Chapter 29 Frankie
FRANKIE
“How many fart jokes did you tell? Did you use the ninja one?” my dad asks.
“No! None! Sam was in the audience, so I didn’t want to take any chances.”
I’m in the empty theater lobby, talking to my parents on the phone.
There was loud applause inside the theater a few minutes ago, which means Owen is doing his encore now.
My parents are so excited to hear that I just performed in front of a big audience that I’ve almost forgotten the tiny incident from a little over an hour ago.
The one where, for the first time in my life, I said “I love you” to a man I’m not related to and he responded by telling me we need to make sure no one sees us together.
That little incident.
I had almost forgotten about it.
And almost worn out the soles of my shoes and the carpet from pacing back and forth around this lobby for fifty minutes. I was too scared to walk around outside. But being able to hear Owen’s voice through the walls was torture.
Seeing the notification that @theowenbrodie started following me on Twitter almost made things a little less terrible.
Almost.
“Fancy Frankie, we’re gonna start calling you,” my mum says. “Oh, just wait ’til I tell everyone at the salon. They’re gonna shit bricks. Did you talk about me and my jokes?”
“Of course I did. Detroit loved you.”
“Strewth, I bet they did! Oh, I can’t wait to see it on YouTube. I’ll post it on my Facebook!”
“Me too. Heck, I’ll even start a TikTok and post the YouTube on there!”
“That’s not how TikTok works, Daddy.”
“Well, I tried.”
I can hear loud applause again, and the doors from the inside theater to the lobby open up.
“I have to go now, you guys.”
I have to figure out how to hide from Owen Brodie for the rest of the tour while still fulfilling my nanny duties.
“We’re so proud of you, baby girl. Let us know as soon as the YouTube’s up!”
“I will.”
“Break a leg, darlin’.”
“Already did, Daddy. You say that before a show—but thank you. Love you, bye!”
I hang up and spot Grammie and Sam among the crowd of people pouring into the lobby.
Sam looks tired but happy. Grammie looks exactly like she looked the whole time we were talking at the hotel—mischievous and like she might say something that will break you in half at any moment.
“How was it? Did you have fun?”
“You were awesome! I liked it when you talked in those accents and sang that song.”
“Thanks, man.”
Grammie holds the video camera out to me. “I got your entire act on tape. You were magnificent.”
I can’t tell if she’s being sarcastic or not.
“I’m not being sarcastic,” she explains, continuing to smirk and deadpan. “I don’t know how to make my face or my voice do anything other than this.”
“Well, thank you so much for recording it.”
“Did you not watch Owen’s part?” Now Grammie is studying my face, so I look away.
Sam yawns. “Are we going back to the hotel now? I have to go to bed.”
Every other seven-year-old on Earth needs to be put to bed twelve times in a row, but this kid actually requests bedtime.
“We just have the one car here. I can text your dad to ask him to hurry up.”
When I look at my phone, I find a message from Owen.
OWEN: Where are you? Why aren’t you in my dressing room?
ME: In the lobby with Sam and Grammie. Sam wants to go to bed.
OWEN: Tell them I need to talk to you back here. Ask them to wait for us in the lobby.
ME: No thanks!
OWEN: Frankie. Get your ass back here right now. We need to talk.
ME: We really don’t.
OWEN: Don’t make me come out there and get you.
ME: Oh my God. Fine.
I ask Grammie and Sam to give us fifteen minutes and then head backstage. On my way, a few people pat me on the back and tell me I was hilarious, which feels pretty great. It almost makes me forget how much I dread seeing and talking to Owen about the tiny moment from just over an hour ago.
Almost.
I knock on the door to his dressing room. When he opens it, he looks so handsome I want to slap him and so stressed out I want to make him a cup of chamomile tea. And then slap him. He’s taken his glasses off, so he’s fair game.
He steps aside, ushering me in, and then locks the door behind me. I’m expecting some kind of lecture, like You can’t love me. Or This is show business not show nannies with benefits.
Instead he paces around, combing his fingers through his hair. So I just stand near the door, arms crossed. It’s a nice dressing room. Kind of fancy, even. Very clean. I know this because I am staring at every single thing in this room that isn’t Owen Brodie.
“Frankie.”
“Thanks for following me on Twitter,” I say to his feet. “I already got a bunch of new followers.”
“That’s great. But that’s not what I want to talk about, and you know it.”
“Well, what you want to talk about is what I don’t want to talk about, and you know it.”
“Listen to me.” He backs me up against a wall and holds my chin up so I have to look at him.
“When I talked to Martin back in Boston, he figured out that we’re…
having intimate relations. I didn’t tell him because you didn’t want me to.
But he figured it out, and he didn’t want me to tell you that he knows.
I told him I want you to open for me if the opportunity comes up.
I told him I want to help you get a job in the business when the tour is over.
He gave me some very compelling reasons why people shouldn’t know we’re…
having intimate relations. That’s why I said we shouldn’t let people see us like that.
For your sake. For your career. You get that? ”
“Yeah. Fine. I get it.”
“I love you too, Frankie.”
I try to wriggle away from him. “You don’t have to say that just because I said it.”
He holds on to my arms, pinning me against the damn wall. “No fucking kidding. I’m saying it because I want to say it. Because it’s how I feel.”
“Well that’s fucking adorable, but we don’t have to say it ever again.”
“Too fucking bad if you don’t want to hear it because I’m going to keep saying it. I love you, Frankie.” He grabs my face. “You’re a little shit and you’re driving me insane, but I can’t believe how much I love you.” He dips down to kiss me.
I’ve never been kissed like this before. So hard and soft at the same time. He’s giving me life and taking my breath away, and he’s the only person who has ever been able to do this. He could literally devour all of me with his mouth right now, slowly or all at once, and I would be fine with that.
When he finally takes a moment to breathe, I whisper, “I love you.” I’m light-headed and my heart is racing, but I feel so good all of a sudden, it’s all I can say. “I love you.”
In my mind, there’s no one outside this room, no one waiting for us in the lobby at this moment.
There’s just us and a couple of buttons that need to be unbuttoned, two zippers that need to be unzipped, and two pairs of pants and undies that will be hastily pulled down.
We had the “I’m on the pill/I’m clean” convo back in Ohio, so he just needs to put it in me.
“Tell me again,” I manage to say as I remove everything that’s covering me from the waist down so I can hop up and wrap my legs around him.
“I love you.” He groans, pressing himself inside me.
I’ve never been fucked like this before.
So hard and soft at the same time. Fast but purposeful.
Not a rush to get to the finish line, just a rush to get to each other.
The best kind of rush I’ve ever felt. Better than making people laugh.
It’s not the setup and it’s not the punchline. It’s not funny and it’s not even scary.
It’s just Owen Brodie and me and the thing we’ve probably been trying to say to each other all along.
“I love you.”