Let's Be Frank (25 page)

She gleefully claps her hands while I come around the back of the couch and sit next to her, pulling my laptop closer to me on the coffee table and opening the files I uploaded from my phone as soon as I got home in the wee hours of the morning. We settle next to each other and cycle through the tame snapshots from the beginning of the evening (Nick and his other groomsmen hamming it up for the camera in the back of the rented limo, everyone taking their turns saluting the camera with their drink of choice, etc.). She giggles as the subjects of the pictures become progressively rowdier, and her jaw drops at a photo of Nick in his underwear on a mechanical bull.

“Oh my gosh! What the…?”

We’re still laughing at the picture when my phone rings.

“Speak of the devil… He’s probably only been up for a few hours. Bastard,” I grumble jealously and tap my phone screen to answer as loudly as possible, “YELLO!”

“Oh… you are such an asshole,” he rasps in my ear.

I put the call on speaker so Betty can enjoy the conversation, but I place a finger against my lips. Nick won’t say anything interesting if he knows she’s listening.

As it is, he immediately asks, “Hey, am I on speakerphone?”

“Yes, but I’m alone,” I lie. “I’m… uh… cleaning, so I need both hands.”

Since that’s consistent with my personality, he doesn’t question it but starts moaning about how sick he feels, hypothesizing that someone put something in his drink (singular, as if he only had one).

Betty, pointing to the laptop monitor mouths,
“He’s so hairy!”

I cover my laugh with a cough. “Uh… what? No. Nobody put anything in your drinks, Bud. C’mon! Would I, your brother and best man, let anything like that happen?”

He mutters, “I guess not.”

“I had your back. Maybe you can’t hold it like you used to. You’re gettin’ old.”

“Nah, Bro. I’m fine,” he quickly reverses his earlier claims. “Just a little dehydrated, I guess. I’m glad we did that last night, though. If I was getting married today, I’d be hurtin’.”

“That Heidi… she’s a smart one,” I gush, making a gagging face at Betty, who covers her mouth to contain her laughter.

I motion for her to keep looking through the pictures but move away from the couch, knowing she’s about to come across one that I won’t be able to see without losing it. I turn my back to her and the laptop and walk to the kitchen, where I open the fridge to grab two bottles of green tea.

“Listen, Bro,” Nick says now. “You didn’t happen to, uh, take any pictures last night, did you?”

Smoothly, I answer, “Just a couple, before things got… fun. I sort of forgot to keep taking them. Sorry.”

“No, no. That’s okay. Don’t worry about it. It’s probably for the best. I mean—”

Suddenly, Betty’s throaty laugh echoes in the high-ceilinged living room, and I know she’s reached my favorite pic. It’s Nick, drinking from a bottle of beer with one of those novelty penis straws, popular at bachelorette parties. His eyes rolled back in his head, he looks like he’s giving a blow job to a Keebler elf.

“What’s that?” Nick demands.

Merely imagining the photo makes me giggle. “Nothing,” I say, deep breathing to keep it together. “I… I have
Pretty Woman
playing in the background while I clean. You were saying…?”

He pauses. “Shit. I can’t remember. Never mind. I’m glad you didn’t take many pictures. Although… it would be nice to fill in the blanks. I can’t remember getting home, or anything. That freaks me out.”

“Well, you were perfectly safe. I wasn’t even buzzed.”

“Thanks, man. I owe you one.”

I wonder if he’ll still feel that way after I post his bachelor party photos on Facebook, tagging both him and Heidi in every one of them. I figure I’ll wait until a couple of weeks after their honeymoon. I want him to be both humiliated
and
firmly wed to the woman who sleeps in full headgear and spends the equivalent of a small country’s annual gross domestic product bleaching every hair on her body… and her anus.

It’s taken more than two decades, but the time has come to get back at him for blaming me for the slingshot murder of Mom’s beloved parakeet, Snacks. This is going to be some sweet, sweet revenge.

Since Betty’s now no longer making any effort to be quiet, and she’s taken to slapping her hand against the couch, I tell Nick I’m getting ready to vacuum and say a quick goodbye after imploring him to drink plenty of water.

I return to the living room with our beverages and stand over a prone Betty. “Are you going to be okay?”

“No,” she gasps. “I’m not. Those… are… incredible.”

I grin proudly. “Yeah. I know. By the end of the night, they were all so wasted, they were doing everything I told them to do, no questions asked. I felt like a hypnotist. ‘Cluck like a chicken.’ ‘Eat that peanut off the floor, but pick it up with your mouth.’ ‘Drink from that bottle with this phallic straw.’”

“You’re evil.”

“Maybe.” I give her a hand up, and she takes the tea from me as she swings her legs in front of her and makes room for me to sit.

“Thanks.”

“I’d offer you something more… adult… but I don’t have any wine in the house, and I know you don’t drink beer,” I say, trying to sound casual. It’s true I don’t have any wine, but I’d rather not go into why I’m glad I don’t.

“This is perfect,” she says over the crack and subsequent pop of the seal breaking on the glass bottle’s metal cap as she twists it off.

“So, what’s up?” I ask for the third time, leaning back into the couch cushions. “Lonely this weekend, since Frankie’s stuck in Chicago?” I stare at the wooden beams over our heads and wait for an answer that never comes. The tense silence holds until I find the courage to glance her way.

She swipes at the lipstick on her bottle. “Um… about that…”

Suddenly terrified about what she may have come here to say, I babble, “I, for one, am kind of relieved. Does that make me a bad boyfriend?”

A tiny head shake is all the response I get, so I continue before she gets the wrong idea, “I knew I’d be busy with Nick’s party and work and… I’d love to have some alone time, especially since the wedding is next weekend, and we have a book signing in Eau Claire the weekend after that, but my parents have claimed at least part of the day tomorrow. Dad’s dusting the snow off the grill, or something. I guess I can’t blame them; they haven’t seen me in weeks. I wish they’d just wait until the wedding.”

Betty suddenly stands. “Well, as long as you’re okay with it.”

Oh, gosh! She
does
remember the kiss. And she’s here to hash it out with me. And
am
I okay with it? Is it okay for me to be okay with it? Probably not. I should probably say something responsible here, like,
“You know, Betty… that was wrong. And I know you were drunk, but it still wasn’t right. And that can never happen again.”
But all I can do is squeak a stalling, “Okay with it?” and wait for her to say the next thing.

“Frankie staying in Chicago,” she answers with a tiny shrug, heading for the door.

Oh. That. Am I okay with that? I’m much more okay with it than talking about that kiss on Betty’s front stoop.

My hair scratches against the upholstery as I crane my neck to follow her retreat, but I don’t move any other part of my wasted body. “What’s not to be okay about it? She missed the last flight to Green Bay last night. It made no sense to get a flight today, only to turn around and fly back out Monday morning.”

“Right. But… Never mind. You’re right. I’m being weird.”

I laugh. “Kind of. What’s going on?”

She attempts her own laugh, but it comes out more like a croak. “Nothing. Probably. I’m sure.” With a determined head shake, she holds up the bottle of tea, backtracks to get her purse from the floor, and says, “Thanks for the drink. I guess I’d better go. I don’t even have a dress yet for the wedding. I have the perfect shoes, of course, but the dress… well, almost anything will do with the shoes I have. Nobody’s going to be looking at the dress. And I don’t want to show up the bride. That’s bad form.”

I thought for sure with Frankie’s newfound jealousy, she’d rethink her brilliant plan to have Betty go as my date to Nick and Heidi’s wedding, but it seems Frankie’s envy is situational, which is convenient for her. Not so much for me.

Plus, maybe this is Frankie’s way of punishing me. She apologized for telling Kyle about Frank and for leaving the restaurant with him last weekend, and she’s been sweet as can be this week, sacrificing her evening writing time to talk to me every night on the phone, but that only makes me feel guilty and puts me on alert, waiting to see how she’s going to make me pay. I have a feeling she thinks taking Betty to Nick’s wedding as my date is my penance. I’m just not sure how. And that makes me even more nervous, of course.

Considering how much time Betty and I have been spending together lately, it doesn’t seem as big of a deal as it was when Frankie first proposed the date at my parents’ house four months ago. (Has it only been four months? Seems like a lifetime!) Then again, considering what happened last week after the double date… But Frankie has no idea about that, of course. I hope.

Oh, gosh. Wait. Does she? I frantically recollect every conversation I’ve had with her since that kiss, trying to determine if she
does
know. Could that explain why she’s being so sweet to me? She feels threatened and has decided she should be nicer to me? Or she’s trying to draw me off my guard so she can sucker punch me with the information later and guilt me into doing something truly terrible? Like, taking her to a Packers game? Or worse, a
pre-season
game?

Betty interrupts my panicked pondering. “You don’t happen to have your tux already, do you? I could take the bow tie with me to make sure I don’t get anything that clashes.”

At her mention of the hot pink tie and cummerbund I’ll be sporting in front of hundreds of people next weekend, I groan. “Don’t remind me. And no, my final fitting isn’t until Wednesday.”

“I’ll steer clear of reds and oranges, then.”

“Sounds like a great plan,” I mumble distractedly.

“I’ll leave you alone.”

I jump from the couch but keep the piece of furniture between us. “Betty… uh… did you… uh…. I mean…”

She widens her eyes and laughs. “Well, spit it out, Nathaniel!”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I say, “Never mind.”

“You sure?”

I release a self-deprecating chuckle. “Yeah. I’m… I’m tired, that’s all. Sorry. See you next weekend.”

She repeats my farewell in a wary tone and pulls open the front door.

As soon as she’s gone, I collapse on the sofa again, my mind too weary to fight the rampant daydreams of her lips on mine.

Chapter Seventeen

Weddings are such a pain in the ass, but they’re ten times worse when you’re part of the wedding party—and about fifty times worse when you’re the best man. Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on how you look at it), I’m a pro at this gig, having done it four times prior to today. And in this latest case, I’ve reached the home stretch. The bachelor party has been organized, held, and overseen. The final tux fittings have been suffered through. I’ve picked up the rings, kept my brother’s feet nice and toasty (so glad that’s figurative) leading up to that walk down the aisle, and written and delivered a decent speech for the reception. I’ve even overseen the defacing of the getaway car. Now it’s time for me to kick back and avoid everyone’s pitying stares and whispers—“Who’s that bombshell with Nate?” “Some chick named Betty. His beard, probably.” “I thought he was dating someone. Freddie? Frankie?” “Sounds about right. The dude should just come out of the closet already.” “No, really. I think it’s a woman.” “Tranny?” “No, a real woman!” “Whatever. I have some historical artifacts in my garage to sell you, when you’re done buying that story.”—for the rest of the reception.

I’m also trying not to think of the colossal argument Frankie and I had on the phone last night.

A fight wasn’t the objective of my call. The point of the call was to wish her dad a happy birthday, but after Sam returned the phone to his daughter, she was curt and dismissive, so I steeled myself and asked the question I didn’t care to know the answer to: “What’s wrong?”

She hedged for a while, but when I was about to let it go and hang up so I could sit by myself in my empty house and fully dread the next day’s “festivities,” she blurted, “Kyle thinks you need to be tweeting and posting more on Facebook as Frank.”

“Does he want to take over the job?” I offered through gritted teeth.

“See? I knew I shouldn’t say anything.”

“Yet, you still did.”

“You asked me what was wrong!”

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I advised, “Next time, if the answer involves that guy, lie and tell me you have cramps. I’ll be a lot more sympathetic.”

Her sneer was audible. “Your jealousy toward him is pathetic. And a major turn-off, by the way.”

“How would I know the difference?”

“Excuse me?”