Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  Now she blushes. “I wouldn’t ask you unless I had no choice.”

  “You have no right.”

  “It’s not for forever,” she says after a long silence, during which she looks as miserable as I feel.

  “Yeah, it’s for never,” I verify. “I’m not doing it.”

  She sighs, puffing out her cheeks. “It’s just one more appearance, at that indie conference in Atlanta I told you about. That’s it. We’ve already committed to doing it, and—”

  “We haven’t committed to doing anything!”

  She stands and walks toward me. I physically recoil, my arms rising to position my hands, palms out, close to my body. I step backwards when she continues her advance.

  “Hear me out,” she pleads.

  “Don’t ask me to do this,” I beg in return, all former bluster gone. “Please. I… I can’t.”

  She stops in front of me. “I know this is awful. I thought Frankie would be ready to reveal herself as Frank by now, but… it hasn’t worked out that way, and if we back out now… Well, among other things, it will be extremely unprofessional. The conference is next weekend, and Frank is one of the headliners. His name’s on all the promotional literature, and everything.”

  I snort and groan. This keeps getting better. “Then, the answer’s not just ‘no.’ It’s ‘hell no!’”

  With that, I escape the kitchen, unable to be in her presence or the vicinity of the brown-nosing breakfast she cooked, not because she cares about me but because she wanted to butter me up before requesting I do the one thing I won’t—can’t—do for her. Need a kidney? I’m your guy. Blood transfusion? I’ll insert the needle myself. Sperm donation? Sign me up! Lord knows I’m not using it. But this… no.

  Of course, walking away doesn’t accomplish anything, because all she has to do is follow me, which she does, into the living room. “It’s only one more appearance.”

  “A big one,” I point out.

  Her dismissive, “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” makes me widen my eyes, so she rushes on, “It’ll be fun! Like old times!”

  I feel myself waver on those last three words but force myself to focus and remain strong. Concentrate on the anger. “‘Old times’? You mean the times when I was a pathetic fool? Those times? Oh, yeah. I long for those halcyon days!”

  She stares me down for a second, and I see her chin wobble, but she grits her teeth, and it stills.

  “You knew,” I state simply. My heart races while I wait for her to deny it, while I silently beg her to tell me definitively that she had nothing to do with Frankie’s plot. When she seems incapable of speaking, I ask, “Were you two laughing at me behind my back while I made an ass of myself?”

  “No! It wasn’t anything like that.”

  It’s difficult to breathe, much less talk, but I manage, “What was it like, then?”

  Her eyes flash. “Is that what she told you? That I was in on her stupid, selfish plan?”

  I’m torn between not wanting her to know exactly what Frankie told me and giving her all the information she needs to satisfactorily deny her involvement, so I strike a compromise. “She said it was your idea.”

  All the color drains from her face, and for a second I’m afraid she’s going to faint. I want to go to her, catch her, but my pride holds me to my current position, across the room from her.

  She lowers herself slowly to the couch. Staring at her knees, she says, “I guess that’s accurate.”

  Now I’m the one in danger of passing out.

  Before I dissolve into a puddle in front of the dormant fireplace, she adds, “I said it in jest, though! Way before she ever met you. She was talking about using a male pen name, but she wasn’t sure how she’d find the right guy to pose as her pseudonym, and I joked that it sounded about as impossible as finding the right guy to marry. She snapped her fingers at me and said I was a genius, but she didn’t elaborate. Then, weeks later, she introduced me to you. By the end of that evening, it was clear to me what she was trying to do.”

  “So you did know. And you didn’t tell me.”

  “I thought I could stop her.” She looks up at me now, her eyes full.

  “Don’t you dare cry,” I demand, feeling the mucus production going into overdrive in my own sinuses. My mouth twitches downward while I work to control my voice. “Don’t. I don’t want to feel sorry for you.”

  She blinks her tears away. “I don’t want you to, either. I want… I need you to believe me.”

  I pinch my fingers into my eyes to block the sight of her—and to poke away the water threatening to spill from my own sockets—as she continues, “When you went to the bathroom at the bar, we argued about what I knew she was doing. And we argued about it every day for a long time after that. But the longer you guys were together, the more she seemed to really care about you, and she kept telling me she loved you. She gushed about what a great boyfriend you were and how she hoped to marry you. The hopeless romantic in me wanted to believe it was fate, that maybe something could blossom and become love, despite one person’s original selfish intentions. And I thought as long as I kept an eye on things, it would be okay. I told myself the minute I thought she was using you, I’d tell you.”

  The hand that’s been rubbing my eyes during her monologue drops to my side and swings uselessly as I remember her visit the day after Nick’s bachelor party and our conversations at Nick’s wedding and on our walk after the Duluth reading.

  “You tried,” I mumble.

  She nods. “Yeah. But I wasn’t sure enough to make an outright accusation.” She stands and creeps closer to me but doesn’t come within touching range. “I’m sorry! I… She kept me enough in the dark that I could never be certain. She knew I wouldn’t tell you anything to hurt you if all I had were suspicions and no proof.”

  “And yet, despite all of that, you’re here today, asking me to be Frank again. Why? How?” I wonder, close to whining the last word.

  Massaging her temples, she turns away from me and says in a steady voice, “I told Frankie I’d try.”

  I’m glad she can’t see my face, because I can feel what it looks like, and it’s not attractive, but there’s nothing I can do to change how slack and pale it must be. My voice is the uncontrollable oral equivalent. “Well, tell Frankie she has a lot of nerve.”

  Still showing me her back, Betty nods. “You’re right. It was selfish and wrong to ask you to do this.”

  “But you did it anyway. You came here with my favorite coffee and… and… you loved on my dog… All to manipulate me. Just like her.” My hands bunch into fists.

  She spins and shakes her head resolutely, quickly swiping at the tears that track down her face with the sudden movement. “No. That was… I wasn’t going to ask you. I’d decided not to. But then it slipped out. I’m desperate. And you… you’re still the same old Nathaniel, and—”

  “No, I’m not. Not even close.”

  She swallows thickly and curtly bobs her head. “Right. I understand, of course. I’m sorry I upset you.”

  I can’t seem to make myself say it’s okay, because it’s not okay. Nothing is okay. But I’m not mad at her, either. I can’t be mad at her when she’s looking at me like that. Knowing it and telling her are two different things, though.

  She heads for the door. Part of me wants to crawl across the floor and grab her leg to keep her here. Another part can’t wait for her to leave. That second part is responsible for my cold tone of voice when I say, “You might also want to tell Frankie to stop sending you to do her dirty work. It’s not fair to you.”

  Or to me, I add silently.

  Betty’s chastened head tilt kills the last of my anger—and almost kills me, too.

  As she opens the door and gives me one more feeble finger wave, I gird myself to say the last words I’ll probably ever say to her. For real, this time. “Hey, Betts.”

  She faces me, her brow crinkled expectantly. The words are right there, working up the nerve to jump from my tongue, but my
overprotective heart pulls them back.

  At the last second, I dully declare instead, “Thanks for the omelet.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  I’m still kicking the shit out of myself, three days later.

  “Thanks for the omelet.”

  “Thanks for the omelet.”

  The words echo and taunt me nearly every spare second of the day.

  Yeah, thanks for the omelet. The one that I couldn’t eat but also couldn’t bear to throw out and would have sat on my kitchen table indefinitely if Reba hadn’t finally used the pulled-out chair to climb up and scarf it—and the bacon—in three neat swallows.

  Scarf.

  I stare at my closed closet door and contemplate whether I have the energy—or heart—to do what I’ve been putting off for two months: packing up all of Frank’s clothes and giving them away to charity. I’m not sure I want to add insult to injury by donating these clothes to someone already going through a rough time, though.

  I’ve also told myself they’re not hurting anything in my closet, and I have plenty of room for them. Plus, Halloween’s only a couple of months away. I could go this year as “random douche,” “pretentious a-hole,” “complete tool,” or “hopeless sucker.”

  Anyway, I’m too busy to pack them up and take them to the nearest collection station. (Yeah, so many chick flicks to re-watch and new releases to go see by myself, so little time.) And every time I psych myself up to do it, to rip those clothes from their hangers and stuff them into black garbage bags, banishing them from my life forever, I think of something else I really want to do. Like scoop Reba’s poop in the backyard.

  But now, three days after Betty’s visit, I know I need to kill the possibility of ever donning another pair of skinny jeans. I need to forget—for good—the “manliest” way to wear a scarf (it doesn’t exist, anyway). I need to give myself a failsafe, so I can legitimately say, “I can’t be Frank; I don’t even have the right clothes anymore.”

  First, though… “I need a walk,” I say out loud, urging Reba into action at the w-word.

  She nearly trips me in her haste to beat me down the hallway to the hook by the front door, where her leash hangs. Not for the first time, I marvel and laugh at how fast she can make those stubby legs move when she wants to.

  “Chill, Rebes. I’m not leaving without you,” I reassure her as I clip her leash to her collar. Before heading out, I pat my pockets to make sure I have my keys, wallet, and phone (because nothing completes the “lonely man with his dog” ensemble like a silent phone crammed full of saved texts from “Mom”).

  Ten minutes into our walk, I’m assuming another such text has arrived when my butt vibrates and chimes as I’m bent over, picking up Reba’s latest offering, my hand shoved into an inside-out scented pet waste bag. Before I can complete the task at hand, the device gives me another jolt.

  “For crying out loud,” I mutter, carefully turning the bag right-side in and knotting it. When I’m absolutely sure I don’t have any dog dirt on my hands or on the outside of the bag, where it can get on me, I hold the plastic baggie and leash in one hand and pull my phone from my pocket with the other.

  Instead of seeing the expected texts from my mother, asking me what I’m doing and inviting me over for her latest fishing expedition into my psyche, I find two texts from Frankie. The first one says, U owe me $2500. The second one adds, Paypal is fine.

  At first, I think it’s a sick joke, but as the minutes pass with no further communication or explanation from her, I tap and send, ??

  She immediately fires back, do u want an itemized invoice?

  Yes, since I have no idea what ur talking about. Not gonna hand over an entire paycheck to u. Sorry.

  The Wicked Witch of the West’s song from The Wizard of Oz suddenly bursts from my phone. In spite of everything, I can’t help but laugh. That’s what I get for leaving my phone unattended with my brother while using the bathroom at his house the other day.

  “Yello,” I sigh more than say.

  “Listen, you bastard, I’ll be damned before I’ll be out that money,” Frankie launches, mid-rant.

  “Uh… what?”

  “You heard me. You’re paying me for the conference registration, promotional merch, plane tickets, hotel rooms, rental car, plus all the tax and cancellation fees for that indie conference you backed out of.”

  “‘Backed out of’? I broke up with you! Because you were sleeping with someone else!” My words seem to echo in the quiet neighborhood, so I blush and turn my back on the guy across the street, watering his lawn and (now) openly gaping at me.

  “Same result. If you were still going to that conference as Frank, we wouldn’t be having this conversation. You’re not; therefore, I want my money back.”

  I lower my voice a few hundred decibels. “And I never want to talk to you again, but something tells me neither of us is going to be getting our wish any time soon.”

  She ignores my snark. “Whatever. The point is, it was too late to get refunds—”

  “We broke up two months ago!”

  “Yeah, well, Betty ‘forgot’ to cancel everything. How does someone so anal forget something like that, I wonder…”

  I have to admit, that doesn’t sound like Betty at all, but since Frankie’s question seems more rhetorical than anything, I don’t reply to it. Instead, I try to get back on track. “I don’t owe you anything. You, my dear, are getting hit in the pocketbook for your transgressions. And I can’t say I’m sorry.” The leash jerks in my hand, so I aimlessly follow Reba as she leads me down our usual circuitous route of sidewalks.

  “I can’t afford to absorb that kind of loss,” Frankie states unemotionally.

  “I’m shocked that wasn’t your primary consideration. You certainly didn’t take into account my feelings. In any case, I’m sure your new boyfriend will buy your shampoo and groceries this month.”

  She growls something about leaving Kyle out of this, then huffs, “Fine! If you’re going to be a jerk about it, then I’ll just make Betty pay me. I’m sure her rich step-daddy will step up.”

  “Wait a second… why does Betty have to eat the costs? They’re your business expenses.”

  “Because it was her mistake, not canceling everything in time to get refunds.” In a tantalizing tone, she adds, “Of course, if you were to go ahead and attend the conference as Frank, I’d be getting something for my money, a return on my investment. I’m sure you and Betty would manage to sell some of that merch and all of those books. Plus, the exposure would be huge…”

  “Screw you. My answer is no, just like it was on Sunday, when Betty asked me.”

  Frankie’s laugh surprises me. “Oh, my gosh! Did she really?”

  “What do you mean? Yes. You told her to!”

  “I never told her to ask you that! I don’t think you’re that much of a suck—” She stops short and gives a tiny gasp. The smirk strong in her voice, she says, “Ohhh…. I see now… She didn’t forget to cancel the arrangements; she purposely didn’t, because she’s been holding out hope all this time, trying to get up the nerve to ask you to go.” Again, she laughs, but she pairs it with a sarcastic, “Oh, how sweet!”

  I’m too flustered to remember Betty’s exact words during our conversation three days ago, so I simply say, much less convincingly than before, “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it. Suck it.”

  “It wasn’t that great the first time.”

  “Hey!” Thinking I’m talking to her, Reba halts, sits abruptly, and looks over her shoulder at me. I twitch the leash to let her know she can keep walking, but she acts like it was her idea to stop and take a breather and doesn’t budge.

  Barely controlling her giggles, Frankie continues, “So she threw me under the bus, did she? Said I wanted you to do it? Well, that was a shitty plan, if she wanted you to agree.”

  Momentarily mute, I stare at the back of Reba’s panting head while I consider everything Frankie has told me.

  She take
s my silence as my final offering in our negotiations. “Okay, then. God, I bet that that broke her heart, when you told her no and left her holding the bag. She thought you were different, but you’re just like every other guy who’s left her in the lurch—including that Chris asshole in college. And she says I’m attracted to jerks… I tried to warn her you weren’t the saint she’s made you out to be, but she wouldn’t lis—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  At first, she’s quiet for so long that I think we’ve been cut off. Then she smugly states, “That’s a good boy.”

  “I’m not doing it for you.”

  “Oh, I know. Trust me.”

  “Did you tell Betty you were going to call me?”

  “No... Why?”

  “Good. As far as she’s concerned, this conversation never happened.”

  “Then how—?”

  “I’ll call her and tell her I changed my mind because I want to go to the conference,” I explain rapidly. “When she informs you of this development, you do what you do best: lie and act surprised.”

  “So you look like the hero?”

  “No, exactly the opposite. So she’ll let me do it. If she knows I don’t want to do it, and I’m only agreeing out of a sense of duty, she’ll refuse.”

  Frankie pauses, then hums what sounds like an affirmation. “You have a point there,” she mumbles. “Aren’t you two quite the sickening, selfless pair?”

  “Unlike some people, I wouldn’t be able to sleep at night knowing I could have done something to help someone I… I… call a friend, and didn’t.”

  She sighs. “How noble. Whatever. If those are your terms, fine. I won’t tell her anything about this conversation. One tiny suggestion, though?”

  “What?”

  “Do everyone, most of all yourselves, a favor, and screw each other already while you’re in Atlanta.”

  I bite my lower lip, flare my nostrils, and hang up on her without another word.