Let's Be Frank (49 page)

“Oh?” she whispers.

Still staring at the pavement, I nod. “Yep. I mean, Frankie will never leave you.”

“But—”

“I can only claim I love you. And that’s nothing compared to the control that motivates her. So you’re right; you’ll never be alone as long as you have Frankie in your life.”

My legs and knees are screaming at me, and I can’t bear this position any longer, anyway, so I creak to a stand and look down on the top of her head. I give her a jerky pat, akin to something I’d give Reba before leaving for work in the morning, and say, “But I do appreciate your telling me. Better late than never, right? Tell Frankie I said hi.” I turn to go, then stop and amend, “On second thought, don’t.”

“I won’t.”

While walking away, I toss over my shoulder, “Good. That would just be awkward.”

“I won’t, because I can’t.”

My hand freezes on my door handle.

The Fiat’s door is blocking my view of her face, but she raises her voice and says more firmly, more confidently, “Well, I guess I’m
able
, but I won’t. Because I don’t talk to her anymore. Ever.”

“Oh.”

She stands and closes her car door again. “Yeah. Haven’t talked to her since… Atlanta.”

I stare at a sparkle in the Prius’s paint job, processing this information, suddenly experiencing an overwhelming sense memory at that last word, as if I’ve plunged my nose into a basket of peaches. “So…”

“Turns out, being alone sucks, but it’s working for me.”

Turning sideways, I sag against the car and ask quietly, “Really?”

Her simple, contradictory head shake spurs me into action, and in three strides, I’m not only in front of her again, but she’s in my arms, her feet off the ground. I cup the back of her head with my palm, pressing her cheek to mine and whispering, “Don’t ever do this to me again.”

“I won’t,” she whimpers hoarsely next to my ear. “I promise.”

When she pulls her head back, I kiss the tears that have trailed into the corners of her mouth.

“Ew!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Our heads snap in the direction of the chorus on Nick’s front lawn. At some point, Heidi’s nieces and nephews have crept around the side of the house.

I blush but don’t put Betty down. “It’s not nice to spy,” I lightly admonish them.

Kingsley speaks for the group. “We’re not spying! We wanted to see your dog.”

I glance at the windows of Nick’s house, but our only audience appears to consist of people under the age of twelve. “Where are your parents?” I ask, just to be sure.

“Watching football,” Hermione answers, leading her siblings and cousins closer to my car.

Reba, cowering in the backseat, emits a whine as the curious group presses their faces against the back windows.

“Guys, she’s afraid of kids,” I explain with a regretful grimace, begrudgingly letting go of Betty and setting her on feet so I can mediate.

Betty chuckles while rubbing the tear tracks from her face. “Oh, the irony of
your
dog not liking kids.”

I herd the children away from the car windows. “Yeah, I know. Some other time, guys. I promise. Now, you’d better go back inside.”

Dejected, they slink away, kicking at the grass and muttering their collective disappointment.

I turn to Betty with a sheepish grin. “Oops.”

She presses against me, fingering the front of my t-shirt. Through her eyelashes, she says, “All kidding aside, though… Reba’s gonna have to adjust to being around little people.”

“Yeah, probably. But not today.”

Betty raises her head. Her wide, serious eyes hold fast to mine and make my heart pound. “Not today, no. She has about…” She bites her lower lip, then releases it. “…nine months—give or take—to get over it.”

“Nine months…?” I question faintly then feel the blood return to my extremities. “Oh! You mean… because of Nick and Heidi. Right. Well, less than that, I guess. Probably more like six months.

She pulls her head back, looking surprised. “Wait. What? Nick and Heidi are expecting?”

I laugh. “Yeah! Isn’t that what you were…?”

She smiles and shakes her head. Suppressing a grin while she watches me work through the seemingly impossible logic puzzle she’s given me, she nods encouragingly. “I’m confident when I say nine months. Well, more accurately, about thirty-six weeks, if you’re going to be a stickler, which you will be. I expect nothing less.”

“Thirty-six weeks,” I echo, reaching behind me for the car when I feel my knees give out and blinking through my narrowed, tear-filled vision while I do the math.

“So, I guess I fibbed a bit when I said I’ve been alone for the past month,” she admits with a wince. “But I didn’t want to make you feel like you
had
to forgive me.”

Pulling her against me in a crushing hug, I finally dare to ask somewhat more directly, if incompletely, “You’re going to have…? We’re going to be…?”

“Yeah,” she answers. “Yardley used a condom that weekend, so… it has to be yours.”

“That’s so not funny,” I chastise, laughing into her hair.

“Liar. It’s hilarious, and you know it.”

I push her gently away from me and flutter my fingers against her midriff. “Thank you,” I whisper, pressing my forehead against hers.

“No, Nathaniel. Thank
you.
For this and so much more.” She clears her throat and steps back. I reach for her again, but she continues retreating. “No, I’ll… I’ll call you later. I’d better let you get on with your plans.”

“My plans?”

“You were on your way somewhere when I showed up, remember?” the right corner of her mouth creeps upward at my short-term memory failure.

I laugh and lunge for her when I remember my self-preserving cover story. “Major change in plans.” I tug on her hand, pulling her toward Nick’s house. “Suddenly, I’m in a much more family-oriented mood.” On the front porch, though, I remember everything I said in the backyard and blush. “Uh… on second thought, it wouldn’t be right to leave Reba in the car. And… I said some pretty offensive things before you got here, so… maybe we should hang out at my place and keep a low profile.”

She shoots me a naughty grin. “Ooh… I seem to remember enjoying myself the last time we ‘kept a low profile.’”

My heart flutters and races. I walk faster to the street and hurry to open my car. “I’ll meet you there.”

Betty laughs, trotting to her own vehicle, her sassy heels tapping on the pavement. “Maybe we’ll feel like stopping back by here later.”

Frankly, I doubt it.

THE END

Epilogue

Ten Months Later…

“Oh, gosh… check out the purple sling Nick’s wearing,” Betty mutters to me from the corner of her mouth while we watch my brother and his family walk through Mom and Dad’s front door.

I smirk. “Forget that. Did you see the Packers jogging suit Mossimo’s wearing? If the kid didn’t already look like Mike McCarthy, he sure does now.”

“Holy shit! You’re so right! Gosh, it’s uncanny! And creepy… I guess it’s better than looking like Vince Lombardi, though.”

“Debatable.”

“What the heck does a four-month-old need with a jogging suit? Plus, it’s July! Poor kid must be roasting.”

“Heidi always thinks he’s too cold, especially in the air conditioning,” I explain. “I’m sure there are layers under that hoodie.”

“Your parents have already set up a savings account for his psychiatric fund, right?”

“I hope someone has.”

“What are you two in here whispering about?” Mom’s voice comes from behind us. “Nick, Heidi, and Mossimo are here.”

Betty and I both look guiltily over our shoulders from our gossip spot at the kitchen sink, where we’re supposedly rinsing the pacifier our newborn daughter has a habit of spitting out approximately every three seconds if someone’s not holding it in her mouth.

“Is that really a two-person job?” Mom inquires.

“Well, it wouldn’t be much fun to laugh at Nick in here by myself,” I state.

She waves her hands at us. “You two!”

I pop the binkie into Georgia’s mouth and keep my index finger on it. “Stay,” I command the piece of plastic and rubber. Slowly, I move my finger away. On cue, the infant spits it out.

“Have you ever considered that she just doesn’t want it?” Mom asks, standing next to me and smiling down at her granddaughter.

“Wait for it…” I say, holding the pacifier aloft.

“One, two, three…” Betty points at the baby nestled in the crook of my arm. Georgia squirms, squeaks, squeals, then gears up for a good scream, which I head off by plugging up her cry-hole.

Mom shrugs. “Oh. Well, maybe she’s hungry. Or wet. Or…”

“…Wants me to hold this for her,” I provide the correct answer, determined by intensive, hands-on, often middle-of-the-night research.

Betty tilts her head and gazes at her daughter affectionately. “She’s a tad high-maintenance, isn’t she?”

I grin at my wife. “I don’t care.”

She grins back. “I don’t, either. Plus, she’s nothing compared to
some
people.”

“And she’s much cuter,” I add.

“You’re going to spoil her,” Mom warns us.

“That’s kind of the point,” I reply. “So if you want to hold her, holding her pacifier is part of the deal.”

“Deal,” she readily agrees, waggling her fingers at me. “I bet you haven’t used two hands to eat all weekend.”

After transferring Georgia to Mom’s arms, I shrug, keeping my eyes on my daughter’s face. “I haven’t noticed,” I say truthfully.

Betty confirms my mom’s suspicions as we parade into the dining room, where Dad, Nick, and Heidi are already settling into their usual seats around the table.

“Look who I have,” Mom brags.

“Nate’s letting someone else hold her?” Heidi fakes a heart attack, complete with clutched chest and protruding tongue.

“What is this?” I object to their teasing, nodding toward Nick. “You’re wearing your kid like a fashion accessory, and nobody’s giving you grief.”

“You think I volunteered for this?” he grumbles across the table at me. To his wife, he gripes, “Seriously. How am I supposed to eat with this thing attached to my chest?”

“That ‘thing’ is your son, and you’ll figure it out, like I have nearly every meal of my life for the past four months.”

“I meant the sling, not the baby.”

“The answer’s the same. Deal with it.”

Dad chuckles. “What happened to letting kids cry it out?” he wonders.

Heidi and I talk over each other, trying to explain why that’s an outdated practice. Her reasons are more emotional, while mine are rooted in medical research, but the result is a cacophony of rhetoric.

Betty places a hand on my knee. “Yo. Save it, T. Berry Brazelton,” she says mildly, passing me the serving dish of mashed potatoes. “You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Plus, they’re only kidding. It’s cute how you want to hold her all the time.”

I take the bowl from her and swallow the next thing I was going to say but start, “I just—”

“Yeah, I know… You were about to break out the hernia facts, and that’s not good dinner conversation.”

“It’s valid, though.”

She bats her eyelashes at me.

I sigh but smile. I can’t resist that look. She could probably talk me into a sex change operation with that look. Well, maybe not. Oh, who am I kidding? Yes. I’d do anything for her.

The feeling is mutual, anyway. I mean, the woman stood her ground and barely flinched when I cried all the way through our [highly traditional] wedding vows a mere month after our reunion in front of Nick and Heidi’s house. When it was her turn to repeat her vows after the minister, she said, “I, Betty, take you, Nathaniel, to be my lawfully wedded husband.” There was a collective rustling of bulletins throughout the congregation as everyone rushed to double-check that the bride had, indeed, called the groom by the wrong Christian name. She didn’t say it for anyone but me, though. And she achieved her goal, which was to get me to stop crying by making me laugh. She always knows exactly what to do or say.

Just like she knew I had way too much medical knowledge rattling around in my brain to get through our daughter’s birth without multiple panic attacks and insisted I have Dr. Reitman write me a legitimate script for Valium.

“Forget the soothing music, focus item, and tennis ball, Nathaniel. You’re going to need drugs,” she announced bluntly, tucking the bottle of pills into her overnight bag with all of her other hospital supplies. And she was right. I took the pills and made it through. (Oh, Betty did a great job, too.)

Nothing prepared me, though, for the first time I held Georgia. I expected to blubber like one of those televangelists claiming to be filled with the Holy Spirit, but I was surprisingly dry-eyed, taking in her birth-swollen features and lubricated eyes. Frankly, I think I was too stunned by what I was feeling to even cry. Crying wasn’t a strong enough reaction. So I stared. And felt. And thought,
It’s all been worth it. Every single minute of fear, heartbreak, and doubt before this second… worth it.