Let's Be Frank

by Brea Brown

  “Ohhhh!” I groan, as the last of my control finally falls away. For an immeasurable amount of time, I exist on a plane not governed by anything but pure biology in its most glorious form. Every nerve ending is humming; every hair follicle is standing at attention; every blood vessel is pumping and whooshing. I hope it’s the same for her. I think it is, based on her reaction.

  “Kiss me,” she practically begs, bringing me back to a time and place connected to the physical world. I do as she says, and my heavy limbs reawaken. I run my hands up and down her body, smiling at her squirms and sighs of delight.

  Out of breath, I’m forced to break off the kiss, so I don’t do something humiliating, like stroke out.

  She tightens her embrace around my back. “Don’t leave.”

  “I’m not,” I reassure her, shifting subtly on top of her. “I’m just… breathing.”

  With a grin, she declares, “Overrated.”

  “Actually, not. And it would be a shame to die right now.”

  “I’d be okay with it.”

  “Don’t even think about it.” I touch my forehead to hers, then jerk back when another piece of my reality transmits a painful reminder. I roll away from the sensation, landing on my back with an “Oomph.”

  She follows, hooking a leg over my side. Her ankle brushes against a still-very-sensitive part of me, which makes me flinch and her chuckle.

  Still lightheaded, I place my hands behind my head, my elbows pointing to opposite corners of the room, like someone cooling down after a long run in high altitude. She runs her finger along the pale underside of my exposed upper arm, and I contract my bicep so it stands out in contrast.

  “Are you flexing?” she asks with a bemused smile.

  Sheepishly, I admit, “Yeah.”

  “Why?”

  After I think about it for a second, I angle my head to look into her face and answer, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t have to pose for me or try to be anything you’re not.”

  “Including muscular, right?”

  She laughs and slaps playfully at my chest. “You’re fine. Mighty fine.” A different muscle flexes as she cranes her neck and presses her lips against mine.

  Too soon, the kiss is over. “Oh, and that part of Dr. Nathanson was no fiction,” she states, looking down my body at the appendage more persistently nudging her foot with every complimentary word from her swollen lips.

  I blush. “You’re just being nice.”

  “There’s nothing ‘nice’ about it. It’s very naughty, indeed.”

  “You keep talking to me like that, I’ll show you a whole lot more ‘naughty.’”

  “Excellent. First, though, let me check your pupils.”

  This is definitely the most erotic pillow talk I’ve ever experienced.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  After the most amazing night of my life (no, really… I mean it), sharing a pizza with Betty at midnight, sharing a lot of other things with Betty following that, receiving a private fashion show of the “smokin’” dress she bought for the Authors’ Ball we never attended, nearly destroying that dress, and falling into a dead, exhausted, satisfying sleep at around 2:30 a.m., I wake up refreshed and energized at my usual time, according to my body clock. That means I have two hours to prepare for the meet-n-greet that starts at 9:30.

  I prod gingerly at the bump on my head and take stock of my pain level. The contusion itself is still tender, but my headache is all but gone. Score one billion for endorphins!

  I chuckle at myself, shifting so I can get a better view of my overnight guest, who’s still out of it. Way out of it. I watch her closely for any signs of stirring that I can use to justify touching her. Breathing doesn’t count (although I’m glad to see she’s doing it), so I eventually stop torturing myself and slide from the bed with one last look at her over my shoulder. She’s a sight to behold, but I figure I’d better get my head in the game. The head on my shoulders, that is. There’ll be plenty of time for shameless ogling when we get back to Green Bay. That thought pastes a goofy grin on my face.

  When I emerge from the shower, Betty’s still sacked out, so I dress as quietly as possible in my stupid skinny jeans and stupid Beatles t-shirt (no offense, fans) and stupid waistcoat and stupid scarf, which I wind around my neck perfectly the first time, much to my mixed pride and chagrin. Even after applying about 100 cc of product to my hair and dabbing some concealer I’ve found in Betty’s purse onto my forehead, I’m bemused by how little Betty has moved. I don’t have time, however, to stand here and admire her cuteness or reminisce about all the things we did to tire her so thoroughly. I need to get downstairs to eat some breakfast before taking my post at my table.

  We’re still two hours away from the 11:00 check-out, so it makes sense to let her sleep. She obviously needs it. I scrawl a quick note on the comment card on the desk (“Down at meet-n-greet”) and leave it on my pillow, where she’ll find it immediately upon waking.

  I’d say more, but I only have two stubby blank lines to work with. No matter how much I might like to, I can hardly write, “Down at the meet-n-greet. By the way, my love, last night was amazing, and I can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you. If that’s what you want. But we can talk about that some other time. And now… for a love poem, Ode to Betty…”

  I figure it’s best to stick with the facts, since I’ll be seeing her in a matter of minutes.

  After a few more seconds of self-indulgent-yet-not-too-creepy gazing at her, I do one final sweep of the room, gather my bags, and leave. I won’t have the opportunity to return before check-out, and although we didn’t discuss logistics last night (for some reason, it never crossed my mind), I have faith she’ll figure it out. I also trust she’s responsible enough to wake well before check-out, with plenty of time to dress and clear her belongings from both of our rooms.

  Just in case, I make a mental note to call or text her in an hour, to make sure she’s up and about.

  Fast forward three hours.

  Yeah, I know. But it’s insane down here. I barely had time to stow my luggage under the table and inhale a bran muffin and a cup of coffee before the incompetent conference organizers let readers into the meet-n-greet room, several minutes early (I’m so not coming back next year… ha!). I was instantly surrounded and overwhelmed by readers and authors alike. The area in front of my table has been like the blocked artery of a bacon addict.

  The readers want pictures and autographs—and in some cases—full-blown conversations, including reassurances I’m working hard on “my” next book. The authors want the scoop on my injuries and why Betty yelled “Nate!” I had to bite back the response that they’d have to be more specific about that last question, since she yelled it a lot last night, but I gave straightforward answers to the same questions, over and over again. Well, straightforward lies, of course. I stuck with the pen-name cover and supplied vague answers to inquiries about where I was last night during the Authors’ Ball (if they only knew…), all the while trying hard not to think too much about how Betty and I truly spent our night.

  It wasn’t until my stomach growled that I even thought to check the time. It feels like mere minutes have passed since I’ve taken up my spot behind the table. When I pull out my phone to check the time on it, I nearly hit the floor. It’s 12:30, ninety minutes past check-out.

  “Shit!” I hiss, immediately tapping out a text to Betty that simply says, WAKE UP!!!!

  When my message receives no response, I call her. When my call gets no answer, I take a few deep breaths and tell myself she’s in the shower. Sure, she’s overslept and missed checkout, but it isn’t the end of the world. Explaining to Frankie how I missed check-out when I was manning the meet-n-greet table will be interesting, but… actually, that thought fills me with vindictive glee. I push it aside, though, and resolve to try contacting Betty again in fifteen minutes.

  Forty minutes later, I’m frantic. And stuck at this stupid table.

 
Ten minutes later, I decide, “Screw it!” and abandon my post.

  On our floor, Housekeeping is hard at work along the hallway, including in both of our former rooms. Like a proud idiot, I pretend I’ve forgotten something in my room; I just don’t mention it’s a person. There’s no sign of Betty in either room, so I backtrack down the hall.

  As I board the elevator to ride back to the lobby, I realize I need to start asking around about her. What if something horrible has happened? I can’t let pride and embarrassment delay an investigation, if foul play is involved. I also despise myself for hoping for even a second that foul play, not a simple run-of-the-mill case of morning-after regrets, is to blame for her unexplained disappearance.

  On the main floor, I stride to the reception desk and ask the clerk—the same woman who helped us check in—if she’s seen “Ms. Tate.”

  She looks me up and down, pauses, then says, “She checked out hours ago, Mr. Lipton. I called a cab for her.”

  “What?! Did she say anything else?” I demand, my voice rising and echoing in the peach-scented atrium.

  That’s when she hands me a piece of hotel stationery. “She left this for you.”

  I snatch the paper, hoping for an explanation, but the only thing it contains is a to-do list for conference tear-down, including the address of the nearest FedEx, where I should take any leftover books and merchandise to ship back to Green Bay. Betty even thoughtfully wrote down her address in neat block lettering, in case I don’t know where she lives.

  “What… How did she look when she left?” I hate asking, but I’m desperate for information.

  The clerk wrinkles her nose. “Not good. I could tell she’d been crying. I hope everything’s okay…”

  I want to grab her by her ugly uniform lapels and shake her, but I know it would be a classic case of strangling the messenger, so I merely mumble a thanks at her, ignoring her blatant fishing for more information, and return to my table with my to-do list, which I promptly crumple and throw in one of the empty boxes I’ll supposedly be refilling in a couple of hours and preparing for shipping.

  From several rows away, Yardley sneers at me and mouths, “Nice scarf, asshole.”

  I flip him the bird.

  He laughs. I don’t. I’m too busy to deal with him. Too busy freaking out. Too busy wracking my brain, trying to figure out what the hell happened. Too busy thinking frantically about how to get out of here as soon as possible.

  Within minutes, I have a plan concerning that last thing, at least. Everyone who walks past my table receives a free, hastily-autographed book, a mug, t-shirt, bookmark, and poster. It doesn’t take long for word to spread that Frank Lipton is giving away swag. My table becomes more popular than ever. I bundle my wares as if I’m in a race… or on speed. Sweat collects at the base of my scarf-covered neck and under my arms. When I run out of merchandise, lucky visitors to my table get a book and a picture with a harried, distracted fraud. In no time, I have nothing left to give away.

  I dive under the table, grab my bags, and nearly run for the doors leading to the parking garage, where the rental car sits. While speeding to the airport, I talk non-stop to my phone, trying to arrange for the fastest flight out of this godforsaken town. Unfortunately, the only other plane to Green Bay departed hours ago, probably carrying a white-knuckled Betty, so I’m stuck with my original flight, which means a three-hour wait.

  I fill the majority of that time going over every single word, look, action, and interaction with Betty from last night, searching for clues to what went amiss. The rest of the time I spend texting Betty, who’s finally answering me.

  What the hell is going on?

  Did you get my list at reception?

  Yes. Call me.

  No.

  Can I call you?

  No.

  Why not???

  Are you already done? Did you ship that stuff overnight or two-day?

  There was nothing to ship.

  ??

  I gave everything away and drove to the airport as soon as I realized you were gone. WTF?

  I’ll take care of everything else; don’t worry.

  Don’t worry?? I’m coming to see you as soon as I get back.

  Please don’t.

  I don’t understand! What did I do?

  Forget it. Let it go.

  That’s it. I’ve typed about a hundred different responses to her final text, but I’ve never sent any of them. The only thing I need to tell her is something I can’t—won’t—say in a stupid text message.

  Now I’m on the plane, regretting that I was too apathetic to take a Valium before takeoff. My jiggling leg and I have already received several dirty looks from the lady next to me. The usual me would apologize and explain to her my situation (at least the fear-of-flying part, not “the-woman-I-love-ran-away-from-me-as-fast-as-she-could-after-our-first-sexual-encounter-do-you-think-that’s-a-bad-sign?” part), but the me today wants to tell her to save her dirty looks for someone who cares… or wants to live. All I can think about is getting off this plane and driving as quickly as possible to Betty’s.

  Except… I can’t do that. Because I have to get Reba from Mom and Dad’s, where she’s been staying all weekend. Oh, shit. I have to face Mom and Dad like this? I close my eyes and take deep breaths through my nose.

  The woman next to me sighs. I move to the aisle seat that should be holding Betty, leaving an empty seat between the stranger and me and decreasing the chances of an FAA-reportable incident.

  One more hour…

  Chapter Thirty

  I’ve given up on the texts and voicemail messages, but I’ve shown up at Betty’s house every single day for nearly a week, hoping each day will be the day she’s home. So far, none of those days have been the day.

  Tonight, desperate and feeling no shame, I do something I told myself I’d never do again. But I have no choice.

  “Well, well, well… Calling to face the music?” she says after we’ve dispensed with the pleasantries (and by “dispensed,” I mean, “skipped”).

  I will not let her get to me, I vow to myself.

  “I don’t know what you mean by that, so no. I’m calling to see if you know where Betty is.”

  “Like I’d tell you?”

  My heart races. Still, I keep my voice remarkably steady when I answer, “I hope so. That’s why I’m calling.”

  “Well, you’re an idiot. But I guess we already knew that, considering you gave away hundreds of dollars’ worth of merch and books that I had been planning to make a hefty profit on. I will be sending you an invoice for that.”

  “Whatever. I won’t charge you for that ER visit, and we’ll call it good.”

  “Oh-ho! Someone learned how to play hardball.”

  I sigh. “Frankie, I’m not in the mood for this. I just want to know where Betty is. Or at least know she’s okay.”

  “You know, when I told you to screw her in Atlanta, I didn’t mean to screw it up.”

  What does she know? What did Betty say? What did I do?

  Before I can figure out a way to ask any of those questions without sounding like a complete loser, she reveals, “Ah, well… It’s been fun messing with you, but I have to run. Kyle and I are leaving for Paris in… oh, about now, actually. And I don’t know where Betty is. She’s pissed off at me, I think. Hasn’t said two words to me since coming back from Atlanta. I’m too busy to drag it out of her. But you say she’s not home, huh?”

  “No.”

  “I’d check the cabin, then. That’s usually where she goes during her anti-social kicks.”

  “Oh. Right.” Why didn’t I think of that? “Thanks for the info.”

  “Don’t mention it. And you still owe me for that stuff you gave away. If you think I was ever going to pay that ER bill, you’re nuts. It’s not my fault you got into a pissing match with a vamp-queen. Pay your own damn medical bills.”

  With that, she hangs up, and I back out of Betty’s driveway to drive two hours to the ca
bin.

  *****

  Well, at least it’s a beautiful night. The mosquitoes think so, too. They’re keeping me company on the front porch of the cabin. I haven’t been here since the snowmobiling weekend/disaster six months ago, and I have to say, tonight’s visit isn’t doing anything to redeem the place in my eyes.

  Frankie was right (oh, how it galls me to say that); Betty’s here. Inside. Sans mosquitoes. Resolutely refusing to see or even speak to me. As a matter of fact, she’s so emphatic that I expect a sheriff’s deputy to pull into the gravel driveway any minute now to escort me from the premises.

  Then again, maybe she thinks I’m not here anymore. I’ve been quiet and still for about ten minutes now, and I haven’t seen as much as a twitching curtain in most of that time. Now, I emit a low whistle, trying to decide what my next move will be. I’ve tried begging (“Please, let me in. Or at least tell me why you won’t”), joking (“If this is about your dress, I didn’t mean to rip it. I can learn to sew…”), crying (just a little), and threatening (“I’m going to kick down this door and make you give me a straight answer”).

  That last one was definitely not the right way to go, but I was frustrated! And it wasn’t a horrible, scary threat. She knew I wouldn’t do it. Couldn’t do it. That door looks like something recycled from a medieval castle, not one of those wimpy jobs you can pick up on clearance at the local home improvement store.

  Anyway, now I’m out of ideas. I just want to talk to her face-to-face. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me what happened, what I did that was so wrong. I want her to tell me I imagined that night and all of the feelings associated with it. I want her to tell me there’s nothing I can do to change this, that I need to move on.