Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  “Pecklehoffer.”

  “Yeah, her! As soon as Michaela Peckerhopper…”

  “Pecklehoffer, asshole.”

  “Whatever. As soon as she accepted your invitation, Teddy marched himself up to Britta in the cafeteria, and what happened?”

  “He asked Britta to the prom.”

  “And what did she say?”

  “She turned him down.”

  “But not just that. She said…”

  I sigh. “You know the story, so why are you making me say it? You’re such a douche sometimes…”

  He snatches his beer bottle from the table and holds it to his lips but doesn’t drink… yet. “Maybe you forgot. I could see why you’d want to block it out.” Now, he sips, lowers the bottle and says in a high-pitched voice like no high school girl I’ve ever known, “‘I’m waiting for Nate to ask me out.’”

  “What’s your damn point?”

  “My point is, you went to prom with a girl who had to shave her face more often than you did at that age, because you were too nice. And if Ted had been able to go with Britta, it may have been worth it—you gotta admire the guy’s balls—but he wound up not going at all. And to top it all, Britta went ‘as friends’ with Rex Reidy.”

  I finish my beer and move immediately to the next. Tossing the cap onto the table with a clink, I say, “See? It all worked out.”

  “How do you figure? He bragged for the rest of the school year about getting lucky with her at one of those after-prom parties at his best friend’s house. Where he, incidentally, knocked her up, the moron.”

  I flinch at his harsh tone and bristle on behalf of all people who find themselves in that position, one person in particular for whom I feel protective and defensive. “It happens. And it was obviously meant to be, in their case. She and Rex have, like, five kids now. I recently saw their second-youngest, Theo, a couple of weeks ago at the clinic.” I drop my voice confidentially. “Earwax build-up like you wouldn’t believe. I thought we’d never get it all out. Never did, in fact. Had to send them home with some wax-softening drops and instructions on how to use a bulb syringe to flush out his ears.”

  “Are you finished destroying that patient’s right to privacy?”

  “I’m just saying… Britta and Rex have been together ever since. So it’s not like it was a waste.”

  “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”

  “It wasn’t meant to be with Britta. Or Heidi. Or Frankie. Or…”

  Nick waits, then reaches for another beer. “Or…? You’re already planning the next Never-Gonna-Be-Mrs.-Nathan-Bingham?”

  I shake my head. “No.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Instead of continuing to lie to both of us, I mutter, “Stop being such a dick. Let’s talk about something more interesting… like pre-season football.”

  He chuckles. “Suit yourself, Bro.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Much later, I was pathetically broody. I may have even choked up at one point while lamenting that I’d never find The One and have the family I’ve always wanted. I think my exact words were, “I’ll probably wind up being that creepy guy who calls all his patients ‘my kids.’”

  That’s when my brother claimed he was all out of beer and started pumping me full of espresso. It didn’t take long before I was fit to walk the two blocks home. And just in time, too. Heidi had joined us by then, and she was scrolling through her phone, tossing out the names of some of her more desperate, single sorority sisters, trying to convince me to go out on a blind date or two.

  The resultant nightmare from my last blind date is still too fresh for me to fall for that one.

  This morning, I’m thirsty and feeling puffy, but I’m surprisingly not hungover, so I chug a glass of water while watching The Weather Channel, which promises a cool-down by the end of the week. Until then, we’re stuck with record highs for this time of year. I lace up my running shoes, planning to sweat the toxins from my system on an easy run. Reba presses her cold, wet nose against my shin.

  “Since when?” I say with a laugh, giving her a consolation scratch behind her ears. “I’d wind up carrying your big, furry butt all the way home. Not fun.”

  Her reply grunt probably has more to do with the ear-scratching, but I like to think she’s also agreeing with me. That’s another thing I love about her: she hardly ever argues with me.

  “I’ll be back soon,” I promise on my way out the front door. “Make sure the couch doesn’t go anywhere. I plan to use it a lot later.”

  Forty-five minutes later, while I’m deep in thought, recalling some of the things Nick said to me last night, my endorphin high wanes. I head for home, hoping I have enough gas left in the tank to get me there. It’s apparent I don’t when I’m still more than two miles from the house. I can smell the alcohol mingling with the sweat oozing from my pores, and it’s nauseating me, so I stagger to an empty bench at a bus stop and collapse onto it. Stretching my legs in front of me, I bend over, bringing my nose as close as I can to my knees, hoping I don’t cramp… or barf, and cursing myself for letting my musings about last night’s conversation with Nick put me in this predicament.

  When I’ve caught my breath and straighten to an upright position, I notice a scruffy guy, who looks like he might smell even worse than I do, eyeing me and inching ever closer, so I rise to my feet and shuffle down the sidewalk. Even if I have to walk the rest of the way, it’s better than sitting somewhere, miserable, wishing I were home.

  What I see in my driveway as I limp the last block stops me as if I’ve stumbled into a patch of fast-drying concrete.

  Exhaustion prevents me from turning and running the other way. It doesn’t stop me from looking around to see if any of my neighbors have some shrubs I can lie behind while I wait for my visitor to give up on me and leave.

  Then I realize how irrational and immature my thinking is. Anyway, if I’m being honest, the sight of Betty’s dark green Fiat thrills me as much as it terrifies me.

  One foot in front of the other, slowly at first, then picking up momentum until I’m jogging at a clip I didn’t think possible for the rest of this day (or week), I close the gap between my house and me, hoping I don’t stink as much as I suspect I do.

  She waits for me on the wooden bench on the covered stoop, holding two plastic, insulated coffee mugs. As I traverse the inclined driveway that normally feels like nothing but today might as well be Everest, she holds up one of the mugs in greeting.

  “Hey. Salted caramel, right?”

  I grin, even though the thought of drinking hot coffee right now is less than appealing.

  “You remembered.”

  “It’s the only thing you order that makes me reconsider my theory you’re a robot.”

  “Uh… thanks?”

  She laughs as I reach for and take the mug. “You know what I mean. You never eat junk food.”

  Keeping at least an arm’s length between us, I’m also careful not to let our fingers touch during the hand-off. “I have you fooled.”

  I key in the combination on the front door, then stand aside to let her walk in ahead of me. It makes me look like quite the gentleman, although I mostly do it so she’s not downwind of me as we enter the house. Her summery, clean scent wafts toward me. I close my eyes and steady myself against the door frame.

  She glances over her shoulder and notices me stagger. “Are you okay?” she asks, relieving me of the hot coffee.

  I smile wanly. “Yeah. I overdid it on my run. Not in very good shape anymore. I wasn’t expecting it to be so hot today, either.” Little white lies are okay, right?

  “Maybe I should come back some other time…”

  “No! I mean… that’s okay. I’ll be fine. Just need to drink some water and get a shower.”

  She looks relieved. “Are you sure? I didn’t mean to barge in.” Laughing, she amends, “Well, I guess I did mean to. I didn’t call ahead, because I didn’t want to give you a chance to say ‘no’ to a vi
sit from me.”

  “I’d never do that,” I promise, my heart pounding again, as if I’m still in full stride in the middle of my run.

  Looking down at her feet, she says quietly, “Maybe you should wait until you hear why I’m here before you make such a bold statement.”

  Before I can ask her to elaborate, Reba waddles from the direction of my bedroom. She extends her front paws, lowering her head even closer than usual to the ground and arching her back in a huge stretch while yawning.

  Betty laughs. “Oh, my gosh. Who’s this?”

  “My new roomie, Reba.”

  “She’s adorable!”

  I grin proudly. “Yeah, I know. And she knows it, too.”

  After setting her coffee on an end table, Betty hunkers down on all fours and crawls toward the dog, murmuring sweet nothings to her. Reba immediately flops onto her back and assumes the “love me” position. Betty’s only too happy to oblige.

  I could watch them all day, but now that I’m indoors, my pong is even more pronounced. “I’m going to leave you two to get acquainted while I hose myself down, if that’s alright.”

  Betty barely glances at me as I skirt the two of them, exchanging my mug for the dog-eared Sports Illustrated on the coffee table on my way through the living room, rolling the magazine into a tube to conceal the photo of the model in the wet, white swimsuit on the cover.

  “Yeah. We’ll be fine,” she says distractedly, then, “Ah, there it is!” when she locates the “sweet spot” that makes Reba’s leg flap rapidly. “You like that?”

  During the fastest shower of my life, my mind works in double-time to try to predict why Betty is here. Based on her worry I may have refused to see her if she’d called ahead of time, I don’t have high hopes. That still leaves endless possibilities.

  Maybe… Frankie and Kyle are getting married? (If so, good for them; they’re made for each other.)

  Or… Do I owe her money? No, I paid for everything during our Frank weekends.

  It’s no use. I can’t imagine what she could possibly have to say that would make me refuse to see her. Whatever it is is obviously not as bad as she thinks.

  Meanwhile, this is a golden opportunity to ask about what Frankie told me when we broke up. I may go insane if I don’t find out what—if anything—Betty knew all those months.

  Asking her about Girl Noir is another story. Do I have the proverbial balls to broach that topic without my typical fumbling and blurting and making it sound like her answers will affect how I feel about her? Because her answers don’t matter. Maybe it’s best to leave it.

  When I backtrack to the living room, self-consciously fingering my wet hair, hoping I don’t look too much like a little boy all spruced up for school picture day, Betty and Reba are no longer on the floor or even in the room. I follow my ears and my nose to the kitchen, where Betty stands at the stove, with Reba not too far away, eyeing the bacon I smell.

  “What are you doing?” I ask with a chuckle.

  Betty flinches and glances over her shoulder at me but quickly returns her attention to the sizzling, popping pan in front of her. “I hope you don’t mind. Reba showed me where everything was. I figured you were hungry after that run. Thought I’d make you an omelet and some bacon. Protein, right?”

  I smile at her back. “Yes. And no, I don’t mind. But you don’t have to do that.”

  “I want to.”

  Pulling out a chair at the kitchen table, I say, “Well, I’m not going to object. This is nice.” After a few seconds, it feels too weird to sit and watch her, so I join her at the stove. Under the guise of observing her cooking technique, I stop just shy of pressing my chest against her back and rest a hand on her shoulder, again taking in the intoxicating smell of her, now improved—is that possible?—by the scent of bacon. It’s like an ultimate fantasy, almost more than I can process. “Make enough for yourself, too.”

  “Not hungry,” she declares dully.

  Uh-oh.

  I withdraw, then lean against the facing counter, bracing my hands behind me. She’s given me a perfect opening to ask her why she’s here and what she wants to talk about, but I can’t seem to concentrate. All I can think about is, Gosh, I’ve missed her! I can’t tell her that, though.

  When all else fails, go into Nurse Mode. “You should eat something.”

  I can’t see her face, but I can practically hear her eyes rolling when she says, “I’ve been up since six. I ate a banana and some cereal.”

  Knowing better, I retort, “You had a Pop-Tart.”

  She laughs. “Okay. I had a Pop-Tart. It was all I had in the house. Grocery shopping hasn’t been a high priority lately.” She flips the omelet in front of her. “You, on the other hand, are all stocked up, making bachelors everywhere look bad.”

  “I have nothing better to do than hang out in the produce section,” I say, then realize it makes me sound pitiful and add, “Plus, I like to cook. It keeps me busy.” Marginally less pitiful, but at least it doesn’t conjure the image of me spending my Friday nights all misty with the lettuce misters.

  The bacon goes on a paper-towel-covered plate and receives a firm, de-greasing pat-down. Wordlessly, Betty hands back the damp paper towel, and I take it from her, crossing the kitchen and depositing it in the flip-top trash can while she plates my food and sets it on the table.

  “There you go. Spinach and feta omelet with dead pig.” She adds the coffee mug to the arrangement. “This should still be hot. Would you like some orange juice?”

  I shake my head. “No. This is fine.” I grab a fork from the cutlery drawer and sit, staring at the perfectly golden egg pocket in front of me. “Wow. This looks… great.”

  I wish my stomach would unknot enough for me to eat, but the anticipation of the conversation we’re about to have—whatever it ends up being about—is killing me. Under her watch, I cut a bite with the side of my fork but promptly set the utensil next to my plate with a clatter, telling myself my hands are shaking due to low blood sugar but knowing I’m full of shit and literally quaking in fear.

  “So, what’s up?” I finally have no choice but to ask.

  She nods at my plate. “There’s nothing worse than cold eggs. Eat.”

  “I can’t,” I admit. “Not until I know why you’re here.”

  Instead of taking the seat directly across the table from me, she chooses the one next to me, so I have to turn my head to watch her face, which looks decidedly apprehensive. That ramps up my anxiety level. What is she afraid of telling me? Is she afraid of me?

  Before thinking better of it, I curl my hand around hers on top of the table. “Hey. Are you okay?”

  She nods and gives me what’s probably supposed to be a smile but looks more like a grimace. “Yeah! I mean…” She thinks about it for a second, then repeats, “Yeah,” a lot more firmly. “Everything’s fine.”

  Thinking maybe she needs me to say whatever it is for her, I smile encouragingly. “Wait. Let me guess… You need me to be your date to Kyle and Frankie’s wedding?” I half-joke, gratified when she relaxes enough to laugh.

  “You do owe me one, you know,” she replies. “But no. Those two…” She wrinkles her nose but doesn’t finish her thought.

  I don’t want to know any details. “Okay… So, this isn’t a walking wedding invitation. Darn. I was so looking forward to doing the Macarena again.”

  She laughs, and I congratulate myself on diffusing the tension. Her expression is so much less strained than it was a few seconds ago that I feel confident enough to take my first bite of the breakfast that smells so good.

  As I’m chewing and shooting the chef a major thumbs-up and closed-mouth smile to let her know it tastes delicious, she blurts, “I need you to be Frank one more time.”

  Medical fact: solid food can go down the wrong “pipe.” This particular mouthful certainly does. Then it comes back up. Which is a good thing, actually; aspiration can be dangerous and ultimately lead to complications like pneumonia. It’s unfo
rtunate my chewed-up food chooses to exit through my nose, but… better out than in. Until I realize I don’t have a napkin to catch it.

  Betty jumps from her chair and circles behind me, pounding me on the back. I try to tell her that’s unnecessary (and ineffective), and I’d rather she hand me the towel from next to the sink, but talking is impossible at this point, so I merely cup my hands under my nose and mouth and ride out the coughing, sneezing fit. Eventually, I recover enough to stand and get the towel for myself. At first, I keep my back to her while cleaning up, but since bits of egg are stuck in my nose, a dainty wipe-job ain’t gonna cut it.

  I choke out an “Excuse me” and retreat to the nearest bathroom.

  “I’m so sorry!” she calls after me (and Reba, who’s decided whatever I’m doing is even more interesting than bacon).

  While my humiliation fades with each forceful blow of my nose into tissue after tissue, my rage builds. Having the parents I do, I know all too well that anger is a secondary emotion, needing something to feed it, but I don’t want to explore the hurt and disappointment feeding this particular case of it. I prefer to be angry. “Angry” is a hell of a lot easier than those other things. I throw tissues at the wastebasket, hardly any of them hitting the target, slam the medicine cabinet and bang the heel of my hand against the sink.

  Reba doesn’t enjoy Angry Nate, so she quickly turns tail and trots to my bedroom, where I hear her tags jingle as they make contact with the wood floor on her way under the bed. Good. I don’t want her to witness this.

  My sinuses de-egged, I return to the kitchen to find Betty sitting at the table with a familiar pair of specs in her hands. I cross the room in three huge strides, snatch the glasses from her, and carry them to the trash can. Stomping on the pedal, I drop the hateful accessories with a flourish before letting the lid fall with a clang.

  She looks unimpressed by my gesture, so I follow it up with, “Trust me; it’s not where I’d prefer to put them, but count yourself lucky I’m too polite to follow through with that impulse.”