Let's Be Frank (28 page)

I avert my eyes, checking the time on my phone for the hundredth time in the past ten minutes.

Her voice cuts through my despair at the slow passage of time. “We’ve hit a bit of a sales slump, too. I need to figure that out.”

I look up to see her nibbling on her thumb nail. Pulling her hand away from her mouth, I say, “From what I’ve read, that’s typical going into summer. People spend more time outside, doing active things. Not everyone spends their weekends in bookstores. Remember when
we
didn’t?”

“No,” she half-jokes with a chuckle. “Anyway, Frankie’s books are great beach reads. We need to capitalize on that. Maybe I can ask people to post pictures of themselves reading her books on vacation. E-books, paperbacks, whatever. Books in the wild.” She muses about that for a while, staring into space once more.

“That’s a good idea,” I encourage. “But don’t make yourself sick with all this work.”

“Well, if Frankie’s going to quit her job with Quimby-Rex, so she can concentrate on writing full-time, like she wants to, I need to ramp up my game.”

I drop the Sharpie and bend down to pick it up, nearly falling from my chair in the process. Righting myself, I sit upright and push Frank’s glasses higher on my nose. I try to pretend her statement isn’t a dreadful diagnosis I’ve just heard for the first time when I say, “Maybe it’s not feasible for her to do that right now.”

“She seems to think it is. Kyle crunched some numbers for her, and he says it’s possible, if she withdraws some money from her 401K—”

“That’s ridiculous, irresponsible advice!” I’m aware my reaction makes it obvious this
is
the first I’ve heard of all this, but at this point, I don’t care.

In contrast to the strain between Betty and me lately, things have been better with Frankie. I woke up the day after Nick’s wedding to a text from her that simply said,
I’m sorry. Call me.
We had a long talk about her weekend in Chicago, and she meekly reiterated there was nothing to be jealous about. She claimed he was at work most of the weekend, and she spent her time writing on the balcony at his place. When I eventually told her I believed her—it seemed petty to keep accusing her of lying when I didn’t have proof she was—she said, relief heavy in her voice, “I’d never cheat on you, Nate. I love you! I wish I wasn’t stuck here at my parents’; I’d come over there and prove it to you.”

As much as I would have liked that under normal circumstances (whatever those are), I had to admit it was probably for the best she couldn’t, since I was suffering through an astounding hangover attacking every pain receptor from my gut upwards. I told her I’d gladly accept a rain check.

I haven’t been able to collect on it yet, because she’s still spending most of her free time writing, but she at least seems regretful about it and apologizes often for not being more available. She’s even backed up those apologies with some big promises. (“When I’m finished with this book, we’ll go away for a weekend. Maybe in the fall? A spa weekend would be awesome, wouldn’t it? I know how much you love soaking in bathtubs. And you deserve it. You’ve been so awesome.”)

I guess she’s been too busy to let me in on this writing career plan of hers, though.

Betty has the grace not to make me explicitly admit my ignorance but simply continues as I catch up, “Yeah, well… she’s determined. And I agree with you about her retirement fund; that’s why I want to do whatever I can to make sure she doesn’t have to touch it.”

“What is
she
willing to do to realize this goal?” I wonder out loud, making the executive decision to pull the plug on this event as I start to pack up nearly all of the books and merchandise we arrived with.

Betty follows my lead. “Type her fingers off, I guess.”

“Helpful,” I scoff.

“The bigger the back stock—”

“She has a big enough back stock. We can hardly market and sell the books she already has out there.”

Glancing nervously around us, Betty says, “Hey, I just realized… maybe we should wait and talk about this later, when we’re alone.”

I roll my eyes. “Nobody here gives a shit or knows who the hell we are,” I grumble but drop the topic. It’s only pissing me off, anyway. Of course, just because we’re not talking about it doesn’t mean I’m not thinking about it while we finish our tear-down.

I’m so sick of being in the dark about everything, even though this has taken over my life. I’m so sick of Kyle MacDonald having more of a say about what Frankie does—what
I
do—than I do. I’m so sick of never seeing my girlfriend. I’m so sick of driving rental cars and turning in expense reports—
to my girlfriend
. I’m so sick of having one day every weekend—if I’m lucky—to do everything I need or want to do around my house… or nothing at all, if I’d prefer to simply rest.

While I violently stack boxes on the hand cart, preparing for our departure, Betty freezes me with a hand on my lower back. “Hey. I thought you knew.”

I remain turned away from her. “Yeah. Well, I bet you’re not
that
surprised I didn’t.”

“Let’s put this stuff in the car and go for a walk before we hit the road,” she suggests. “I can’t handle the idea of sitting for another five hours right now.”

Glancing at her over my shoulder, I can tell she’s not exaggerating. She looks almost as undone as I feel. “Fine. I could use the exercise, too,” I agree.

She smiles. “Great. I’ll go find the manager and let her know we’re leaving early.”

*****

The early summer weather’s way too nice to have wasted the afternoon behind a table in a fusty bookstore. As soon as we’ve stowed the boxes of books and bookmarks and coffee mugs in the trunk of the rental car, we take off on foot in the direction of a park we drove past on our way to the bookstore.

We don’t say much on our way there. I can’t think of anything to say that doesn’t have to do with Frankie or Frank or selling books. Or heartfelt declarations. Or drunken kisses. Betty seems to be okay with not talking, so I eventually give up trying to conjure safe topics and decide silence is the best option.

When we get to the playground, I head for the seesaw and gesture to the lower end. “Climb on,” I tell her.

That bewitching right eyebrow goes all downward-facing-dog and makes my stomach twitch pleasantly. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah! Come on. It’ll be fun.”

She looks skeptical, but she straddles the tiny plastic seat on the equipment and supports her weight on straight legs to bring my side closer to the ground. I climb on, suddenly feeling stupid but also feeling committed to this activity, since it was my idea. I let my body weight tip the balance more to my side, and I sink toward the dirt patch underneath me while Betty rises to the apparatus’s maximum height.

“You better not pull any stunts, like dropping me from the top so I bust my ass. I won’t be amused,” she warns.

“I’d never do that! You could break your coccyx.”

She smirks. “You said ‘coccyx.’”

I push off the ground, sending her on a gentle descent, but her feet don’t even touch down before my weight lifts her once more. “That’s what it’s called.”

“It sounds dirty.”

“Well, I know from experience it hurts like hell to bruise it or break it, so I’d never do that to someone.” Again, I try to bring her down, this time with a stronger push from my legs, but she reascends before her feet contact the ground.

“You broke your ass once?”

“I’ve bruised my
tailbone
more than once, yes. Falls on ice, both times.”

“Ouch. You need to be more careful, Nathaniel.”

“I need to move to a place where there’s no ice.” After two more tries to make the seesaw work the way it’s supposed to work, I sigh and admit defeat. “This isn’t as fun when you’re a grownup.”

She laughs. “I guess when we’re kids, our weights are more similar. It would probably take two of me on this side to make this work with you.”

“Are you calling me chubby?” Again, I feel conspicuous in my tight-fitting jeans. I thought I detected the start of a muffin top when I got dressed this morning. Must make more time for exercise. I already get up at 7:00 every morning, no matter what day it is, but maybe on weekdays, I need to get up at 6:00, to work in a morning jog, or at least some crunches.

“Not at all!” She pauses to catch her breath after laughing at my indignant question. “But you’re a guy. More muscle mass. Everyone knows muscle weighs more than fat.”

“Damn right, it does.” I wink as if I’m not taking any of this seriously. “Alright, then. Off you go.”

I straighten my legs to support both of us. She swings one leg over and hops off. I drop my side and step over the seat, brushing my hands together to rid them of the dirt from the metal handle.

“Wanna try the swings?” I ask, nodding in their direction.

Sadness and weariness take up residence on her face again when she says, “Nah. We should probably get on the road. Long trip home.”

“Yeah. It’ll be late by the time we roll back into town,” I agree, closing the distance in the grass between us as we retrace our steps to the bookstore parking lot.

“Thanks for not dropping me.” She threads her arm through mine and gives it an affectionate squeeze. As quickly, she lets go, putting a couple of feet between us.

I tuck my hands in my pockets and stare at my shoes. “No problem. We’re in this together, right?”

She grunts, then says, “We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

I laugh. “I guess not, at this point.”

Falling into step closer to me, she nudges me with her elbow. “Just kidding. Actually, you do have a choice. And I’m sorry if anyone has ever made you feel like you don’t.” She abruptly stops talking. In the dusk, it’s hard to read the expression on her face. Eventually, when I don’t rush to fill the silence, she continues, “I’m starting to regret my part in all this.”

“There’s no use regretting it. I mean, good things have come out of it, right?”

At first, I think she’s interpreted my question as rhetorical (which it may as well have been), because she says nothing to confirm or deny my theory. Then, as the rental car comes into view, I barely hear her whisper, “Right.”

It’s been so long since I’ve said anything that I’ve almost forgotten what she’s responding to. When I do remember, her sad tone makes me wonder if she truly agrees or is just humoring me.

“Hey, I—”

“Listen—”

We laugh nervously at our simultaneous speaking as we stop in the middle of the parking lot, several yards away from the car, and face one another.

“You go,” we say together, which makes us laugh harder and breaks the tension… somewhat.

Since I was about to propose something radical, something I think would make both of us happy while also making one of us quite sad, if that’s possible, I decide I’d rather hear what she has to say first. “No, really,” I insist. “You first.”

She gives a short nod. “Okay. Uh… I’m sorry I ran out on you at Nick and Heidi’s wedding.”

Not wishing to revisit that night, I wave away her apology. “Don’t worry about it.”

“But I do. It was selfish. I hope you didn’t look for me for very long before you texted me.”

“I didn’t,” I lie. “I assumed you were in the bathroom and wanted to be left alone. Or something.”

Her half-smile lets me know she’s well aware I’m lying, but she lets it drop. “Right. Well, it was rude to desert you. Like dropping you from the top of the seesaw.”

I smile. “Apology accepted.”

“I know you want to make this thing with Frankie work.”

I simply shrug, wishing I knew as much as she claims to know.

She slides her hands into her back pockets and looks down at her feet. “Other than that, I can’t figure you out.”

I take a deep breath and inject some uncharacteristic cheer into my voice, like I would for a nervous child about to undergo a procedure she’s fairly certain is going to be unpleasant. “What’s to figure out? I’m a guy, trying to do the right thing. I said I’d do this; I’m doing it. Doesn’t matter if I regret agreeing to it. The bottom line is, I did agree to it.”

“But things are different now.”

“Are they?”

When Betty’s head snaps up, and she shoots me an incredulous look, I explain, “Everything’s operating the same as it was when we started all this. Frankie’s the same; the agreement’s the same… The fact that I’m stuck doing something I don’t want to do is nobody’s fault but my own.”

“Why do you always blame—”

“Really,” I cut her off, voicing what I’ve said to myself a million times since the end of February. “It was my idea to be the face of her literary alter ego. I gotta live with the consequences of that suggestion and ultimately agreeing to go through with it.”

Carefully, slowly, she asks, “Don’t you ever feel like she’s taking advantage of you, of your generous nature?”

I set my jaw. “I’m not a victim, if that’s what you mean. Nobody’s manipulating me.”

She blinks at me for so long that I think she may be trying to send me a memo in Morse Code. I don’t like the message, either.