction later.
I decide to stop for gas, so I can stretch my legs and get some fresh(ish) air. I mean, I’m comparing my relationship with Frankie and being Frank to two cancerous boobs.
“You’re a cancerous boob,” I say out loud to myself, taking the next available exit from the highway.
Betty stirs. “Huh?” she mumbles.
“Nothing. Never mind. I’m, uh… Gonna make a quick pit stop.”
“Where are we?” she asks, sitting up and blinking.
“About halfway home. You can keep sleeping. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
At the service station, while waiting in line to pay for the coffee I hope will keep me alert for the rest of the trip, I text Frankie to check her status and plans for the evening. Staying up late tonight?
As I’m getting back in the car, she replies, Can’t text. Writing.
That settles it, then. Surgery, it is.
*****
It’s late but still before midnight when Betty and I roll into Green Bay. Frankie never goes to bed before 2 a.m. when she’s in the middle of a creative tear, so after I drop off yawning Betty at her place and ensure she makes it inside safely, I point the rental car in the direction of Frankie’s apartment.
Outside Frankie’s door, I take a deep breath and reassure myself this is the right thing to do. Our relationship is never going to work, and it’s better to know that now, seven months in, than continue in denial and face it months—or years—from now.
My knocks go unanswered. Sometimes she writes with music blasting into her earbuds. She ignores the door and the phone, but she always replies to texts, so I pull out my phone and key, I’m at ur door. Let me in?
I’m beginning to think she may be indisposed—or ignoring me—when more than a minute goes by with no reply. As I consider my options (none of which are going home and trying again tomorrow), the door swings wide, and a flushed, robe-clad Frankie appears in front of me.
I smile nervously. “Hey!”
“What are you doing here?” she greets me coldly, stepping back.
“I know you’re writing. Sorry for dropping in unannounced, but I… we need to talk.”
I pocket my keys and advance into the apartment, standing behind a chair at her dining table, where her open laptop rests. I glance down at the laptop screen, a white background jammed full of single-spaced words, the file name at the top, “CEO-Oh-Oh,” distracting me for a second.
I shake my head and look back at her, but she’s no longer standing by the front door. She’s rushing toward me, and not in a “catch-me-in-your-arms-and-make-passionate-love-to-me-on-the-floor, you beast!” way. She stomps, her teeth bared, her nostrils flared, the true human incarnation of the raging bull we all hear so much about but most of us never experience the horror of facing. I have an urge to say, “Olé!” Or whimper, “Mommy!”
When she arrives at the table, she slams the laptop shut. “Excuse me, but that’s private.”
“I didn’t read anything but the title,” I reassure her. “Clever, by the way.”
She retreats a few steps, bites her lower lip and looks away from me, something suddenly interesting on the baseboard nearest us. “It’s a working title,” she snaps, making eye contact with me once more. “I’d like to get back to what I was doing, so…”
I have to hand it to her; she’s making this a lot easier for me than I expected. That doesn’t mean I’m not nervous. I am. My heart could have probably done without that cup of coffee. Uncertainty about her reaction to what I’m about to say makes my pulse pound in my ears.
After a deep breath, I begin, “Right. Okay, then. I’ll make this quick. I came by here to say that I don’t—”
The flushing toilet stops me mid-sentence.
Her eyes maintain a lock on my face, but she mutters an obscenity under her breath.
“Who’s here?” I ask, my tone weirdly solicitous, even to my own ears.
Without hesitating, she answers, lifting her chin, “Kyle.”
What does it say about me that the first thing that pops to mind when she drops that gem is, “I hope he sprays the air freshener before he comes out”?
Of course, my second thought has more to do with the guilty look on her face when she answered the door to me and the way she’s dressed—or more accurately, not. Mixed with those images are her still-echoing denials regarding her weekend in Chicago: “Nothing happened.”
Today, she claims, “He’s helping me with some research for my book.”
I bite hard on the inside of my cheek, bark bitterly, then say, “I’m sure he is.”
The man himself chooses that moment to enter the living room. He has the good sense to have all of his clothes on. Well, most of them. He’s barefoot, and too many buttons are undone on his untucked dress shirt. When he sees me, he smiles like we’re in a sales meeting, and he’s going to pull out his A-game to sell me a bunch of shit I don’t want.
I stride to the door, painfully aware that Frankie’s not saying or doing anything to explain herself. Even if it’s more lies, I’d appreciate the effort.
But Kyle’s the next one to speak. “Nate! Good to see you, man.” He extends his hand, which I don’t feel inspired to shake, so I don’t.
Instead, I roll my eyes at him and snort. “Right. Well. I was just leaving. I’ll let you guys get back to… whatever you were doing.”
Finally, Frankie snaps from her trance. But rather than give me the explanation I deserve, she states coldly, “Don’t play the injured party here. I know about you and Betty. I’ve known it for a long time.”
I turn to face her, but I refuse to say anything else with Kyle as a witness.
She takes my silence as a confession, apparently, because she sneers and continues, “I even know about the kiss. So spare me the righteous indignation.”
I use supreme self-control to open the door calmly and close it quietly. No temper tantrums or flouncing out for me. Not going to give the two of them the satisfaction.
By the time I get to the parking lot, I can feel my hands shaking and my eyeballs jiggling from the spike in my blood pressure, but I focus on breathing deeply through my nose, even when I spot the silver Jaguar that would have stuck out like a well-manicured thumb on a nail-bitten hand if I’d been thinking of anything but rehearsing my breakup spiel when I arrived here.
In my much-less-than-$70,000 rental car, I sit behind the wheel and stare at the sleek convertible through the windshield. Seething, I wonder how often it sits in this parking lot lately. Are Frankie’s neighbors more used to seeing it than they are my car? Something tells me the answer is, “Yes.”
And he’s either extremely arrogant or stupid to leave it parked out here with the top down. Then again, it probably has a more sophisticated alarm and anti-theft system on it than most homes. Is he flaunting his wealth among the Toyotas and Fords and Hyundais? Jag-off.
He’s probably the Bigfoot of the carbon footprint world.
And yes, I’m aware it’s not normal for me to be dwelling on Kyle’s personal impact on the environment right now, but it’s keeping me conscious, so I’m sticking with it.
I rest my forehead against my steering wheel and breathe away the tightness in my chest that I wish I could say was the physical manifestation of heartbreak. Then, I’d feel more like a normal person. Then, I’d feel less guilty. Then, my outrage would be justified. Then, I could embrace the role of hapless pawn I now know I’ve been playing all along, despite my vehement claims to the contrary.
But I still can’t go there. I can’t admit the extent to which I’ve been played. Because then, everything has been for nothing.
Well, almost.
*****
A proper victim would go to a bar tonight and drink by himself. I don’t want to drink, though. I don’t want to sulk. I don’t want to cry or rage or vent. I don’t know what I want to do. But I definitely don’t want to be alone.
Betty squints and blinks through the porch light at me. “Nate? What are you doing here?”
“I wish everyone would stop asking me that,” I grumble, stepping past her without an invitation inside.
She rubs her eyes and closes the door. “I just fell asleep. Is everything okay?”
I have so much to say, but I start with, “Do you always answer the door in the middle of the night dressed like that?”
She looks down at her baby tee and boy shorts. “Huh? No. I don’t think I’ve ever answered my door in the middle of the night, come to think of it.”