Chapter 30
Chapter Thirty
DANNY
F rankie plans her shopping like she’s in charge of D-Day. She’s plotted out a route map that takes us around her strategic choice of locations in the shortest amount of time, no dilly-dallying. She’s also picked a spot for lunch. It happens to be a place us Durant kids took Mom last year. It’s kind of kitschy, which doesn’t seem like Frankie’s style, so I suspect she’s only chosen it because it’s en route. Hope she likes floral-patterned teapots and being surrounded by small porcelain animals dressed in British Edwardian clothing.
Me, I’m happy to be pulled along in Frankie’s slipstream. It gives me time to fantasize about what I’d like us to get up to when we’re back at my place. I feel a need to pay her back for the torture-sex session. Immature, I know, but fun to imagine. Though I’d better stop imagining now as we’re entering our first vintage store. A bad look to enter boner-first.
Needn’t have worried. Frankie races in before me like a whirlwind and starts flicking through the racks with the speed of one who knows exactly what they’re looking for. I saw a video online of a guy in London who was mud larking, which is basically sifting through mud and stones at the edge of the River Thames to find valuable objects. He fished out an ancient Roman coin that even when I watched the video again, I could not spot. That’s what Frankie’s shopping style looks like to me. Why does she pull out that top and not the one next to it that looks the same? The tattooed pink-haired woman behind the counter hasn’t even bothered to ask if Frankie needs help. She recognizes a world authority when she sees one.
“Here.” Frankie hands me a blue-and-gray argyle-patterned sweater vest. She has her own items slung over her other arm.
“I’m going to look like Archie,” I say, doubtfully. “The geeky 1950s version, not the cool Riverdale one . ”
Frankie eyes me sternly. “I find your lack of faith disturbing.”
“Okay, master,” I say, and only half-jokingly, add, “Please don’t force-choke me.”
We depart to separate changing rooms, and I pull the vest over my blue polo shirt. Wow. Frankie really has an eye. My next winter staple sorted.
“I look goddamn adorable,” I call out to her. “How about you?”
“Come and see,” she replies.
Oh, man. She’s outside striking a pose in a rose-pink dress with capped sleeves and pencil skirt, waist cinched with a black patent leather belt. She is the sexiest thing I’ve seen and it takes all my willpower not to drag her back into the changing room and lock the door.
“Does something for me?” she says with a smile, enjoying the fact my eyes are on stalks.
“Does something for me , that’s for sure.” I say. “Don’t suppose?—?”
“I’m just getting started,” she says, immediately. “This is still my first wind.”
I know when I’m beaten. We change, pay for our clothes, and hit the road. Nothing for it but for me to buckle up and enjoy the ride.
Two hours later and I really am beaten. Non-stop shopping on top of half a morning spent phoning Spanish hotels and I am collapsed on this particular store’s velvet chaise longue pleading for mercy.
“Pfft,” says Frankie. “I thought you were a hiking, running endurance athlete?”
“I didn’t train for this,” I say, waving my hand around at the store. “And I need food . I’m so light-headed, I’m starting to hallucinate. Pink poodle skirts are dancing around my head.”
Frankie’s rubbing her forefinger and thumb together. Right, she’s playing a tiny violin. Normally, my competitive instinct would be sorely provoked by this affront, but right now, I’m too fucking tired to care. Wait, maybe that’s my way out…
“I think I might have to call off our ‘later’ engagement.” I say. “Need to crash for a siesta, instead.”
“The hell you will,” says Frankie, hands on hips. She purses her lips in annoyance, then says, “Oh, all right, let’s go to lunch.”
She reaches out a hand to pull me up off the chaise longue. I’m prepared for her strength, so I don’t go flying into the nearest rack of vintage biker gear, all black leather and ripped denim. I wonder briefly if Brendan gets his outfits here, but assume he’d never do anything as unmanly as shop. Probably orders his T-shirts and jeans directly from Hell’s Angels. They come wrapped in chains and the scalp of your enemy.
I need food. Now.
Frankie’s face when we pull up outside her choice of café is pretty priceless.
“Well, this is … interesting,” she says, noting the assortment of animal figurines on the floral-bunting-and-fairy-light-draped front porch. “Why is that porcupine wearing a dress? Or should I say how is it wearing one?”
“Inside it’s even more cute,” I say. “And by cute, I mean terrifying.”
“You’ve been here?”
“Once. With Mom. And all my brothers and sisters,” I tell her. “It was a bun fight. Literally.”
“Could the food be described as dainty?”
Frankie looks like she wants to turn around and find another place. No way I’m going to let her. I get out of the car.
“Just order two of everything,” I say. “And quickly. My body has consumed all its fat and glucose stores and is now turning on my internal organs.”
“No stamina,” Frankie mutters, but she gets out and locks up the car.
Fortunately, the menu contains enough substance to satisfy us both. Reuben sandwich for me, grilled cheese for Frankie, and a chocolate milkshake each. The sandwiches come with a leafy green side salad. Frankie scrapes hers off onto my plate. My sister, Ava, lived for years on nothing but protein bars and air, and my brother Max still spurns all watery vegetables, such as cucumber, iceberg lettuce, and tomatoes, so I’m used to quirks around food. But I have to ask.
“Are there any vegetables you eat?”
“Carrot sticks,” says Frankie. “Plain popcorn. Pickles. Potatoes in their only acceptable form, which is fries. Green beans if they’re blanched to perfect al dente. It’s a fine balance to get the correct consistency, which is why I don’t often eat green beans.”
“And fruit?—?”
“Apples. Have to be fresh and crisp, not a hint of flouriness. Every so often, I’ll eat a nectarine as long as it’s not too ripe. Very occasionally, I’ll eat a slice of watermelon if someone has removed the seeds.”
She stares me down. “Got a problem with that?”
“Not a one,” I say, truthfully. “Each to their own.”
“Is there any food you won’t eat?”
I have to think. “I tried a roasted grasshopper once. Wouldn’t rush back for seconds.”
Frankie looks like I just admitted to cannibalism.
“They’re the protein of the future,” I say, with a shrug.
“Don’t care,” she says. “If I catch you barbecuing a tarantula, there’ll be no coming back from that.”
“Noted,” I confirm. “No bugs. I’m guessing no beaver, muskrat, or raccoon, either.”
“No one eats those!” protests Frankie. “You’re making it up, like you made up the loony thrasher bird!”
“My mom has an old copy of The Joy of Cooking , from the 1930s. Totally a recipe for beaver tail in there. Also bear and woodchuck.”
“Who writes a book like that? Davy Crockett?!”
Frankie picks up her milkshake and scowls. “Now, I don’t want to finish this. You’ve put me off.”
“I’ll make it up to you later,” I say. “And by later I mean how fast can we get back to mine?”
“Half an hour ago, you were dying,” says Frankie.
“I’ve perked up,” I say. “All of me is now super perky.”
I see her hesitate. Frankie’s a cautious person, and she has to feel sure she’s doing the right thing. I get it, I do. But I still really hope she chooses the getting naked with me thing.
“You owe me half a milkshake.” Frankie lowers her voice. “But I’ll settle for several orgasms.”
“Deal.” My face is one giant grin. “I’ll grab the check.”