Let's Be Frank (43 page)

She looks over her shoulder. “I’ve never kissed anyone like that. Ever. Anywhere. In any weather.”

“Me neither,” I agree, transfixed by what Rachel McAdams and Ryan Gosling are doing to each other’s faces.

I blink and return my attention to my salad, not quite able to achieve eye contact with Betty when she twists at the waist to face me after watching that scene. I’m also suddenly thankful for the very cold, very large bowl on my lap. Frantically, I try to remember what we’ve been talking about. The formal dress Author’s Ball. Or whatever. Right. “You can go, if you want,” I offer.

“I don’t want to go alone. I’m not an author, anyway.”

“Ha! Join the club.” I push a particularly nasty piece of lettuce to the side to get to some crispier stuff underneath.

“You know what I mean, though. I’d feel out of place without you. But I dunno… I’m starting to feel bad that we’re not doing what we’re here to do, which is market and promote and network.”

I smile ruefully. “I think Frank has done enough ‘networking’ for one day.”

She sighs. “You’re right.”

“You don’t sound happy about that.”

Picking at the bedspread, she mumbles, “I’m mostly bummed I won’t get to wear the dress I bought especially for tonight. It’s smokin’.”

Seeing that dress is almost enough for me to forget every other factor in the decision and agree to go. But I hold firm. “I don’t think I’d be able to stay in character with this headache. I say we let the excitement die down and keep a low profile tonight. Tomorrow, we attend the meet-n-greet, as planned. Except… you might want to double-check where Frank’s table is in relation to Yardley’s. Could get ugly if we’re too close.” Since she still looks so dejected, tracing her finger along the outline of a flower on the ugly comforter, I nudge her with my foot. “Anyway,
The Notebook
is on! I can’t believe more authors aren’t skipping the party to stay in their rooms and watch this.”

I’m relieved when she laughs and seems willing to drop the debate. Finished with all the edible parts of my meal, I set the bowl aside once again and gently press the ice pack to my forehead, hissing as my bruised skin adapts to the cold.

“It looks a lot better than it did earlier,” she lies straight to my face.

I shoot her an appreciative smile but counter, “Where’s the fire extinguisher? Because your pants are going up in smoke.”

Before she can commit further to the fib, her phone rings. She winces at the display, rushing to the balcony. As soon as she closes the door behind her, I mute the TV and strain to listen. I can immediately tell by her side of the conversation that the caller is Frankie.

“…No. What do you mean…? Oh. That. Really? On an RSS feed…? Slow news day…. Well, it wasn’t like
that
;
I’d hardly call it a ‘brawl’…. I don’t know! It just happened. He’s going to be okay, by the way, in case you’re wondering…. Nice…. No, I don’t think the other guy is going to sue; he was the one who threw the first punch…. No, no charges pressed; the police didn’t even come. And if anything, Nate would be pressing charges against
that
freak…. Well, that’s all just speculation…”

Then there’s such a long silence that I think maybe the call has ended, and I’ve missed the heartfelt goodbyes. I grip the remote more tightly, ready to restore the volume and pretend I’ve been watching TV the whole time, not eavesdropping. Seconds later, though, while my finger’s still hovering over the mute button, Betty snaps, “I don’t remember, okay? Maybe I did! I was worried about him…. Well, I’m sorry, but at that point, I didn’t give a shit if I called him his real name. He lost consciousness right in front of me!”

I blush at that detail. Great. The last person I want to have that information is now in smug possession of it.

“No, you can’t talk to him. He’s… he’s resting…. I know what the itinerary says, but neither of us is in a partying mood, so we’re skipping it…. No…! No…! I said, ‘no,’ Frankie… Frankie? Hello? Frankie? Sonofa…!”

The balcony door crashes open at the same time my phone sings, “Doot-dee-doo-doo-doo-dooooooot, Doot-dee-doo-doo—”

“Hello?” I answer as confidently as possible, cringing when the ice shifts and clacks in the bag in my other hand.

“You couldn’t even do this one thing right?”

“Good evening, Frankie. I’m fine, and you?”

“Cut the crap. You two have managed to make a major mess of things out there.”

“Seems so, doesn’t it?”

“Well, fix it.”

“We will. We still have the meet-n-greet tomorrow. Everything will be fine.”

“You’re supposed to be one of the headliners, but you’ve made a complete ass of yourself and my books.”

“Your books are probably selling better than ever. Go download a sales report and calm down.”

“You need to make an appearance at that thing tonight.”

“Not happening.”

Her frustrated growl would be funny if it weren’t so loud in my ear. I close one eye and pull the phone away from my head while she vents her anger. That’s when Betty grabs the device from me, turns it off, and tosses it in the dresser, where it lands softly on top of my clothes.

“What are you—”

“That’s enough,” she states, slamming the drawer shut, her chest heaving, her pulse thumping in her neck.

“You shouldn’t have done that. She’s going to think
I
hung up on her.”

“Who cares? She’s being a bitch. She doesn’t even care that you got hurt.”

“Well, that’s not surprising. And it’s not like it hurts my feelings.”

“It hurts
mine
.” She plops into the armchair she’s spent much of the evening occupying and rubs her fists into her eye sockets.

“Don’t do that to your eyes.” I switch off the TV, placing the remote on the bedside table.

Her hands drop, and she looks miserably at me. “I said your name—your real name—in front of everyone this morning.”

I let that information register and try to recall it for myself, but it’s no use. The day’s earlier events are mostly a blur of Yardley’s fists, physical pain, and humiliation.

Trusting she’s remembering correctly, I say, “So what? I’ve called myself my real name at appearances before. We have a cover story for that: Frank Lipton is a pen name.”

“Yeah, well… since we’ve never made that public knowledge, people are coming up with their own explanations. The most popular theory happens to be the truth.”

I transfer the ice bag to my other hand, tucking my frozen hand under my thigh. “So? That doesn’t mean it’s true.”

Her eyebrows nearly touch. “Uh… I think that’s the definition of the truth: it’s true.”

“Yeah,
we
know their conjectures and the truth are one and the same, but
they
don’t know that. All we have to do is give them the pen name explanation at tomorrow’s meet-n-greet, and everyone will shut up.”

“Or we can skip the meet-n-greet and let them think whatever the hell they want to think.”

“We have books to sell and sign and merchandise to unload.”
To the tune of about $2500
, I add silently.

“Fuck it.”

“Betty…”

“No, I’m serious. Fuck it, and fuck her.”

“Never managed it myself,” I quip, then cough when she glares at me. “Never mind. The important thing is that we came all this way to do something we promised we’d do, and we’re going to do it. Then—in my case, at least—I never have to do another thing for her. I send her a cease and desist regarding the use of my image, and it’s over.”

“I’m sick of this, and I don’t want to do it anymore,” she mutters to her lap.

I swing my legs over the side of the bed, toss the ice pack aside, and drop to my knees in front of her, grasping the arms of the chair with my frigid fingers. “I’ve been sick of this since… the first day. So, I get it. But it’s almost over. And if nothing else, someday we can say we did it. And laugh about it. I’m sure we will. I mean, I got beat up by a vampire romance writer. That’s funny!”

A tiny laugh escapes her, but she quickly sobers. “It’s not funny. You could have been seriously hurt.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“It’s not fair that Frankie keeps profiting from our hard work and trouble.”

I nudge her under the chin with my cold forefinger. “Hey. We’ll make her pay some other way. My ER bill will work quite nicely, for starters.”

Those reassurances don’t erase the frown lines on her forehead. In fact, the creases deepen. “Who cares about money? She doesn’t anymore. She was ready to take a complete loss on this weekend when I told her you refused to do it. Now that she has Kyle, even your ER bill will be pocket change to her. She has him wrapped around her little finger. If he wasn’t such a douche, it would be sickening to watch the way she manipulates him.”

“Like she manipulated me,” I choke, rising to my feet.

She winces. “Like she manipulates everyone.”

I know she’s trying to make me feel better about being duped by Frankie, time and time again, but it only makes me feel worse. At least Kyle has the excuse that he’s getting laid on a regular basis. My only defense for believing Frankie’s lies is that I was desperate and pathetic and hopelessly gullible. I turn so she can’t see my shameful blush.

“Anyway,” Betty continues to my back, “when you broke up with her and said you were finished being Frank, I warned her about this weekend and told her we needed to cancel everything, but she said to hold onto all the reservations. At first, she mentioned a ‘coming out’ plan and the possibility of attending the conference herself. Then the date drew nearer, and she changed her mind. That’s when she told me to ask you. I was actually proud of you for saying no.”

I gulp at the realization that I went and screwed that up, ultimately, but I remain silent and let her continue.

“When I gave Frankie your answer, she shrugged it off and told me to give her a few days to see how she felt about revealing Frank’s true identity. She said if worse came to worst, we could claim that Frank came down with some horrible, contagious virus, or say he’d had a death in the family.”

I snort, marveling at how effortlessly Frankie devises lie after lie.

Betty groans. “Yeah, I know. I hate lying. But whatever. At that point, it would have been unprofessional to back out for any other reason, and my name was connected to all of the arrangements, so I left it at that and hoped she’d do the right thing and attend the conference herself. Then Wednesday, you called me and said you’d changed your mind, and all of our problems were solved.”

“Except your losing all respect for me,” I mumble.

“What? No!” I hear rustling behind me, and her voice is nearer when she says, “I was relieved you were saving our skin.” I flinch at her unexpected touch on my shoulder blade, but I don’t have the guts to turn and look her in the eyes. Her voice softens. “I was touched that after everything…” She stops, takes a deep breath, and sighs. “Anyway, at that point, I didn’t care why you changed your mind. I was just relieved you did. And grateful. I knew you didn’t want to do it; yet, there you were, willing to do it, anyway. But you’ve done enough now.”

“Not technically, I haven’t. If we don’t show up at the meet-n-greet tomorrow morning, you’ll be facing the same problem you had before I said I’d do this: your reputation, Frank’s reputation, the conference’s reputation… they’ll all suffer. And you’ll be eating Ramen like a college kid for the next month.”

Oh, damn… did I say that out loud?

She steps around me, forcing me to look at her.

To her confused expression, I say, “Uh… all that sodium and MSG is horrible for you,” even though it clarifies nothing.

She screws her mouth to the side. “What are you talking about? Why would I be eating Ramen noodles?”

Damn. I stare at the ceiling and confess, “I didn’t change my mind about this weekend based on anything you said at my place last Sunday.”

“Okay… That still doesn’t answer my question, though.”

It takes supreme courage, but I lower my chin and focus on her eyes when I reveal, “Frankie called me. She wanted me to pay her the $2500 she claimed she’d be losing if we didn’t attend this thing. And she said if I refused, she’d go after you for it.”

“What?! She cut me a check ages ago and hasn’t mentioned another word about the money!”

All I can offer her is a lame shrug. I don’t understand any of this, either. The only thing I understand is that I’ve probably been hornswoggled… again.

Betty jabs her fist into her hip, as if
I’m
the one who has some ’splaining to do, but says, “When she proposed asking you to come to this conference, it was strictly so we wouldn’t look like jerks for backing out at the last minute.”

“She told me
you
were liable for the expenses, since you forgot to cancel the arrangements.”

She tucks her chin closer to her chest. “Excuse me? I don’t forget to do
anything
.”

Knowing what I’m about to say, I preemptively blush and scratch my ear. “By the end of the call, she had come to the same conclusion, saying you must have been lying about forgetting.”