Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  Girl Noir. Yeah, I read it on one of those unbearably quiet Friday nights that lead to self-indulgent moping. Devoured it, more accurately. Started it at bedtime, planning to skim a couple of chapters, not sure I’d be able to handle reading something that would remind me of the person I missed so much, and finished it, dazed and bleary-eyed, only a couple of hours before I knew Reba would be giving me my Saturday morning wakeup nudge.

  In the book, the reader meets an insecure woman named Lauren, a serious college student with some serious baggage. She’s never known her biological father and while growing up, her mother brought home a series of “uncles,” before finally settling down with a wealthy older man. In exchange for Lauren staying out of their hair, Mommy and Step-Daddy gladly act as bankers when Lauren goes to college, so they can travel the world and pretend they don’t have domestic responsibilities.

  In college, Lauren throws herself into academia, spending much more time at the library than at parties. (Atta girl!) One night, during a marathon study session, she meets a guy who seems equally disciplined and focused, and they fall in love. Or so she thinks. Until she tells him she’s going to have his baby. Then he goes home between semesters and never comes back. (Asshole!) Heartbroken, Lauren decides she doesn’t want to repeat the pattern begun by her mother and puts the baby up for adoption, never even holding the little guy before he’s whisked away to meet his new parents, a young couple suffering from infertility.

  Fast forward ten years. Lauren’s now a successful public relations executive. She’s a germphobic neat-freak preoccupied with control, almost to the point of obsessive-compulsive disorder. She spends her weekends watching old movies and emulating the tough-talking leading ladies. Her hobbies include making lists, refinancing her mortgage, organizing her closets, and ensuring the vacuum tracks in her living room carpeting make pretty patterns. (In other words, she’s hawt!) Her life is orderly and perfect… until a certain little boy named Ben tracks her down, with the help of his adoptive father, who happens to be a handsome, youngish widower whose wife died after a short, intense battle with ovarian cancer. (Nasty stuff.)

  The reappearance of Ben in Lauren’s life is not a welcome one. Not only is he the spitting image of his biological father, but he’s a precocious, spoiled—albeit cute—little scamp determined to matchmake his bereaved dad with his birth mother, so they can be a complete, happy family. His methods are adorable and funny and ultimately successful, and they make for entertaining reading.

  If I were an ordinary reader with no connection to the author or the inspiration for the book, I would have been charmed by little Ben and rooting for his dad and Lauren. I would have enjoyed the story, and the characters would have stuck with me. As so often happens after I read a great book, I probably would have had trouble finding something to follow it. But I was no ordinary reader of that particular tale, so the hangover it gave me was more significant, more haunting. I spent much of the book preoccupied, trying to figure out what was fact, fiction, or something in between.

  I’m still not sure which plot details fall into each category. Some of them are fairly clear. The OCD-like traits, obviously embellished, ring true, as does the detail about the old movies. I realized with a start as I was reading that I wasn’t at all sure about Betty’s parentage, but considering she never mentions her mother and father (step-father?) unless she’s talking about using their luxury cabin for the weekend, I’m inclined to believe those details are at least somewhat true.

  Then it gets a bit murky on me. Her intelligence supports the picture of her as the studious college co-ed, but I always assumed she was more the life of the party, with a trail of heartbroken guys in her wake. She’s Frankie’s friend, after all. And some of the stories I heard during the fateful snowmobiling weekend (before things went tits up) left no doubt in my mind that Frankie was a lot of “fun” in college, so it stands to reason her best friend was present during at least some of those exploits. But perhaps I’m assuming too much. Maybe Betty was in the library boning up on marketing strategies while Frankie was… boning the football team.

  Everything else about the college portion of the book… who knows? I’m at a complete loss there. Obviously, Betty’s never mentioned giving up a baby for adoption, but that’s not exactly something you discuss during a skinny jeans shopping spree, is it? “Wow. Those make you look like a complete douche. By the way, did I ever tell you about the asshole who knocked me up in college and abandoned me? Funny story…”

  No, I can see where that never came up in conversation.

  As for the rest, I know it’s fiction, other than the career choice. There’s no hunky adoptive father lurking around. Nor is there a mischievous kid vying for her attention. So maybe there’s no kid at all? Maybe the baby was invented for the sake of dramatic storytelling. I keep reminding myself almost none of the events in Hippocratic Oaf matched up with my life—the similarities ended with the character’s personality and physical traits—so maybe Girl Noir follows the same pattern.

  Why, then, would Betty practically beg me to read the book? I’m still not sure. “Lauren’s” psychological attributes could hardly be the revelation Betty was going for, considering I already know them. It has to be something more, even more than, “I never knew my real father, my mother’s always treated me like a burden, and my step-dad throws money at me as long as I make myself scarce.”

  Maybe it doesn’t even matter. Maybe it was simply to let me know, “You’re not alone; she does this to everyone.”

  One thing is certain: I’m becoming obsessed with it. During the day, when I’m busy with work, it’s easier not to think about it. In the evenings, when I’m alone with my thoughts and my dog, it’s a lot more difficult. More than once, I’ve gone as far as to have my keys in my hand, ready to drive to her place and ask her to tell me her version. Not just her version of Girl Noir, either. Her version of everything.

  That’s usually when I take a walk… alone… a walk that nearly always ends at my brother’s doorstep.

  *****

  I have to hand it to Nick; he seems to have it all figured out. For him, anyway. I wouldn’t want to cut into people, holding their lives in my hands several times a day, much less be up before dawn most days to do so. Nor would I want to be married to Heidi (I think I’ve made that clear enough) or rattle around in a house big enough for six times the number of people who currently live in it. But it works for him. And he seems happy. So I’m glad for him. It’s not his fault people always compare the two of us.

  At his core, he’s a good guy. He’s been my friend my whole life, which is more than I can say for anyone else. And he never turns me away when I show up at his house, no matter what else is going on, and no matter how many pictures of his bachelor party I’ve sprinkled on Facebook.

  Tonight, he takes one look at me and leads me straight to the patio under his deck, next to the pool, where he opens the fridge in the outdoor kitchen and retrieves an armful of expensive imported beer. We recline on two side-by-side pool chairs, our legs stretched in front of us, and drink our first beers in silence.

  As he pops off the caps on our second drinks, he asks in his typical, mind-reading way, “Whatever happened to that Betty chick?”

  Hearing her name makes me wince, like he’s broken his bottle on the stamped concrete and jabbed the jagged edges into my chest.

  Seemingly oblivious to my reaction, he stares straight ahead at the sparkling pool. “She was hot. You two had… something.”

  “No, we didn’t,” I automatically deny. “She was Frankie’s best friend.”

  “So?”

  I manage to laugh. “Oh. Right. I forgot who I was talking to. The guy who marries his brother’s former fiancée doesn’t worry about pesky details like that.”

  He laughs with me. “Is this how it’s going to be for the rest of our lives? You’re going to bitch and moan about how I married a woman you didn’t even want to marry anymore… if ever?”

  “No,”
I grumble, barely audibly.

  “It’s every man for himself in love and war, Natey-Boy. Love doesn’t give a shit about social norms. Even if she’s your brother’s ex. Even if she’s your girlfriend’s best friend. Ex-girlfriend now, anyway.”

  Am I in love with Betty? It sure felt like it when I was reading Girl Noir. It was all I could do not to jump in my car, drive to her house, wake her up in the middle of the night, and take her in my arms. Even if most of the book is a fabrication, the kernels of truth that inspired it are heartbreaking. The fact that Betty calls it “her” story is incredibly sad.

  “That’s not even… Whatever,” I mutter lamely, worried if I tell Nick about the book or how it made me feel while I read it, I’ll start crying.

  “Okay. You don’t want to talk about Betty. Got it. So… Frankie? Is that why you’re here?”

  “Why does it have to be about a woman? Or anything at all? Maybe I just wanted to hang out with my brother.”

  His only reply to that is a snort and more drinking, so I sigh and admit, “Fine. I’m… a little down.”

  “Noooo…” Nick drawls. “You?”

  “Hey, I’m trying, okay? Some nights are harder than others, that’s all.” I swing my legs over the side of the chair and move to stand. “I’m sorry. It’s probably annoying that I always come over here to sulk.”

  He extends his left arm, placing his hand on my knee. “No. Stay. I’m just busting your balls, Bro, but I get it. She screwed you hard.”

  “Actually, no. Never.” We both laugh at that, my chuckles more rueful than his and punctuated by a groan. “Oh, man…” I return to my prone position, falling back against the weatherproof cushion and staring at the darkening sky.

  “What a mess,” he commiserates.

  “You don’t even know the half of it.”

  For the next hour, I fill him in on the whole Frank Lipton affair while we throw back a twelve pack between us. At the end of my account, he admits, “I knew some of this, but… wow. You wore skinny jeans?”

  “Shut up. Yes. And what do you mean, you knew some of it?”

  As if it should be obvious, he answers, “Mom showed me your picture on the Internet… the glasses were a smart touch, by the way… Nobody would recognize you with those on,” he snarks. “What is this? Metropolis?”

  I laugh. “Right? Oh, well. It actually worked okay. Nobody around here ever asked me about it. Mom knew?”

  “Of course, she did. She knows everything.”

  “Why didn’t you guys say something?”

  He shrugs. “You obviously wanted it to be a secret, with all your lies about working those Urgent Care shifts. By the way, hello! How did you think I wouldn’t figure out you weren’t on duty when you said you were?”

  I feel like an idiot, but I defend myself, anyway. “I dunno. I figured you’d never check. Why would you?”

  “I didn’t go out of my way. I was called in for an emergency surgery one Saturday, and afterwards, while I was in the neighborhood, I swung by UC to say hi, but you weren’t there. I joked in passing to the girl at the admissions desk that I must have misunderstood or assumed incorrectly, based on the fact that you were there every weekend, and she shot me a weird look and said, ‘Huh? He’s hardly ever here anymore. Trades shifts with people whenever he can.’”

  Based on his spot-on impersonation, I grouch, “Gretchen. She hates me.”

  “Sounds like you were a major pain in the ass, always shirking your shifts.”

  My eyeballs are floating, but too relaxed to go inside to relieve myself, I continue to swig at the bottle in my hand. “Yeah, I guess. I’ve made up for it since then, so she can suck my… butt.” The last word comes out on a belch.

  “Nice one.”

  Rewinding our conversation, I return to the last interesting thing he said. “Hang on. I can’t believe Mom and Dad didn’t confront me about posing as Frank.”

  “They figured you didn’t want to talk about it, since you didn’t tell us yourself.”

  “Since when has that ever stopped them? Remember all those interventions they used to stage with us? ‘Nick, we’ve called this family meeting, because we’re concerned you’re spending too much time on your XBox and not enough time with real people.’”

  He laughs. “I guess they figure we’re too old for that shit anymore, unless it’s something truly destructive, like drugs or alcohol… or gambling. I got a private lecture about that recently…”

  “Seriously?”

  He shrugs. “Yeah. Whatever. They’re always right. That’s what’s so annoying. What I don’t get is why you kept the Frank Lipton stuff so hush-hush.”

  I think about it for a second. “I figured you guys wouldn’t approve. Hell, I didn’t approve.”

  “Why’d you do it, then?”

  All of the reasons I had for going along with Frankie’s scheme are suddenly absent from my memory. The only justification I have is what—or who—kept me doing it, even after I knew Frankie and I were going nowhere—especially after I knew that. I’ll be damned if I’ll admit that to Nick, though.

  Finally, I settle on, “I don’t know. At first, it seemed like it wouldn’t be that big of a deal, and it made her happy, so…”

  “Dude. You have some serious issues with boundaries.”

  I sigh. “Tell me about it. No. Don’t. I already know. Mom and Dad sat me down about it a long time ago. Which was ironic, come to think of it.”

  Again, we revert to silence, and I’m about to doze off when he says, “So, how’s Reba?”

  “Fine,” I slur back.

  “Okay. And work’s good?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You know, you’re keeping me from having the sex my wife promised me earlier for watching figure skating with her.”

  Wide awake now, I groan. “Really? Is that necessary?”

  “It’s so necessary. It’s the only way I’m watching that crap.”

  “Well, thanks for sharing.”

  “No problem.”

  “You accuse me of not letting go of the past, but you’re determined to make it always feel weird that you married someone I used to… be with.”

  “Yeah, well… I think it’s important we never forget who won in the end. You screwed up, big time.” According to his gloating tone, we might as well be talking about a bowling trophy.

  “You’re sick.” My proclamation contains no venom, though. What’s the point? I know he’s kidding, trying to make it less awkward in his completely boneheaded, male chauvinistic way. If we never speak seriously about it, then it’s not a big deal, according to his logic. I get it. But I’m not built that way. “It would be awesome if you would never talk to me about your sex life ever again.”

  “Jealous?”

  “Nope.”

  “Right. Says the guy who has to pretend to be a completely different person to get laid. Then again, I guess that didn’t work out so well, either, did it?”

  “Are you trying to make me feel better, or worse?”

  He playfully punches my shoulder. “Aw, Bro… I’m sorry. But I’m kind of confused. You’re not sorry to have broken up with Frankie; you don’t have to pretend to be that nerdy author anymore… So why the long face? How can I help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong?”

  I shrug, my slight buzz making me sullen. I’m not about to spill my guts. Not to him, not to anyone. Not even to myself. Is it too much to ask to be allowed to just sit here with him so I can claim I don’t always drink alone when Mom and Dad inevitably confront me about it?

  We don’t say anything for a while. Then Nick stands up, stretches, and asks, “More beer?”

  I stare off into his dark backyard. “I should probably get going,” I reply dutifully but without much conviction and without moving a muscle.

  He pats my shoulder. “I’ll be right back. Gotta drain my lizard first.”

  I hate to be such a pathetic imposition, but the thought of leaving fills me with nauseous dread. It’s not
just about being alone, either. More than anything, I’m delaying the moment when I get home and know with absolute certainty that Heidi and Nick are… pleasing each other. I won’t be able to shut out the mental images, either. Sometimes it’s a curse to have such a vivid imagination.

  Like right now (while Nick’s inside, probably commiserating with Heidi about how “he won’t leave”), I’m not at all curious about what Frankie’s up to, but I can’t help but wonder what Betty’s doing. Her lips hurtle toward me, behind my eyes, but I quickly blink them away. I push down the guilt and picture her doing something—anything—besides kissing me.

  A few months ago, I’d think she was probably on a date, making some poor guy sweat with her witty one-liners. Now, I know it’s more likely she’s spending the evening alone, toiling away on Frankie’s marketing efforts. Or in a hot bath with a good book and a large glass of red wine… Maybe thinking about me?

  No! Not going there. Won’t. Can’t. Shouldn’t.

  Nick returns with an armful of beers.

  I smile gratefully at him, take the bottle he’s offering me, and use the underside of the lounger to pry off the cap. “Bottoms up,” I demand grimly.

  He complies, and we both gulp half our bottles before setting them down on the tiny table between us and belching in stereo. Neither of us asks to be excused.

  “So, have you decided to tell me why you’re so mopey? Mopier than usual, even? I mean, I haven’t seen you act like this since…” He stops, seeming to think about it and reach back into his memory. “Since… Well, the only other time that comes close is your senior year in high school, when…”

  “Please!”

  Through his laughter, he talks over me. “…you wanted to ask Britta Kaepertowski to the prom, but your buddy, Ted, had the hots for her, and you had this insane idea that you weren’t allowed to ask her, out of respect for Ted.”

  “It’s the Bro Code! Are you honestly unaware of the concept?”

  “No. I just think it’s ridiculous. And pointless. And let me remind you—in case you’ve forgotten and haven’t learned a damn thing in the past fifteen years—that in the case of Britta ‘Big Boobs’ Kaepertowski, you and Ted gallantly agreed that neither of you would ask her out, but the minute Michaela Whatshergut—”