Free Let's Be Frank by Brea Brown Page B

the last word. “We could all be dead by then.”
    “Nice,” Dad grumbles upon his return to the table.
    I laugh. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to sound that hopeful. I just meant… it’s not worth worrying about right now. It’ll be fine.”
    Frankie gasps and grasps my hand. “Oh, my gosh! I have the best idea! You can take Betty as your date.”
    At first, I think she’s kidding, but as soon as I study her eyes, the laughter dies in my throat. “You can’t be serious.”
    “Who’s Betty?” Mom wonders, a grin spreading across her face. I can already tell she likes this harebrained idea… and that means I’m in trouble.
    “My best friend,” Frankie explains.
    “I thought you guys were, you know, arguing.” I still haven’t been able to get out of Frankie what transpired between Betty and her the other night at the pub while I was in the bathroom, but I know I wasn’t imagining the tension when I returned.
    Ignoring my observation, she pushes, “Betty’s a ton of fun at family gatherings.”
    I’m not sure if our definitions of “fun” sync up yet. Does she mean “fun,” as in, “gets rip-roaring drunk and silly within five minutes of having access to the open bar,” or “fun,” as in, “does a mean Conga,” or…
    Frankie interrupts my musings with a leg-jolting brush of her fingers against my upper thigh under the table while she says to Mom and Dad, “You guys will love Betty. And she’s a workhorse. If you need help with last-minute stuff on the day of the wedding, she’ll pitch in.”
    I wonder if Betty’s aware of all this work for which Frankie’s volunteering her. Then again, it’s hard for me to concentrate as Frankie’s fingers creep closer and closer to my lap.
    To me, she urges, “C’mon! It would be perfect. You’d have a date, but I wouldn’t have to worry—”
    “You don’t have to worry, because it’s not gonna happen.”
    Mom smiles warmly at the two of us. “I think it’s a sweet, thoughtful idea.”
    “Yeah, don’t dismiss the idea out-of-hand,” Dad agrees.
    Oh, but I am dismissing it out-of-hand. “I don’t need a date for the sake of having one. Now, let’s talk about something else. Did I mention that Frankie’s a writer?” I blurt, hoping Frankie doesn’t kill me for telling my parents.
    To my relief, she grins proudly when they look suitably impressed with this piece of information.
    When Mom takes the bait and asks, “What genre?” I breathe a full breath for the first time in several minutes (it helps when Frankie returns her hand to her own lap).
    “Women’s fiction. Chick lit, more specifically,” Frankie answers.
    “Are you published?” Dad inquires.
    Frankie’s lips pinch over her teeth.
    “Uh… she’s kind of shy about sharing her work right now,” I jump in, before anyone thinks of abandoning this conversation in favor of one of the more hideous ones we’ve already explored. “She’s still considering her options and… and… thinking about pen names. Right?” I consult her, realizing I’m doing that annoying thing where I talk about someone in the third person, even though they’re sitting right there.
    I know I’ve made the right decision to rescue her, though, when I see the gratitude—something I’ve rarely seen from her—in her eyes. She grips my hand on top of the table and says to my parents, “Actually, I was thinking about keeping my last name and shortening my first name to Frank.”
    “Giving yourself a literary sex change, huh?” Dad jokes. “Interesting.”
    Frankie nods enthusiastically. “It was Nate’s idea.”
    I nearly choke on my coffee. “It was?”
    “Yeah, remember? You suggested it at the pub, and it’s great, because you’re right; even though a lot of guys write chick lit, they’re still a minority and somewhat of a novelty, so they sell a ton of books.”
    Mom and Dad exchange a look. I don’t know Betty and Frankie well enough to accurately interpret their nonverbal