Let's Be Frank (48 page)

Since I can’t say that without losing it, he persists, “Hey, what’s going on with you?”

I stare at my feet. “It’s complicated.”

“But it’s about a woman, right?”

I hate that the cliché is so true, but I nod. I mean, I’m not depressed because I couldn’t find the right shade of floor stain at Home Depot last weekend. (Sure, that was frustrating, but I got over it.) No, the truth is so much sadder than that. I can tell everyone I’m okay with myself until I’m blue in the face, but the fact remains that I can’t seem to find someone to share my life who is just as okay with me. And that sucks.

When he opens his mouth to say something that will surely be trite and make me feel even worse, I cut him off. “Listen. I don’t want to talk about it.” I pick up the discarded bag of balls and the bat and turn toward the house. “This is your day. That’s why I was hanging out with the kids. I knew they’d keep me too busy to think about… stuff. Because when I think too much about everything…”

“I’m sorry, man. I just thought you were being a dick.”

“I sort of was when I was talking about all the kids’ names. I’m sorry. It’s always cracked me up, though. I thought you’d think it was funny, too, and I needed to laugh.”

I set the sports equipment next to the deck stairs but continue along the side of the house to get to the street. Nobody wants to be around me after hearing me say all those things. Now
that’s
awkward.

Nick catches up and falls into stride next to me. He doesn’t try to convince me to stay. Instead, in a low voice, he confides, “Yo. It
is
funny. I mean, Heidi’s already suggested the name Mossimo for a boy.”

“No way.”

“Oh, it’s not happening. Ever. I told her we Binghams are more traditional types. It’s bad enough our parents gave us the same initials
.
”

I can’t help but smile on the sidewalk as I kick at the perfectly edged grass border. “I don’t know. It’s come in handy recently, wouldn’t you say?”

The grin he shoots me across the roof of my car has a lecherous tint to it. “True. ‘HIP & NAB Forever,’ Bro.” Sobering after a few seconds of inappropriate chuckling, he asks, “Are you going to be okay?”

I wave away his concern. “Yeah. Of course, I—”

“I know you will, in general. But today. You don’t have to go, you know.”

Laughing ruefully at my shoes, I say, “Uh, yeah. I think I do. And it’s fine. I have some… stuff… I can be doing around the house,” I fib. More likely, I have a Maeve Binchy book on my e-reader just dying to be read.

He nods and pats my car before backing away. “Right. Okay, then. I’ll, uh, call you later and tell you who won the game.”

“Oh, will you? Please? That would be so great. I’ll be waiting with my hand on the phone.”

He mutters something about me being a jack-off before turning and crossing his front lawn, picking up an errant leaf on the way and tossing it in one of the trash cans lined up along the side of his house. It’s such a grown-up, dad thing to do, and the emotion it evokes takes me by surprise.

That’s my big brother,
I think proudly with a shake of my head as I get behind the wheel of my car. He’s in for the shock of his life, I think, but once he gets over not being the center of Heidi’s world, he’s going to be a good dad. I’m sure of it.

It feels good to be sure of something.

Chapter Thirty-Two

I don’t go anywhere or even start the car for several minutes.
What am I going to do now?
And I’m not just talking about right now, today, on this Sunday afternoon, when most of my friends—the ones I’ve reconnected with since reclaiming my life—are watching football or raking leaves or hanging out in parks with their spouses and toddlers. I mean it in a much broader sense.

What am I going to do
now?

I decide I’m going to spend the rest of my Sunday afternoon buying a shit-ton of the cutest clothes and toys I can find for my new niece or nephew, who I plan to spoil absolutely stinking rotten.

I press my foot on the brake, turn the key in the ignition, and cut the steering wheel to the left to pull away from the curb while glancing in my side mirrors to check for traffic. My foot, easing off the brake pedal, jams down again at the image in the rearview mirror. To make sure it’s not some crazy mirage, I verify the sight over my shoulder, through the back window.

The green Fiat is indeed there. And Betty’s stepping out from behind the open driver’s side door.

I slam my car into park and turn it off with a shaky hand, my mouth suddenly drier than Mom’s meatloaf. (How many times do I have to tell her, “Fewer breadcrumbs, more Worcestershire sauce”?) I hope I don’t look too eager when I jump from my own car, wiping my sweaty palms on my pants.

Seeing Betty makes me feel like someone’s stabbed me in the gut. It’s all I can do not to pitch forward and grab my midriff like a shameless over-actor in one of the Sy-Fy Originals I’ve taken to torturing myself with on Friday nights when I can’t face another happily-ever-after in the newest chick lit bestseller.

“Hey,” she begins shyly before I can come up with a mental list of possible reasons for her sudden appearance.

“Hi. Uh… what’re you doing here?” To my dismay, my voice sounds pinched and helium-filled.

Movement behind her car’s windshield in the passenger seat catches my eye, distracting me from my bone-headed greeting, and I do a double-take. “Reba?”

Betty follows my glance and smiles indulgently. “This bitch was digging to China around the Japanese maple in your front yard. Figured you’d appreciate me putting the kibosh on that Asian fusion experience, and since you weren’t home, I brought her with me… to find you. This was the first place I thought to look.”

“That predictable, huh?”

She nods. “Yeah. It’s nice.”

“Well… thanks for bringing her to me.” I scoot between our bumpers and open the passenger side door, snapping my fingers at Reba to prompt her out. “Let’s go, Houdini,” I mutter at her, swallowing back the disappointment at such a mundane purpose for Betty’s seeking me out. Opening the Prius’s back door like a doggie valet, I usher the canine into the backseat. “In you go.” I slam the door behind her and watch as she circles several times before plopping and resting her chin on her dirty front paws.

When I turn, Betty’s standing before me, her hands behind her back. I lean against the door, watching as she studies her shoes, the silver stilettos she wore to Nick and Heidi’s wedding, now matched with jeggings and a baggy, off-the-shoulder sweater, and sinking into Nick’s lush front lawn. She looks… different. Smaller, somehow. Or maybe that’s just due to her meek posture. Since her face is pointed toward the ground, I stare at the slightly lighter strips of hair along either side of her part, wondering when I became the type of guy who noticed when someone was due to have her roots re-touched.

“You didn’t ask me why I was at your house,” she points out.

I feel like an idiot for the oversight but manage to quip, “What? Not on stray dog patrol?”

Her smile is grateful and brightens her otherwise pale face. “No. Just happened to work out that way. I stopped by to talk to you.”

I squint into the afternoon sun, telling my eager, racing heart to settle the hell down and not jump to any conclusions. After all, maybe she’s here to smack me for whatever it is I did that she wouldn’t tell me about all those weeks ago. Maybe she’s here on more business for Frankie. Maybe—

“Actually, I came to apologize.”

Even worse.

“Ah. Apology accepted,” I grant shortly, pushing away from the car and walking around the back bumper.

“Nate. Wait.”

I stop, but I stare straight ahead, biting hard on the inside of my cheek.

“Can we go somewhere and talk?” she asks.

Still showing her my profile, I think about it, quickly playing in my head how this is going to go down (talking across a table at a coffee shop, outdoors on the patio, on uncomfortable wrought-iron furniture; her saying she’s sorry and giving some lame excuses about not wanting to get involved with anyone, namely me; my telling her I completely understand and that I’ve moved on and am fine; both of us hugging and promising to remain friends, a promise neither of us plans to keep, for different reasons). After a few tense seconds, I answer, “Actually, I have plans this afternoon. I… was just leaving here to get on with them.”

“Oh.” She blushes. “Of course. I didn’t mean to presume or…”

“It’s not a big deal. I usually don’t have much going on.” Now I turn my head and smile bravely at her over the roof of my vehicle. “Just sort of worked out that way.”

She nods and frowns at my echo of her earlier words. “Right. It was rude for me to come by unannounced. I… It’s a bad habit, I guess.”

I don’t confirm or deny her assessment. Instead, I step forward and pull on the door handle. At the last second, before opening the door all the way and ducking behind the wheel, I pause, search her eyes, and ask, “Everything okay? I mean, you’re doing well? Eating your vegetables? Drinking lots of water? Getting plenty of sleep?”

Her arms fall limply to her sides, and her shoulders slump. “Stop being nice to me.”

“What?”

Picking her way across the grass, toward her vehicle, she says, “Just stop.”

I watch her wobbly progress, my mouth hanging open. “I only—”

“I don’t deserve that, okay?” She jerks her door open and flops into the seat, collapsing against the steering wheel and flinching when her actions produce a plaintive bleep of the horn.

I gently latch my own door with a quiet click and slowly walk to her vehicle, where I drape myself over the top of the open door and look down on her. “I’m not being nice to be mean. If that makes any sense,” I defend myself. “I asked because I genuinely care.”

“I know!” she muffles against her arms. “You’re killing me.”

I sigh and come around the door, crouching next to her. “Hey.” Moving my hand almost close enough to touch the side of her thigh, I stop before making contact and pull my hand back, gripping the rocker panel just before falling on my ass in the street. “I’m sorry.”

She snorts. “Oh, God. If you start apologizing, I’m going to punch you.”

My physical balance restored, I run my hand through my hair. “I don’t understand you, Betts.”

With a turn of her head, she trains her shining eyes on me. “You do, though. That’s the problem. You’re the only one who does.”

Loathe to break the news that, in effect, nobody understands her, if that’s the case, I simply bounce on my feet and take in how surreal this moment is.

She seems content with the silence, to a point. Then she drops, “I treated you like shit. I did exactly to you what Chris did to me: ran away with no explanation. But I couldn’t have explained myself to you if I tried. I only knew I was scared.”

“Of what?”

“Of changing everything.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me that?” I wonder, still not getting it.

“Because you would have tried to fix it.”

“Yeah…?”

“And I wasn’t sure I wanted you to. And I was embarrassed about what that said about me, that I’d prefer a shitty status quo, just because it was familiar and seemed safe, rather than actually admitting I wanted something different.”

“Change is scary. Even good change sometimes.”

“Exactly!”

“See? I understand.”

She pivots on her butt, facing me, bracketing my knees with her own. I swallow and concentrate on her face. When I realize I’m not breathing, I take in tiny sips of air until my lungs reach full capacity. Then I exhale in equally small measures before resuming normal respiration.

She touches the spot on my forehead that’s long-since healed and is back to its usual, smooth self. “I kept telling myself that I needed to choose between Frankie and you. I already knew what to expect from Frankie; and although I thought I knew what to expect from you, I didn’t really. Not as well as I knew what to expect from her, anyway.”

“Abuse and heartbreak?”

“Yeah. But… I was used to it. Desensitized. What you were offering—or seemed to be offering—was… foreign. And unpredictable. And… and what if you changed your mind when you got to know me better? You know, like when all my quirks started to be annoying, not cute. When you had enough and left, I’d have no one.”

I look down, dismayed at her poor opinion of me but also knowing nothing I say can convince her that wouldn’t happen. Because there are no guarantees in life. And I can’t even promise myself it won’t happen. I
am
difficult to please. Then again, I’ve never loved anyone like her, and I can’t even think of anything she does—other than dropping in unannounced all the time—that would potentially become one of those grating deal-breakers I’m so good at finding. Anyway, even her most unpleasant unexpected visits wind up being the highlight of my day. I realize that might be a bigger commentary on my average day than the quality of her visits, but… the result is the same.

It’s all a moot point, anyway, I realize, so I swallow and say, “Well… I guess you made the right choice then.”