Page 98 of Rebel Bride
She pushed a strand of hair behind her ear. “I’ve always subscribed to the viewpoint that if you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all.”
“Have you though?” Because it was clear Franky had no problem voicing her thoughts, warts and all.
She merely smiled, Sphinx-like, and sipped her water. Before Hatch could press the issue, Rosie called out his name, asking him to settle some argument, and he headed out with a secret smile at me.
Franky remained, regarding me with what I could only term as an analytical air. I had to admit being fascinated by this woman and her hot takes on Dash’s personality deficits. All night, I’d wanted to ask her a single burning question.
“Why snails?”
No hesitation, she replied with, “They helped me get through my parents’ divorce and my father’s alcoholism.”
“Wow. Not quite what I expected to hear.”
She chuckled. “I was a nerdy kid and while everyone else was into butterflies and Barbies, I was fascinated by snails and slugs. I especially liked their little houses. Some therapist would probably say I was looking for a stable home amongst the disintegration of my family life.” She smiled at me. “That therapist would be full of shit.”
I cackled. We’d met a couple of times at Rebels gatherings, but I’d never had one-on-one time with her. She was quite the tonic.
“So you and Hatch, huh?”
Scratch what I said about enjoying this woman’s direct takes.
“We’re friend-uh-ly.”
She hummed. “Rosie used to like him, and possibly still does? Not that it should dictate your behavior, but it might be wise to discuss it with her before you proceed. As a courtesy.”
“There’s nothing to proceed on. Or with. We’re not—there’s no future there.” I sounded flustered—and guilty. “I’m focusing on my career.”
Something like sadness touched her eyes. “That’s what I said and look at me now.”
Before I could interrogate that cryptic statement, a screech went up from somewhere in the apartment. It was soon followed by thunderous footsteps and the appearance of a wild-eyed Rosie in the kitchen.
“What have I told you about putting snails in the bathtub?”
Franky pushed back her glasses. “Don’t?”
“Precisely. There’s one on my shower curtain and now I’m going to have to burn it.”
“Washing the snail mucin off the curtain with soapy water will remove any harmful parasites,” Franky said, a touch cavalierly, I thought.
“Parasites?” Rosie held up a dramatic hand. “Could you deal with your pets?”
“They aren’t pets. They’re?—”
“Franky!”
“Okay, I’ll take care of it.” Franky inhaled a deep breath and headed toward the door. “Wish me luck.”
“With the snails?” I asked, because that sounded a rather fatalistic approach to your life’s work.
“Actually, I’m going to ask Sean to be the sperm donor for my child.”
I exchanged horrified looks with Rosie, who shut the door to the kitchen and snapped, “Are you kidding?”
“That’d be a strange thing to joke about.”
“You’re going to ask him? This minute?” Rosie whisper-screeched.
“Yes, this minute. That’s why I’m here. Well, I did have research to do in the area, and I love your tacos and most of the company, but it coincided with Sean’s visit from Boston, and I realized that this would be as good an opportunity as any.”
