by Brea Brown
“My best friend,” Frankie explains.
“I thought you guys were, you know, arguing.” I still haven’t been able to get out of Frankie what transpired between Betty and her the other night at the pub while I was in the bathroom, but I know I wasn’t imagining the tension when I returned.
Ignoring my observation, she pushes, “Betty’s a ton of fun at family gatherings.”
I’m not sure if our definitions of “fun” sync up yet. Does she mean “fun,” as in, “gets rip-roaring drunk and silly within five minutes of having access to the open bar,” or “fun,” as in, “does a mean Conga,” or…
Frankie interrupts my musings with a leg-jolting brush of her fingers against my upper thigh under the table while she says to Mom and Dad, “You guys will love Betty. And she’s a workhorse. If you need help with last-minute stuff on the day of the wedding, she’ll pitch in.”
I wonder if Betty’s aware of all this work for which Frankie’s volunteering her. Then again, it’s hard for me to concentrate as Frankie’s fingers creep closer and closer to my lap.
To me, she urges, “C’mon! It would be perfect. You’d have a date, but I wouldn’t have to worry—”
“You don’t have to worry, because it’s not gonna happen.”
Mom smiles warmly at the two of us. “I think it’s a sweet, thoughtful idea.”
“Yeah, don’t dismiss the idea out-of-hand,” Dad agrees.
Oh, but I am dismissing it out-of-hand. “I don’t need a date for the sake of having one. Now, let’s talk about something else. Did I mention that Frankie’s a writer?” I blurt, hoping Frankie doesn’t kill me for telling my parents.
To my relief, she grins proudly when they look suitably impressed with this piece of information.
When Mom takes the bait and asks, “What genre?” I breathe a full breath for the first time in several minutes (it helps when Frankie returns her hand to her own lap).
“Women’s fiction. Chick lit, more specifically,” Frankie answers.
“Are you published?” Dad inquires.
Frankie’s lips pinch over her teeth.
“Uh… she’s kind of shy about sharing her work right now,” I jump in, before anyone thinks of abandoning this conversation in favor of one of the more hideous ones we’ve already explored. “She’s still considering her options and… and… thinking about pen names. Right?” I consult her, realizing I’m doing that annoying thing where I talk about someone in the third person, even though they’re sitting right there.
I know I’ve made the right decision to rescue her, though, when I see the gratitude—something I’ve rarely seen from her—in her eyes. She grips my hand on top of the table and says to my parents, “Actually, I was thinking about keeping my last name and shortening my first name to Frank.”
“Giving yourself a literary sex change, huh?” Dad jokes. “Interesting.”
Frankie nods enthusiastically. “It was Nate’s idea.”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “It was?”
“Yeah, remember? You suggested it at the pub, and it’s great, because you’re right; even though a lot of guys write chick lit, they’re still a minority and somewhat of a novelty, so they sell a ton of books.”
Mom and Dad exchange a look. I don’t know Betty and Frankie well enough to accurately interpret their nonverbal communiqués, but I’ve had decades of experience reading my parents’. And the look they just shared was similar to the one they gave each other when I announced I’d decided to become a pediatric nurse and was dropping my pre-med major.
Nick was already only a semester away from graduating with his undergraduate pre-med degree, and everyone assumed I’d follow smoothly in his wake. Looking back, I’m not sure why they made that assumption. I’d never done things exactly like Nick. He played football and hockey; I ran track and played soccer. He dated cheerleaders; I… didn’t. He was the life of every party; I was the guy everyone asked for copies of class notes the day before a test. He got As without studying; I had to spend hours studying to get that same A. It’s not that we were opposites, exactly, and everyone knew we were brothers, but nobody could accuse our parents of cloning.
When Nick and I both decided to pursue medical careers, it felt right. At first, I thought it was cool we would be doctors together someday. We even talked about starting a private general practice. But Nick decided he wanted to specialize (“That’s where the money is, Bro”), and I didn’t want to spend half my life in school, racking up all that debt before ever entering the workforce. When I did my residence in pediatrics and fell in love with helping kids, our different fates were sealed.
Now Mom muses, “In this day and age, it’s hard to keep something like that a secret. Aren’t you afraid it’ll backfire?”
“Writers do it all the time,” I intervene. “Even J.K. Rowling had a male pen name… for about two seconds. And when her true identity was discovered, it helped her sell more books, so it’s not like it was a huge scandal that hurt her career.”
“Hmm,” Mom utters noncommittally before saying, “I was thinking more about what it does to the psyche to live less-than-honestly, but… I see what you mean. I’d love to read your books, Frankie, no matter what name you decide to put on them.”
Like that, the tension dissolves at the table, and Dad sweetens the situation by suggesting we go into the living room to watch the football game.
I volunteer to clean up the kitchen. Watching football is bad enough. Watching it with Frankie is a whole new form of torture, which my parents are about to get an education in. I’d just prefer not to witness it.
Chapter Seven
My fifth consecutive swing and miss prompts Nick to say, “What’s your problem tonight, Bro?” from his position behind the chain link fence that separates us.
I shrug off his question and whiff at the next ball that flies at me from the pitching machine. I’d be embarrassed if we weren’t alone here on this freezing weekday evening in the indoor, unheated batting cages.
I let the next pitch go past without swinging. It clanks against the fence and joins its friends, amassing at my feet. I kick the baseballs away, so I won’t trip on any of them, and get back into my stance. The next ball whizzes at me, and I manage to get a piece of it, but it soars straight up. I duck and hold my plastic helmet more tightly against my head, anticipating the hard ball’s fall. It misses me and thunks at my feet.
“Get out of there before you get hurt,” Nick demands.
My heart’s not in it, and I’m almost out of the pitches I’ve paid for, anyway, so I don’t bother arguing. The point of this exercise was to work off some frustration, but it’s only causing more.
As soon as I round the fencing, I remove my batting helmet and toss it and my bat toward my equipment bag under the pine bench. I sink to the bench, prop my elbows on my knees, and watch Nick prepare for his turn. He feeds money into the machine, stands next to home plate, and crouches into his stance. The first pitch comes flying toward him, and he hits it hard, almost immediately preparing for the next ball.
“Mom tells me she and Dad met Frankie a couple of weeks ago,” he says, hitting another line drive.
I stare at his elbow a few seconds, contemplating what I’m going to say before replying dully, “Yeah.”
He straightens his legs, letting his bat hang impotently at his side, and turns to me between pitches. “Why are you so glum?”
“Watch the balls, alright?” I implore before answering, “I don’t know.”
“You don’t know? How can you not know?”
I sigh. “It’s complicated.” I tuck my hands into the front pouch of my hoodie and hunker lower into it.
He snorts. “Alright… what is it with this one? Did she use your toothbrush, or something?”
“What do you mean?” I ask, hoping if I play dumb, he’ll drop it.
“There’s always something. With that one chick, it was her breath.”
“It was bad! When I ended it with her
, I recommended she see a doctor about it.”
“I’m sure that softened the blow and really endeared you to her,” he says with a laugh.
I snarl at the back of his head. “Hey, I was worried about her! And what do you think I should have done? Kept dating her, even though kissing her made my eyes water? In a bad way?”
He shrugs. “Okay, I’ll give you that one. That’s pretty insurmountable. But what about the chick in college?”
“You’ll have to be more specific,” I say with plenty of smarm. It’s fun to pretend I was a real ladies’ man at some point in my life.
“The one who farted when she sneezed.”
“I didn’t break up with her because she snarted. She picked at her feet, which is gross and unhygienic.” I wrinkle my nose and suppress my gag reflex at the memory.
“Okay, what about the one who swallowed her gum all the time?”
“Same person. She also didn’t know that Jerry Lee Lewis and Jerry Lewis were two different people; she paid people to write her term papers; and—oh, yeah—she screwed my roommate… on my bed… every Wednesday for an entire semester while I attended my biology practicum. So… I stand by my decision to break up with that one, thank you.”
Recovering from his first strike, he says, “Okay, fine. But my point is… you always find something.”
We both know there’s at least one exception to the rule: if Heidi hadn’t broken up with me, I’d be married to her right now, resigned to the many things about her that annoy me. Being her husband and the father of her children was worth whatever irritants came with the job. That’s what I thought at the time, anyway.
And I was devastated when she broke up with me, when she gave voice to what I was too scared to face: something was missing between us that would be essential to our long-term success as a couple.
So I’ve gone back to being the pickiest bachelor in Green Bay. Because it’s better to reject than be rejected.
Out of balls, the machine winds down with a whir and shuts off. Nick removes his helmet and joins me on the bench.
“You never answered my question,” he remarks, sliding his arms into his coat and zipping it up to his chin. “Fuck, it’s cold in here!”
I agree with him, but the coldness I’m feeling can’t be helped by putting on my coat, so I don’t bother. I straddle the pine bench then recline, lying flat on my back, tucking my hands under my arms.
Shivering to generate warmth, he prods, “Go on, then; give me Frankie’s fault list.”
Immediately, I reply toward the high metal rafters above, “She’s a slob.”
“Here we go…”
“No, you don’t understand. She’s not messy in an ‘Oh-you-haven’t-loaded-the-fully-functioning-yet-unused-dishwasher-in-a-day-or-two’ kind of way. I’m talking, I nearly went into anaphylactic shock thanks to the mold growing on the dishes in her sink the last time I was at her place. And I don’t even have a mold allergy. It was nasty.”
“So, don’t go into her kitchen.”
“If the kitchen sink was the only problem area, that would be a fine strategy. But there’s… stuff… everywhere in her apartment. Outdated magazines, expired coupons, written-on window envelopes. Every surface has paper trash piled on it.” I squint at the stadium lights that are supposed to lend the cages a big-league ambiance. “It’s like she hasn’t thrown away a piece of junk mail since Obama’s first term. Probably before then. It makes me twitchy.”
“But that’s your problem, not hers.”
I think about that for a second. “Okay, yeah. But I have to decide if I want that to be my problem forever.”
“Why? You gettin’ married?” He pokes my knee with his forefinger. “C’mon, Bro. Don’t take everything so seriously.”
I sit up but keep the bench between my legs. “I do take things seriously, though. Because… Well, if I’m not considering marrying her, then what’s the point in dating her?” When he shoots me an incredulous look, I defend myself, “I’m not just looking for a piece of ass anymore, alright? I’m looking for a… wife.”
“You could—I don’t know—train her to be tidier,” he suggests.
“She’s not a dog! And you should never go into a relationship thinking you’re going to change someone.”
Nick shrugs. “I guess.”
I can feel us edging too close to one of the major recurring issues in my relationship with Heidi, so I refocus the discussion on Frankie before Nick remembers all the times I complained to him about being Heidi’s “project.”
“Then there’s her obsession with football.”
“That’s sexy, man. I don’t understand how that one goes on your crap list. I’d be in heaven if Heidi watched more games with me… with her face in my lap.”
“Hey, hey! Do you mind?” I push his shoulder. Hard.
He falls sideways, giggling like a twelve-year-old. “Sorry. Just sayin’.”
“No. Don’t ‘just say’ anything like that to me ever again. Inappropriate.”
He sniffs while righting himself. “Jealous.”
“Anyway!” I shake my head to rid it of the mental image of Heidi blowing my brother during halftime and say, “I know I’m in the minority around here with my apathy for the sport, but Frankie takes fandom to a whole new level. Like, she makes most of the guys we know look like fair-weather poseurs. She can recite the entire starting roster and each player’s position.”
“Anyone can do that,” he scoffs, quickly adding, “except dorks like you.”
“I wish it ended there. She also knows the names and specialties of the guys who ride the bench week-to-week. She can name the backup to the backup quarterback. And she calls them all by their first names, like she’s best buddies with all of them.” When he still seems unimpressed, I claim, “That’s weird!”
He closes one eye as if considering it. “Maybe a little, but… Big deal. It’s no weirder than you knowing all the character names on your nerdy shows.”
Determined to make him understand the depth of her obsession, I continue, “She can—and does—recite word-for-word every single commercial that features a Packers player.”
“Whatever!” He laughs. “That’s every other local commercial that airs during any given game!”
“I’m not exaggerating. You have to see it—and hear it—to believe it. Ask Mom and Dad. She did it at their house. I think Dad’s going to nominate her for a stupid human trick on Letterman.”
“Sweet.”
“Not sweet. Obnoxious. Just like it’s obnoxious she shops at a grocery store across town from her place, because she heard some of the players and their wives shop there.”
“A bit stalker-y…”
“Right?” I take a deep breath, considering whether to reveal the detail about her using the same shampoo as one of the long-haired players. I’d like to pretend it’s not true, for one thing. For another, I’m starting to feel bad griping about all this stuff. It’s not very loyal. It’s definitely not what a good boyfriend would do. I mean, if it bothers me so much, I should break up with her, instead of badmouthing her behind her back.
On the other hand, he needs to know. He needs to get the full picture. He needs to see I’m not the freak. He needs to take my side.
While I’m trying to decide to tell him about the shampoo, he raises an eyebrow and says, “What? You look like you’re about to tell me she likes it all freaky-deaky in the bedroom. Like she makes you wear an Aaron Rodgers mask during the nasty.”
I laugh, relieved it’s not that bad, before deciding to just drop the whole thing.
Nick studies my face, then shakes his head when it’s obvious I’m not going to continue. “Anyway… She’s hot, right?”
“Yeah, but—”
“And the sex is good?”
I bend over and make a big show of untying and retying my left shoe.
“No way…” Nick breathes when I move to the right shoe, still not giving him an answer. “You two haven’t had sex yet?”<
br />
I blush, even though it’s hardly something to be ashamed about. It’s not like we’ve been dating for years or like we’re married and still haven’t consummated our relationship. Still, I know Nick thinks it’s just as bad.
“The right time hasn’t presented itself,” I say.
“What do you mean? Any time is the right time!”
I straighten and face him like a man. “Not really. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, and I don't want to pressure her to do something I’m not all that excited to do.”
“You might want to get that checked out. Low testosterone is nothing to screw around with.”
“My testosterone levels are fine.”
“Not if you’re okay with this current… situation, they’re not.”
“Quit joking around.”
“I’m not joking. I’m saying this to you as a medical professional.”
“Screw you.”
“I’m not having any problems in that department.”
Blocking more disturbing mental images, I blurt, “Frankie wants to wait until she’s married.”
It’s not often my brother is speechless, but that does it. Temporarily. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, “Oh. Uh, I didn’t… I mean, why didn’t you say so?”
Because I don’t believe it?
I simply shrug my shoulders.
We sit in stifling silence until Nick regroups and says, “Well, Mom and Dad seemed to like her okay.”
“They did? When did they say that?”
“A few days ago, when I saw them. They said you guys had a nice afternoon.” He turns his head and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Why? Did something happen?”
He knows something always happens when our parents meet our friends or girlfriends or co-workers or bosses or neighbors or… anyone we know, so his question translates more into, “What happened?” Only this time, for once, I can’t tell him anything specific.
I make a face. “Nothing, really. I just got a vibe from them that they didn’t like her all that much.”
“So what? Aren’t you past needing Mommy and Daddy’s approval?”
I know it will make me sound as lame as I am if I answer truthfully, so I merely say, “I don’t want things to be awkward in the future, that’s all.”
