I used to love coming to this place. I’ve even arranged events here before. Tonight, however, I’m wondering why I bothered getting out of my yoga pants to come into the city. I could be watching a re-run of Vikings and eating homemade cookies right now.
“Is this chair taken?” Can’t the idiot see there’s a drink right in front of the chair? I nod and wave him off. He’s the first of a long line of partygoers who want my girls’ chairs. After a while, I start glaring at anyone who even comes near the chairs. But when the third song starts with no sign of my girls returning, I give up on saving their seats.
Finally, a slow song starts, and I smile. They’ll be back now. No one likes to dance to a slow song with their girlfriends. When they haven’t returned by the chorus, I start to worry. When did I become a worrywart? I blame living with my grandma. The woman could worry about how slow the grass is growing. My friends are probably going to the restroom, and every woman knows the line to the restroom grows exponentially when the music slows.
I push away my first martini and start sipping on the second one. It’s gone warm and tastes like sludge. What am I doing? I shouldn’t be drinking anyway. I push the drink away and pop the olive in my mouth while continuing to wait.
A man bumps into my crutches and they clatter to the floor. “Sorry. Excuse me,” he slurs as he wobbles. He nearly falls over twice before finally managing to grab the crutches and lean them against the table. He smiles at me, but his eyes bug out when he gets a look at my face. “Holy crap! What happened to you?”
I slap my hand to my face to ensure the bandage is still in place. Yep, it’s still there. Sure, the bandage is large, but there’s no reason to be rude. “Fuck you,” I say to the drunk jerk as I stand. My fury at the entire situation fuels me as I push my way through the crowd. No one’s getting in my way now. I make it to the exit in record time. I feel like I’m making a prison break when I finally manage to push the heavy door open. I gulp deep lungfuls of air.
“Can I help you?” The kind valet who helped me out of the car when we arrived steps up and asks me.
“Do you have the keys to my friend’s car?” He nods. “Is there any chance I can pay you to grab my bag out of it?”
“No need to pay.”
As soon as he walks off, I grab my phone and pull up the Uber app. It is long past time to go home. I’ve nearly completed the thirty-mile trek back to Grandma’s house when the first message arrives.
Where are you?
I quickly message back I’m on my way home.
What happened?
I don’t get a chance to respond before the flurry of messages start.
We’re sorry.
Next time will be more fun.
Yeah! Then you can dance too.
Have a good night.
I put my phone away without responding. Do they not realize it will be months before I can dance? Or worse? Do they not care? Stop that, Frankie. No more pity parties I promise myself.
Chapter 5
A lady should always stay loyal to her friends.
“Enough.” Brodie’s voice cuts through the noise battling for attention in my head. He lays my leg back on the treatment table before ordering me to sit up.
Once I manage to get seated on the table, I watch as he washes his hands. “What’s wrong?” he asks. Wrong? Today’s session hasn’t been bad. Maybe because I haven’t been paying one lick of attention but whatever gets me through these sessions is A-OK in my book.
Brodie finishes at the sink and turns around to lean against it. “You’re completely distracted today. What’s going on?” He tilts his head and studies me. “Are you in a lot of pain?
I shrug. “Define ‘a lot’.”
“Smart alec.” He shakes his head. “If it’s not pain, what’s wrong?”
I raise my eyebrows at him. Why is he asking? He’s my physical therapist, emphasis on ‘physical’. “I’m fine.” I check my watch. Only five minutes left. “Shall we quit early, and I’ll see you on Friday?” I reach for my crutches, but his hand on my lower arm stops me.
“We don’t quit early. Ever.”
“Like ever, ever? What if there’s a fire? Or a terrorist attack?” I lean close and whisper, “Or if I have a bathroom emergency?”
Brodie chuckles. “I’m pretty sure none of those is happening right now.”
I nod, although now I’ve mentioned bathroom, I do have to tinkle. It’s like a Pavlov reflex. Mention bathroom and I need to go. I start to squirm. Brodie crosses his arms over his massive chest and stares me down. My squirming develops into full-blown fidgeting. I do not want to talk about why I was distracted.
“If you’re not going to give yourself to these sessions one hundred and fifty percent, we’ll have to schedule three days a week instead of two.”
I scoff. “It’s impossible to give one hundred and fifty percent.”
Brodie raises an eyebrow. “Okay, smarty pants. Let me grab my agenda.”
I reach out and grab his arm. “No. Stop. I’ll tell. But you play dirty.” He smirks. “I’m a little—” He clears his throat. “Okay, a lot distracted because….” I don’t want to tell him the entire sordid tale of my friends ditching me. I settle on a half-truth. “I’m a little depressed.”
“What happened?”
“I’m finding it hard to maintain my friendships with my girlfriends in the city.” There, I don’t sound too needy.
He repeats his question, “What happened?”
Ugh! Is he going to stand there looking like some alpha male from those erotic romances I do not read – white lie – asking what happened again and again until I give in? I look at my watch and notice our time is up. I reach my right hand out to grab my crutches, but Brodie gets there before I do and pulls them out of reach. I narrow my eyes at him. “Don’t you have to get to your next session?”
“Nope.”
Ugh! “Are you always this stubborn?”
“Yep.”
“Can you say more than one word at a time?” He doesn’t bother responding. Instead, he leans my crutches against the next treatment table, completely out of my arm’s reach. And there’s no way I can hop over there after a torture …err… therapy session.
“Fine!” I screech and throw my hands in the air. “My friends took me out Friday night and then they ditched me.”
Every muscle in his body freezes. “Your friends ditched you?” He practically growls the question.
“Well, not exactly.”
“You need to start explaining yourself now.”
My eyes widen at the demand in his voice. Sounds like someone’s taking the whole ‘therapist’ part of the ‘physical therapist’ job description a bit too seriously. Although I’m pretty sure therapists don’t demand their patients ‘explain themselves’. But what do I know? I’ve never seen a therapist.
“We went out on Friday night, but they didn’t quite understand my limitations. They jumped out of the car and took off before I even managed to get out of the car. The valet had to help me.” Geez, I sound like a total whiner. I wave my hand. “It’s fine. I’m probably making too much out of this.”
“Finish the story. Get it all out.” Brodie still sounds demanding, but his voice has softened somewhat.
“They ordered me martinis despite me telling I shouldn’t be drinking hard liquor on my pain meds. And then they all went off and danced and kind of forgot about me. I was nearly home from the city before they bothered to text to find out where I was.” My shoulders sag. Am I entirely forgettable? They never seemed to forget me when I was planning the next event, but they hardly bother texting me now. I drop my head into my hands. Pity. Party of one. Yep, that’s me.
“You got in a taxi in the city and rode thirty miles back to town and no one knew about it?”
He sounds angry, and he’s completely missing the point of the story. “It’s fine. I have this locator app on my phone, which shows my friends and family where I am, and I can send out a distress signal if
needed. But thanks for listening. Obviously, I’m making a mountain out of a molehill with my friends.” I feel my face heat. Time to move on. I hop down from the treatment table. I refuse to look at him and stick my hand out for my crutches.
“Your friends sound like jerks.”
I glower. How dare he? Sure, they may have been acting like jerks, but only I have the right to call them names!
“I know that’s not what you wanted to hear, but it’s the truth. An injury like the one you sustained…” He trails off and I force myself to look at him. I’m starting to think he won’t continue his thought when he takes a deep breath and speaks again, “It changes how people look at you. They forget you’re more than your looks, although you’re still beautiful.” I snort. Yeah, right. “Unfortunately, it’s up to you to remind them you’re the same person you always were inside.”
I nod, and he hands me my crutches. I hobble as quickly as I can out of the room and to the bathroom before the tears can fall. What if I’m not the same person on the inside? And if I’m not the same person on the inside, who am I? Who am I without my high-powered job and fancy parties to define me? No clue.
Chapter 6
A lady should be inquisitive, not curious.
I plop down at the dining room table. My eyes zero in on the extra place setting. Oh boy. What’s Grandma up to now? I start to stand, intent on escaping whatever plan the woman has concocted, but my leg spasms, reminding me standing and sitting is still a strenuous activity. Guess I’m stuck. I can only hope one of Grandma’s single friends is coming to dinner. It’s a mere tiny thread of hope, but I’m hanging on to it for dear life.
The doorbell rings. “Get the door, will you, Bill?” Grandma shouts from the kitchen.
Grandpa winks at me before standing to open the door. He returns in less than a minute with a man who I assume is the grandson of one of Grandma’s friends. Darn. Why couldn’t my grandma be one of those old ladies who turns into a complete hermit? Instead, she’s somehow managed to gather every single person in her age group in the entire suburb into her circle of friends. And it appears they all have grandsons who are single. Awesome.
Grandma rushes in while drying her hands on the towel tucked into her waistband. “You must be Jimmy.” She doesn’t give him a chance to reply and engulfs him in a hug. From my position, I can see his eyes bulge out. He doesn’t bother returning the hug. Good thing Grandma doesn’t seem to notice, because she wouldn’t hesitate to give her a piece of her mind about manners.
Within seconds, she’s releasing the poor man and pushing him towards me. “This is my granddaughter, Francis.” No matter how many times I tell her to call me Frankie, she insists on using my ‘God-given name’. Pretty sure my mom agreed to name me Francis to torture me. God was not involved.
“Um, hi,” Jimmy mumbles before sticking out his hand. His hand is clammy, and I force myself not to pull back too soon. Poor guy is probably nervous. His grandma probably forced him on a date with the cripple.
“Have a seat. Have a seat.” Grandma shoves him in the seat across from me. “Dinner’s ready. I made my famous lasagna. Bill, help me bring everything out.”
Grandpa mumbles incoherently but dutifully follows his wife into the kitchen. I debate staring at my napkin and ignoring the guy sitting across from me for about five seconds. If Grandma comes out to awkward silence, she will be ‘very disappointed’ in this young lady. Never mind I’m neither young nor a lady. She has a way of being disappointed in a person, which makes you want to jump through hoops for her. Since I’m currently incapable of jumping, let alone jumping through hoops, I try to make conversation.
“You’re in luck. Grandma’s lasagna is totally yummy.” As it takes her forever to make, she usually saves it for special occasions. Making it for tonight must mean she has high hopes for Jimmy. Crap.
“Awesome. I’ve got the munchies. Bad.” His fingers start drumming on the table. I can’t help but notice the filth underneath his fingernails.
I open my mouth to order the guy to go watch his hands. Whoa! When did I become Grandma? I shudder at the thought and search for something else to say but I got nothing. Luckily, Grandpa walks in with a tray of lasagna. I sniff the air, and my mouth starts to water. “You’re in for a treat,” I tell Jimmy. Master conversationalist, that’s me.
Grandma beams at me as she sets down a bowl of salad and a basket of garlic bread. The garlic bread is made with real butter and smothered in cheese. At this rate, I’m going to weigh two-hundred pounds by the time I can move back home. Spoiler alert: I don’t care.
“Now, Jimmy, tell us,” Grandma starts once everyone has been served a heaping helping of lasagna and garlic bread. The salad remains untouched. “What do you do for work? Your grandmother, Mildred, said you did a bit of this and that. I’m not sure what that means.”
Jimmy keeps his attention firmly on his lasagna. “I pick up odd jobs here and there.” Well, that cleared things up. Not.
I jump in. “Like construction work?” I often hire carpenters for odd jobs like building stages and runways when I’m putting events together.
He shrugs. “Sure.” He’s totally lying. I’m thoroughly intrigued now. What could he possibly do for work? Why is he being deliberately vague about it? Oh, snap! What if he can’t tell us what he does? Like he’s an undercover cop or something? How cool would that be?
I lean forward to ask, “Can you not tell us what you do for work, because you like work for the government or something?”
He grunts while continuing to shovel food into his mouth. I look at Grandma and Grandpa. They’re both staring at him with their brows wrinkled. I tap my chin as I think this through. If he doesn’t work for the government, who does he work for? Does he work for a private contractor? I’ve heard a lot of government work is now contracted out. Technically speaking, I’ve heard nothing of the sort, but I have read some books where it’s discussed. If you want to get specific, I guess you could say I’ve gathered this information from some steamy romance books I’ve read. Don’t judge.
“Do you work for a private contractor who does contract work for the government?”
Jimmy squints his eyes at me. “Are you obsessed with government workers or something?”
“I’m only trying to figure out what you do for a living. I can tell you what I do for a living if that will make you feel better?” He shrugs. “I’m an event planner.” Another shrug. He obviously doesn’t care about anything I have to say. Maybe his only reason for being here tonight is the free meal? Maybe he doesn’t care about this sham of a date our grandparents set up? I can’t blame him there, but now I’m curious and won’t rest until I know how he makes his money.
Grandpa steps in before I get a chance to open my mouth again and start rapid-firing questions at him. “Son, you might as well tell her what you do. She’s not going to stop throwing questions at you until you give her an answer.”
He sets his fork down and leans back in his chair before crossing his arms over his chest. “If you must know, I’m in sales.”
“Why didn’t you say so? What kind of sales?” Sales sounds pretty boring to me, but maybe he sells something cool like Ferraris or something. My eyes glance over how he’s dressed. Ripped jeans and a dirty t-shirt. Not a Ferrari salesman then. Maybe something with IT. They can get away with wearing whatever they want to work.
“Do you really need to know this?” Um, no, but nothing’s stopping me now. “I didn’t come here to undergo some kind of interrogation.” He narrows his eyes at me. “Are you sure you’re not the one who’s an undercover cop?”
“Me!” My eyes almost bug out of my head. “Like this injury is fake and I’m living with my grandparents as a cover?”
“You never know,” he taunts.
Bam! It finally hits me. He’s into something illegal! He doesn’t want to tell us what he does for a living because he’s a criminal. Only a criminal would think I’m a cop. Oooh, the intrigue deepens. What does he do? Does
he steal cars? Or maybe he’s a jewelry thief. Darn. I always imagined a jewelry thief would look like Sean Connery in that Entrapment movie. I don’t care how old Sean Connery is. He’s still elegant and suave. He’ll be on his death bed looking debonair.
“Maybe I should go.” He stands and my eyes glance at his hands again. I notice the fingernail of his pinky nail is longer than his other nails.
I gasp. “You’re a drug dealer!”
He shrugs as if it’s no big deal. “I only came here today to see what kind of pain killers you’re on.” My eyes widen and my eyebrows practically fly off my face. He came to steal my drugs? “Some of those fancy new pain killers are worth a ton on the streets.”
I look at Grandma. She’s staring at him with her mouth open and a fork full of lasagna frozen in her hand. I bet her friend Mildred doesn’t know her grandson is a drug-dealing thief.
“It’s time for you to go.” Grandpa may be in his seventies, but Jimmy is no match for his fury. Grandpa grabs Jimmy’s upper arm and starts pulling him out of the dining room. A minute later, I hear the door slam.
“Maybe I should start vetting these candidates before I let them into my house.” My mouth drops open at Grandma’s words. She can’t be serious! She’s going to continue matchmaking after this disaster?
“Grandma, maybe you can give the dates a rest? I’m not in a rush, and I’ve got a lot going on right now.” I may be bored out of my mind on occasion – there is a limit to the number of episodes of Matlock a woman can watch after all – but learning to walk again and learning to live with a deformed face is not nothing.
Grandma harrumphs. “Do I need to ask my friends if they have any granddaughters who are single? Is that the problem?”
My mouth drops open at Grandma’s question. Because I don’t want to date a drug addict, I’m now gay? I don’t know if I should clap for Grandma for being openminded or insulted she doesn’t know who I am. What I do know is I have no intention of having a conversation with my Grandma about my sexual orientation. No way. No how. I manage to stand and hobble away.
About Face (Love in the Suburbs Book 1) Page 3
