by Brea Brown
She bravely stood by for a few minutes, insisting she’d take care of it, but the deepening green around the edges of her eyes and mouth as we unearthed more and more rotten food told a different story, and she eventually wandered off to take some aspirin and a shower.
By the time I dumped the bleach water, disposed of a huge black trash bag of “food” in the dumpster out back, and returned to her apartment, she was fast asleep on her bed, her wet hair splayed on her pillow. I resisted the urge to watch her while she slept, telling myself I was too busy for such melodramatics, but I indulged in a kiss to the top of her head. Then I took three trips to my car with basket after basket of her dirty clothes.
Nothing says “I love you” like housekeeping, right? It’s a decent start on the huge undertaking I now know is before me, after seeing her with that guy in the airport.
Frankie and I have been dating exclusively for three months. That might not sound like a long time, but it’s a veritable eternity compared to every other relationship I’ve had in the past three years. I’ll admit, though, that I’ve been coasting. I’m hardly putting forth any effort at all, as if just because she’s not around during the week, that means I’m off the boyfriend hook.
And on the weekends, when we are together, I’ve become complacent and lazy. A typical Friday or Saturday night consists of us going out to eat and seeing a movie. I swear, we’ve seen every new release, including the animated ones, since we met in November, but I couldn’t tell you the last time we had a deep, meaningful conversation.
Even today’s surprise was something planned more out of obligation than because I wanted to do it: “It’s that time of year; we were apart for Valentine’s Day; I guess I should make some kind of romantic gesture, because that’s what decent boyfriends do. Sigh.”
But seeing her face all lit up when she was talking to Kyle at the airport, before she realized I was there, stirred a jealousy in me that I didn’t even know was possible. I didn’t think I cared enough to be jealous. Well, I do. And that’s a huge relief. But she didn’t seem to appreciate my brief display of territoriality. If I don’t get a grip and start showing her I care in ways that don’t make her want to punch me, she won’t stick around much longer.
And how do you show a woman you care? You cook for her. At least, I do. Tomorrow, she’ll experience a home-cooked meal from my kitchen. She doesn’t have to understand the significance; I know it’s big. With one load of Frankie’s laundry tumbling in the dryer and another spinning in the washer, I tug a purple fleece-lined sweatshirt over my other layers and head for the grocery store, everyone’s favorite place to be on a Friday night.
At the store, I grab one of those mini-carts for the lonely—I mean, single—and zoom through the aisles, tossing in the ingredients for chicken tortellini, salad, marinated eggplant, and my homemade tiramisu.
I’m double-checking my list, making sure I didn’t forget anything, when a sultry voice behind me says, “Not many men can pull off purple like that.”
I whirl to see Betty behind her own sportscart. I give her a nervous smile. “Oh. Hey. You’re… here.”
She does that acrobatic eyebrow thing while patting herself. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. I’m not a mirage.”
I blush at my stupidity. “I meant… I’ve never seen you at this store before.”
“I always shop here on my way home from the gym, so I’ve been here…” She closes one eye and looks up toward her bangs. “…three other times.”
“New gym membership?”
“Nope. I just never go. It’s such a meat market.”
My eyes gravitate toward her cart. I can’t help it. I have a thing about analyzing the contents of other shoppers’ carts, and I have to say, I’m particularly fascinated to see what Betty’s basket says about her. Anything to give me some clues as to what makes her tick.
I still haven’t quite figured her out. Frankie likes to tease me and say I’m afraid of her, but that’s definitely not it. I’ve seen for myself what Frankie told me the first time I met Betty: her toughness is a big front most of the time.
It’s the other part of the time I’m not so sure about, though. One minute, she’s confident and sassy; then, a simple, seemingly innocuous word from Frankie renders her quiet and contemplative. Usually, she excuses herself at that point and leaves. It’s odd.
As for her reactions to me, I never know if she’s going to laugh along with something I’ve said or eviscerate me with a scathing comment about my bushy eyebrows. (Okay, she hasn’t mentioned them since that first meeting, but now I have a complex.) Other times, she’ll take me completely by surprise by complimenting me, and I’ll feel like we’ve made a breakthrough and have finally started to feel comfortable around each other. The bottom line is, she’s unpredictable. Unpredictable makes me nervous.
Tonight, as I’m silently approving of the Listerine and dental floss in her cart, it moves, and she clears her throat dramatically. “Excuse me, but… none of your business!”
I raise my eyes to her face and say, “Sorry. But there’s no expectation of privacy in a shopping cart.”
“It’s an unspoken social norm. It’s like when guys stand next to each other at the urinals. You don’t sneak a peek then, do you?”
Horrified, I reply, “No! But that’s different. Anyway, there’s nothing shameful in your cart. Oral hygiene is closely linked to heart health, and red wine is full of antioxidants.” I pause, then mutter, “That’s a lot of antioxidants you have there, but…”
“Thank you for your concern,” she replies drolly, pulling even with me and poking her fingers through my basket. “Now, your turn.” When she can’t find anything to criticize, she accuses me of being boring, then says, “You hit the junk food and personal hygiene aisles last, don’t you, so you don’t have to wander around the store with a bunch of embarrassing stuff in your basket. Smart.”
I laugh. “You got me.”
“I know your type. Mr. All-American, with your whole foods in clear containers on your kitchen counter for everyone to see, but your locked pantry is full of high fructose corn syrup.”
“Like, in bottles? For chugging?”
“In all forms. I bet you love fruit snacks.”
I smile guiltily. “I’ve been known to partake.”
“Oh, my gosh! I was kidding.”
I shrug. “I wasn’t. They’re better for you than most candies.”
“How about nature’s candy, Nathaniel?” She gestures to the bananas, grapes, and strawberries in her basket.”
“It’s the middle of winter. Fruit sucks right now.”
She nods. “I know. I end up throwing half of it away.” Suddenly, she pounces on something in her cart. “Oh, here’s something you must approve of!” she says, hoisting it at eye level.
I pull my head back to avoid being smacked in the nose with the half-gallon pump bottle of antibacterial hand gel. “Good for you. Actually, I’m not a fan, but… whatever.”
“Not a fan?”
“Nope. Why not just wash your hands?”
“Sometimes I don’t have access to water.”
“You carry that around in your purse? It’s huge!”
She laughs. “Okay, no. I refill my travel-sized bottles with bigger bottles like this. It’s cheaper to buy in bulk, you know?” She sets the gel in her cart, carefully avoiding a half-dozen egg flat, and wipes her hands against her yoga pants, as if she’s handled the bottle after someone dirty.
“Well that stuff’s not good for the environment,” I inform her, trying not to sound too preachy as I state the facts. “And it’s responsible for antibiotic resistance and, in some extreme cases, UV sensitivity and hormone reactions.”
“You’re making this shit up.”
“I’m not! Google it!”
“I have better things to do, like… clean behind my refrigerator.”
I give a conceding nod and wince. “Yeah. I’m way overdue for that.”
She shoots me a look that tel
ls me she’s not sure if I’m being serious. Good. See how she likes it.
Before she can zing me I say, “Well, my skim milk’s sweating. I’d better get moving.”
“Sounds like something you might want to get checked out, Nathaniel.”
I chuckle. “Hm… No comment.”
We both head for the checkout. Casually, she remarks, “I heard you’re not joining us up at the cabin weekend after next.”
I freeze. “Oh. Yeah. That.” Quickly, I make the impulsive decision to say, “Actually, I’m in.”
“Really? The last I’d heard from Frankie, you had to work.”
Okay… hard truth time: I lied and said I had to work at Urgent Care that weekend, to avoid coming right out and saying, “I’d rather spend my Saturday cleaning behind my fridge than freezing my soaking-wet ass off on snowmobiles at Betty’s parents’ cabin with you and a bunch of people you’ve known since elementary school.” It was a white lie to spare Frankie’s feelings—and to make me seem like less of a dick than I am.
Contrary to what Frankie thinks, I’m not pathologically honest. “Working at Urgent Care on the weekend” has been one of my go-to excuses for years. That’s not going to change now. There have also been a few times I’ve told her those jeans didn’t make her butt look big (back pocket size matters). And, since I’m laying it all out there, I do prefer having sex to not having sex. It’s not my fault if she’s naïve enough to believe my statements of indifference.
Now, I swallow and half-smile at Betty when I say, “I switched with someone, so… I’m all set.”
She pauses, studying my face, before saying, “Hm. That’s… unexpectedly convenient.”
I ignore her implication and make a big show of finding an open self-checkout station. “I haven’t had a chance to tell Frankie yet.” I loop my canvas bags over the holders in the bagging area. “She fell asleep almost as soon as I got her home from the airport.”
Betty situates herself at the station next to mine and begins scanning her items, flashing her driver’s license to the attendant when her jugs… of wine… set off an ID alert.
After the attendant goes back to her podium, I ask, “So this is something a group of you does every year, snowmobiling?”
“Well, they do. I supply the cabin in the woods by the lake. I’m not a big fan of riding around on deadly machines in the cold,” she says while scanning and bagging. “I read by the fire while everyone else is out freezing off their fingers and toes. Sometimes I cook for everyone, if I’m in the mood. I make a mean meatless lasagna.”
“Comfort food.”
“Yeah. I use Portabella mushrooms in place of the meat. It’s amazing.”
My stomach growls at the thought of it. I love meat, but Portabella mushrooms are one of my weaknesses. I grill them like steaks in the summertime.
“Sounds great.”
“Yeah, I guess I’ll do it this time, too.”
“Looking forward to it.” I swipe my debit card, key in my pin, take my receipt, and lift my canvas bags from the bagging area. “Well… have a good night.”
Concentrating on weighing and keying in her fruit, she nods in response, her tongue poking from the corner of her mouth. “You, too. See you next Saturday.”
“That, you will.”
Chapter Ten
It’s probably unbelievable that I’ve lived in Wisconsin my whole life, and I’ve never been on a snowmobile before today. I’ve never worn those snowshoes that look like tennis racquets, either, so stop stereotyping. But maybe it’s not all that surprising. I’m sure by now it’s clear I’m not the rugged outdoorsy type.
I’ve always been apprehensive of snowmobiles and four-wheelers and jet skis and all those other adventure machines my brother and most of our friends spent the majority of their teens and twenties riding, depending on the season. If I’m not going to drive a car to get somewhere, I’d rather my own muscles provide the power. I like walking, running, and cycling. On smooth pavement. I’m not a fan of abrasions, cuts, fractures… or death. Not that my brother or my friends are, either, but while it seemed like a fairly big warning to me that at least one person we knew died every year on the back of a recreational vehicle, Nick saw it differently. “Survival of the fittest. The dumb die.”
Somehow, I don’t think the valedictorian of our high school was too dumb to ride a three-wheeler. Nevertheless, he’s six feet under in the cemetery I drive by every day on my way to work.
My point is, I’m smart enough to quit while I’m ahead. And by “ahead,” I mean still alive after being dumped three times by a laughing Frankie. So when everyone else is bundling up for Round Two after thawing out by the fire for a couple of hours in the custom-built log cabin Betty’s mom and step-dad call home when they feel like “roughing it” (a.k.a., “living without wi-fi”), I cheerfully announce, “I’ll stay here and help Betty with dinner.”
Frankie frowns. “Are you mad at me?” she asks in front of everyone.
They all wait expectantly for my answer. I look around at the four faces I’ve known for about five hours, most of that time fearing for my life or envisioning catastrophic, life-changing injuries, and chuckle nervously. “Uh… no…”
“I won’t dump you this time. It was just a joke.”
“It’s fine—”
“She was only hazing you, Dude. The new guy always gets dumped,” Dan (Ben? Manuel?) says, pulling on his gloves with his teeth.
“I’m not mad,” I insist again, this time with less of a smile. “I’m still cold, though. And you know… it’s… it’s not my thing, that’s all. But you go ahead.”
“And ride alone?” Frankie asks with a pout. “Great. That’ll be a blast.”
“I’ll ride with you, Frankie,” Tina (I think) volunteers. She turns to Dan/Ben/Manuel. “You don’t mind, right, Babe? Then you can go as fast as you want without me getting scared and yelling in your ear.”
He smirks. “I like when you scream in my ear.”
“It would be easier if you’d come with us,” Frankie points out. “We’re not staying out as long this time.”
Betty pokes her head through the doorway from the living room to the entryway, where we’re grouped, discussing what a party pooper I am.
“What’s going on? It’s getting dark.”
“Nate doesn’t want to go with us,” Warren (or some other old-guy name he probably hates his parents for giving him) tattles.
“So? Last time I checked, even numbers weren’t a requirement for idiocy.” She shoos everyone out with two hands. “Now, go!”
With a final doleful look over her shoulder that I assume is supposed to make me cave, Frankie leaves with her friends.
I shoot her an apologetic smile and call, “Have fun!” before Betty closes the door in my face.
“Bunch of immature assholes,” she mutters, striding back to the kitchen, where she sticks her head in the fridge and pulls out ingredients.
I follow and stand on the other side of the breakfast bar as she places the food in a precise line on the counter, arranging and rearranging each item in an order that obviously matters.
“Can I help with anything?” I ask. “I might as well make myself useful.”
“You can help me by staying out of the way,” she answers shortly, splashing more wine into a large, nearly-empty glass. “I have a system.”
I purse my lips. “Okay, then.”
She looks up from her ingredient shuffling. “Sorry. I don’t mean to be a bitch. It’s just… I’m used to doing things alone.”
I raise my hands in front of my chest. “I get it. No need to apologize.”
She spins toward the refrigerator, opens it, and comes out with a bottle of beer, which she thrusts at me after twisting off the cap. “Here. You can sit over there by the fire with this and… relax. I’m sure you’ve earned it.”
“What do you mean? I’m having a good time so far.”
Tilting her chin down, she looks at me through her lashes while
I take the beer from her. “Right.” She returns to her cooking. “Even if you weren’t lying through your teeth, you run your ass off all week at work with sick kids, so you deserve a quiet, relaxing weekend.”
I open my mouth to object to her canonization of me, but she cuts me off. “Really. Sit. You’re throwing off my routine.” She tosses back the majority of her glass of wine and pours herself another.
I back away. “Fine. I’ll read. Or something.”
After retrieving my e-reader from my bag in the bedroom I’m sharing with Frankie, I choose a cushy leather chair big enough for two people and settle into it. Setting my beer on a coaster on the end table next to the chair, I open the device and tap it to life. As it pulls up the titles stored on it, I call toward the kitchen, “If you change your mind, let me know. I can dice an onion like nobody’s business.”
She laughs. “So I’ve heard. Frankie told me you made quite the romantic belated Valentine’s Day dinner for her.”
“She told you about that, huh?”
“Bragged, more like it.”
I grin. “Oh. Well. I like to cook. And I had to make it up to her somehow for being such a lame boyfriend lately.”
After some busy clanging with pots and glass casserole dishes, Betty asks, “What are you talking about? All she does is rave about you. Haven’t heard her this excited about a guy in… well… a long time.”
“You probably shouldn’t be telling me all this.”
The clip-clop of a rocking knife on a chopping board keeps time as she replies sardonically, “Yeah. It’ll give you a big ego.”
That’s not what I meant, but I drop it. The more I think about it, the less I want to talk about that night, anyway. It’s not that it went badly; on the contrary, it was apparently a major success… according to Frankie. I just walked away from it more confused than ever.
I wanted it to be special; I wanted to delight Frankie. Mission accomplished. Too well, maybe. During dessert, between seductive sucks on her spoon, she stared into space and laid out our entire life together. Yeah. It was weird. And a little scary. I pushed away my plate and listened, hoping she was too enthralled with her own fantasy to pay much attention to my facial contortions as I tried to maintain a neutral expression.
