Let's Be Frank (31 page)

“What did I do wrong, other than continue to give you chance after chance after chance, hoping after the novelty of this venture wore off, you’d appreciate everything I’d done for you and reward me for sticking it out? And before you mention it, I don’t count one manipulative blow-job that filled me with self-loathing and instant regret a proper reward.”

“What, you wanted me to marry you, out of some sense of gratitude? That’s... pathetic.”

A montage of moments flashes through my memory. “You said you wanted to marry me! Many times! Without my prompting!”

“I said a lot of things to get you to do what I wanted you to do.”

I close my eyes, hoping I won’t feel as foolish if I can’t see the self-satisfied look on her face. Nope. Still feel like an ass.

My eyes open to her smug consideration of me while she waits for a dramatic reaction I refuse to give her. Instead, I say calmly, “Anyway, I don’t consider myself blameless. I did suggest being the face of your pen name, so the whole mess resulting from that is something I take equal responsibility for.”

Snorting, she tosses my spare Kindle charger onto the bed from across the room, like she’s playing a casual pickup game of basketball. “Okay. Whatever.”

That flippant remark erases any remaining magnanimous feelings I may have been harboring. “No, not ‘whatever.’ If you want to be a bitch about it, I don’t have to be so generous.” When she sighs at that, I snap, “You were
wrong
to use my picture without my express permission, only based on a tipsy conversation in a bar. I think I was more-than-understanding and accommodating when I
caught
you in that ruse.”

“I explained to you why I did what I did!”

“Yeah, you did. Now, I know it was probably all lies, but at the time, I believed you, which is why I agreed to go along with it. That doesn’t excuse your continuing to use me to further your writing career.”

“Oh, poor you! Well, Betty has some great marketing ideas, but they’re not easy to implement. They’re time consuming and require a lot of effort. Seven months of time and effort, in some cases,” she tacks on with a pointed look at me.

Her insinuation confirms my earlier horrific suspicion that I was never her boyfriend and makes me feel faint. I back up to the wall and lean against it, hoping I won’t need more support than that to keep me upright and conscious.

She smirks at me. “Yeah. You may flatter yourself that you came up with the idea to be Frank, but don’t kid yourself.”

Through gritted teeth, I demand, “Stop trying to turn this around on her.”

“Then stop trying to blame
me
for everything. I know it’s easy to make me the villain, because your ego’s bruised, but—”

“It’s easy to make you the villain, because you
are
the villain!”

“That’s completely unfair.”

“Oh, we’re talking about fairness now? Okay. Good. Let’s do that. I have quite a long list of unfair things to discuss with you. Starting with skinny jeans.”

“Betty’s the one who designed Frank’s image, not me. So you can take up your petty wardrobe whines with her.”

“You’re really going to stick with blaming Betty for everything, huh? Because as far as I can tell, she worked ten times harder than you did to try to make this whole ridiculous charade easier for me.”

“Well, she would.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Rage replaces my lightheadedness. I push away from the wall and jab my index finger in her direction. “Stop hinting around at things and come out and say what you want to say!”

She flutters her eyelashes. “I don’t have time to spell it out for you. Ask her yourself.” When all I do is stare her down, she looks away, sweeping her glance around the room, as if searching for more of my things. Ultra-casually, she mumbles, “If you defended me a tenth of the times you’ve defended her in this one conversation, maybe we’d still be together.”

I laugh mirthlessly. “Really? If I had said out loud, ‘I’m sure Frankie doesn’t mean to be a manipulative, self-centered narcissist,’ a few of the thousand times I tried to convince myself of that, you wouldn’t have been screwing Kyle while I worked my ass off to try to make a completely fictitious relationship work? Oh, wow. If only I’d known that…”

So much for “amicable.”

Her eyes flash my way again. “Betty’s not the angel you think she is.”

“I don’t think she’s an angel. But she’s genuine. And she hasn’t lied to me.”

She hurls a sarcastic laugh at me that makes me flinch. “Gosh, you’re dumber than I thought you were. And that’s saying something.”

When all I do is blink at her, she shakes her head, chuckles bitterly again, and snaps, “She’ll deny it, but using you was her idea.”

Bile gathers at the base of my throat.

“Well, not
you
specifically,” Frankie qualifies. “But it was her idea for me to go out on dates to try to find a face for my pen name.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” I croak. “Our first date—”

“Was more like a job interview. And you were perfect. I knew it right away. Not only did you have the right look, but you had that people-pleasing personality that would make you putty in our hands. I couldn’t believe when I introduced you to Betty, and she suddenly turned against the idea. Then again, I don’t know why I was surprised; she’s always been a bit of a flake.”

I remember back to that night, the inexplicable tension at the table when I returned from the bathroom. “You never loved me,” I say out loud what I’ve known for a long time but haven’t had the guts to admit.

She rolls her eyes. “Oh, don’t get all mushy now. I became fond of you. You’re a nice guy. And a hard worker. And I lucked out finding someone who didn’t pressure me to have sex with him in exchange for all that work. Trust me; I didn’t take any of that for granted.”

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes and focus on not puking. “Unbelievable,” I mutter. I step forward and sweep my pile of clothes, toiletries, and other random belongings into a tighter pile that I can pick up. “I think this is everything. If you find anything else of mine, feel free to throw it away. I don’t want it.”

“If you insist.”

“I do. And Betty has all the merch and inventory for the public appearances Frank will
never
be making again.” I struggle with the armful of stuff as I make my way back to the door. “Good luck with everything,” I toss over my shoulder.

At the front door, I scramble to shift items so I can turn the handle and make my grand exit. I lose my grip on half of the things in my arms, however, so t-shirts and underwear flutter into a pile at my feet. When I bend over to pick them up, I drop my toothbrush, which clatters across the tile entryway and under the small table where Frankie throws her keys and mail. On my way up from retrieving the toothbrush, I bump my head on the table, knocking it off-kilter and sending her bills flapping and keys clanging to the floor.

Cursing under my breath, I let everything in my arms go while I right the table, bills, and keys, and open the door. Keeping the door propped with my foot, I gather my personal belongings in a heap, not caring that several t-shirts are hanging as I carry everything down the stairs and to my car. I also have to backtrack halfway across the parking lot after I throw my stuff into my backseat and notice while getting into my car that I’ve dropped a pair of my underwear.

Not the most graceful, impactful exit I’ve ever made, but… it was probably memorable. That has to count for something.

*****

A Prius doesn’t lend itself to angry, aggressive driving, but if it did, I’d be grinding gears and flooring the gas pedal and squealing my tires during my retreat from Frankie’s. As it is, I’m doing all those things in my head and ignoring the fact that the car is carrying on, as usual, with its smooth whirring and humming and silent idling, oblivious to my destructive intent.

How dare
she? How
dare
she? It’s everyone’s fault but hers, the person who manipulated and lied and cheated her way through the better part of a year of my life? What the hell?

Trust me, I blame myself plenty. I blame myself for being blind and stupid and passive and naïve and spineless and for not learning anything from my past relationships, apparently, no matter how much I’ve tried to tell myself I’m smarter for having lived through them. This proves I’ve learned
nothing.
In fact… I’m
dumber
than ever, because I’ve allowed past experiences to blind me to current truths. And I’m right back where I was a year ago.

Only, I’m even worse off than I was before I’d ever heard Frankie’s name. Because at least back then, I was somewhat happy with my life. I’d just bought a house, I still had some faith in humanity, my brother was equally single and unattached (or so I thought… ignorance
is
bliss), and the biggest worry I had was feeling uncomfortable about the fact that I didn’t buy my boss’s house and may have offended her.

Plus, I was seven months younger. Let’s not forget that I recently “celebrated” a birthday. I’m fast-approaching my mid-thirties but back to being perpetually-single Nurse Nate. Time is relentlessly advancing, and I’m no closer to having the life I want than I was when I first graduated from nursing school and felt like life was full of possibilities.

What a crock! Life isn’t full of possibilities; it’s full of false hope and disappointment. And my closet is full of ridiculous clothing I’ll never wear again.

Fuck. I don’t want to go home. I want to drink. But that’s probably not the wisest decision—mentally or physically—right now. Anyway, who would I drink with? I’ve fallen hopelessly out of touch with all of my friends during the past few months, and my brother… Well, I don’t want to be in the presence of Nick and Heidi’s newly-wedded bliss tonight. It might send me over the edge. The only other person whose name pops persistently to mind is off-limits. Gone. Another part of the past. And probably not the person I thought she was, anyway.

She knew the whole time. She knows what a fool I’ve been. She knows. She knew. She
knew
.

To my horror, I feel my eyeballs starting to sweat. Oh, hell no. I’m not going to cry. Uh-uh.

I blink and sniff and swallow repeatedly, willing myself to think of something happy. Or funny. Or maddening. But not sad or pitying. Anything but that.

As I’m waging this Herculean war against my emotions, my thoughts return to what I really need in my life: loyalty, appreciation, and unconditional love. I was a fool to think I’d get that from a woman, much less Frankie, that lying, manipulative, cruel bitch.

Well, no more bitches for this guy! The only bitch I’m interested in right now is a dog. And even then… I have a sinking feeling a female dog might be too complicated and high-maintenance for me to handle. Male creatures only, please.

I sniff and dab my nose on the back of my hand, the idea taking root now. I’ll get a manly man’s dog. Yeah! I’ll call him something cool, something that screams, “I’m a bachelor, and I love it! Look at my awesome, bachelor-y dog.” Schwarzenegger. Or Stalone. Or… I’ll Google some other sweaty-looking dudes later. Or not. That doesn’t sound like a very fun Saturday night, now that I think about it.

Whatever his name ends up being, I picture my future companion as a yellow Lab with a lolling tongue and delightfully vacant eyes, like that dumb dog in the movie,
Up
. (Oh, gosh… I can’t think about that movie, or I’ll really start crying.)

My furry pal and I are going to be great friends with our compatible IQs. He’ll go for runs with me. I’ll bathe him with a hose in the backyard in the summer and in the bathtub in the winter. He’ll let me rest my feet on him in the evenings while I read on the couch or watch TV. We’ll be swingin’ single guys.

No girls allowed.

Chapter Twenty-One

I’ve been stalking the local animal shelters’ websites for a couple of weeks, waiting for the perfect dog to come up for adoption. I didn’t want to show up at a shelter without a specific dog in mind, because I knew I’d get suckered into adopting the most pathetic mutt there, possibly even one of those hairless things that can’t keep its tongue in its mouth, because it has no teeth. No, I had to have a plan. A firm plan. And now I do. Because today, I spotted Sherlock on one of the sites.

Sherlock’s going to help me pretend to be a little less lonely. Maybe I can train him to bring me beers. Or carry my tool belt.

That thought elicits a goofy smile. Man, this is going to be great!

Someone drives into the lot and pulls behind the building, where I assume the employees and volunteers park. A glance at the clock on my phone tells me I have ten minutes to wait until they open the doors. My car’s still the only one in the parking lot, which is good, because it means I won’t have to fight anyone for Sherlock.

My heartbeat picks up pace, though, when a minivan glides beside me and pulls even with the parking space in front of mine. Without being too obvious, I size up my competition. Shit. A family with one of those stick-figure renderings on their back window. The only thing they’re missing is a stick-dog.