Frankly in Love (Frankly in Love, #1)(61)
“The wedding was . . . eventful,” I mumble.
“Did anyone fall down on the dance floor?”
“No.”
“Did anyone make any crazy last-minute speeches?”
“No.”
Brit looks perplexed. “No strange wedding crashers?”
“It was on a boat, so no.”
Brit holds my face as if checking for fever. “Are you okay?”
There’s no fever, because I find I’ve somehow turned to stone.
Just say it, Frank.
“So, listen, Brit,” I say. “I need to tell you something.”
Brit continues to hold me for a moment as her face tightens. A gray flake of ash falls onto her eyelash; she blinks it away. She recoils in confused horror, as if my face has suddenly vanished. Her arms release. She hugs herself amid the gathering ash storm.
She must see something on my face, because all at once she looks ill. “Oh god.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, then cut short. Every word I can think to say sounds terrible.
Brit takes a step back and holds her fists at the ready. She breathes hard. The air sharpens like a blackened edge. Some invisible voice whispers into Brit’s ear, and she looks at me like she has just learned the horrible solution to a long-ignored puzzle.
“It’s Joy, isn’t it,” she says.
Wise, aware Brit, with her beautiful power to see things others can’t—whether she wants to or not. My insides hang unmoored. I had been hoping to ease into this. No idea how, but still. Now there’s no way but straight through. “Brit,” I say. “Listen.”
“We were just at the ice-cream museum,” says Brit, recalling the evidence of past events. “She and Wu were together. We saw them. We were together.”
I force myself to talk. “I can’t explain it. I think I’ve liked her for longer than I realize.” I’m not explaining things to her. I’m explaining them to myself.
Brit begins to plead. “But that’s not fair. You love me. You love me.”
“I’m so sorry.” I’m about to vomit from nerves right now. I need to find words that make sense to Brit. “I have to be honest about what’s in my heart. For better or worse. I can’t help what’s happening to me. And I’m sorry it has to hurt you.”
Now Brit is tilting her head at me. “Is this because it’s easier to be with someone Korean? Is this why you, why you, why you’re dumping me right now?” Brit’s eyes go full and glossy with tears.
“It is not any Korean thing,” I say. “No.”
“And I got your mom to like me,” she says sadly. “I worked hard for that.”
The sky is getting more and more orange, to the point where it is almost brown. We probably should go inside.
“She didn’t know,” I say, and instantly regret it. It’s a slip. I’m wanting to explain to Brit that none of this is her fault, that I did in fact like her a lot, that she is an extraordinary person. But my tiny three-word slip threatens to turn into an avalanche.
“Wait—what?” says Brit.
“Nothing,” I say. Nothing? Come on, Frank.
“What do you mean, she didn’t know?”
Brit changes. She grows red. She smells different, like someone I don’t know. She’s clenching her fists.
“Frank, what do you mean, she didn’t know?” She raises her voice. “Look at me, look at my eyes, and say it slowly and clearly.”
I can’t look at her. The words just dribble off my lips:
“I pretended to date Joy so I could go out with you in secret.”
Brit barks a horrified laugh. She rips the long skinny flowers from the earth and clutches them.
“You hid me from your parents?” says Brit. “Like something to be ashamed of?”
“Brit, you don’t know what it’s like, being stuck between—”
“You two are like con artists,” says Brit. The tears wash down her cheeks, and she examines me with a hard mixture of disgust and disappointment. Disaggustment. “I have no idea who you are. You two deserve each other.”
She clutches her fist again and rends the poor flowers in two and flings them at my face. She doesn’t punch me. This isn’t where I get my black eye, not yet. She just sprints away and leaves a trail of sobs behind her.
In the distance I can see a jagged red fire line just cresting the hills.
* * *
? ? ?
Due to poor air quality, students are advised to go home early and stay indoors, say the announcement speakers. The fire is 50 percent contained, and rain is expected tonight. We’ll be sending out an email.
The bell rings, and students disgorge into the hallway. Q finds me.
“Fire day!” he says, and holds up a high five. “Pax Eterna at my house, baby!”
I just look at him.
Q lowers his hand. “You okay?”
“No.”
“What happened?”
“I just hurt someone real bad.”
“What? Who?”
“Can I tell you in the car?”
Q checks my arms and head as if looking for damage. “Can you tell me now?”
“Q,” I say. “We live in Southern California. It is our custom to hold all important conversations inside automobiles.”