by Brea Brown
Really, I just feel used.
More than anything, I’d like to be as physically alone as I feel. Fortunately, she refuses my obligatory offer to return the favor, claiming we don’t have time. She hops to her feet, straightens her dress, smooths her hair, and says, “I’ll see you downstairs,” while escaping from the room.
And now I have to go sit through dinner and pretend to be someone I’m not. I guess it’s a good thing I’m starting to forget who I really am, anyway.
I throw on some clothes, re-wet and finger-comb my tousled hair, and plod down the stairs to join the others. The house is quiet, so I follow the smell of grilling steaks to the paved outdoor eating area, where I find Frankie and her parents. Lucy transfers dishes from an old-fashioned tea cart to the massive stone and wrought-iron table while Sam layers thick, fresh-from-the-grill steaks on a platter.
“I was glad when Frankie told me you’re not a vegetarian,” he says to me when I arrive at the table, “because meat’s on the menu tonight.”
“Nate knows we’re all meat eaters,” Frankie purrs suggestively.
I gulp and shift from foot to foot, shoving my hands in my pockets, then removing them when they brush against the Judas in my pants.
Lucy glances up from her side dish arranging and laughs. “Oh, my. You’ve made him blush!”
“I’m sunburnt,” I claim too defensively.
The three of them obviously don’t buy my excuse but let it go anyway. “Sit,” Lucy tells the rest of us. “I have to run back inside and grab the sangria.”
We do as we’re told as she disappears into the house.
“Where’s Betty?” I inquire, in both an effort to change the subject and get information.
Frankie lifts her cell phone from the table and keys a message into it. “She’s still upstairs,” she says. “Always late, you know.”
Actually, that’s not true. She’s never been late for anything the two of us have been forced to do alone, not even something as casual as our shopping date. I was expecting it, and I loathe waiting, so I gave her a meeting time a half hour earlier than I wanted to get started. She surprised me by texting me before I’d even left my house, Where the eff r u?
She does tend to keep Frankie waiting, though, I’ve noticed. When we went snowmobiling at the cabin, Betty showed up nearly an hour after she told the rest of us she’d be there. She had grocery bags in tow… and a large coffee from the tiny donut shop in the closest town, but she offered no apologies for making us wait. Instead, she ordered us to help her carry the food into the house, leading the way to the front door, taking her time unlocking it. The grumbles from the group appeared not to affect her at all.
“Tell her we’ll wait for her,” Sam says tonight, leaning back in his chair. “She must have been tired, if you two beat her down here.”
Before I can decide if his statement contains a double meaning, Lucy returns and fills our glasses with sweet-smelling red liquid that reminds me of Communion wine, only fruitier.
While we wait for Betty, Sam and Lucy fill the time by telling me all about the books they’re both currently writing, or their WIPs. I know from the past few months with Frankie that WIP is an acronym for “work in progress,” although with Lucy, you never know. She seems like a spunky gal with plenty of real-life stories to back up her fictional characters’ peccadilloes.
Oh, man. Did I just get a picture of my girlfriend’s parents having kinky sex? Yes. Yes, I did.
I gulp some sangria. It’s so sweet it hurts my teeth, but I don’t care.
The elder Liptons spout a bunch of other writers’ terminology with which I’m unfamiliar, but they think I know all about, considering who they believe me to be. I’ve gleaned their meanings through context, in most cases, but between ARCs and betas and epubs and mobis and galleys and trads and indies, it’s like a whole other language. Frankie’s obviously been dumbing it down when she talks to me about her writing, and it hasn’t done me any favors. I can’t so much as converse intelligently about this stuff at dinner with her parents; how am I going to fake this whole thing at a reading and signing tomorrow?
Eventually, Sam sighs. “I guess we’ll start without Betty; the food’s getting cold.”
“She said she’s on her way,” Frankie informs us. “Let’s eat.”
Sounds good to me. Self-loathing is a hungry business. Cole slaw and beans and short cobs of corn beckon to me from their bowls and platters.
Betty shuffles to the table in silk pajamas just as we start to pass around the sides. Rubbing her head and yawning, she says, “This looks delish. I wanted to keep sleeping, but when Frankie texted me what was on the menu, I had to come down.”
Sam grins at her. “It’s much more fun to cook for a group. Lucy and I become so immersed in writing sometimes that we barely pause to eat, much less to cook. Half the time, we eat standing in the kitchen, just long enough to inhale a sandwich or a bowl of cereal. Then back to the keyboard!”
“I love being in the groove, though!” Lucy simulates typing. “You know, when your fingers can’t move fast enough? And the ideas are flowing, and the characters are talking and…”
The clank of the earthenware bowl of barbecued beans accompanies Frankie’s loud sigh.
Sam shoots her a look but takes his helping of beans and says to me, “So… Tell us a little more about your work in pediatrics. That must be… interesting.”
Relieved to be talking about something I actually know, I reply, “It is. And busy. But entertaining. I love the patients. Kids are funny, even when they’re sick.”
Lucy shivers. “That’s the one part of parenting I never got used to… taking care of a sick kid.”
“The one part?” Frankie mutters.
I chuckle to cover my discomfort and rush ahead before anyone can comment on Frankie’s snide remark. “Oh, well, they’re not my kids, so I guess it’s a little different. I feel bad for them that they don’t feel well, but there’s no worry attached to it. I think that’s what makes taking care of a sick kid when you’re a parent so much harder.”
“No, it was mostly the mess I didn’t like,” Lucy says with a giggle. “I always knew she’d get over whatever the latest thing was, but it was so tedious and messy and time-consuming. Impossible to concentrate when there’s a sick kid around. They’re always needing something.”
“Pulling you away from your imaginary boyfriends, huh, Mrs. L?” Betty teases with a wink.
“Well… yeah!”
Frankie cuts vigorously on her steak, her knife squeaking against her plate.
Lucy, either oblivious or indifferent to her daughter’s obvious anger, says matter-of-factly, “I’ve never been a nurturer, you know? I could play Barbies for hours or make up fantastic bedtime stories, but… the day-to-day nose-wiping and report card-signing and meal-making? Not for me. Sam was always much better at that.”
He chortles. “Did I have a choice? One of us had to do it.” There’s no bitterness in his tone. If anything, he sounds amused and charmed by his wife’s self-proclaimed lack of maternal instinct.
Frankie, tossing down her utensils, shows she’s neither amused nor charmed. “I’m so sorry I was such a fucking burden! Raising me had to have been a real chore! Funny thing is, I didn’t ask to be born.”
I quietly set down my fork and place my hand on her back, between her shoulder blades. “Hey.”
“Oh, so you’re going to take their side now?” she turns on me, jerking away from my touch. “Figures!”
“I’m not taking anyone’s side. I’m just… You know, we’re trying to eat.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, I’m not hungry, listening to them boast about how unconventional they are, trying to convince you they’re the ‘cool’ parents.”
Lucy laughs. “That’s not at all what we’re saying! If anything, I’m being painfully honest about my shortcomings.”
Sam appears not to be concerned by his daughter’s outburst, as he continues to cut and eat his steak
.
Betty surveys me over the rim of her glass of wine, then immediately goes back to her food, as well.
“I’m sick of it!” Frankie yells. “The minute you two have an audience, you become Samuel Pembroke and Lucinda Rathbone, bestselling author-couple. It makes me want to barf!” She smirks. “Of course, I wouldn’t bother you to clean it up, Mother.”
“Oh, for goodness’ sake…”
“You know, Nate’s not a reporter with the New York Times. He’s not here to observe your witty banter or gain insight into your ‘process.’”
Quickly, I say, “Although I’m sure it’s fascinating…”
“Oh, yeah. So exciting,” Frankie drawls at me. “Shut away for hours in their pigsty offices, where they stare at their computer screens, scrawl nonsense on note cards, and get lost down the rabbit-hole of the Internet, supposedly researching but not sure what they originally went on there to find. Then inspiration strikes, and it can be days without a glimpse of one or both of them, depending on if they’re inspired at the same time. And when they’re not inspired… look out! Miserable, grouchy assholes, both of them.” She turns her scorching attention back to Lucy. “Barbies for hours, Mom? Bedtime stories? I think not. I’ve heard you tell longer, more fascinating tales to a tape recorder than you ever took the time to tell to me, so drop the act. There was a lot more than one thing about parenthood you never grasped. You sucked at the whole thing.”
“Tell us how you really feel,” Lucy mutters.
That seems to shut Frankie up, but after a few seconds’ awkward pause, she looks down at the linen napkin she’s twisting between her fingers and says meekly, “I feel… abandoned.”
The vulnerability in her voice knocks the wind out of me. I take shallow breaths, feeling alarmingly close to weeping, then more-than-close when I see a fat tear, then two, then three, drip from her eyes and soak into the napkin. I cup her shoulder in my hand and draw her closer to my side.
Betty sips her wine and stares at the underwater pool lights.
Sam finally sets down his silverware. “You’re a grown woman. And you’re here. How have we abandoned you?”
She shakes her head and cries harder but manages to explain, “If I didn’t visit you, I’d never see you. And even when I do visit, I spend most of the time by myself, while you guys write, write, write.”
“It’s how we put this food on the table,” he reasons.
Ticking them off on her fingers, Frankie adds, “And the pool in the backyard. And the cars in the garage. And all the other things you have that you don’t even bother enjoying, because you’re too wrapped up in your fucking imaginary worlds!” She pushes away from the table, the metal legs of her chair scraping against the textured concrete. “Just forget it.”
“If you were a writer, you’d understand.”
Her mom’s words stop Frankie mid-stride on her way to the back door.
“It’s not something we can control sometimes,” Lucy continues. “It’s a compulsion. When I’m not writing, I’m not… me.”
I try to be as sneaky as possible about wiping the runaway tear from the side of my nose before putting my napkin on the table and rising to stand with Frankie.
When I reach her side, I place my hand on the back of her neck and give her a gentle squeeze. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk.”
For the second time, she shrugs off my hand. “I don’t need to take a walk,” she snipes. “Leave me alone.”
Stung, I watch her enter the house, leaving me to face humiliation after her public snub.
“Don’t worry about her,” Sam says, waving me back over. “Come on. Finish your dinner. There’s no need for her to ruin everyone’s night.”
At the risk of being rude, I turn my back to him and stride around the side of the house, where I hope there’s a gate. There’s not. I return to the pool area, stalking across the patio on my way to the other side.
Betty says, “Yep. That way,” but she doesn’t try to stop me or say anything else.
Sure enough, I find a gate leading to the front yard. I lift the latch and push on the slatted wood, which scrapes against the gravel path.
Maybe Frankie doesn’t need a walk, but I do.
*****
Two hours later, I’m nursing a blister between my first and second toe, because flip-flops are not proper walking shoes, and I’m starting to worry about the wildlife that may be wandering around here that we don’t ever have to worry about in Wisconsin. Bears, yes. Scorpions and snakes in April? No.
Plus, the scorching desert temperatures fall off to amazing lows at night. The shorts and t-shirt that were perfectly comfortable during daylight aren’t cutting it now that the sun’s gone down.
I’m limping and shivering on the shoulder of the road when one of the passing cars slows and pulls behind me, spotlighting my legs. I half-turn but continue walking when I don’t recognize the low-slung vehicle. Please, don’t talk to me; don’t talk to me; don’t talk to me.
“Yo, Nathaniel!”
I halt, squint at the lights, and backtrack toward them, shielding my eyes with my hand the closer I get. She kills the lights.
Standing next to the passenger seat of the open-topped car, I ask Betty, as if I care, “Where’d you get this thing?”
“It’s one of Sam’s,” she answers. “Get in.”
I hesitate. “I don’t know…”
“Come on… You’ve been wandering the desert for hours, like some kind of Biblical outcast.”
Stroking the shiny turquoise metal and fingering the window slot, I avoid her eyes when I say, “I don’t know what the hell I’m doing.”
“You’re taking everything remarkably in stride. And doing exactly what you’ve been asked to do.”
“Commanded, you mean?”
She tilts her head and tsks. “Now, now. Don’t go all self-pitying on me.”
I open the door and slide into the leather bucket seat. After I close the door, the two of us stare through the windshield, but the car remains stationary. I hold my hands out in front of me and soak up the heat blasting through the vents.
“You know, you should be thanking me,” Betty begins with excess cheer after a long, gloomy silence.
“Why’s that?” I contribute automatically.
“Lucy wanted to come looking for you, but I told her I’d handle it.” She cups her hands around her mouth and trills, “‘Henry! Henry! Where are you?’”
Despite my melancholy mood, I chuckle at her impersonation.
Encouraged, she continues, placing her hand on my upper arm, “‘Oh, Henry! I was so worried about you! You could have gotten lost! Or stung by a double-headed green-dicked scorpion! Come home now, and I’ll make you a hot toddy.’” She laughs more than speaks the last sentence, when my own laughter at her monologue proves contagious.
I playfully shrug off her hand.
Giggling, she turns on the headlights and checks over her shoulder for oncoming traffic. As she pulls onto the road in a shower of gravel against the undercarriage (not sure Sam would be thrilled about that), I sober and request, “Can we drive for a while? I’m sick of walking, but I don’t want to go back there yet.”
She stops laughing, but the smile stays on her face. “Sure,” she replies. “This baby’s got GPS, so I’m sure we can find our way back eventually.”
I let that be the last word for a while. Propping my elbow against the top edge of the door, I rest my cheek against my hand and watch the desert speed past us. Finally, after a few minutes, I ask, “How’d you find me?”
“Lucy planted a tracking device on you,” she immediately supplies, then laughs and says to my slack jaw and wide eyes, “Just kidding! Gosh. You walked in a straight line.”
Relieved the tracking device was a joke, I nevertheless muse, “Yeah, but… how did you know that? Or which direction I walked? I could have gone in any number of straight lines.”
She sighs but doesn’t answer for so long that I think she’s not going to a
nswer at all. Then she says, “Fine. I followed you right away.”
“You’ve been following me this whole time? In this car?”
“I was worried about you,” she non-answers.
I privately marvel at my lack of awareness of my surroundings that someone could tail me for two hours without my noticing. There go my non-existent CIA or FBI aspirations.
“It’s flat around here. I stayed way back and parked a few times, giving you your space but keeping an eye on you.”
“Creepy.”
“I knew you were upset! And you don’t know this place, so I was afraid you’d get lost.”
The unsettled feeling I have suddenly has little to do with being creeped out and more to do with the sudden awareness she’s still wearing those silky pajamas. And that scares me even more.
“Well… thanks, I guess,” I mumble.
“You’re welcome. You know, we can’t lose you. You have an appearance to make at a bookstore tomorrow.” She pushes against my shoulder to let me know she’s joking. Half-joking, anyway.
Wind noise and the whisper of the tires on the highway are the only sounds for a few more miles. Then I ask, “So, who is Lucy, anyway? I didn’t recognize her pen name when Frankie said it.” And it hardly seemed like the time to delve further into the subject.
Gliding to a stop at a four-way intersection that looks like part of the set of a ghost town in a Western, Betty checks for other cars that aren’t there and pulls through. “Lucinda Rathbone? She writes paranormal romances.”
I wrinkle my nose. “Like love stories with ghosts?”
“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t read them. I know you do.”
I merely laugh, figuring a stronger denial would only make me look guilty as charged.
“They’re not that bad,” she defends Lucy’s books. “Far-fetched sometimes, but that’s kind of the point. And she does a good job of poking fun at the genre a little, so her stories don’t come off cheesy, like some of the more earnest books in the genre.”
“So you’ve read all of her stuff?”
She snorts. “No way. She’s published, like, 70-something books. Two a year since before I was born.”
