by Brea Brown
She smirks at me. “Yeah. You may flatter yourself that you came up with the idea to be Frank, but don’t kid yourself.”
Through gritted teeth, I demand, “Stop trying to turn this around on her.”
“Then stop trying to blame me for everything. I know it’s easy to make me the villain, because your ego’s bruised, but—”
“It’s easy to make you the villain, because you are the villain!”
“That’s completely unfair.”
“Oh, we’re talking about fairness now? Okay. Good. Let’s do that. I have quite a long list of unfair things to discuss with you. Starting with skinny jeans.”
“Betty’s the one who designed Frank’s image, not me. So you can take up your petty wardrobe whines with her.”
“You’re really going to stick with blaming Betty for everything, huh? Because as far as I can tell, she worked ten times harder than you did to try to make this whole ridiculous charade easier for me.”
“Well, she would.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rage replaces my lightheadedness. I push away from the wall and jab my index finger in her direction. “Stop hinting around at things and come out and say what you want to say!”
She flutters her eyelashes. “I don’t have time to spell it out for you. Ask her yourself.” When all I do is stare her down, she looks away, sweeping her glance around the room, as if searching for more of my things. Ultra-casually, she mumbles, “If you defended me a tenth of the times you’ve defended her in this one conversation, maybe we’d still be together.”
I laugh mirthlessly. “Really? If I had said out loud, ‘I’m sure Frankie doesn’t mean to be a manipulative, self-centered narcissist,’ a few of the thousand times I tried to convince myself of that, you wouldn’t have been screwing Kyle while I worked my ass off to try to make a completely fictitious relationship work? Oh, wow. If only I’d known that…”
So much for “amicable.”
Her eyes flash my way again. “Betty’s not the angel you think she is.”
“I don’t think she’s an angel. But she’s genuine. And she hasn’t lied to me.”
She hurls a sarcastic laugh at me that makes me flinch. “Gosh, you’re dumber than I thought you were. And that’s saying something.”
When all I do is blink at her, she shakes her head, chuckles bitterly again, and snaps, “She’ll deny it, but using you was her idea.”
Bile gathers at the base of my throat.
“Well, not you specifically,” Frankie qualifies. “But it was her idea for me to go out on dates to try to find a face for my pen name.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I croak. “Our first date—”
“Was more like a job interview. And you were perfect. I knew it right away. Not only did you have the right look, but you had that people-pleasing personality that would make you putty in our hands. I couldn’t believe when I introduced you to Betty, and she suddenly turned against the idea. Then again, I don’t know why I was surprised; she’s always been a bit of a flake.”
I remember back to that night, the inexplicable tension at the table when I returned from the bathroom. “You never loved me,” I say out loud what I’ve known for a long time but haven’t had the guts to admit.
She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t get all mushy now. I became fond of you. You’re a nice guy. And a hard worker. And I lucked out finding someone who didn’t pressure me to have sex with him in exchange for all that work. Trust me; I didn’t take any of that for granted.”
Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and focus on not puking. “Unbelievable,” I mutter. I step forward and sweep my pile of clothes, toiletries, and other random belongings into a tighter pile that I can pick up. “I think this is everything. If you find anything else of mine, feel free to throw it away. I don’t want it.”
“If you insist.”
“I do. And Betty has all the merch and inventory for the public appearances Frank will never be making again.” I struggle with the armful of stuff as I make my way back to the door. “Good luck with everything,” I toss over my shoulder.
At the front door, I scramble to shift items so I can turn the handle and make my grand exit. I lose my grip on half of the things in my arms, however, so t-shirts and underwear flutter into a pile at my feet. When I bend over to pick them up, I drop my toothbrush, which clatters across the tile entryway and under the small table where Frankie throws her keys and mail. On my way up from retrieving the toothbrush, I bump my head on the table, knocking it off-kilter and sending her bills flapping and keys clanging to the floor.
Cursing under my breath, I let everything in my arms go while I right the table, bills, and keys, and open the door. Keeping the door propped with my foot, I gather my personal belongings in a heap, not caring that several t-shirts are hanging as I carry everything down the stairs and to my car. I also have to backtrack halfway across the parking lot after I throw my stuff into my backseat and notice while getting into my car that I’ve dropped a pair of my underwear.
Not the most graceful, impactful exit I’ve ever made, but… it was probably memorable. That has to count for something.
*****
A Prius doesn’t lend itself to angry, aggressive driving, but if it did, I’d be grinding gears and flooring the gas pedal and squealing my tires during my retreat from Frankie’s. As it is, I’m doing all those things in my head and ignoring the fact that the car is carrying on, as usual, with its smooth whirring and humming and silent idling, oblivious to my destructive intent.
How dare she? How dare she? It’s everyone’s fault but hers, the person who manipulated and lied and cheated her way through the better part of a year of my life? What the hell?
Trust me, I blame myself plenty. I blame myself for being blind and stupid and passive and naïve and spineless and for not learning anything from my past relationships, apparently, no matter how much I’ve tried to tell myself I’m smarter for having lived through them. This proves I’ve learned nothing. In fact… I’m dumber than ever, because I’ve allowed past experiences to blind me to current truths. And I’m right back where I was a year ago.
Only, I’m even worse off than I was before I’d ever heard Frankie’s name. Because at least back then, I was somewhat happy with my life. I’d just bought a house, I still had some faith in humanity, my brother was equally single and unattached (or so I thought… ignorance is bliss), and the biggest worry I had was feeling uncomfortable about the fact that I didn’t buy my boss’s house and may have offended her.
Plus, I was seven months younger. Let’s not forget that I recently “celebrated” a birthday. I’m fast-approaching my mid-thirties but back to being perpetually-single Nurse Nate. Time is relentlessly advancing, and I’m no closer to having the life I want than I was when I first graduated from nursing school and felt like life was full of possibilities.
What a crock! Life isn’t full of possibilities; it’s full of false hope and disappointment. And my closet is full of ridiculous clothing I’ll never wear again.
Fuck. I don’t want to go home. I want to drink. But that’s probably not the wisest decision—mentally or physically—right now. Anyway, who would I drink with? I’ve fallen hopelessly out of touch with all of my friends during the past few months, and my brother… Well, I don’t want to be in the presence of Nick and Heidi’s newly-wedded bliss tonight. It might send me over the edge. The only other person whose name pops persistently to mind is off-limits. Gone. Another part of the past. And probably not the person I thought she was, anyway.
She knew the whole time. She knows what a fool I’ve been. She knows. She knew. She knew.
To my horror, I feel my eyeballs starting to sweat. Oh, hell no. I’m not going to cry. Uh-uh.
I blink and sniff and swallow repeatedly, willing myself to think of something happy. Or funny. Or maddening. But not sad or pitying. Anything but that.
As I’m waging this Herculean war against my emotions, my thought
s return to what I really need in my life: loyalty, appreciation, and unconditional love. I was a fool to think I’d get that from a woman, much less Frankie, that lying, manipulative, cruel bitch.
Well, no more bitches for this guy! The only bitch I’m interested in right now is a dog. And even then… I have a sinking feeling a female dog might be too complicated and high-maintenance for me to handle. Male creatures only, please.
I sniff and dab my nose on the back of my hand, the idea taking root now. I’ll get a manly man’s dog. Yeah! I’ll call him something cool, something that screams, “I’m a bachelor, and I love it! Look at my awesome, bachelor-y dog.” Schwarzenegger. Or Stalone. Or… I’ll Google some other sweaty-looking dudes later. Or not. That doesn’t sound like a very fun Saturday night, now that I think about it.
Whatever his name ends up being, I picture my future companion as a yellow Lab with a lolling tongue and delightfully vacant eyes, like that dumb dog in the movie, Up. (Oh, gosh… I can’t think about that movie, or I’ll really start crying.)
My furry pal and I are going to be great friends with our compatible IQs. He’ll go for runs with me. I’ll bathe him with a hose in the backyard in the summer and in the bathtub in the winter. He’ll let me rest my feet on him in the evenings while I read on the couch or watch TV. We’ll be swingin’ single guys.
No girls allowed.
Chapter Twenty-One
I’ve been stalking the local animal shelters’ websites for a couple of weeks, waiting for the perfect dog to come up for adoption. I didn’t want to show up at a shelter without a specific dog in mind, because I knew I’d get suckered into adopting the most pathetic mutt there, possibly even one of those hairless things that can’t keep its tongue in its mouth, because it has no teeth. No, I had to have a plan. A firm plan. And now I do. Because today, I spotted Sherlock on one of the sites.
Sherlock’s going to help me pretend to be a little less lonely. Maybe I can train him to bring me beers. Or carry my tool belt.
That thought elicits a goofy smile. Man, this is going to be great!
Someone drives into the lot and pulls behind the building, where I assume the employees and volunteers park. A glance at the clock on my phone tells me I have ten minutes to wait until they open the doors. My car’s still the only one in the parking lot, which is good, because it means I won’t have to fight anyone for Sherlock.
My heartbeat picks up pace, though, when a minivan glides beside me and pulls even with the parking space in front of mine. Without being too obvious, I size up my competition. Shit. A family with one of those stick-figure renderings on their back window. The only thing they’re missing is a stick-dog.
Well, they’re not getting my stick-dog. Sherlock is mine. I hope things don’t have to get ugly in there. That kid staring at me with his nose pressed against the back window will be just as happy with some beagle-shepherd mix. Sherlock’s the only dog for me.
I decide to ignore the gaping kid and train my eyes on the shelter’s door, the tingling in my stomach reminiscent of the feeling I used to get in the blocks at track meets. Back then, pride and a district or state title were the only things at stake. In contrast, all of my future happiness rests on today’s victory.
Okay, perhaps that’s slightly hyperbolic, but not by much. My world is a lot smaller than it was a few weeks ago. It doesn’t take much to make or break my day anymore.
When the door to the shelter twitches outward as the person on the inside twists the locks and flips the sign from “Closed” to “Open,” I vault from my car like a world-class sprinter. Screw that little kid. I’m nice to kids all week long. It’s my day off. No mercy.
Inside, I ignore the quizzical look from the middle-aged woman behind the counter when I tell her breathlessly, “I’m here to adopt Sherlock,” and nod toward the door that separates us from the holding pens, judging from the barks on the other side.
“Okay… Um…”
Urgency grips my insides when I hear the voices of the family coming closer to the door as they traverse the parking lot. I don’t have time for this lady—Wilma, according to her name tag—to try to figure me out.
“I saw the posting online,” I explain quickly. “And he’s the exact dog I’ve been looking for.”
“Oh, well, we have a lot of dogs—and cats—needing adoptive, loving families—”
“Sherlock will be fine,” I interrupt, almost not caring how rude I’m being. “No need for me to browse.”
Her tight smile softens to a more sincere one as the minivan family enters the shelter, and Johnny Gawker announces, “We wanna get a puppy!”
His mom gently admonishes him to wait his turn, but Wilma turns her attention away from me and says to the boy, “How nice! Do you have a specific dog in mind?” Am I imagining it, or did she put extra emphasis on the word “specific,” like a jab at me?
“Nope!” the toothless kid answers.
“We’ll know it when we see it, though. Right, kiddo?” the dad consults his son.
I force myself to smile at them, hoping they’re in the market for a lap dog.
“Well, why don’t you all follow me, and you can take a look around, find the perfect new friend to take home?” Wilma offers, ushering us through a heavy steel door into a concrete-floored chamber full of chain-link cages. The smell of flea shampoo, dog food, and crap hits me like a wall, but I’m too busy scanning the room of now furiously barking animals to care or react to the smell.
I see my dog right away and stride to his cage. He sniffs my fingers through the metal fencing. “Wilma? Here he is.” I relax when I notice the family has zoomed in on a pug with a propensity for licking. Another volunteer has entered the room and is helping them.
Wilma takes her sweet time joining me. “Hmm… Yes. He’s recently become eligible for adoption.”
“I know. Like I said, I’ve been watching the postings for a while, waiting for the right dog.” I scratch the top of his head with my forefinger. “Aren’t you a handsome guy?” I say to him.
Wilma observes us silently. When I return my attention to her, her jaw juts forward. “Is there a particular reason you want this dog? You have a specific… plan… in mind for him?”
I don’t understand her suspicious tone, but I answer her nonetheless. “No. I mean… yeah. I like this breed.”
“Well, you can’t breed him. He’s been neutered.”
“I know that.”
She steps to the cage next to Sherlock’s. “If I might suggest Reba here…”
What does this woman not understand about what I’m telling her?
Since time doesn’t seem to be of the essence anymore (the family hasn’t even glanced at Sherlock), and I’ve been borderline rude so far, I decide to tone down the intensity and humor Wilma, if for no other reason than to stop her suspecting me of having dastardly designs on yellow Labs. I look at the dog to which she’s referring, a squat orange and white thing that can’t even be bothered to rise from her curled-up position near the back of her cage.
“She’s… uh… cute. I think. It’s hard to tell from here.”
Wilma smiles tenderly toward the pooch. “Oh, she’s a sweetie. A Corgi. An expensive breed, you know. And she’s full-blooded. No papers, of course, and she’s been spayed, but I’m sure that’s not an issue.”
“I don’t know much about Corgis,” I admit, stepping back to Sherlock’s cage. He grins up at me, his tongue flopping from the side of his mouth, his eyes twinkling.
“Hey, Buddy,” I murmur. “You’re a fine fella.”
“Corgis are the Queen of England’s favorite breed,” Wilma persists. “Do you have children?”
I shake my head, trying to focus on the fact and not the emotion behind the answer. “No. Sherlock, here, will be my only kid.”
She returns to my side, finally seeming to get the message I’m not interested in Reba. “What about your backyard? Big? Fenced?”
I’m prepared for this, the “interview” portion of
the process. I read online that they make sure each adoptee goes to a home environment that matches the breed’s needs.
I nod eagerly. “Yep. Privacy fence. Nice and high. He’s not gettin’ out. And I love to run, so I’ll take him for jogs and—”
“And you’ll have lots of time to devote to a dog? Are you single? Work long hours?”
I wave away her questions. “I’ve installed a doggy door for the days I have to be gone a lot. And I’ll come home on my lunch break.”
“That’s a big doggy door,” she says, nodding toward Sherlock. “Intruders can get through a doggy door big enough for that guy. Reba, on the other hand…”
I sigh and turn away from my new best friend. “Look… I appreciate your help, Wilma, but I already know which dog I want to adopt.”
She wrings her hands, looking down at them. “Yes. You’ve been very clear about that.”
“Then what’s the problem? I’m sure Reba will find a nice Corgi-loving family to take her home and treat her like she’s a member of the Queen’s household. But… I’m no queen.” I blush at how that sounds but resist the urge to joke, “Despite what some people may think,” and rush on, “I… Well, not to sound like a sexist jerk, because I’m not, but… I sort of had a manlier dog in mind. That’s why I’ve been waiting for this dog.” I jab a thumb over my shoulder at Sherlock.
Glancing mournfully at Reba, she says, “And I respect that, but… we haven’t had any success adopting Reba to anyone… not for long, anyway.”
“She’s been returned?” I ask, adding this to my reasons not to take Reba home with me (as if I needed more).
Wilma nods. “Yes. Well, in effect.”
“What’s wrong with her?” I can’t see anything obvious, but… maybe she bites. Antisocial? Her dogged position at the back of her cage supports that hypothesis.
“She’s a runner,” Wilma admits. “Animal control has picked her up three times and brought her here. And the last time we called the owners, they told us to keep her; they couldn’t keep up with her.”
“That’s too bad,” I say. “Now, about Sherlock… What’s the adoption fee?”
