Let's Be Frank (10 page)

And I was devastated when she broke up with me, when she gave voice to what I was too scared to face: something was missing between us that would be essential to our long-term success as a couple.

So I’ve gone back to being the pickiest bachelor in Green Bay. Because it’s better to reject than be rejected.

Out of balls, the machine winds down with a whir and shuts off. Nick removes his helmet and joins me on the bench.

“You never answered my question,” he remarks, sliding his arms into his coat and zipping it up to his chin. “Fuck, it’s cold in here!”

I agree with him, but the coldness I’m feeling can’t be helped by putting on my coat, so I don’t bother. I straddle the pine bench then recline, lying flat on my back, tucking my hands under my arms.

Shivering to generate warmth, he prods, “Go on, then; give me Frankie’s fault list.”

Immediately, I reply toward the high metal rafters above, “She’s a slob.”

“Here we go…”

“No, you don’t understand. She’s not messy in an ‘Oh-you-haven’t-loaded-the-fully-functioning-yet-unused-dishwasher-in-a-day-or-two’ kind of way. I’m talking, I nearly went into anaphylactic shock thanks to the mold growing on the dishes in her sink the last time I was at her place. And I don’t even have a mold allergy. It was nasty.”

“So, don’t go into her kitchen.”

“If the kitchen sink was the only problem area, that would be a fine strategy. But there’s… stuff…
everywhere
in her apartment. Outdated magazines, expired coupons, written-on window envelopes. Every surface has paper trash piled on it.” I squint at the stadium lights that are supposed to lend the cages a big-league ambiance. “It’s like she hasn’t thrown away a piece of junk mail since Obama’s first term. Probably before then. It makes me twitchy.”

“But that’s
your
problem, not hers.”

I think about that for a second. “Okay, yeah. But I have to decide if I want that to be my problem
forever
.”

“Why? You gettin’ married?” He pokes my knee with his forefinger. “C’mon, Bro. Don’t take everything so seriously.”

I sit up but keep the bench between my legs. “I do take things seriously, though. Because… Well, if I’m not considering marrying her, then what’s the point in dating her?” When he shoots me an incredulous look, I defend myself, “I’m not just looking for a piece of ass anymore, alright? I’m looking for a… wife.”

“You could—I don’t know—train her to be tidier,” he suggests.

“She’s not a dog! And you should never go into a relationship thinking you’re going to change someone.”

Nick shrugs. “I guess.”

I can feel us edging too close to one of the major recurring issues in my relationship with Heidi, so I refocus the discussion on Frankie before Nick remembers all the times I complained to him about being Heidi’s “project.”

“Then there’s her obsession with football.”

“That’s sexy, man. I don’t understand how that one goes on your crap list. I’d be in heaven if Heidi watched more games with me… with her face in my lap.”

“Hey, hey! Do you mind?” I push his shoulder. Hard.

He falls sideways, giggling like a twelve-year-old. “Sorry. Just sayin’.”

“No. Don’t ‘just say’ anything like that to me ever again. Inappropriate.”

He sniffs while righting himself. “Jealous.”

“Anyway!” I shake my head to rid it of the mental image of Heidi blowing my brother during halftime and say, “I know I’m in the minority around here with my apathy for the sport, but Frankie takes fandom to a whole new level. Like, she makes most of the guys we know look like fair-weather poseurs. She can recite the entire starting roster and each player’s position.”

“Anyone can do that,” he scoffs, quickly adding, “except dorks like you.”

“I wish it ended there. She also knows the names and specialties of the guys who ride the bench week-to-week. She can name the backup to the backup quarterback. And she calls them all by their first names, like she’s best buddies with all of them.” When he still seems unimpressed, I claim, “That’s weird!”

He closes one eye as if considering it. “Maybe a little, but… Big deal. It’s no weirder than you knowing all the character names on your nerdy shows.”

Determined to make him understand the depth of her obsession, I continue, “She can—and does—recite word-for-word every single commercial that features a Packers player.”

“Whatever!” He laughs. “That’s every other local commercial that airs during any given game!”

“I’m not exaggerating. You have to see it—and hear it—to believe it. Ask Mom and Dad. She did it at their house. I think Dad’s going to nominate her for a stupid human trick on Letterman.”

“Sweet.”

“Not sweet. Obnoxious. Just like it’s obnoxious she shops at a grocery store across town from her place, because she heard some of the players and their wives shop there.”

“A bit stalker-y…”

“Right?” I take a deep breath, considering whether to reveal the detail about her using the same shampoo as one of the long-haired players. I’d like to pretend it’s not true, for one thing. For another, I’m starting to feel bad griping about all this stuff. It’s not very loyal. It’s definitely not what a good boyfriend would do. I mean, if it bothers me so much, I should break up with her, instead of badmouthing her behind her back.

On the other hand, he needs to know. He needs to get the full picture. He needs to see
I’m
not the freak. He needs to take my side.

While I’m trying to decide to tell him about the shampoo, he raises an eyebrow and says, “What? You look like you’re about to tell me she likes it all freaky-deaky in the bedroom. Like she makes you wear an Aaron Rodgers mask during the nasty.”

I laugh, relieved it’s not
that
bad, before deciding to just drop the whole thing.

Nick studies my face, then shakes his head when it’s obvious I’m not going to continue. “Anyway… She’s hot, right?”

“Yeah, but—”

“And the sex is good?”

I bend over and make a big show of untying and retying my left shoe.

“No way…” Nick breathes when I move to the right shoe, still not giving him an answer. “You two haven’t had sex yet?”

I blush, even though it’s hardly something to be ashamed about. It’s not like we’ve been dating for years or like we’re married and still haven’t consummated our relationship. Still, I know Nick thinks it’s just as bad.

“The right time hasn’t presented itself,” I say.

“What do you mean? Any time is the right time!”

I straighten and face him like a man. “Not really. She doesn’t seem to be in any hurry, and I don't want to pressure her to do something I’m not all that excited to do.”

“You might want to get that checked out. Low testosterone is nothing to screw around with.”

“My testosterone levels are fine.”

“Not if you’re okay with this current… situation, they’re not.”

“Quit joking around.”

“I’m not joking. I’m saying this to you as a medical professional.”

“Screw you.”

“I’m not having any problems in that department.”

Blocking more disturbing mental images, I blurt, “Frankie wants to wait until she’s married.”

It’s not often my brother is speechless, but that does it. Temporarily. Eventually, he clears his throat and says, “Oh. Uh, I didn’t… I mean, why didn’t you say so?”

Because I don’t believe it?

I simply shrug my shoulders.

We sit in stifling silence until Nick regroups and says, “Well, Mom and Dad seemed to like her okay.”

“They did? When did they say that?”

“A few days ago, when I saw them. They said you guys had a nice afternoon.” He turns his head and looks at me from the corner of his eye. “Why? Did something happen?”

He knows something always happens when our parents meet our friends or girlfriends or co-workers or bosses or neighbors or… anyone we know, so his question translates more into, “
What
happened?” Only this time, for once, I can’t tell him anything specific.

I make a face. “Nothing, really. I just got a vibe from them that they didn’t like her all that much.”

“So what? Aren’t you past needing Mommy and Daddy’s approval?”

I know it will make me sound as lame as I am if I answer truthfully, so I merely say, “I don’t want things to be awkward in the future, that’s all.”

“They won’t be.”

“How do you know?”

He starts packing his bats and helmet and batting glove into his duffel bag. “‘Awkward’ is the time Mom took aside Karin Fowler at the church Easter egg hunt and assured her that she’d told you and me all about how to please a woman, because she felt she had a moral obligation to raise men who were considerate lovers.”

I laugh at the eighteen-year-old memory.

“It wasn’t funny! Karin thought Mom was confessing to something illegal. It took me forever to convince her we’d never been molested and Mom was simply relaying to her—however inappropriately—that she’d contributed to the torturous ‘birds-and-bees’ talk Dad gave us.”

“Gosh. I still can’t even read the word ‘clitoris’ without hearing it in Mom’s voice,” I reveal with a wince.

Nick shudders and zips his bag. “I went months without so much as a wet dream after that talk. I was terrified Mom would show up in my sex dreams. And her well-intentioned stunt delayed the loss of my virginity by nearly a year. Karin dumped me, and she told a bunch of her friends what Mom had said.”

“Sounds like free PR to me.” I shove my baseball equipment willy-nilly into the main compartment of my duffel, promising myself I’ll reorganize it later, before I put it back in storage.

“My point is…” He stands and loops his bag’s strap over his shoulder. “…it sounds like it was a normal first meeting, for our parents. If they didn’t like Frankie, they would have told me for sure, right?”

“Unless they think she’s the best I can do.” I zip my bag and stand, pushing my arms into my coat and buttoning it.

Nick watches me, letting his mouth hang slack while he looks me up and down. He fingers my wool collar. “What the hell is this?”

“It’s a peacoat,” I say while hoisting my bag.

He claps a hand on my shoulder. “This coat—which looks like something mom would have made us wear with sailor hats for a portrait… when we were pre-schoolers—is about to prove my point.”

“This should be good.”

“Maybe you don’t have the luxury of being all that picky anymore.” When I snort, he talks louder. “Hear me out, Bro.” I put my hand on my hip but quickly let it fall to my side when he gestures derisively at my posture. “You’re not getting any cooler. Or younger. Maybe if you had a better sense of style or made more money or drove a flashier car, but… that would be a negative on all fronts, so…”

“I need to aim lower, is that what you’re saying?”

“From what I’ve heard, Frankie is hardly ‘aiming low.’ Still haven’t seen for myself, since you can’t seem to make up your mind about her enough to introduce us, but that’s a whole other discussion.”

He turns and leads the way from the building to the parking lot. I follow, lengthening my strides to catch up, feeling like I always did when we were younger, and I tagged after him. I think I was perpetually out-of-breath until we hit high school.

Halfway across the lot, he pushes a button on his key fob to pop open the trunk on his gleaming black Audi, which is already idling in the snow that’s accumulated since we’ve been inside the batting cages. White clouds billow from the car’s dual exhaust pipes. Who knows how long it’s been running out here, sending pollution into the ozone for the sake of my brother’s ultimate comfort.

When I mutter something to that effect under my breath, he says, “I make a living saving lives. I think it evens out,” as he tosses his duffel into the yawning trunk and closes it just firmly enough for it to latch. A hydraulic mechanism hums, finishing the job and bringing the trunk flush with the rest of the car. Using the end of his scarf, he wipes his hand’s oils from the surface. “Now, are you ready to hear what I think you need to do?”

“Are you going to tell me, no matter what?”

“Yes. Because you filled my entire evening whining to me about your love life, when I could have been with my fiancée—”

“Don’t say it.”

“—doing a lot less talking.”

I sigh.

“So now I’m going to do the talking, and you’re going to listen.”

I close the hatch of my car and lean against the cold, dark taillights. Shoving my hands as far down into my woolen coat’s pockets as they’ll go, I grumble, “Fine.”

His arms crossed over his chest, his legs spread wide, he takes a deep breath, as if about to debrief a group of surgical residents. “Here’s how I see it. You want some kind of lifetime guarantee on a life partner, but guess what? That’s not gonna happen, Bro. You’re gonna have to give someone a chance to prove to you that moldy dishes and a cluttered coffee table aren’t deal-breakers.”