Let's Be Frank (26 page)

“Might as well be honest about how I feel about him, since holding back isn’t going to get me anywhere, anyway.”

“Well, I owe him a lot, and not just for the advice he’s given me about marketing my writing. I would have been stuck in some crappy airport hotel last weekend, if he hadn’t put me up.”

Then it was definitely my turn to say, “Excuse me?”

“I stayed at Kyle’s last weekend when I was stuck in Chicago. I told you that.”

“You most certainly did not!”

“Yes, I did! You weren’t listening… as usual.”

“My ears would have perked up on that nugget. What the hell, Frankie?”

“Nothing happened!”

That she felt the need to say it spoke volumes.

My breath whistled forcefully through my nostrils while I processed her denial, then remembered Betty’s unannounced visit, strange questions, and hasty retreat last Saturday evening.

“Oh, hell…” I breathed.

“What? It wasn’t a big deal. Once again, you’re being a jealous dickhead. And at least he did something to help me.”

The implied criticism hit hard enough to distract me from the thoughts I didn’t want to be thinking, anyway. “What was I supposed to do? Fly you home on my private jet?”

“You could have driven here.”

“To Chicago.” Those two words came out about as flat as the head of an infant who spends too much time on his back.

“Yes! We could have spent the weekend up here together. But, no…”

“I had to work!”

“You always have to work.”

“Yeah, usually on your shit!”

“Oh, so being Frank is shit now?”

It always has been
, I wanted to say but somehow managed to withhold at the last second. My silence said it all, anyway.

The pout strong in her voice, she said, “Fine. I see. Whatever. I guess you’ve been doing all this to get laid.”

“What? No!”

“Save it. You may have everyone else fooled with your sweet, evolved, in-touch-with-your-feminine-side sensitivity bullshit, but you’re just like every other man I’ve ever been with.”

“Have you really
been
with me? Is that an accurate description?”

“Screw you!”

“Got any candidates?”

She hung up on me before I got out that last question, though. It’s a shame, too. It was an excellent comeback. I almost called her back right away to say it, then hang up on
her.
Then again, maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t. Now that I think about it, I would have been proving her point.

Instead, I lay on my bed, drinking, staring at the ceiling, and fuming.

Probably would have been better off hosting a bachelor party last night. I wouldn’t have been as hungover, that’s for damn sure. And I would have gotten a lot more sleep.

“Holy crap, Cowboy. You look like someone shot your horse and turned it into dog food.”

I impart a baleful look over the whiskey and Coke Betty dangles by the rim, her manicured fingertips inches from my nose.

“If you’re not careful, people are going to interpret that look as ‘heartbroken and scorned,’” she adds.

“They can think whatever they want,” I snap, accepting and draining the drink, which is mostly whiskey, I realize too late. I cough against the back of my hand before sliding the plastic, ice-filled cup onto the table next to us.

Now that the toasts and formal aspects to the reception are over (and I’m the proud owner of the garter that was shortly ago intimate with my ex-fiancée’s upper thigh, thanks to my mother’s insistence that I not allow any of my pimply teenaged relatives to catch it), I’ve shucked my jacket and moved from the head table to a less conspicuous one near the restrooms. If anyone was sitting here, they’ve found better seats or are dancing or mingling. Whatever the reason for the empty table, I was enjoying my first chance all day to be alone and sulk.

“Seriously, though. What’s your deal? Francesca promised me a good time at this wedding, but—”

“Frankie says a lot of things to get her way.”

Cocking an eyebrow toward her elaborate updo, Betty tugs at the top of her downward-creeping strapless dress, then sits and says, “Oh. Now I see. Another fight?”

“You could say that.”

She sighs as she slumps in the chair and stretches her legs, crossing them at the ankles. “Well, I should probably stay out of it.”

Her word choice strikes a nerve. “Why did you come over to my house last weekend?” I ask, staring down at the ice in my cup. She doesn’t answer, so assuming she didn’t hear me over the booming music, I raise my voice and begin to repeat the question.

She interrupts me after a few words, “I wanted to consult with you about what to wear to the wedding. How’d I do?” Gesturing to the gown that hugs her in all the right places, she suggestively twitches her eyebrows at me. “Figured silver was a nice, safe, complementary color—”

“You didn’t come over to collaborate on wedding attire.” My eyes pin hers. “That dress matches those shoes perfectly, which means you bought them at the same time, which means you already had the dress when you came to see me, because you said you already had the shoes and that ‘anything would go with them,’ which is clearly not the case with those… things.”

I glance at them and quickly back up at her face, because, frankly, those are the sexiest shoes I’ve ever seen, and they make me think very wrong thoughts. And this isn’t about
my
being wrong.

After a guilty swallow, she attempts blithely, “Wow. You’ve given this a lot of thought, Sherlock.”

“Can you just answer my question? Please?”

Lifting her chin, she takes a deep breath and says, “Okay, fine. I didn’t need to talk to you about what to wear tonight.”

I roll my hand to encourage her to tell me something I don’t already know.

Unfortunately, Nick and Heidi pick that moment to wend our way.

Betty sits up more fully in her chair and tucks her knees under the table. Nodding toward my brother and new sister-in-law, she beams up at them when they amble up to us. “Hey, guys! Congratulations!”

The happy couple, clearly high on a mixture of relief and love and unadulterated joy, answer in unison, “Thanks!”

Betty kicks me under the table, so I straighten and mutter, “Congrats.” I already gave my semi-sincere best man’s speech. How many times am I going to have to wish these two well today?

“Natey!” Heidi gushes, pulling over a chair from another table and plopping into it. She grabs hold of my face with both hands and pulls it toward her, planting a firm, moist kiss on my cheek. After releasing me, she states, “You’ve been awesome today. Thank you so much for everything!”

“Everything?” I look to Nick for some clue, but he’s too busy gazing lovingly at his new wife.

“You know, being such a good sport and doing what Nicky needed before he ever had to ask.”

I stifle a snort at the last minute. The effort results in a painful noise that resembles a hiccup. “Okay… It wasn’t about being a good sport, but you’re welcome… I guess.”

Grasping my forearm, she leans even closer, which I didn’t think was possible. I scoot back an inch, but it doesn’t make much of a difference in my discomfort level. Oblivious to the “back-off” signals I’m giving her, she continues, “I know this hasn’t been easy. It must be weird to see me with your brother—”

Oh gosh. Someone pull the fire alarm. Or anything.

Again, I shoot Nick a beseeching look, but he’s trailing his right index finger down Heidi’s neck, watching as it disappears down the gap her shoulder blades have created between her strapless dress and her back. Great. He’s not even going to wait for the reception to end to start the honeymoon.

Finally, I find a way to address her assertion that seeing her with Nick is a problem for me. “I try not to think too much about it.”

“Of course, you don’t,” Heidi replies in that patronizing tone that makes me glad she broke up with me and chose, instead, to marry my brother. I can’t imagine fifty years of hearing those four words in that tone of voice every time she didn’t believe something I said or wanted to have the last word in an argument.

Well, she’s not getting the last word today.

I gently remove her hand from my arm. “Really, I’m not just putting on a brave face, okay? I’m happy for you two. I’ve moved on.”

“But Frankie’s not here. I hope that doesn’t mean something’s wrong…” She pooches out her bottom lip.

Consciously unclenching my jaw, I smile tightly at my new sister-in-law.

“Just a scheduling conflict. Right, Nathaniel?” Betty butts in.

I could kiss her. Platonically, of course. Not anything like what she did to me on her front step a couple of weeks ago. No. That should never be repeated. Because… Well, it shouldn’t.

It takes a few blinks and a concerted effort to pull myself back to the current conversation. “Right. Yeah. I wouldn’t hear of her missing her dad’s sixtieth birthday.”

“Well, you know Nicky and I are here for you.”

“Good to know.” I try to keep the sarcasm from my tone, but it slips persistently through.

Heidi’s too wrapped up in her wedding day euphoria to notice, thankfully. She reaches over and gives my hand one last squeeze but her grip lingers on my knuckles. My stomach drops when I see tears gather on her bottom lids. I almost forgot how she could cry at the drop of a hat. The two of us were quite the blubbering pair. Our sniffling got so out of hand when we saw
The Vow
that a lady sitting behind us in the movie theater leaned forward and offered each of us a tissue. Now I shake that memory loose like an Etch-a-Sketch doodle and focus on Heidi’s sparkling eyes. She’s always been a pretty crier, like she practices it in the mirror. I wouldn’t put it past her.

“You’re such a good guy, Nate,” she fawns now, dabbing at the corners of her eyes with her perfectly manicured left index finger. “I spent a long time regretting that it didn’t work out between us. But now I know why it didn’t.” She lets go of my hand and grabs Nick’s unoccupied one over her shoulder. “I hope you someday have what we do. You deserve it.”

“Mmm.” I stand, my legs knowing before my head does that I need to get out of here, away from her. “Thanks. I’m working on it.” I grab the garter from the table and shove it into my pants pocket.

Betty stands with me. “You promised me dancing,” she declares. If she’s as chagrined as I am that the DJ picked this precise moment to play the Macarena (when is that damn dance gonna die?), she doesn’t let on.

Nick
finally
snaps out of his trance. He steps forward and offers me his right hand to shake. It’s recently been halfway down the back of his wife’s dress, but it would look rude and would most definitely be misconstrued by the people around us, who are surely watching, if I didn’t shake it. So I do. Then, to seal the deal, I pull him in for one of those man-hugs—a slight lean forward so our chests are barely touching, followed by a swift thump on his back with my fist.

“Congratulations,” I say next to his ear. “And good luck.” I leave off the
“You’re going to need it”
that’s on the tip of my tongue. After all, maybe he won’t. Maybe he’s okay with Heidi getting her way about everything and forcing him to listen to endless analyses of her newest haircut or color. Then again, I thought I was, too. Until I didn’t have to deal with it anymore. Then I realized what a major disaster I’d avoided.

After pushing away from my brother, I lean down and give Heidi a quick squeeze and a peck on the cheek.

Lightly, I say to them both as Betty tugs me away, “See ya!”

A slow Sting number follows the synchronized hell dance, but instead of walking back to our seats, we stay on the dance floor. I hold Betty—in a friendly, big-brother way—as we sway to the music. She smells like she did when she kissed me: clean, with more than a hint of hair product, but also soft and feminine, with undertones of citrus and something floral I can’t place. I close my eyes. The weak me allows myself to remember how she tasted, how her lips felt against mine…

No. My eyes open, and I focus them across the dance floor at the DJ, who thinks he’s cool, even though he spends his weekends playing the Macarena and The Chicken Dance for people who’d rather be in front of their TVs, not wearing pinchy shoes. During the week, he’s probably an accountant or, worse, an engineer.

Betty’s hand shifts in mine. It’s soft and small and slightly sweaty, but so is mine (slightly sweaty, that is), so I don’t necessarily take her damp palm to mean she’s nervous or uncomfortable. It’s just a byproduct of skin against skin. My skin against hers…

Away from her ear, I clear my throat, then look straight ahead again and say casually, “This wedding is one of the gaudiest things I’ve been a part of in a while. It’s been a clinic in what
not
to do, wouldn’t you say?”

She relaxes in my arms and laughs. “Right? Just so you know, Francesca will not be singing ‘Endless Love’ or anything by Adele when she’s my maid of honor.”

“I think that’s probably for the best,” I approve, recalling some of the times I’ve heard Frankie “sing” along to the radio. “And what’s with the customized vows at every wedding nowadays? Someone smarter than I am thought of everything that needed to be covered in the traditional ones. Maybe we can leave out the ‘obeying’ part, but criminy! To go on and on and on…”