by Brea Brown
“Good thinking.”
She taps her head. “It’s not just a platform for gorgeous hair. And it’s a good thing I asked. At first, I didn’t think he was going to let us, but when I mentioned Frank’s name, he got a lot friendlier.”
“What time is our meeting with him?”
“Eight.”
Again, I look at the time on my phone. “Okay. Let me freshen—er… do some things before we head downstairs.”
While I’m crossing the threshold into the bathroom, she stops me with, “Hey.”
I turn around. “Hm?”
“You handled yourself great out there.” She bobs her head back toward the room’s door. “If you keep that up, you’ll be fine.”
A grin bursts onto my face. I hope it doesn’t look as goofy as it feels. “Thanks!”
“You’re welcome. And what about me? Did I nail the role of the pushy, cranky manager?”
“Oh, that was an act?”
Reaching behind her, she grabs one of the pillows from my bed and hurls it at me while I laugh and sidestep the flying bedding. “You were perfect,” I say more seriously.
She pushes herself into a sitting position, then stands and stretches. A sliver of belly peeks out at me, drawing my eyes inexorably to it. And that’s when I see the unmistakable silver-and-pink, faded stretch marks. Too late, my eyes snap back to her face, which pales, then reddens.
So I do what any brave, mature man would do: I say something about needing to “tinkle,” rush into the bathroom, and slam the door.
Chapter Twenty-Six
We’re such amateurs at this. And we’re never going to get better at it, since this is our last “gig.” But like morons, we chose to eat at one of the restaurants on the resort’s premises, so we hardly had a moment to ourselves at dinner. Betty eventually summoned a manager to try to keep people away so we could eat. By then, though, it was getting close to our meeting time with the conference organizers, so there was no time for talking, only eating. Fast eating. It probably saved us (okay, me) some awkward silences and conversational dead-ends, but it wasn’t good for ingestion or digestion.
I stifle heartburn burps as we make our way from the restaurant to the convention rooms.
On our way past the front desk, Betty slows. “You go ahead. George should be wandering around in there, and he’s expecting you. I need to put the fear of God into someone about security issues.”
I swallow, glad I’m not the desk clerk or the hotel manager, as I watch Betty stride to the counter, her head high, shoulders back. Someone’s about to get the ass-chewing of their life. I’d feel bad about that, but the idea of having gaggles of giggly women knocking on my door all weekend horrifies me enough to assuage my guilt. It’s for the greater good. My greater good, granted. But still…
So I don’t have to witness the bloodbath, I obey Betty and follow the arrows on the signs already set up for tomorrow’s events. The first room into which I poke my head contains an endless sea of white cloth-covered tables with authors’ names tacked to the front and stacks of books and swag covering the tables. Ooh… the meet-and-greet room. And there’s my table smack dab in the middle of it all. Awesome. I’m getting claustrophobic just looking at it.
I clear my throat and cough, reminding myself I still have a full day before I have to worry about it, and it will be exactly like book signings. The table will protect me. The flow of traffic will prevent the crazies from loitering too long. It will be okay.
Before I can refute every single one of those naïve thoughts, I scuttle to the next room. It holds a long table on a dais and rows and rows of folding chairs facing the stage. The sign outside the door proclaims it to be tomorrow’s Q&A room. The media will kick things off, but after the first hour and a short break, fans who have bought tickets will be allowed in to ask their questions.
The room is empty, so I walk closer to the dais and stare at the long table, trying to envision myself up there, next to a familiar and very intimidating name. My heartburn flares, licking at the back of my throat.
A full-blown panic threatens but retreats when Betty stands next to me and threads her arm through mine. “So, what do you think?” she asks.
“It’ll do,” I manage, keeping my reply brief to avoid my voice cracking. I stare at the letter “Y” in my seat-neighbor’s first name, my unfocused eyes making it easier to travel to my happy place, far away from here.
Betty approaches the stage and points at the table tent with Frank’s name on it. “You’re right in the middle, the star attraction.”
“Yeah. Goody.”
“You’re in good company, too.” She rattles off the other names I’ve already noticed. “Lots of quality chick litters on the panel.”
Snapping out of my trance and joining her at the front of the dais, I chuckle. “Chick litter? Sounds like waste from barnyard fowl.”
“Chick littists?” she tries again.
“I prefer contemporary women’s fiction author-publisher,” I toss out snootily.
“Oh, lah-dee-dah.”
I laugh at myself but quickly mock-sober. “Really, Betty… you must take this more seriously. This is my craft, my art, we’re talking about. It’s not some frivolous drivel to make women—and men—feel all ooey-gooey about the power of love. There’s meaning in my words. I’m making important statements about human nature and personal relationships and… and… politics.”
“Politics?”
“Yes. Definitely about gender equality, for starters.”
She rolls her eyes. “Save it for the stage tomorrow, Descartes.”
“Please, Betty, you can call me Frank.”
When she hides a snicker behind her hand, I take it as encouragement to continue my Frank act and continue, “For real, though… I have to sit next to that hack, Yardley Cummins? He claims to drink his own blood, says it puts him in touch with his vampire characters. How’d he get in anyway? I didn’t realize they allowed paranormal romance riffraff in.”
“Everything okay?” a voice at my back asks, prompting a startle of epic proportions.
“Ohmyholyshityouscaredme!” I breathe more than say, whirling on the guy.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Lipton,” coos the man in the pinstripe suit with the gold name pin that dubs him, “George.” “I didn’t mean to sneak up on you.”
From the corner of my eye, I spy Betty struggling not to laugh behind her fist, but I try to ignore her and regain my composure. “Yeah, well… uh… whatever. We’re fine. Getting a feel for the layout before tomorrow.”
“George Nichols, author liaison.” He extends his hand to me but says to Betty, “Miss Tate.”
I want to punch him for talking to her chest.
Betty shakes George’s hand. “Mr. Nichols. Thanks for letting Frank get a feel for the room tonight.”
“Is everything to your satisfaction?” he asks both of us while still mostly looking at Betty’s boobs. I clear my throat, so he tears his eyes away and blinks at me. “The seating arrangement may not be to your liking, is that what I heard?”
With the sort of agility not usually found in a man his size, George hops onto the stage, walks behind the long table, and stands behind the seat reserved for Frank. He lifts the name card and walks it down a few chairs. “We purposely put you in the middle, Mr. Lipton, to bring as much focus to you as possible, but…”
“Oh, that. I’m the headliner, or whatever… Right?” Blood whooshes in my ears as I remember Betty mentioning something about that in my kitchen after my near-death by omelet. Frank would relish the flattery, if not the attention, I remind myself, struggling to regain my character.
Say something Frank-like, you dumb-ass, I taunt internally.
“Maybe… you’d rather be next to Ms. Delaney?” George prods.
My eyes land on Margot Delaney’s place card. I happen to know from scoping out her website on the way here that she’s a hot redhead who not only writes chick lit but also erotica. She’s here to promote her m
ore mainstream books, but I’d still much rather sit next to her than Yardley Cummins.
I’m about to say just that when Betty shakes her head forcefully. “No, no! He’s fine where he is.”
He looks back and forth between her and me. “Or I could switch Ms. Delaney with Mr. Cummins…” he posits unsurely. “It’s just… she doesn’t get along with Willa Nightsong, so then I’d have to move her, too, and—”
“It’s perfect the way you originally had everything,” Betty assures him, grabbing my arm and pinching me above my elbow.
“Ow!” I hiss, pulling away from her. Since she’s resorting to physical abuse, I decide to defer to her expertise, and I grudgingly agree that George should return Frank’s name card to its original spot.
“Remember, it’s good to meet new people,” Betty says. “I’m sure Yardley’s interesting claims are mostly for show, you know, part of a persona. He’s appealing to his readers’ obvious interests.”
“Well, it’s dumb,” I mutter like a sulking child. “If the guy shows up in a cape, I’m moving.”
“That’s fair,” she replies, patting my arm in a placating fashion and tossing a long-suffering smile at George, who’s either too used to this brand of behavior for it to be remarkable or too professional to show when he thinks someone’s being a diva.
“I’m glad you approve, Betty,” I say in the haughtiest tone I can muster. “Now, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” Turning my attention back to George, I state dismissively, “Okay, then. You’ve been very helpful. See you tomorrow at ten. I’ll be bringing my own water.”
“Uh, very well, Mr. Lipton.”
Betty rolls her eyes toward George as if to commiserate about the eccentricities of creative types. He quickly looks away, and we make our exit.
Once clear of the room, she whispers through clenched teeth, “If you think I’m lugging around your stupid cooler for you all day tomorrow, you’re crazy.”
I giggle under my breath while we wait for the elevator. “I believe, as part of my entourage of one, that responsibility falls to you. Sorry.”
“You’re an idiot.” Her statement has no bite to it as she steps into the newly-arrived elevator car and faces front.
I follow her, jabbing at the button for our floor. “Well, after Sunday, you won’t be subjected to my idiocy anymore, so…”
I tried to deliver it lightly, while staring at the floor numbers lighting up above the double doors, but the words have fallen like medicine balls between us in the peach-scented box. Neither of us says another word for the duration of the ride.
When we step onto our floor and make our way down the hall, she murmurs, “We keep saying goodbye; yet…”
Coming to a stop at my door, I stare down at the key card in my hand and chuckle. “Yeah. Well, maybe this time, it’s for good. And maybe that’s for the best.” I’m saying what I think she wants to hear, trying to make this easier for her, even though it makes me want to puke. I glance up and smile ruefully.
Her face falls so far, I think it might drop right off the front of her head. She turns and jams her key card into the slot—hard enough that I worry she’s going to snap it in two. Without another word, she storms into her room.
I stare after her, my mouth hanging open, much like the door in front of me. Tentatively, I cross the hall to follow her and close the door behind me, but I keep the bed between us as she stands by the balcony, her back to me. Unlike my pool view, her room looks down on a blacktop parking lot, complete with grotty dumpster.
“Hey,” I begin. “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.”
She tersely shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. I’m afraid she’s crying, but I’m too much of a wimp to move closer and confirm or disprove my suspicion.
Finally, her choked voice verifies my fear. “I get it,” is all she manages before she can’t continue.
Now I do draw nearer to her. Only a heartless bastard could maintain such a distance from someone so obviously distressed. “Betts, I—”
“No.” She halts me with one word when I’m still a good ten feet away. Swiping under her eyes, she takes a deep breath, then sniffs. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but… I’d rather you be honest than feed me a line.”
“Feed you a line…?”
She turns and hugs herself. “Yeah. You know, tell me we’ll stay in touch, that we’ll still be friends, when really, you want nothing to do with me.”
“I’d never—”
“I know. You’re not like that. You’re a good, honest guy. And I understand if this…” She runs her hand up and down in front of her body, then circles her face with her index finger. “…isn’t something you want to take on.”
What is she even saying? My throat aches and burns; my head pounds. “I love you, Betty.” Unfortunately, because I’ve tacked her name on the end, it comes out more like a friendly reassurance than a heartfelt declaration, but it’s a start.
She smirks and chuckles bitterly. “Right. Everyone does. I work hard to make sure of it.”
“I can relate to that.”
“I know you can. That’s why I wanted you to read that book.” We both know which one she’s talking about, so she doesn’t have to specify further. “I hoped you’d understand me better, not think less of me.”
Her presumption makes my temper flare as hot as my indigestion. “There’s only one person I think less of after reading that book, and it’s not you. It’s her.”
“She didn’t tell any lies. It’s all true. Well… up to a certain point in the timeline, obviously. And even then, she used details from a long-running fantasy I’ve had about being reunited with… him.”
“Your son?”
She nods, and two tears shake loose, plopping onto her shirt.
I step forward. She steps back.
Taking the hint, I halt but say, “She took things she knew, things you told her in confidence, and used them, capitalized on them, for her own ends. That’s wrong. She exposed your most private experiences to strangers.”
Betty shrugs. “Whatever. At that point, it had been a long time. And the book has a happy ending.”
“Well, I’m pissed off enough for both of us, then. She’s a user. A manipulator! And she doesn’t give a shit about anyone else or anyone else’s feelings but her own. Can’t you see that? Why do you continue to let her walk all over you?”
“Why did you?” she retorts.
Staring at her for a few seconds, I think about it. Then I sniff and clear my throat and give her a less-than-honest, “I don’t know,” because it’s better for her to believe I’m stupid than for her to know the painful, embarrassing truth.
She lifts her chin. “Well, my story is as much her story as it is mine.”
“Bullshit.”
“I really believe that.”
“So, Frankie was abandoned by Chris…”
“What…? Wait… How do you know his real name?”
Rather than lose steam on my argument, I trust she’ll figure out I learned his name from her so-called best friend and continue, “…Frankie had a baby and gave him up for adoption; Frankie came out stronger—yet more vulnerable—for it? Is that it?”
“She was there for me through all of that, when nobody else was.”
“Big fucking deal. Hundreds of other people would have been there for you, and they wouldn’t have held it over your head for the rest of your life.”
“But nobody else was. Who are these hundreds of people? Where were they? My own mother couldn’t deal. She wrote me a check for an abortion because, ‘Having a baby when you’re as young as you are will ruin your life.’ She was twenty when she had me, a year younger than I was at the time I got pregnant.”
I bite my lower lip as her revelation actually causes me physical pain—in addition to the burning—in my chest.
“Don’t look at me like that,” she orders.
“I’m not.”
“You are. I didn’t tell you to read it so you
’d pity me; I told you to read it so you’d understand me.”
“And I do. Mostly. What I don’t understand is how someone as strong and beautiful and smart and funny and… wonderful… as you are can let someone like Frankie convince you otherwise.”
“She knows the real me.”
Before she can react or move away, I close the gap between us and grasp her upper arms. My need to convey the following overrides my paranoia that my breath may singe off her eyebrows. “She’s invented the ‘real’ you. It’s a figment of her imagination. And you’ve suspended your disbelief, like a good little reader, and have bought into it… most of the time.”
She squeezes her eyes closed and shakes her head as if she can’t bear to hear what I’m saying. That, or my breath really does smell bad. But I can’t worry about that right now. I have a point to make.
“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper.
Eyes still closed, she replies at the same volume, “What?”
“Look at me.”
She does, through wet eyelashes.
“You know better. I’ve seen the flashes of self-awareness—true intuition—you’ve had around her. I’ve seen you break from the trance and assert yourself. And I’ve witnessed her punish you for it every time.”
“You make her sound so evil.”
I widen my eyes but don’t verbally commit to that exact assessment. Instead, I say carefully, “Anyone who treats people the way she does is not a nice person.”
“She didn’t used to be like that,” she says defensively, as if to justify their friendship.
“I’m sure. And even if she was, it’s not your fault.” I take a deep breath. “Earlier, you asked where your other potential supporters were. And all I can say is this: people rarely apply for a job that’s already filled.”
She blinks up at me, and I can see the concept sinking in for her. Eventually, she whispers, “You’re right,” and her face crumples.
I pull her gently against me, and she hugs me with an intensity usually reserved for parents of scared children. I return the hug, but with more tenderness than force.
