Let's Be Frank
Page 1
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Also by Brea Brown...
Author's Note
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
About the Author
LET’S BE FRANK
By Brea Brown
All rights reserved. Copyright © 2014 by Brea Brown
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without the express written consent of the author, who can be reached at www.breabrown.com.
This is a work of fiction. All similarities to real people and events are coincidental.
Cover art © 2014 by Laura Sellars
ISBN-10: 1495205258
ISBN-13: 978-1495205255
Also by Brea Brown:
The Secret Keeper
The Secret Keeper Confined
The Secret Keeper Up All Night
The Secret Keeper Holds On
The Secret Keeper Lets Go
The Secret Keeper Fulfilled
Daydreamer
Plain Jayne
Quiet, Please!
Coming in 2015:
Let’s Be Real (Nurse Nate Trilogy Book 2)
Out of My League (Underdog Trilogy Book 1)
Author’s Note
This was the hardest book I’ve ever written… three times. Yes. I wrote it three times. Not just going back through what I had and making changes, either. Three full times. Starting with page one, chapter one. Sure, I recycled a few scenes here and there, but none of them are exactly as they were the first or second time around. It’s a completely different book. The protagonist, love interest, and general storyline are even different than when I originally wrote it what seems like seven thousand years ago. Okay, it was only about two years ago. Sue me for exaggerating.
The third time is the charm, though… I hope. I’m not writing it again. I don’t think I have to, thank goodness. And that’s not just me saying, “This is good enough, and I’m finished with this project!” That’s me actually putting my ultra-picky stamp of approval on this book. That’s me saying I’d like this book if it were written by someone else.
Now comes the time for provisos. First of all, I’m not a man. Let’s just get that out of the way. I live with four guys, so I like to think that buys me honorary entry into the Man Club, but I know it doesn’t work that way. I will never fully understand men (thank goodness), nor will I ever fully think like a man (ditto), so this book, written from the point-of-view of a man, is bound to be a girled-up version of what a man thinks. Otherwise, it would have been 300+ pages of “sex, sex, sex, food, sex…” Am I right? No, I’m being disgustingly sexist, of course, for the sake of comedy. But guys write from female points-of-view all the time and do a passable job of it, and we appreciate it when they don’t assume all we ever think about is shopping.
So I wrote this book from the point-of-view of the character I thought to be the most compelling, a male nurse named Nate Bingham, and I assumed he wouldn’t just think about food and sex all the time. Some of the time, for sure. I also consulted with men to make sure this representation rang true. Since none of them would admit to thinking about sex and food 24/7, they told me Nate seemed like a real guy. Most of the time. I figured that was good enough, even if I suspected my sources were lying.
Second proviso: I’m not a nurse. My protagonist is. I researched his profession as thoroughly as I would any other protagonist’s profession, but I’m bound to have gotten some things wrong. Please, don’t email me to tell me what a moron I am. I already know this, so you’ll be providing redundant information. I try to be as accurate as I can without boring the living daylights out of people. Getting too far into the weeds on hand-washing techniques and standard practices is tedious. It doesn’t fit this genre or matter to this story, either. So if you want to know how nurses really do things, ask a real-life nurse. Nurse Nate is fictional (sometimes I forget that, too) and cannot be held responsible for doing uncharacteristically non-nursey things based on my poetic license.
Third proviso: the publishing industry is waaaaaaaaaaaay more complicated than I’ve depicted it here. Please see explanation above and substitute “writers” for “nurses” and “publication” for “hand-washing.” The only difference between my depiction of nursing and my representation of publishing is that I have first-hand knowledge of the latter. Therefore, I know where I’ve skimmed and dumbed down the process for story’s sake. And you should thank me, because some of it is mind-numbingly boring.
All right. Now that I feel I’ve completely defended myself—and made you worry that you’re about to read the worst book you’ve ever read—I’ll leave you to your reading. I think you’ll like it. And if you do, the best way to thank me (not that I expect any thanks) is to recommend it to your friends and family. If you’re feeling particularly generous, you could even write a review. Or simply stop by Facebook and let me know. I’d love that!
Thanks for buying this book and for choosing to spend your valuable time with my characters.
Chapter One
Young Harrison Webster’s tonsils are disgusting. Not only are they extremely swollen, but a white discharge coats them, like yogurt. A pediatric nurse, I see stuff like this all the time, so it doesn’t gross me out as much as it would the average person, I guess. It’s still nasty, though. And I’m glad I’m wearing these latex gloves.
After a thorough look around in the ten-year-old’s mouth, I pull back and turn off the otoscope.
“I feel real bad, Nate,” Harry laments, holding his hand against his neck.
“I bet!” I say with more cheer than I feel as I pocket the otoscope and peel off my gloves, tossing them in the trash can. During a thorough hand-wash, I say over my shoulder, “Looks like you have a very angry throat, Bud.”
I dry my hands and toss the paper towel into a nearby trash can. Then I prop one butt cheek on the edge of the paper-covered examination table and shoot a sympathetic wince at the boy’s mom. “We’ll have to do a test to be sure, but looks like strep. And this is the sixth time this year,” I tell her what she already knows, unless she’s lost count.
She nods and blushes, like she has something to be ashamed of. It’s not her fault kids share gum and always have their hands in their noses and mouths, sometimes in quick succession.
“Yeah. So… what do we do?” she asks me.
Flipping open Harry’s chart and making a note in it, I say, “The next step is up to you. I’ll have to consult with Dr. Reitman, obviously, but she’ll probably recommend that you have Harry’s tonsils removed.”
“Oh, man,” Mrs. Webster mutters.
I look up sharply at her dismayed tone. “Is that going to be a problem? It’ll be better in the long run, you know.”
“What?! Isn’t surgery where they cut you open with a knife… and stuff?”
Before I can answer, his mom soothes, “Nobody has to cut you open for this. Right, Nate?”
The near-pleading in their matching green eyes prompts me to immediately reply with a reassuring smile, “No. No cutting open.”
My too-honest qualifier isn’t lost on Harry. “Is it gonna hurt?”
I take a deep breath. “Not at the time. You’ll be asleep. After, you’ll have a sore throat for a few days. But they’ll give you medicine to make it hurt less.”
Spying the time on the clock over the door, I hop from the table and cross to the computer monitor and keyboard mounted to the wall, where I type some information into Harry’s electronic chart and say, “Hey, I had my tonsils removed when I was about your age. Not a big deal. I got to stay home from school and play video games and eat ice cream and Jell-O… It was awesome.”
Harry eyes me suspiciously. “They had video games when you were a kid?”
His mom and I laugh at the dig, and I huff, mock-offended, “Uh! How old do you think I am?”
Following his careful, head-to-toe inspection, during which I pretend to flex my muscles and show him the “best side,” of my face, he determines, “Like, twenty-five?” with a wrinkled nose that clearly expresses his disgusted opinion of that ancient figure.
I relax my posture, shrug, and nod. “Yeah. Close enough,” I state, going back to the computer. If he thinks twenty-five is old, there’s no way I’m going to reveal my real age. “And yes, we had video games back then. They weren’t as fancy as they are now, but we didn’t know any better, and they kept me busy while I was recuperating.”
After I log off the computer, I say to his mother on my way to the door, “I’ll be right back to do the strep test and give you Dr. Reitman’s official recommendation about that tonsillectomy.”
In the hallway, as I’m pulling the door closed behind me, I hear Mrs. Webster say, “Harry! It’s rude to call people ‘old!’” with more bemusement in her voice than embarrassment.
“I didn’t!” he objects.
I grin and turn to head in the direction of the doctor’s office, bumping into the woman, herself, on her way past with her eyes down on a handful of charts. “Oops. Sorry about that,” I say to her while she blinks comically, holding onto my forearm for balance.
“Whoa,” she says with a laugh and shake of her blonde bangs from her eyes. “What’s the rush?”
Apologizing again for the collision, I reveal, “I’m running behind on appointments, and I need to get out of here on time tonight.”
“Hot date?” she teases, then sobers when I’m unable to hide the chagrin her question conjures. “Oh. Sorry. None of my business. Anyway. I’ll stop holding you up.” She lets go of my arm, leaving cool spots where her fingers had been. “Literally. Sorry about that.” The files in her other hand reclaim her attention as she continues toward her office.
“Actually,” I stop her by raising my voice. “I was coming to talk to you, anyway…” Her eyebrows lift. “…about a patient,” I finish.
Her brow smooths, then she bobs her head toward her office. “Come on in.”
I follow her and close the door behind me, since we’ll be discussing confidential information. She rounds her desk and sits in her high-backed leather chair, closing her eyes and rolling her head on her neck. Standing with the desk between us, I clutch Harry’s chart close to my body, in the crook of my arm, and give her a lowdown of the situation.
In order to see as many patients as possible at the clinic, nurses and nurse practitioners see the patients Dr. Reitman can’t fit into her finite schedule. The family nurse practitioners (FNPs) are a bit more autonomous and don’t have to consult the doctor on straightforward cases, like Harry’s. I’m still just a master nurse, so Dr. Reitman does have to sign off on my recommendations. Eventually, I’d like to become an FNP; I simply haven’t gotten around to it… yet.
Okay, to be more honest, I’m dreading the course. It’ll only take me a year to do it, but academics have never been my strong suit. And although the FNP certification course is clinical and doesn’t take place in a traditional classroom, I’m still not relishing the idea of another year of schooling, in any form. After all, I just finished my Master of Nursing (I love how that sounds… Nate Bingham, Master of Nursing!) less than six months ago. It seems like I’ve been in school my whole life. Then again, I know I’m prolonging the agony by putting it off.
Now, there’s another obstacle, though. I need Dr. Reitman’s referral for my enrollment paperwork. Right now, I’m not comfortable enough around her to ask. And I’m pissed at myself for creating such an unsavory situation.
After I give her the spiel about Harry Webster, the doctor comes to the exact conclusion I predicted she would, then says abruptly, “Hey. Are things going to be… awkward… now? Between us?” She flaps her hand over the desk, like the piece of furniture is the issue.
Sweat breaks out under my arms. I shift Harry’s file from one arm to the other, then tug on my earlobe. The folder slips and almost falls, but I catch it at the last second, and stutter, “Um… n-no. Uh, why would they be?”
She smiles at my obtuseness and rapidly clicks her pen, leaning back and rocking in her chair. “You know, because of…”
I clear my throat. “Oh. No. I mean, it was nothing personal, you know?”
“Exactly! I do know that.”
“It’s just… it’s a big commitment—at least, I think it is, and it… It didn’t feel right.”
“You were absolutely right to go with your gut.”
My shoulders relax. “Really? So… your feelings aren’t hurt?”
She laughs. “No! Good grief! I received an offer from someone else later that same night. Don’t worry about it.” Sitting up and resting her elbows on the glass-topped surface in front of her, she adds, “Another buyer and I negotiated back and forth a few times but eventually came to an agreement. We close in a couple of weeks.”
Relief regarding the neat resolution to our recent failed real estate transaction renders me giddy. “Whew! I’m so glad everything worked out. It’s an awesome house; just not what I was looking for.”
That’s putting it mildly. Her house was all wrong for me, from the wall-to-wall carpeting to the in-ground pool in the backyard, everything was too… perfect. Perfect for teenagers’ parties and swanky soirées with crudités-crunching doctors, that is. But it held no potential for me to put my own stamp on it. It was already exactly the way it should be, fit for two middle-aged professionals with the perfect—or so it seemed—family with a busy lifestyle.
Plus, it was huge. Four bedrooms, four bathrooms, and a cabana? No way. It was priced to sell quickly, so I could have afforded it, but… just because I could doesn’t mean I wanted to.
“And I hear you found a place, too?” she queries pleasantly.
“Yeah. I moved in last weekend.”
She smiles warmly. “See? No worries.”
Ultra-conscious of the time passing and worried I’m keeping the Websters waiting, I nevertheless expound, “It’s, uh, in my brother’s neighborhood, but I decided to overlook that major fault.”
The medical community here in Green Bay is a relatively small one, so she knows my older brother, thoracic surgeon, Dr. Nicholas Bingham. I can tell she’s trying to keep a straight face when she remarks, “Oooh! That’s a pretty fancy neighborhood.”
I roll my eyes to let her know I know it’s trendy as hell and don’t necessarily approve, but at the same time, the house I ultimately purchased is perfect for me. Fairly new, all modern amenities, hardwood floors (that I’ve covered with area rugs, since hardwood is nice to look at but notoriously hard on one’s joints), and plenty of possibilities fo
r customizing to my own specs. I spend a lot of weekends staining and painting, but I have nothing else to do, so DIY is a good way to pass the time.
“I have a serf’s cottage on the outskirts,” I reveal. “A lot smaller than his house. And yours. You know, your house was too big for one person,” I feel beholden to explain, then immediately regret saying.
She shuffles papers around on her desk. “Yep. That’s why I sold it.”
Way to step in it, Nate, I berate myself. Why don’t you spout some interesting statistics about the negative health effects of divorce on the average fifty-something-year-old professional woman? Just in case this isn’t weird enough…
“Anyway,” she segues smoothly, “I wanted to make sure you knew I wasn’t upset. You’ve seemed tense since the showing, and it only occurred to me the other day—when you stopped talking about your new house to Lynette after I walked into the room—what the problem might be.”
Now, I realize how ridiculous I must have seemed to her and sweat for a completely different reason. Dr. Reitman has never been anything but professional and friendly and fair to me, in my six years working here. Even that time I accidentally shot blood across the room when I forgot to release the tourniquet before removing the needle during a blood draw. She took the situation in stride… as she stepped over the kid’s passed-out mom to help me restore order to the room. (Hey, I was new!)
“It was dumb for me to even view your place.”
“I thought I made it clear that you weren’t under any obligation—”
“You did!” I hasten to interject. Closing my eyes, I swallow and explain, “But it occurred to me that a house with so much… history… would take on a life and personality of its own and become more than a structure. And when I realized it wasn’t for me, I worried you thought I was rejecting everything that was important to you.” When that soliloquy meets silence, I open my eyes.
She blinks at me and tilts her head.
I laugh nervously at her shocked, almost alarmed, expression. “Uh… my parents are psychiatrists. Sometimes stuff like that kind of…” I make a hand gesture to simulate something we see happen often around here. “…spews out.”