Let's Be Frank by Brea Brown Page A

attention back to her by answering Frankie, “Yes. I was about to explain to Nathaniel how I like to come up with special names for people.” She pokes her thumb in our server’s direction. “His name’s Rusty, but I never call him anything but Russell, which I think is more dignified.” The smile has returned to her blue eyes, sparkling playfully.
    Frankie rolls her currently unsparkly brown eyes. “She calls me Francesca, which I hate with a passion. Anyway, this is all just an act for her. She watches too many black-and-white movies.” Directly to her friend, she demands in a stern tone, “Stop it, Barracuda. You’re making Nate sweat.”
    “No!” I quickly deny. “I’m fine. I mean, alcohol always does this to me. And it’s warm in here. I shouldn’t have worn a shirt under this sweater, but it’s itchy, so I don’t like to wear it without something under it.”
    Betty arches her right eyebrow in a feat of facial flexibility I don’t think I could ever mimic, even though I suddenly have the urge to try. She says to Frankie, “You don’t normally go for the awkward ones, but this one is cute.”
    I’d resent the “awkward” assessment if it weren’t true. I prefer to focus on the fact that she thinks I’m cute.
    Beaming at her, as if she’s given me the biggest compliment in the world, I say, “Thanks!”
    “Oooh, and eager-to-please, too,” she croons.
    “That’s enough.” Frankie says mildly, wiping her fingertips on her cocktail napkin, then sliding her hand between my body and my arm, giving my bicep a squeeze.
    I flex it so it’s not a squishy tube of toothpaste against her hand, but immediately feel like an idiot for doing something so transparent.
    She either doesn’t notice or does a good job pretending not to. “Leave him alone. Gosh! You come in here, looking like Katy Perry and acting like Lauren Bacall—”
    “I was named after her, you know. Lauren Bacall. Betty was her real name.” She sips her wine.
    “Yes, you’ve mentioned it a few thousand times,” Frankie says.
    “I was telling Nathaniel. Sorry!” For the first time since arriving, she seems like a real person, not a caricature, as she reacts to Frankie’s disdain.
    Frankie sighs but raises her hand to flag down Rusty. She motions for him to bring us another round, then lets go of my arm. I relax it.
    “You got any hot friends… or brothers?” Betty asks. “And when I say, ‘hot,’ I mean a tad edgier than you.” She punctuates this with a wink.
    I clear my throat, running through a mental lineup of my friends to see if any of them fit the bill. Thing is, most of my friends are either married or about to be married. I’m one of the last single ones left. (And yes, I know what that says about me.)
    She waits, gulping her wine while I think, then says, “If you have to think that long, the answer’s no.”
    “My brother’s engaged to be married,” I explain, then want to punch myself in the crotch, since the last thing I need is to get on the topic of Nick’s upcoming nuptials. I quickly add, “And I only have one brother. Plus, he’s not edgy. He’s like me, only…” Where the hell am I going with this? “…richer,” I finish flatly.
    She looks at me like she’s found out my IQ (or some other measurement), and I’ve come up woefully short. “Richer?”
    “He’s a doctor. A surgeon, actually.”
    “Doctors don’t do it for me,” she claims. “They seem to have a God complex.”
    Rusty returns, sliding a new martini in front of Frankie and replacing my empty pint glass with a filled-to-the-brim glass of dark amber liquid.
    “Big boy beer,” Betty approves with another wink.
    “Am I going to have to hurt you?” Frankie asks. But she doesn’t sound all that upset by Betty’s shameless flirting… or my response to it. Not that I want her to be jealous. Or do I? I don’t know. Maybe a slight response would be nice, to show she cares.
    “So, you’re a murse, huh?” Betty