Let's Be Frank (46 page)

I will not let her get to me,
I vow to myself.

“I don’t know what you mean by that, so no. I’m calling to see if you know where Betty is.”

“Like I’d tell you?”

My heart races. Still, I keep my voice remarkably steady when I answer, “I hope so. That’s why I’m calling.”

“Well, you’re an idiot. But I guess we already knew that, considering you gave away hundreds of dollars’ worth of merch and books that I had been planning to make a hefty profit on. I
will
be sending you an invoice for that.”

“Whatever. I won’t charge you for that ER visit, and we’ll call it good.”

“Oh-ho! Someone learned how to play hardball.”

I sigh. “Frankie, I’m not in the mood for this. I just want to know where Betty is. Or at least know she’s okay.”

“You know, when I told you to screw her in Atlanta, I didn’t mean to screw it
up
.”

What does she know? What did Betty say? What did I do?

Before I can figure out a way to ask any of those questions without sounding like a complete loser, she reveals, “Ah, well… It’s been fun messing with you, but I have to run. Kyle and I are leaving for Paris in… oh, about now, actually. And I don’t know where Betty is. She’s pissed off at me, I think. Hasn’t said two words to me since coming back from Atlanta. I’m too busy to drag it out of her. But you say she’s not home, huh?”

“No.”

“I’d check the cabin, then. That’s usually where she goes during her anti-social kicks.”

“Oh. Right.”
Why didn’t I think of that?
“Thanks for the info.”

“Don’t mention it. And you still owe me for that stuff you gave away. If you think I was ever going to pay that ER bill, you’re nuts. It’s not my fault you got into a pissing match with a vamp-queen. Pay your own damn medical bills.”

With that, she hangs up, and I back out of Betty’s driveway to drive two hours to the cabin.

*****

Well, at least it’s a beautiful night. The mosquitoes think so, too. They’re keeping me company on the front porch of the cabin. I haven’t been here since the snowmobiling weekend/disaster six months ago, and I have to say, tonight’s visit isn’t doing anything to redeem the place in my eyes.

Frankie was right (oh, how it galls me to say that); Betty’s here. Inside. Sans mosquitoes. Resolutely refusing to see or even speak to me. As a matter of fact, she’s so emphatic that I expect a sheriff’s deputy to pull into the gravel driveway any minute now to escort me from the premises.

Then again, maybe she thinks I’m not here anymore. I’ve been quiet and still for about ten minutes now, and I haven’t seen as much as a twitching curtain in most of that time. Now, I emit a low whistle, trying to decide what my next move will be. I’ve tried begging (“Please, let me in. Or at least tell me why you won’t”), joking (“If this is about your dress, I didn’t mean to rip it. I can learn to sew…”), crying (just a little), and threatening (“I’m going to kick down this door and make you give me a straight answer”).

That last one was definitely not the right way to go, but I was frustrated! And it wasn’t a horrible, scary threat. She knew I wouldn’t do it.
Couldn’t
do it. That door looks like something recycled from a medieval castle, not one of those wimpy jobs you can pick up on clearance at the local home improvement store.

Anyway, now I’m out of ideas. I just want to talk to her face-to-face. I want her to look me in the eye and tell me what happened, what I did that was so wrong. I want her to tell me I imagined that night and all of the feelings associated with it. I want her to tell me there’s nothing I can do to change this, that I need to move on.

But she won’t tell me anything. She’s giving me nothing to go on. Only… silence.

Well, that’s not entirely true. She did say one thing: “Go away, Nathaniel!”

That statement wasn’t very elucidating, though.

I slap another mosquito and wipe the streak of blood from my arm. “Sonofa…!” I hiss, then mutter, “Effin’ West Nile virus, malaria, shit…” I pop to my feet and speak at the front door again, my nose pressed against the wood. “Betts… Are you there?”

Nothing.

“I’m going to assume you are. And I’m going to say one more thing; then I’m going to go away. For real. Because you don’t want me here. And you won’t tell me why. And I… I can’t take this anymore.”

I guess Plan E is crying… again. I clear my throat. “So here goes. For the first time in my life, I’m going to lay it all out there, and I’m not going to give a shit how it makes me look or sound.”

Yeah. Tough talker. It’s a bit harder than that, isn’t it? Now you have to follow through and do it.

I take a deep breath and poke at a knot in the wooden door with my left index finger while swatting distractedly at a mosquito on my neck with my right hand. “Okay. So, last weekend… I know it may not be right, and I wouldn’t even admit it to myself for a long time, because it means I wasn’t any better than
her,
but… what happened last weekend is something I’ve wanted to happen for a long time. For most of that time, I denied it was even true. Then I told myself if it
was
true, it was wrong, so I couldn’t allow it to be true. What was wrong, though, was staying with Frankie when all I really wanted was to be with you.

“Last weekend, you asked me why I stayed with her so long. The sad answer is, because it was easier. And because she felt like my last decent chance at… whatever.”

I stop, realizing I’m generalizing in an effort to save face. Punching at my thigh, I grit my teeth and say, “No. Not ‘whatever.’ I… I used her as much as she used me. She seemed like my last chance at settling down, at having the family I want. That’s part of why it took me so long to give up.

“The other, stronger reason I stayed with her was that I knew if she and I were over, then
you
and I were over, and… and… I couldn’t face that. That’s why, even while planning to break up with her, I told myself I could still be Frank. But you were right when you said it wouldn’t work. I wanted to be free of him
and
Frankie. But I didn’t want to be free of you. It sucked that it was a package deal.”

I sigh at the hopelessness of it all. “I should have known you didn’t need me to rescue you from an oversight as stupid as forgetting to cancel Frank’s conference registration. I should have known I was just falling into another one of Frankie’s traps. And maybe I did know, deep down. It seems so obvious now that I
had
to have known. Maybe I just didn’t care. Or maybe I allowed myself to be tricked so I had an excuse to be with you again. Or maybe I wanted to pretend I was rescuing you, playing the part of the big hero, whether you knew it or not.”

I chuckle bitterly at myself, feeling the heat from my blush radiating from the top of my head. “Gosh. It was such an effing Mr. Darcy stunt, now that I think of it. Arrogant, but well-meaning. Ultimately selfish, though. Because doing it made me feel good. And it was an outlet for how I felt about you.
Feel
about you. It was nice to finally find an acceptable way to show you how I feel. I was so sick of denying it, hiding it, being
in the closet
about it. Because I… I can no more tell myself to stop feeling the way I do for you than I can tell my heart to stop beating, to tell my cells to stop regenerating, to tell my… my… brain to stop organizing my scrubs by color.”

Clawing my fingers down my face, I moan at myself. “I’m rambling. Sorry. It’s just… I’m determined not to say something dumb, like ‘Thanks for the omelet,’ then spend the rest of my life hating myself for not telling you exactly what I wanted to say. I’m going to leave here, knowing I said what needed to be said, so I can live with myself.” I reflect for a few seconds, mustering all of my remaining nerve.

Go big or go home.
Or in this case,
Go big AND go home.

“I love you. And I know at one time, even if it was only for that one night, you felt the same way about me. I
know
it. I felt it. And I’ll never forget it. You made me believe that maybe it was okay to be me. Even better, that it was okay for me to be me and to love
you
. Like, none of the factors that kept me from acknowledging my feelings for you up ’til then made a damn bit of difference. All that mattered was you. And me. And our happiness. Because… we
were
happy. So happy.”

I brush away the tears I’m glad she can’t see. “I’m starting to accept I’ll never know why you’ve changed your mind, but understand this: I haven’t changed mine. I still love you. And I can’t imagine that changing. Ever. But I love you enough to let it go, if that’s what you want. I just wish you didn’t want that.”

I push away from the door, then stop on the top step and announce at the top of my voice, “I’m leaving now!” willing her to run onto the porch, to throw herself into my arms. It would happen in a chick flick. Or a Nicholas Sparks book.

When it doesn’t happen in real life (that bastard, setting us up for letdown with every new release!), I swallow my disappointment and call, “Make sure you have that door locked! Crazy rednecks up here. And gosh! Have your step-father spray for frickin’ mosquitoes. Damn health hazard.”

It’s a beautiful night for a long, tear-soaked drive, if I do say so myself.

Chapter Thirty-One

I’m going to be okay. I
am
okay. Things are fine. I’m fine.

This is what I’ve told myself every day for a month, even as I’ve spent my days around other people’s kids and my nights listening to Jon McLaughlin’s greatest breakup hits, my nose in a girlie book while the rest of my family whispers about me behind my back and speculates about the personality quirks keeping me from finding my other half. But no matter what
they
think,
I
think I’m okay. I really do.

However, that doesn’t mean I’m ready for today’s events.

Once again, I’m in front of a mirror, practicing for my next performance. I’m wearing my normal clothes—simple (non-skinny) khakis, a long-sleeved, sage-green t-shirt, and a pair of Vans—so there’ll be no mood inspiration there. I have to do this as me.

I stand in the bathroom and test out my smile. It still works, amazingly. I guess that’s because there’s still much to be happy about in my life: French-press coffee, chick flicks, chick lit (that I don’t have to pretend to have written), hot baths, long runs, peace and quiet, cuddles with Reba…

Who cares if it’s a tad bit boring? And lonely. Maybe it won’t be for forever. Then again, maybe it will be. And if it is, forever is plenty of time to get used to just about anything.

And when I want a taste of chaos and companionship, I can always count on my family. Like this afternoon, the reason for my latest acting gig.

It’s a beautiful fall day, and I’ve been invited to Nick and Heidi’s for a “special announcement.” I’ve been telling myself all morning they’re calling both of our families to their house on a precious football-watching day to tell us Nick’s been promoted to Chief Surgeon-Big-Wig-Head-Dick at the hospital, or something. Yeah, that’s it. I’m getting damn good at this “denial” thing.

Turning my attention to my reflection, studiously ignoring the tiny dot of toilet paper on the shaving cut next to my Adam’s apple, I say now, “Hey! That’s great!” My smile fades to a more thoughtful expression. “Hmmm… okay. A little crazed. And your eyes are dead. Is there a way to force them to smile… other than by being sincere, of course? Because that’s too much to ask. I get it.”

Again, I arrange my facial muscles into a smile, this one less manic, and try again. “Hey! What great news! I’m so happy for you.”

I nod. “Better.”

Clacking behind me distracts me from my task. I half-turn to see Reba sag to a sitting position in the bathroom doorway.

“Hey!” I test out on her. “That’s awesome, man!”

She promptly rises, performs an about-face, and leaves.

“Too much?” I call after her. “Sorry! I know, you’re not a man! Just practicing!”

I grip the edge of the bathroom sink, drop my head, and sigh. This is ridiculous. No matter what the announcement is, of a personal or professional nature, I shouldn’t have to practice a positive response. Only a true jerk begrudges his brother—a brother who’s been good to him, for the most part—all the success in the world. A) It’s mean; and B) Nick’s prosperity isn’t the thief of my happiness.

I haven’t even had to consult my parents for those pearls of wisdom. I haven’t consulted anyone for anything lately, as a matter of fact. I’m standing on my own two feet, not seeking validation from anyone else, and most days, when I remind myself I’m independent but not alone, it feels pretty freakin’ fabulous. Okay, that’s hyperbole. But it does feel good.

It’s almost time for me to go, so I push away from the sink, flick off the bathroom light on my way out, straighten the bedspread that Reba’s rumpled since I made my bed this morning, and stride down the hallway, whistling for the dog.

She’s still a bit skittish around kids, which I found out the hard way when I took her to the farmers’ market last weekend (See? I still have a girl to do things with, albeit one who knocks over apple carts when over-excited children get too close), so knowing Nick’s place will be crawling with Heidi’s nieces and nephews, I plan to leave her at home.