Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  “Yeah, we know their conjectures and the truth are one and the same, but they don’t know that. All we have to do is give them the pen name explanation at tomorrow’s meet-n-greet, and everyone will shut up.”

  “Or we can skip the meet-n-greet and let them think whatever the hell they want to think.”

  “We have books to sell and sign and merchandise to unload.” To the tune of about $2500, I add silently.

  “Fuck it.”

  “Betty…”

  “No, I’m serious. Fuck it, and fuck her.”

  “Never managed it myself,” I quip, then cough when she glares at me. “Never mind. The important thing is that we came all this way to do something we promised we’d do, and we’re going to do it. Then—in my case, at least—I never have to do another thing for her. I send her a cease and desist regarding the use of my image, and it’s over.”

  “I’m sick of this, and I don’t want to do it anymore,” she mutters to her lap.

  I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toss the ice pack aside, and drop to my knees in front of her, grasping the arms of the chair with my frigid fingers. “I’ve been sick of this since… the first day. So, I get it. But it’s almost over. And if nothing else, someday we can say we did it. And laugh about it. I’m sure we will. I mean, I got beat up by a vampire romance writer. That’s funny!”

  A tiny laugh escapes her, but she quickly sobers. “It’s not funny. You could have been seriously hurt.”

  “But I wasn’t.”

  “It’s not fair that Frankie keeps profiting from our hard work and trouble.”

  I nudge her under the chin with my cold forefinger. “Hey. We’ll make her pay some other way. My ER bill will work quite nicely, for starters.”

  Those reassurances don’t erase the frown lines on her forehead. In fact, the creases deepen. “Who cares about money? She doesn’t anymore. She was ready to take a complete loss on this weekend when I told her you refused to do it. Now that she has Kyle, even your ER bill will be pocket change to her. She has him wrapped around her little finger. If he wasn’t such a douche, it would be sickening to watch the way she manipulates him.”

  “Like she manipulated me,” I choke, rising to my feet.

  She winces. “Like she manipulates everyone.”

  I know she’s trying to make me feel better about being duped by Frankie, time and time again, but it only makes me feel worse. At least Kyle has the excuse that he’s getting laid on a regular basis. My only defense for believing Frankie’s lies is that I was desperate and pathetic and hopelessly gullible. I turn so she can’t see my shameful blush.

  “Anyway,” Betty continues to my back, “when you broke up with her and said you were finished being Frank, I warned her about this weekend and told her we needed to cancel everything, but she said to hold onto all the reservations. At first, she mentioned a ‘coming out’ plan and the possibility of attending the conference herself. Then the date drew nearer, and she changed her mind. That’s when she told me to ask you. I was actually proud of you for saying no.”

  I gulp at the realization that I went and screwed that up, ultimately, but I remain silent and let her continue.

  “When I gave Frankie your answer, she shrugged it off and told me to give her a few days to see how she felt about revealing Frank’s true identity. She said if worse came to worst, we could claim that Frank came down with some horrible, contagious virus, or say he’d had a death in the family.”

  I snort, marveling at how effortlessly Frankie devises lie after lie.

  Betty groans. “Yeah, I know. I hate lying. But whatever. At that point, it would have been unprofessional to back out for any other reason, and my name was connected to all of the arrangements, so I left it at that and hoped she’d do the right thing and attend the conference herself. Then Wednesday, you called me and said you’d changed your mind, and all of our problems were solved.”

  “Except your losing all respect for me,” I mumble.

  “What? No!” I hear rustling behind me, and her voice is nearer when she says, “I was relieved you were saving our skin.” I flinch at her unexpected touch on my shoulder blade, but I don’t have the guts to turn and look her in the eyes. Her voice softens. “I was touched that after everything…” She stops, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Anyway, at that point, I didn’t care why you changed your mind. I was just relieved you did. And grateful. I knew you didn’t want to do it; yet, there you were, willing to do it, anyway. But you’ve done enough now.”

  “Not technically, I haven’t. If we don’t show up at the meet-n-greet tomorrow morning, you’ll be facing the same problem you had before I said I’d do this: your reputation, Frank’s reputation, the conference’s reputation… they’ll all suffer. And you’ll be eating Ramen like a college kid for the next month.”

  Oh, damn… did I say that out loud?

  She steps around me, forcing me to look at her.

  To her confused expression, I say, “Uh… all that sodium and MSG is horrible for you,” even though it clarifies nothing.

  She screws her mouth to the side. “What are you talking about? Why would I be eating Ramen noodles?”

  Damn. I stare at the ceiling and confess, “I didn’t change my mind about this weekend based on anything you said at my place last Sunday.”

  “Okay… That still doesn’t answer my question, though.”

  It takes supreme courage, but I lower my chin and focus on her eyes when I reveal, “Frankie called me. She wanted me to pay her the $2500 she claimed she’d be losing if we didn’t attend this thing. And she said if I refused, she’d go after you for it.”

  “What?! She cut me a check ages ago and hasn’t mentioned another word about the money!”

  All I can offer her is a lame shrug. I don’t understand any of this, either. The only thing I understand is that I’ve probably been hornswoggled… again.

  Betty jabs her fist into her hip, as if I’m the one who has some ’splaining to do, but says, “When she proposed asking you to come to this conference, it was strictly so we wouldn’t look like jerks for backing out at the last minute.”

  “She told me you were liable for the expenses, since you forgot to cancel the arrangements.”

  She tucks her chin closer to her chest. “Excuse me? I don’t forget to do anything.”

  Knowing what I’m about to say, I preemptively blush and scratch my ear. “By the end of the call, she had come to the same conclusion, saying you must have been lying about forgetting.”

  She throws her hands up. “A) I never told her I forgot anything, because I didn’t forget; and B) Why the hell would I ever do something like that? To purposely make a mess for myself and eventually make myself look like the worst PR rep of all time?” Now she quiets and turns sideways, mumbling into her fist, “She asked me to ask you. Period. And if I’d known it had anything to do with money… forget it. I would have never approached you.” Her hand falls from her mouth, but her voice remains subdued. “I realized at your place, when you reacted the way you did, that my reputation wasn’t worth it, either. I felt horrible for putting you in the position of having to say no.”

  I stare at her, struggling to make the connections that are right there but evading my temporarily (I hope) lower-functioning brain. Fighting through another furious blush, I mutter, “I see. So… I haven’t learned a damn thing when it comes to Frankie, have I?” I pivot, placing us essentially back-to-back. Then I move to the foot of the bed, where I sit dejectedly, my hands resting limply in my lap.

  I mean, could I be any stupider? Is “stupider” even a word? I’m so stupid, I don’t know. Why on Earth would I ever believe a single thing that comes out of Frankie’s mouth, after everything she’s put me through? Why? Am I destined to keep making the same mistake over and over with her, just in ways that are different enough to make me believe I’m actually learning from those mistakes?

  Oblivious to my internal berating and obviously coming to grips, herself, w
ith the lies Frankie told me about her, Betty cries, her voice coming closer to my shoulder, “I’m so confused!”

  I close my eyes when she rests her hand on the back of my neck. As unemotionally as possible, I explain, “She said you purposely kept the arrangements—then hid behind forgetting—in the hopes that I’d feel obligated to do this. She said you had… have… feelings for me. Now, I know she was merely telling me what I needed to hear, what I wanted to hear, in order to agree to do what she wanted me to do all along. I’m such an idiot.”

  “You’re not an idiot.”

  It’s subtle at first, so soft I think I may be imagining the pressure against the top of my head. But then I feel her warm breath filtering through my hair to my scalp, and I know the kiss is real. Like a kiss you’d give to an upset child, granted, but still… a kiss. She turns her face sideways, resting her cheek against my skull.

  “You’re not an idiot,” she repeats in a hypnotic murmur.

  Instinctively, I reach over my shoulder and cup her neck against my palm, an acknowledgment of her reassurance, a thank you for her kind words.

  Cooler air hits my back, and my hand falls away from her neck as she withdraws. I open my eyes, but I continue to stare at the outdated brass drawer pulls on the dresser, not sure what to say or do next. As I’m about to tell her I’d understand if she wanted to pack up and leave tonight, that I’ll handle the meet-n-greet alone tomorrow and finish what we came here to do, I feel the mattress dip behind me, and her body heat returns.

  She curls against my back. Her lips brush against my cheek.

  Not sure how to interpret what she’s doing (is this a pity kiss, another “It’s-okay-you-were-bamboozled-again” consolation kiss, a “Don’t-be-sad” kiss?), I tense and hold my breath.

  She presses her lips more firmly on my face. Her soft mouth contrasts with my rough stubble, whispering as it travels from my jaw to my neck. Since I’m still holding my breath, a lack of oxygen eventually makes my head pound enough that my brain sends the message to my respiratory system to start breathing again. I try not to take huge gulps of air, try not to do anything that would spoil the moment.

  Meanwhile, I struggle to determine if she’s been drinking. She doesn’t seem drunk, and I haven’t seen her drinking, but I’ve been asleep for much of the evening. I turn my head slightly and surreptitiously sniff, trying to detect alcohol on her breath. I smell nothing but that intoxicating, clean scent that I would know anywhere, even if she were standing among a hundred other sweet-smelling women, and I were blindfolded. Hmm… That visual’s actually kind of doing it for me. Oh, yeah…

  But wait! If this is another drink- or pity-fueled grope, I don’t want anything to do with it. That’s what I tell myself, anyway. Then it strikes me that I haven’t seen Betty drink in months, not even at my brother’s wedding. The last time I witnessed her imbibe alcohol of any kind was—I frantically search my memory—during that horrendous double-date at the French restaurant.

  And anyway… let’s be frank—who cares? I don’t, at this point. I know what’s motivating me, and it’s not drugs or alcohol or pity or even lust (purely). I love her. I’ve loved her for a long time. And I’m sick of denying it.

  I turn my head even more toward her lips, conveying my active participation in what she’s started. She leans over my shoulder, takes my face between her hands, and presses her mouth to mine. I twist at the waist to make the position less awkward, and I brace my weight on my hand, which I place on the mattress behind me. She swings her leg around me and straddles my right thigh. For a second, I think I may pass out.

  This kiss is lighter and less frantic than the drunken one she gave me on her doorstep all those months ago, but it somehow conveys more passion, more feeling. It definitely feels more sincere, less silly. There’s nothing silly about this kiss… or my reaction to it.

  I push my mouth harder against hers and tease my tongue against her teeth, then farther inside the silky folds of her lips. When she mimics my behavior, I move my free hand to the base of her skull, tangling my fingers in her soft, wavy hair as I hold her head firmly in place so I can continue devouring her mouth.

  After several minutes, I pull my face away from hers but don’t move any other part of my body (voluntarily, that is). Her hands fall to my shoulders.

  “Wait,” I pant.

  What?! Noooooooooooo! something other than my brain wails.

  Parts of her body may be screaming the same thing at me, based on the rapid rise and fall of her chest, so I explain to all the screaming body parts in the room, “Hang on a minute. I mean… What’s happening?”

  “Has it been that long, Nathaniel?”

  The arched eyebrow I love so much is almost my undoing. But I have to be strong. I have to be sure of one more thing. I let go of her head and laugh nervously. “Nearly. But that’s not what I meant. I know about that part, but… You don’t have to do this.”

  “I’m well aware of that.”

  “No, I mean… You’re not obligated to… deliver… on her lies.” The possibility of her feeling that way, of her going that far to do Frankie’s bidding, nauseates me.

  She returns her hands to my face, so I can’t look away, even if I wanted to. I don’t want to. I could stare into her eyes all night. I could stare into her eyes for the rest of my life. As a matter of fact, her eyes could inspire a guy to go into optometry, easily one of the most boring specialties.

  As I’m contemplating a career change, she says softly, tracing her thumbs along my cheekbones, “As usual, she knew exactly how much truth to include in her story to make it ring true. But this has nothing to do with her. And it definitely has nothing to do with obligation.”

  “I don’t want you to think—”

  “I’m not thinking, for once. Please, reward me.”

  She learns forward abruptly, shifting me off-balance so I fall onto my back on the bed—directly onto the ice pack I tossed aside earlier. I hiss and arch my spine. She reaches under me and shoves the ice-filled bag away, sending it sailing off the side of the bed like an air hockey puck. I recline once more against the still-cool spot on the sheet, pulling her down with me. Our chests collide, expelling the air in our lungs with brief grunts.

  I replenish my oxygen supply before diving once again into a pool of hormones and pheromones, which are now effectively drowning any of that remaining pesky fear. Fear is for wimps. And smart people. I refuse to be the former anymore, and I’ve never been the latter.

  That means the only remaining obstacle is clothing. Rolling her onto her back, I dispense with hers like she’s a coding ER patient. Okay, not the most romantic comparison, but it’s the first thing that pops to mind as I quickly unbutton her shirt. My hands play the part of the crash cart paddles on her torso, but there’s no “clearing.” On the contrary, our mouths crush together for another thorough tonsil check. She blindly pushes down on my pants, only pausing when my elastic waistband hangs up on the most currently intractable of my body parts.

  Lips still locked, we take over some of our own disrobing, me de-pantsing, her shrugging off her shirt and shucking her bra. My underwear’s still hanging from one ankle when I consider my job done well enough for now and focus on the zipper and button of her shorts. She lifts her hips just enough to make easy work of removing her outer- and underwear in one smooth motion. Skin slaps skin when my t-shirt finally gets the hint and leaves the party, my briefs following closely behind with a final shake of my leg.

  Betty rests her right knee against my ribs and breathes into my mouth, “Now. Please.”

  Condom! screams the nurse who’s apparently never off-duty in my brain.

  I sigh but mutter the word in a tortured rasp against Betty’s lips. The only movement from either of us for several seconds comes from our heaving chests while we contemplate our frustrating dilemma.

  Finally, she pulls her head back and says, “Tell me it doesn’t matter,” her eyes searching mine and packing volumes into her plea.

/>   “It does, though,” I manage to answer. “It matters a lot. You matter.” I tilt my head and kiss her trembling lips.

  Her closing eyes push tears down both sides of her face.

  “Don’t cry,” I whisper. “Why are you crying?”

  “I’m so happy,” she whispers back, her eyes opening and proving with their sparkle that she’s telling the truth. “Are you happy?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  She cups my butt in both hands. “Then just love me.”

  “Oh, God… I do.” I’ve barely spoken the last word, giving neither of us time for reconsideration, before I plunge myself deep inside of her, and it’s as if a row of laboratory pipettes has sucked every remaining coherent, responsible thought from my mind.

  The next few minutes (okay, probably more like seconds, unfortunately) are frantic, frenetic, and frenzied, but brain function eventually returns on a basic level, and I realize something wonderful, yet terrible, is about to happen.

  “Oh, gosh,” I whisper, the tell-tale tingling in my extremities a surefire warning of the end. I freeze and think about football.

  “What’s wrong?”

  To my utter horror, I slur, “Football.”

  “Football?”

  Burying my face in her neck, I take a deep breath and laugh at myself, even though I want to cry. “Never mind.” I risk my immediate release by resuming some movement, rising on one elbow, trailing kisses down her shoulder, anything to get past this moment. But that damn nurse—I’m starting to hate him—compels me to stop and blurt after another few seconds, “I’m about to… you know… already.” I barely prevent the highly unsexy declaration from escaping in a highly unsexy whine. My only consolation is that I didn’t use medical jargon to let her know. (“Ejaculate” is such an ugly word.)

  She halts all hip movement, kisses my temple, and says, “I’ll be right there with you.”

  I can feel my pounding heartbeat everywhere, including in the bump on my forehead. “Really? Already?”

  She wraps her hand around the back of my neck. “Already? I’ve been waiting for this for months,” she murmurs next to my ear. As if to prove it, after the next couple of thrusts, she contracts around me, and her head falls back, exposing her neck to my lips. Her vocal chords vibrate under my mouth as she moans while we buck against each other, and I attempt to channel all the feelings I have for her through such an admittedly coarse, primal activity.