Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(30)

“I said, we have to tell them,” I hiss in her ear.

“What? Why?” says Joy. But then she gives me a look: You’re right.

“If they knew, they’d think we’re crazy,” I say. “But I bet they would keep our secret if we asked them. I bet they would be cool like that. Except maybe John.”

“That fucker just wants to see the world burn,” says Joy.

“I know, right?”

“But you know John’s secretly in love with Ella, don’t you?”

“No.”

“Dummy, John likes every single thing Ella puts up. He pontificates forever in her comments, too. Every. Single. Post. Haven’t you noticed how at Gatherings he spends the whole time ignoring her?” Joy waggles her eyebrows.

I laugh as quietly as I can. “Ella would cut his heart out and sun-dry slices for her pasta salad.”

“Oh my god, Frank, that’s so gruesome.”

We grin at each other in the dark for just a second, then remember the task at hand.

“What I’m saying,” says Joy, “is that maybe John can be trusted with a secret since the boy has a little secret of his own, capiche?”

I imagine a mobster Joy blackmailing John into silence, and snort. “I think he’s cool,” I say. “I think they’re all cool. If anyone’s going to understand why we’re doing something this crazy, it’ll be other Limbos.”

“Good point.” Joy heaves a single breath in and out. “Okay. Let’s tell them.”

I stand, take Joy’s hand, and slingshot her off the bed.

When we return to Andrew’s room, I see John holding court before a rapt audience.

“And then I saw him vanish with her,” says John.

“That Brit Means girl,” says Ella.

“I can explain that,” I say, startling the room.

The Limbos stare at me, waiting.

“So here’s the thing,” I say.

“You and Joy have an open polyamorous relationship,” says Andrew.

“That’s exactly right, how did you know,” says Joy flatly.

“Let him talk,” says Ella.

“So,” I say. “Me and Joy have come to this agreement, whereupon the arising of certain occasions for socializing of a romantic nature between, say, myself and a certain member of the female population who might cause tension within a certain traditionally minded population of our shared ethnicity, uh.”

“We’re fake-dating,” says Joy.

“Ohhhh,” say the Limbos.

“So you can go out with Wu and as a bonus avoid confronting deeper issues of identity and family,” says Ella.

“Dang, Ella,” says Joy.

“And you’re with Brit Means,” says John.

I nod. I look at Joy. We shrug. We make shy little jazz hands.

“So can you keep a secret?” I say in a small voice.

Ella claps her hands to her temples and squeezes with joyful disbelief, breaking the silence. “I love it. You guys are pulling some crazy shit.”

Andrew punches the air. “Craziest! Shit! Ever!”

Ella gives me a sappy smile. “You look handsome in love, Frank.”

John bolts to attention at this. He tries to speak, but can only move his mouth like a speared fish gasping for water.

It’s too pathetic to watch. So I facepalm, but with the door frame. “I’m gonna pee.”

“Like, really pee?” says Ella, still holding her head. “Or just fake-pee?”



* * *



? ? ?

I pee for real. I slam the soap plunger, wash my hands, and dry them using the floral towel set out special for tonight’s Gathering. I notice my hands are shaking. Me and Joy just took a big risk and blew cover. Can the Limbos be trusted? Even with their promise of silence, they could still let something slip purely by accident.

Why does everything have to be so complicated?

For a brief flash, I think to myself, Fuck everything. I consider ending things with Brit. Spending senior year as a monk. Saving all my dating for college. The logistics will be easier then. Why bother with all this workaround life-hackery?

I step out into the hallway and my phone buzzes with Brit’s custom pattern—dot-dot-dot, dash-dash-dash, dot-dot-dot, Morse code for SOS—and that bitter flash of fuck everything vanishes in a little green poof of shame. I could never simply forget Brit. She’s a book I just started reading, and I need to know where the story goes.

“Hey, you,” I say.

“Hi, Frankly,” says Brit. She’s in a quiet room somewhere, with the mic close to her mouth so that her voice sounds like it’s right in my head.

“That’s my nickname for you: Frankly,” she says. “Isn’t it convenient that your nickname is also your full name?”

“I’m calling you Britmeans, then,” I say. “Breans. Beans? Hey, Beans.”

She clicks with quiet laughter. “We can work on that one.”

The sounds of the party bark and babble around me, and I have to cup my phone to protect our conversation.

“Where are you?” says Brit.

“I’m at this Gathering thing,” I say. “It’s loud. Can I call you later?”