Chapter 35 Frankie
FRANKIE
I’m just going to say it: I hate Vegas.
It’s my understanding that Las Vegas is an extremely popular destination for travelers between the ages of twenty-one and thirty-four, but as an individual who is chronologically aged smack-dab in the middle of that horrible demographic, I can safely say that what happens here can stay here because I want nothing to do with it.
It’s the exact opposite of everything I can tolerate in this world.
If I ever make it big as a stand-up comic, I will just turn down all invitations to perform here.
I don’t care if everyone does Vegas. Frankie Hogan doesn’t do Vegas.
I mean, unless I have to accompany Owen and Sam here again. Then I’ll do it begrudgingly.
I could totally see Sam and me having a blast in Atlantic City though.
Playing bingo and eating at some crappy buffet until we can’t sit up.
Not when we’re senior citizens, but now.
We had a pretty great time in this hotel suite all day.
I did miss Owen, but Sam is great company and the movie channel and minibar selections are top-notch.
Sam is sleeping so soundly, I wonder if Owen and I can just sneak over to my room for a quickie.
Owen and I have gotten really good at sexting lately, but our text conversations are starting to use up most of the memory on my phone.
For that and other reasons, we need to have some actual physical contact ASAP.
Although it definitely wouldn’t be worth it if Sam was kidnapped while we were getting it on.
So we’d better keep it in our pants. I’ll just delete some apps from my phone to make room for more sexting and hope that once the tour is over, Owen and I can have some more alone time together.
Although I might only have time to see him if he comes to visit me while I’m waiting tables at whatever eating establishment is dumb enough to hire me.
The job market is very sad right now for people like me.
And by “people like me” I mean underappreciated geniuses of comedy who hate taking orders from people in offices and don’t want to take orders and carry them to and from people in restaurants either.
It’s possible I might need an attitude adjustment.
Or a miracle.
If I could somehow work on Owen’s show, I think my life might become unrecognizably perfect.
Not that it’s my dream job, but it would be amazing to get a writer’s assistant gig.
It would be my first legit Hollywood job after three years.
I would rock that shit. It’s not like being a regular assistant.
It’s not secretarial work, and I wouldn’t be picking up people’s dry cleaning.
I’d be in the writers’ room while they’re breaking stories.
Yeah, I’d be typing up notes on my laptop all day so I can summarize what everyone said during the story meetings.
But I’d be in the room, working for the showrunner, and if I’m lucky I’d get to pitch ideas and maybe even co-write an episode.
It’s an entry-level position, but that’s better than no level at all! I would learn so much.
It’s about time for Owen to get back, so I run to the bathroom to check myself out in the mirror.
Such a girly move, and I don’t even feel bad about it.
I want him to have the best possible memory of what I look like when I leave him to go back to my room so we can write dirty texts to each other until we fall asleep.
When I hear the door to the suite open, I get so excited it’s almost embarrassing.
I run out of the bathroom and smash into him, wrapping my arms around him and burying my face in his chest. He smells like Las Vegas, and that doesn’t even bother me. “Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi. Hi,” I whisper.
It takes him a few seconds, but he finally puts his arms around me too. “Hey,” he says, patting me on the back. He sounds tired.
I look up at him. “You okay?”
He nods. “Long day.” He lets go of me and continues walking into the living room area. “He asleep?”
“Yep. Out like a light, last time I checked.”
It’s a two-bedroom suite. Owen goes into Sam’s room to give him a goodnight kiss—something he does every night.
He doesn’t look at me when he comes out, closing the door.
He goes to the minibar to pour himself a shot of whiskey, which is odd.
He gulps it down, which is really odd. He doesn’t ask me if I want any, which is just rude, but I don’t want any, so whatever.
He goes over to plop down on the sofa, combing his fingers through his hair.
“How was your show?”
“It was good.” He pats the cushion next to him. “Let’s talk for a minute, if you have time.”
“I have time.” I resist the urge to straddle him, sit down next to him on the sofa, and clasp my hands on my lap. “What’s up?”
“I have good news,” he says, as if he’s about to tell me bad news. “I just got an email from Barry Weiner, the producer of the sitcom.”
“The Untitled Nanny Project, you mean?” I joke.
He rubs his forehead. “Yeah, we really need to come up with a title for that shit. Anyway, I got an email from Barry. He and the showrunner loved your writing sample.”
“Really? Cool.” I prepare myself for the next bit of news, which I’m assuming is: but they can’t hire you because you lack experience.
“They want you on staff as the writer’s assistant.”
I do a cartoon doubletake. “What? Shut up. That’s not funny.”
“They really do. Normally you’d have to meet with them so they can decide if they want you in the room with them every day or not. But I vouched for you.” He studies my face. “Are you interested?”
“Of course I’m interested. Seriously? They want to hire me. Like, now, you mean?”
He stares down at his right knee, draws circles around it with his fingertip. “To start in a few weeks. Hopefully you’ll be able to pay your bills until then. I’d be happy to just give you whatever you need until your first paycheck.”
“No, I’ll be fine. I think. So when we’re back in LA in a few days, I’m done being Sam’s nanny, right? Just confirming.”
Owen nods without looking at me. “He’ll be with Ashley for a couple of weeks straight, so Blanca will take care of him.”
“Right.”
“So, you want the writer’s assistant job? For the sitcom? Just to confirm.”
“Yes! You should call your show Funny Business. That works, right? He’s a comedian. The kids are funny. The nanny is hilarious. There’s no funny business between him and the nanny, at least not for the first season.” I give him an exaggerated wink.
He finally looks at me again. “Shit. That’s good. That’s perfect.”
“I know! I’m awesome! I can’t thank you enough for this job, Owen.” I lean in to hug him, but he pulls away and holds his hand up.
His hand touches my boob, but not in the good way. He’s pushing me away. Literally and figuratively.
“I’m glad you want the job. It’ll be really good for you.
You’ll learn a lot. The showrunner’s a good guy.
He won’t make you get everyone coffee or anything like that.
He’ll actually want to hear your ideas. It’ll be great for the show too.
We need a funny asshole on the writing staff.
Most family comedy writers are way too nice. ”
His delivery was good, and I might have laughed if he hadn’t just blocked my hug.
I sit back, away from him. “Happy to be of service.”
“The thing is, it’s not a good idea for us to see each other anymore if you’re going to be working for me. With me. On the same show as me. In the room with all those other writers who are writing for me.”
“You mean not a good idea for people to know we’re seeing each other?”
He looks me dead straight in the eyes. “It’s just not a good idea for us to see each other outside of work. While we’re working together. Other than as friends.”
It feels like the air conditioning suddenly came on full blast. But maybe it’s a freezing gust from Owen Brodie revealing his true nature and ice-cold heart.
The words I love you are crystalizing and swirling all around me and then crashing into the words as friends, smashing into a million tiny pieces.
“As friends…? So let me get this straight. You’re breaking up with me. Not that we were ever officially anything, but if I take this job on your show, we will definitely never officially be anything.”
“I’m not saying never. Just not while we’re working together. It’s for your own good.”
“Hah! Certainly feels that way. I’m feeling really good right now. Like a load has been lifted. A giant load of cocky asshole.”
“I understand if you’re mad.”
“Do ya?”
“I mean, I’d rather you be mad at me than sad about it.”
“Fantastic. Great to know. Everything’s going exactly the way you want it to, then.”
“Trust me, this isn’t the way I want things to go for us, Frankie.” He leans toward me, but I stand up and start pacing around.
Tears sting my eyes, but I refuse to cry in front of him.
“So…what? Are we going to lie to everyone on the show about knowing each other? They’ll find out that I opened for you in Detroit.”
“No, of course not. They can know that you were Sam’s nanny while I was on tour.”
“And of course they’ll all just assume we never got involved. Because how could you possibly be interested in someone like me?”
“If anyone asks if we were involved, I’ll be called upon to do the most serious acting of my career. What do you mean ‘someone like you’? Frankie… You’re—”
I hold up my hand to make him stop talking because all I heard was “if we were involved.” Past tense.
We’re already past tense. “Just…don’t.” I don’t want to hear whatever it is he’s about to say right now.
I just need to know one thing. I have to clear the lump from my throat before lowering my voice and saying, “I promised Sam I’d take him to the Wizarding World of Harry Potter at Universal Studios before school starts. ”
“You can still do that. You can see Sam whenever you want. I want to make this as easy on him as possible. He’s really going to miss having you around.”
“You can’t imagine how much I’m going to miss him.”
“We’re all still going to see each other, Frankie. This isn’t the end of the world.” He gets up and walks toward me, reaching out for me.
I back away from him. “It’s the end of the world that I actually liked living in.”
Drop the mic.
I have to leave the room after a line like that.
I don’t even know where that came from. What kind of drama queen says things like that? Not me.
I’ve probably just been indoors for too long. Too much recycled air. Way too many stupid feelings.
I have no idea what to do once I’m in my own room.
I can’t sleep.
I can’t drink when I’m still on the job.
I don’t have Mia or my other girlfriends around to force me to get dressed up and go out and get hammered so I can get over my latest disastrous non-relationship.
I just have to lie here and be sad. So, so sad.
I feel so stupid. I let myself fall for Owen so hard. There was no other way for me to fall for him. I should have just closed off my heart completely. He’s the guy in the pictures on my wall, and I’m the Tampa Heckler. I should have known there was no way this would work.
The only way this works is if he’s the ridiculously handsome celebrity that I make fun of because I’m so mad at him for not wanting me.
I can do that.
I’ve done it before; I’ll do it again.
At least this time I’ll have a decent job while I’m doing it.
I have to see Sam and Owen in the morning and travel with them to San Francisco and then to Los Angeles.
And that will be the end of this nanny job.
I’ll eat breakfast with them and hang out at airports with them.
I’ll read Harry Potter with Sam and stay on Cheese Watch before flights.
I’ll do all of it knowing that what happened between Owen and me in New York and Detroit and Texas and all those other cities is going to stay there.
But what just happened here—that’s what I get to take with me back to LA.
Yeah.
I really hate Vegas.