Marcus:Tell me you’ve been appointed retaliation captain.
Frankie:Better. Ziggy volunteered. He’s calling it betrayal of epic proportions. Between us, it is a way to channel some breakup rage.
Marcus:Wait. He’s still in town? Doesn’t he have a job…or at least a podcast about having one?
Frankie:Took medical leave for heartbreak. Cited chest pain. And swelling of the ego.
Marcus:And that got approved?
Frankie:Of course. Heartache is real.
Marcus:Has your heart ever been broken?
Frankie:Has yours?
Which was Frankie-speak for mind your own business.
Marcus:I see your dodge and raise you one. What is Ziggy’s plan of attack?
Frankie:Let’s just say it involves a fog machine and the mayor’s reluctant blessing.
He stared at the screen a beat longer than necessary, then typed:
Marcus:Speaking of the festival…would you be my date?
It was selfish. He had no business asking, not when he might end up on her hit list by week’s end.
He sent it anyway.
She paused. Long enough for him to decide it would be better for both of them if she said no.
Frankie:I’ll be your date if you promise to go all out and dress for the theme. No flannel. No excuses. I want full Gatsby.
Before he could reply, a second message lit the screen:
Frankie:And if you show up in a newsboy cap and call it vintage, I will revoke my acceptance. Publicly.
Followed by:
Frankie:And for fuck’s sake, bring cash for concessions.
Marcus:Deal.
That evening, just as he stepped out of the shower, another buzz.
Frankie:FYI. Every woman in town bought a Gatsby-themed wig for the festival. They’re having a big time naming them.
Marcus:Your idea?
Frankie:It was born from an Operation Small-Town Chic Club activity.
Seconds later:
Frankie:I’m naming mine Myrtle. She feels dramatic and doomed.
He winced.
Marcus:“Myrtle” just took all the starch out of my erection. Please tell me there’s a backup wig with a name less…octogenarian.
