Let's Be Frank (13 page)

Her mouth remains fixed in the shape of a smile, but it’s as if a curtain has drawn to a close behind her chocolate irises, blocking any light from my view. “You mean, Kyle?”

“I guess. Is that his name?”

“Yeah.”

“How do you know him?”

She laughs nervously. “He’s just a guy who rides that shuttle from Chicago nearly every week, like me. He’s the CEO of a software company, or something, down there. But he’s from here and stays here most weekends.”

“Oh. With his wife and kids?”

“No, he’s single. Why?”

I shrug, trying to rearrange my features into something less pouty. “No reason. Just… you two seem friendly.”

“I know you’re not jealous.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“Exactly. That would be insane.”

I’d like to know exactly why she thinks it would be crazy, but since I’m supposedly not jealous, it’s not worth pursuing.

Before I can recover, she goes in for a kiss. “This week was nuts,” she says against my lips.

Primal parts of my body react to the contact. “Uh, yeah. It was.”

After a soft, glancing smooch, she grasps hold of her luggage handle and walks ahead of me. “Thanks for the roses. They’re gorgeous.”

I take over driving her suitcase for her. “You’re welcome. I… I hope it’s not too cliché. I just wanted to show you I missed you. Happy Valentine’s Day… belatedly.”

“Well done.”

“Really?” The muscles in my shoulders relax for the first time in hours.

“Yeah. I love flowers. Did Betty tell you that? She’s such a sneak and didn’t let on at all that you were planning this.”

Mentally smacking myself in the forehead for not thinking about consulting Betty, I merely admit, “It didn’t occur to me to ask her.”

It’s true, but in addition, I’m wary about being in touch with Betty when Frankie’s out of town. Don’t get me wrong; I like Betty. And the more I get to know her, the more I like her. She’s fun to be around, and I count her as one of my friends. But she’s a couple-friend friend, you know? I mean, I hang out with her when Frankie’s around, but if Betty and I were to hang out alone, that would be… odd. Not awkward or uncomfortable, but not natural-feeling, either, so I don’t seek out her company. It’s my way of ensuring I don’t talk to my girlfriend’s friend more than I talk to my girlfriend.

“Well, next time, you should consult her. She knows everything about me… including my underwear size.”

I slam into a guy on his way into the airport as I process the last part of her sentence, and my brain (yeah, we’ll pretend that’s the body part at play here) nearly short-circuits.

“Hey!” the stranger barks.

“Sorry,” I mutter, too busy following Frankie’s swaying hips to stop and give the guy a more sincere apology. Catching up, I say, “Duly noted.”

She smiles then winces and rubs her head.

“Are you okay?”

She nods wanly. “Yeah. I didn’t sleep well last night, so I have a bad headache.”

“Oh.” I push down my disappointment. “Let’s get you home, then. You probably need to eat something, too. We can pick up something on the way. Or I can drop you off and go to the grocery store to grab something for you.” I stop, then say, “This way,” leading her to the row in the short-term parking lot where my car is.

She’s quiet for the rest of the walk, but as I stow her laptop bag and rolling suitcase in the trunk, she says over her roses, “I ate during my layover. I just need to sleep.”

“Of course.” I hurry around to the passenger side of the car and open the door for her. She rewards my chivalry with a kiss on my cheek on her way down to her seat.

When I take the wheel, she waits for me to start the car, then places her hand over mine on the gear shift. “You went to so much trouble. I feel bad putting a damper on your plans.”

I shoot her a brave smile and lie, “This is the extent of any ‘plan’ I had. I wanted to meet you here so you didn’t have to take a cab home. I’ll help you get settled, and I’ll leave you alone to get some rest. We can do something tomorrow.”

She nods, setting her bouquet by her feet. “Okay. I have a mountain of laundry to do, but…”

“I’ll take it home with me tonight.”

“You will?”

I back from the parking space. “Might as well. That way, we can do something fun tomorrow and not worry about it.”

She draws her knees to her chest, rests her forehead against her knees, and mumbles, “You’re too good to me.”

A statement that should make me proud fills me with irrational dread, but the feeling is fleeting, replaced by tenderness as I glance over at her, spying a sliver of milky, white neck peeking through her hair. I make a mental note to kiss that spot tomorrow, when she’s feeling better.

Chapter Nine

Before I could take home Frankie’s mountain of laundry (uh… she wasn’t exaggerating about that, by the way), I spent an hour de-funking her refrigerator and kitchen, since it smelled like something died in there while she was away last week. Turns out, a carton of already-expired
milk doesn’t improve with age and neglect. Leftovers in Styrofoam takeout containers also don’t stand the test of time.

She bravely stood by for a few minutes, insisting she’d take care of it, but the deepening green around the edges of her eyes and mouth as we unearthed more and more rotten food told a different story, and she eventually wandered off to take some aspirin and a shower.

By the time I dumped the bleach water, disposed of a huge black trash bag of “food” in the dumpster out back, and returned to her apartment, she was fast asleep on her bed, her wet hair splayed on her pillow. I resisted the urge to watch her while she slept, telling myself I was too busy for such melodramatics, but I indulged in a kiss to the top of her head. Then I took three trips to my car with basket after basket of her dirty clothes.

Nothing says “I love you” like housekeeping, right? It’s a decent start on the huge undertaking I now know is before me, after seeing her with that guy in the airport.

Frankie and I have been dating exclusively for three months. That might not sound like a long time, but it’s a veritable eternity compared to every other relationship I’ve had in the past three years. I’ll admit, though, that I’ve been coasting. I’m hardly putting forth any effort at all, as if just because she’s not around during the week, that means I’m off the boyfriend hook.

And on the weekends, when we are together, I’ve become complacent and lazy. A typical Friday or Saturday night consists of us going out to eat and seeing a movie. I swear, we’ve seen every new release, including the animated ones, since we met in November, but I couldn’t tell you the last time we had a deep, meaningful conversation.

Even today’s surprise was something planned more out of obligation than because I wanted to do it: “It’s that time of year; we were apart for Valentine’s Day; I guess I should make some kind of romantic gesture, because that’s what decent boyfriends do. Sigh.”

But seeing her face all lit up when she was talking to Kyle at the airport, before she realized I was there, stirred a jealousy in me that I didn’t even know was possible. I didn’t think I cared enough to be jealous. Well, I do. And that’s a huge relief. But she didn’t seem to appreciate my brief display of territoriality. If I don’t get a grip and start showing her I care in ways that don’t make her want to punch me, she won’t stick around much longer.

And how do you show a woman you care? You cook for her. At least, I do. Tomorrow, she’ll experience a home-cooked meal from my kitchen. She doesn’t have to understand the significance; I know it’s big. With one load of Frankie’s laundry tumbling in the dryer and another spinning in the washer, I tug a purple fleece-lined sweatshirt over my other layers and head for the grocery store, everyone’s favorite place to be on a Friday night.

At the store, I grab one of those mini-carts for the lonely—I mean, single—and zoom through the aisles, tossing in the ingredients for chicken tortellini, salad, marinated eggplant, and my homemade tiramisu.

I’m double-checking my list, making sure I didn’t forget anything, when a sultry voice behind me says, “Not many men can pull off purple like that.”

I whirl to see Betty behind her own sportscart. I give her a nervous smile. “Oh. Hey. You’re… here.”

She does that acrobatic eyebrow thing while patting herself. “Why, yes. Yes, I am. I’m not a mirage.”

I blush at my stupidity. “I meant… I’ve never seen you at this store before.”

“I always shop here on my way home from the gym, so I’ve been here…” She closes one eye and looks up toward her bangs. “…three other times.”

“New gym membership?”

“Nope. I just never go. It’s such a meat market.”

My eyes gravitate toward her cart. I can’t help it. I have a thing about analyzing the contents of other shoppers’ carts, and I have to say, I’m particularly fascinated to see what Betty’s basket says about her. Anything to give me some clues as to what makes her tick.

I still haven’t quite figured her out. Frankie likes to tease me and say I’m afraid of her, but that’s definitely not it. I’ve seen for myself what Frankie told me the first time I met Betty: her toughness is a big front most of the time.

It’s the other part of the time I’m not so sure about, though. One minute, she’s confident and sassy; then, a simple, seemingly innocuous word from Frankie renders her quiet and contemplative. Usually, she excuses herself at that point and leaves. It’s odd.

As for her reactions to me, I never know if she’s going to laugh along with something I’ve said or eviscerate me with a scathing comment about my bushy eyebrows. (Okay, she hasn’t mentioned them since that first meeting, but now I have a complex.) Other times, she’ll take me completely by surprise by complimenting me, and I’ll feel like we’ve made a breakthrough and have finally started to feel comfortable around each other. The bottom line is, she’s unpredictable. Unpredictable makes me nervous.

Tonight, as I’m silently approving of the Listerine and dental floss in her cart, it moves, and she clears her throat dramatically. “Excuse me, but… none of your business!”

I raise my eyes to her face and say, “Sorry. But there’s no expectation of privacy in a shopping cart.”

“It’s an unspoken social norm. It’s like when guys stand next to each other at the urinals. You don’t sneak a peek then, do you?”

Horrified, I reply, “No! But that’s different. Anyway, there’s nothing shameful in your cart. Oral hygiene is closely linked to heart health, and red wine is full of antioxidants.” I pause, then mutter, “That’s a lot of antioxidants you have there, but…”

“Thank you for your concern,” she replies drolly, pulling even with me and poking her fingers through my basket. “Now, your turn.” When she can’t find anything to criticize, she accuses me of being boring, then says, “You hit the junk food and personal hygiene aisles last, don’t you, so you don’t have to wander around the store with a bunch of embarrassing stuff in your basket. Smart.”

I laugh. “You got me.”

“I know your type. Mr. All-American, with your whole foods in clear containers on your kitchen counter for everyone to see, but your locked pantry is full of high fructose corn syrup.”

“Like, in bottles? For chugging?”

“In all forms. I bet you love fruit snacks.”

I smile guiltily. “I’ve been known to partake.”

“Oh, my gosh! I was kidding.”

I shrug. “I wasn’t. They’re better for you than most candies.”

“How about nature’s candy, Nathaniel?” She gestures to the bananas, grapes, and strawberries in her basket.”

“It’s the middle of winter. Fruit sucks right now.”

She nods. “I know. I end up throwing half of it away.” Suddenly, she pounces on something in her cart. “Oh, here’s something you
must
approve of!” she says, hoisting it at eye level.

I pull my head back to avoid being smacked in the nose with the half-gallon pump bottle of antibacterial hand gel. “Good for you. Actually, I’m not a fan, but… whatever.”

“Not a fan?”

“Nope. Why not just wash your hands?”

“Sometimes I don’t have access to water.”

“You carry that around in your purse? It’s huge!”

She laughs. “Okay, no. I refill my travel-sized bottles with bigger bottles like this. It’s cheaper to buy in bulk, you know?” She sets the gel in her cart, carefully avoiding a half-dozen egg flat, and wipes her hands against her yoga pants, as if she’s handled the bottle after someone dirty.

“Well that stuff’s not good for the environment,” I inform her, trying not to sound too preachy as I state the facts. “And it’s responsible for antibiotic resistance and, in some extreme cases, UV sensitivity and hormone reactions.”

“You’re making this shit up.”

“I’m not! Google it!”

“I have better things to do, like… clean behind my refrigerator.”

I give a conceding nod and wince. “Yeah. I’m way overdue for that.”

She shoots me a look that tells me she’s not sure if I’m being serious. Good. See how she likes it.