Let's Be Frank (40 page)

Say something Frank-like, you dumb-ass
, I taunt internally.

“Maybe… you’d rather be next to Ms. Delaney?” George prods.

My eyes land on Margot Delaney’s place card. I happen to know from scoping out her website on the way here that she’s a hot redhead who not only writes chick lit but also erotica. She’s here to promote her more mainstream books, but I’d still much rather sit next to her than Yardley Cummins.

I’m about to say just that when Betty shakes her head forcefully. “No, no! He’s fine where he is.”

He looks back and forth between her and me. “Or I could switch Ms. Delaney with Mr. Cummins…” he posits unsurely. “It’s just… she doesn’t get along with Willa Nightsong, so then I’d have to move her, too, and—”

“It’s perfect the way you originally had everything,” Betty assures him, grabbing my arm and pinching me above my elbow.

“Ow!” I hiss, pulling away from her. Since she’s resorting to physical abuse, I decide to defer to her expertise, and I grudgingly agree that George should return Frank’s name card to its original spot.

“Remember, it’s good to meet new people,” Betty says. “I’m sure Yardley’s interesting claims are mostly for show, you know, part of a persona. He’s appealing to his readers’ obvious interests.”

“Well, it’s dumb,” I mutter like a sulking child. “If the guy shows up in a cape, I’m moving.”

“That’s fair,” she replies, patting my arm in a placating fashion and tossing a long-suffering smile at George, who’s either too used to this brand of behavior for it to be remarkable or too professional to show when he thinks someone’s being a diva.

“I’m glad you approve, Betty,” I say in the haughtiest tone I can muster. “Now, I’ll be able to sleep tonight.” Turning my attention back to George, I state dismissively, “Okay, then. You’ve been very helpful. See you tomorrow at ten. I’ll be bringing my own water.”

“Uh, very well, Mr. Lipton.”

Betty rolls her eyes toward George as if to commiserate about the eccentricities of creative types. He quickly looks away, and we make our exit.

Once clear of the room, she whispers through clenched teeth, “If you think I’m lugging around your stupid cooler for you all day tomorrow, you’re crazy.”

I giggle under my breath while we wait for the elevator. “I believe, as part of my entourage of one, that responsibility falls to you. Sorry.”

“You’re an idiot.” Her statement has no bite to it as she steps into the newly-arrived elevator car and faces front.

I follow her, jabbing at the button for our floor. “Well, after Sunday, you won’t be subjected to my idiocy anymore, so…”

I tried to deliver it lightly, while staring at the floor numbers lighting up above the double doors, but the words have fallen like medicine balls between us in the peach-scented box. Neither of us says another word for the duration of the ride.

When we step onto our floor and make our way down the hall, she murmurs, “We keep saying goodbye; yet…”

Coming to a stop at my door, I stare down at the key card in my hand and chuckle. “Yeah. Well, maybe this time, it’s for good. And maybe that’s for the best.” I’m saying what I think she wants to hear, trying to make this easier for her, even though it makes me want to puke. I glance up and smile ruefully.

Her face falls so far, I think it might drop right off the front of her head. She turns and jams her key card into the slot—hard enough that I worry she’s going to snap it in two. Without another word, she storms into her room.

I stare after her, my mouth hanging open, much like the door in front of me. Tentatively, I cross the hall to follow her and close the door behind me, but I keep the bed between us as she stands by the balcony, her back to me. Unlike my pool view, her room looks down on a blacktop parking lot, complete with grotty dumpster.

“Hey,” I begin. “I’m sorry if I said the wrong thing.”

She tersely shakes her head but doesn’t say anything. I’m afraid she’s crying, but I’m too much of a wimp to move closer and confirm or disprove my suspicion.

Finally, her choked voice verifies my fear. “I get it,” is all she manages before she can’t continue.

Now I do draw nearer to her. Only a heartless bastard could maintain such a distance from someone so obviously distressed. “Betts, I—”

“No.” She halts me with one word when I’m still a good ten feet away. Swiping under her eyes, she takes a deep breath, then sniffs. “It’s fine. Well, it’s not fine, but… I’d rather you be honest than feed me a line.”

“Feed you a line…?”

She turns and hugs herself. “Yeah. You know, tell me we’ll stay in touch, that we’ll still be friends, when really, you want nothing to do with me.”

“I’d never—”

“I know. You’re not like that. You’re a good, honest guy. And I understand if
this
…” She runs her hand up and down in front of her body, then circles her face with her index finger. “…isn’t something you want to take on.”

What is she even saying? My throat aches and burns; my head pounds. “I love you, Betty.” Unfortunately, because I’ve tacked her name on the end, it comes out more like a friendly reassurance than a heartfelt declaration, but it’s a start.

She smirks and chuckles bitterly. “Right. Everyone does. I work hard to make sure of it.”

“I can relate to that.”

“I know you can. That’s why I wanted you to read that book.” We both know which one she’s talking about, so she doesn’t have to specify further. “I hoped you’d understand me better, not think less of me.”

Her presumption makes my temper flare as hot as my indigestion. “There’s only one person I think less of after reading that book, and it’s not you. It’s
her
.”

“She didn’t tell any lies. It’s all true. Well… up to a certain point in the timeline, obviously. And even then, she used details from a long-running fantasy I’ve had about being reunited with… him.”

“Your son?”

She nods, and two tears shake loose, plopping onto her shirt.

I step forward. She steps back.

Taking the hint, I halt but say, “She took things she knew, things you told her in confidence, and used them, capitalized on them, for her own ends. That’s wrong. She exposed your most private experiences to strangers.”

Betty shrugs. “Whatever. At that point, it had been a long time. And the book has a happy ending.”

“Well, I’m pissed off enough for both of us, then. She’s a user. A manipulator! And she doesn’t give a shit about anyone else or anyone else’s feelings but her own. Can’t you see that? Why do you continue to let her walk all over you?”

“Why did
you
?” she retorts.

Staring at her for a few seconds, I think about it. Then I sniff and clear my throat and give her a less-than-honest, “I don’t know,” because it’s better for her to believe I’m stupid than for her to know the painful, embarrassing truth.

She lifts her chin. “Well, my story is as much her story as it is mine.”

“Bullshit.”

“I really believe that.”

“So,
Frankie
was abandoned by Chris…”

“What…? Wait… How do you know his real name?”

Rather than lose steam on my argument, I trust she’ll figure out I learned his name from her so-called best friend and continue, “…
Frankie
had a baby and gave him up for adoption;
Frankie
came out stronger—yet more vulnerable—for it? Is that it?”

“She was there for me through all of that, when nobody else was.”

“Big fucking deal. Hundreds of other people would have been there for you, and they wouldn’t have held it over your head for the rest of your life.”

“But nobody else was. Who are these hundreds of people? Where were they? My own mother couldn’t deal. She wrote me a check for an abortion because, ‘Having a baby when you’re as young as you are will ruin your life.’ She was twenty when she had me, a year younger than I was at the time
I
got pregnant.”

I bite my lower lip as her revelation actually causes me physical pain—in addition to the burning—in my chest.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she orders.

“I’m not.”

“You are. I didn’t tell you to read it so you’d pity me; I told you to read it so you’d understand me.”

“And I do. Mostly. What I don’t understand is how someone as strong and beautiful and smart and funny and… wonderful… as you are can let someone like Frankie convince you otherwise.”

“She knows the real me.”

Before she can react or move away, I close the gap between us and grasp her upper arms. My need to convey the following overrides my paranoia that my breath may singe off her eyebrows. “She’s invented the ‘real’ you. It’s a figment of her imagination. And you’ve suspended your disbelief, like a good little reader, and have bought into it… most of the time.”

She squeezes her eyes closed and shakes her head as if she can’t bear to hear what I’m saying. That, or my breath really does smell bad. But I can’t worry about that right now. I have a point to make.

“Hey,” I say, barely above a whisper.

Eyes still closed, she replies at the same volume, “What?”

“Look at me.”

She does, through wet eyelashes.

“You know better. I’ve seen the flashes of self-awareness—true intuition—you’ve had around her. I’ve seen you break from the trance and assert yourself. And I’ve witnessed her punish you for it every time.”

“You make her sound so evil.”

I widen my eyes but don’t verbally commit to that exact assessment. Instead, I say carefully, “Anyone who treats people the way she does is not a nice person.”

“She didn’t used to be like that,” she says defensively, as if to justify their friendship.

“I’m sure. And even if she was, it’s not your fault.” I take a deep breath. “Earlier, you asked where your other potential supporters were. And all I can say is this: people rarely apply for a job that’s already filled.”

She blinks up at me, and I can see the concept sinking in for her. Eventually, she whispers, “You’re right,” and her face crumples.

I pull her gently against me, and she hugs me with an intensity usually reserved for parents of scared children. I return the hug, but with more tenderness than force.

And for the first time in a long time, I feel like myself.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

My swagger is faltering up here. I can feel it fading with every passing minute. The media questions were predictable and dull, good warm-up confidence-builders. The readers’ questions, however, have been going on for nearly an hour now, and some of them are… well, they’re beyond intrusive and odd.

Who knew hardcore chick lit/romance readers cared so much about what style and color of underwear their favorite authors wear, how they’re typically dressed while writing their books, and how they take their coffee? I’ve never given any of those things a single thought. Every time a reader asks something I deem either private or irrelevant, I have to bite back my urge to say, “None of your business.”

It doesn’t help that I seem to be the only author up here who seems to be bothered by the questions. Is that in character? Maybe. I wish I could convincingly act a little more like Yardley, though (and trust me, I realize how wrong that is), and smirk and leer my way through each question.

“What do you wear while you’re writing?” His answer: “Depends on the kind of scene I’m working on, if you know what I mean,” followed by wiggling, drawn-on eyebrows. My answer: “Uh… shorts and a t-shirt?” Not surprisingly, my reply received a much less enthusiastic response.

Seriously, though… they want to picture me sitting naked in front of a laptop, stroking myself while typing out a sex scene? I can’t encourage that thinking. It’s bad enough they think I wrote the sex scenes, period. The closer we get to the end of this charade, the less tolerance I have for it.

Betty knows it, too. Seconds ago, my phone lit up with a new text on the table in front of me. I glanced at it and had to bite the inside of my cheek not to laugh out loud.
Your t-shirts are hot. Hang in there.

Her kind support and mild flirting, at first comforting, quickly reminded me of our conversation last night, though, and my mind started to wander, imagining what would have happened if I hadn’t run from her room like a sexually repressed idiot.

Oh, yeah… that happened. Actually, what happened was that I started to feel more and more sick due to my heartburn, and after we stood, locked in that embrace for what felt like an hour—yet at the same time, an instant—I had to step away. I didn’t
have
to come right out and tell her I felt like the fire-burping gross-ass in a Pepto commercial, but I did, anyway, because… well, I’m me.

As soon as I got to my own room, though, and had chugged a bottle of antacid and a pitcher of water, my mind wandered, like it’s doing now, to what would have happened if I hadn’t ordered the mango salsa chicken breast with a side of garlic roasted potatoes for dinner. What if I’d kissed her? What if I’d let her yank off my “hot” t-shirt and run her cool hands against my warm chest? What if she’d given my lips the same treatment I’ve seen her give to countless glasses of dark red wine? What if…?