Let's Be Frank
LET’S BE FRANK
By Brea Brown
All rights reserved. Copyright © 2014 by Brea Brown
No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted without the express written consent of the author, who can be reached at
www.breabrown.com
.
This is a work of fiction. All similarities to real people and events are coincidental.
Cover art © 2014 by Laura Sellars
ISBN-10: 1495205258
ISBN-13: 978-1495205255
Also by Brea Brown:
The Secret Keeper
The Secret Keeper Confined
The Secret Keeper Up All Night
The Secret Keeper Holds On
The Secret Keeper Lets Go
The Secret Keeper Fulfilled
Daydreamer
Plain Jayne
Quiet, Please!
Coming in 2015:
Let’s Be Real (Nurse Nate Trilogy Book 2)
Out of My League (Underdog Trilogy Book 1)
Author’s Note
This was the hardest book I’ve ever written… three times. Yes. I wrote it three times. Not just going back through what I had and making changes, either. Three full times. Starting with page one, chapter one. Sure, I recycled a few scenes here and there, but none of them are exactly as they were the first or second time around. It’s a completely different book. The protagonist, love interest, and general storyline are even different than when I originally wrote it what seems like seven thousand years ago. Okay, it was only about two years ago. Sue me for exaggerating.
The third time
is
the charm, though… I hope. I’m not writing it again. I don’t think I
have
to, thank goodness. And that’s not just me saying, “This is good enough, and I’m finished with this project!” That’s me actually putting my ultra-picky stamp of approval on this book. That’s me saying I’d like this book if it were written by someone else.
Now comes the time for provisos. First of all, I’m not a man. Let’s just get that out of the way. I live with four guys, so I like to think that buys me honorary entry into the Man Club, but I know it doesn’t work that way. I will never fully understand men (thank goodness), nor will I ever fully think like a man (ditto), so this book, written from the point-of-view of a man, is bound to be a girled-up version of what a man thinks. Otherwise, it would have been 300+ pages of “sex, sex, sex, food, sex…” Am I right? No, I’m being disgustingly sexist, of course, for the sake of comedy. But guys write from female points-of-view all the time and do a passable job of it, and we appreciate it when they don’t assume all we ever think about is shopping.
So I wrote this book from the point-of-view of the character I thought to be the most compelling, a male nurse named Nate Bingham, and I assumed he wouldn’t just think about food and sex all the time. Some of the time, for sure. I also consulted with men to make sure this representation rang true. Since none of them would admit to thinking about sex and food 24/7, they told me Nate seemed like a real guy. Most of the time. I figured that was good enough, even if I suspected my sources were lying.
Second proviso: I’m not a nurse. My protagonist is. I researched his profession as thoroughly as I would any other protagonist’s profession, but I’m bound to have gotten some things wrong. Please, don’t email me to tell me what a moron I am. I already know this, so you’ll be providing redundant information. I try to be as accurate as I can without boring the living daylights out of people. Getting too far into the weeds on hand-washing techniques and standard practices is tedious. It doesn’t fit this genre or matter to this story, either. So if you want to know how nurses really do things, ask a real-life nurse. Nurse Nate is fictional (sometimes I forget that, too) and cannot be held responsible for doing uncharacteristically non-nursey things based on my poetic license.
Third proviso: the publishing industry is waaaaaaaaaaaay more complicated than I’ve depicted it here. Please see explanation above and substitute “writers” for “nurses” and “publication” for “hand-washing.” The only difference between my depiction of nursing and my representation of publishing is that I have first-hand knowledge of the latter. Therefore, I know where I’ve skimmed and dumbed down the process for story’s sake. And you should thank me, because some of it is mind-numbingly boring.
All right. Now that I feel I’ve completely defended myself—and made you worry that you’re about to read the worst book you’ve ever read—I’ll leave you to your reading. I think you’ll like it. And if you do, the best way to thank me (not that I expect any thanks) is to recommend it to your friends and family. If you’re feeling particularly generous, you could even write a review. Or simply stop by
Facebook
and let me know. I’d love that!
Thanks for buying this book and for choosing to spend your valuable time with my characters.
Chapter One
Young Harrison Webster’s tonsils are disgusting. Not only are they extremely swollen, but a white discharge coats them, like yogurt. A pediatric nurse, I see stuff like this all the time, so it doesn’t gross me out as much as it would the average person, I guess. It’s still nasty, though. And I’m glad I’m wearing these latex gloves.
After a thorough look around in the ten-year-old’s mouth, I pull back and turn off the otoscope.
“I feel real bad, Nate,” Harry laments, holding his hand against his neck.
“I bet!” I say with more cheer than I feel as I pocket the otoscope and peel off my gloves, tossing them in the trash can. During a thorough hand-wash, I say over my shoulder, “Looks like you have a very angry throat, Bud.”
I dry my hands and toss the paper towel into a nearby trash can. Then I prop one butt cheek on the edge of the paper-covered examination table and shoot a sympathetic wince at the boy’s mom. “We’ll have to do a test to be sure, but looks like strep. And this is the sixth time this year,” I tell her what she already knows, unless she’s lost count.
She nods and blushes, like she has something to be ashamed of. It’s not her fault kids share gum and always have their hands in their noses and mouths, sometimes in quick succession.
“Yeah. So… what do we do?” she asks me.
Flipping open Harry’s chart and making a note in it, I say, “The next step is up to you. I’ll have to consult with Dr. Reitman, obviously, but she’ll probably recommend that you have Harry’s tonsils removed.”
“Oh, man,” Mrs. Webster mutters.
I look up sharply at her dismayed tone. “Is that going to be a problem? It’ll be better in the long run, you know.”
She waves her hand at me as if to dismiss her own outburst. “No. That’s fine. It’s just… you know, surgery.” She whispers the last word, but the previously spaced-out kid in the room jumps on it.
“What?! Isn’t surgery where they cut you open with a knife… and stuff?”
Before I can answer, his mom soothes, “Nobody has to cut you open for this. Right, Nate?”
The near-pleading in their matching green eyes prompts me to immediately reply with a reassuring smile, “No. No cutting
open
.”
My too-honest qualifier isn’t lost on Harry. “Is it gonna hurt?”
I take a deep breath. “Not at the time. You’ll be asleep. After, you’ll have a sore throat for a few days. But they’ll give you medicine to make it hurt less.”
Spying the time on the clock over the door, I hop from the table and cross to the computer monitor and keyboard mounted to the wall, where I type some information into Harry’s electronic chart and say, “Hey, I had my tonsils removed when I was about your age. Not a big deal. I got to stay home from school and play video games and eat ice cream and Jell-O… It was awesome.”
Harry eyes me suspiciously. “They had video games when you were a kid?”
His mom and I laugh at the dig, and I huff, mock-offended, “Uh! How old do you think I am?”
Following his careful, head-to-toe inspection, during which I pretend to flex my muscles and show him the “best side,” of my face, he determines, “Like, twenty-five?” with a wrinkled nose that clearly expresses his disgusted opinion of that ancient figure.
I relax my posture, shrug, and nod. “Yeah. Close enough,” I state, going back to the computer. If he thinks twenty-five is old, there’s no way I’m going to reveal my real age. “And yes, we had video games back then. They weren’t as fancy as they are now, but we didn’t know any better, and they kept me busy while I was recuperating.”
After I log off the computer, I say to his mother on my way to the door, “I’ll be right back to do the strep test and give you Dr. Reitman’s official recommendation about that tonsillectomy.”
In the hallway, as I’m pulling the door closed behind me, I hear Mrs. Webster say, “Harry! It’s rude to call people ‘old!’” with more bemusement in her voice than embarrassment.
“I didn’t!” he objects.
I grin and turn to head in the direction of the doctor’s office, bumping into the woman, herself, on her way past with her eyes down on a handful of charts. “Oops. Sorry about that,” I say to her while she blinks comically, holding onto my forearm for balance.
“Whoa,” she says with a laugh and shake of her blonde bangs from her eyes. “What’s the rush?”
Apologizing again for the collision, I reveal, “I’m running behind on appointments, and I need to get out of here on time tonight.”
“Hot date?” she teases, then sobers when I’m unable to hide the chagrin her question conjures. “Oh. Sorry. None of my business. Anyway. I’ll stop holding you up.” She lets go of my arm, leaving cool spots where her fingers had been. “Literally. Sorry about that.” The files in her other hand reclaim her attention as she continues toward her office.
“Actually,” I stop her by raising my voice. “I was coming to talk to you, anyway…” Her eyebrows lift. “…about a patient,” I finish.
Her brow smooths, then she bobs her head toward her office. “Come on in.”
I follow her and close the door behind me, since we’ll be discussing confidential information. She rounds her desk and sits in her high-backed leather chair, closing her eyes and rolling her head on her neck. Standing with the desk between us, I clutch Harry’s chart close to my body, in the crook of my arm, and give her a lowdown of the situation.
In order to see as many patients as possible at the clinic, nurses and nurse practitioners see the patients Dr. Reitman can’t fit into her finite schedule. The family nurse practitioners (FNPs) are a bit more autonomous and don’t have to consult the doctor on straightforward cases, like Harry’s. I’m still just a master nurse, so Dr. Reitman does have to sign off on my recommendations. Eventually, I’d like to become an FNP; I simply haven’t gotten around to it… yet.
Okay, to be more honest, I’m dreading the course. It’ll only take me a year to do it, but academics have never been my strong suit. And although the FNP certification course is clinical and doesn’t take place in a traditional classroom, I’m still not relishing the idea of another year of schooling, in any form. After all, I just finished my Master of Nursing (I love how that sounds… Nate Bingham, Master of Nursing!) less than six months ago. It seems like I’ve been in school my whole life. Then again, I know I’m prolonging the agony by putting it off.
