Franco Promyczek. 3. Kim Holden

Contents Title Page Copyright Dedication Thursday, January 18 Friday, January 19 Saturday, January 20 Sunday, January 21 Tuesday, January 23 Wednesday, January 24 Thursday, January 25 Friday, January 26 Saturday, January 27 Sunday, January 28th Monday, January 29 Monday, February 12 Wednesday, February 14 Thursday, February 15 Friday, February 16 Saturday, February 17 Sunday, February 18 Monday, February 19 Tuesday, February 20 Wednesday, February 21 Friday, March 9 Tuesday, March 20 Thursday, March 22 Tuesday, March 27 Thursday, April 5 Friday, April 6 Saturday, May 25 Wednesday, June 13 Saturday, June 23 Tuesday, June 26 Wednesday, June 27 Friday, June 29 Saturday, June 30 Monday, August 20 Thursday, August 23 Friday, August 24 Thursday, August 30 Saturday, September 1 Wednesday, September 12 Thursday, September 13 Sunday, May 26

Acknowledgments Franco Playlist Other Books By Kim Holden About The Author

Published by Do Epic, LLC This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locale is entirely coincidental. Franco Copyright © 2016 ISBN: 978-1-9454-4302-2 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes to quote brief passages for review purposes only. Cover designer: Brandon Hando Cover image obtained from Love N. Books, www.LoveNBooks.com Cover photographer: Daniel A. Flores, www.DFVFX.com Cover model: Graham Nation Editing: Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words, www.alchemyandwords.com Interior design: Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words "Goodbye Los Angeles" lyrics reproduced with permission from the artist, Future Husbands. "Goodbye Los Angeles" Copyright © 2014

Dedication Jama, You are the world champ of friendship. And mithering. But mostly friendship. I love you loads, Tiaco

Thursday, January 18 (Franco) "Let's go, twizzle tits!" I swear Jamie and Robbie are the slowest creatures to walk upright on two legs. Okay, that's a lie, Gus is the slowest. But considering Jamie and Robbie do everything together like they're conjoined, it doubles their slow quotient and puts them slightly ahead of Gus. "What's on the agenda tonight?" Gus asks. I can't help but laugh at the obscene amount of gum he's talking through. I know he started chewing gum because it's helping him quit smoking, which I'm proud of him for doing, but his new vice is fucking hilarious. The chewing halts and he narrows his eyes at me, which only makes me laugh harder. "What, dude?" Shaking my head through the last of the chuckles, I answer, "The gum. You're killing me with the gum, man. How many pieces are you chewing?" His middle finger is flashed impressively quick and with the authority of someone who means it, but the, "Fuck you," that accompanies it is half-hearted and sounds more like an agreeable, "I know." "We're going to the Y-Not. Wanna come?" The Y-Not is a little bar around the corner from the apartment we're temporarily housed in. It looks unassuming, which is so not L.A., and the name is endearingly and horrendously cheesy, which all adds up to a must-see in my book. It's a fairly new establishment, in that it wasn't here a year and a half ago when we recorded the last album. "Nah, dude, I'm just gonna chill here. Maybe watch some shit TV and get some rest." The way he says it puts my mind at ease. I've never been so okay with being turned down in my life. Gus's past year has been the things nightmares are made of. Losing people you love is a bitch. But losing your best friend, especially someone as fucking outstanding as Kate Sedgwick, rocked him to his core. He was a hollowed-out shell going through the motions for months and months. Looking at life through lifeless eyes and seeing absolutely nothing but the void she left behind. It was devastating to watch, because a) I couldn't help him, b) I missed her too, and c) I knew the pain and loss I felt must be amplified by one thousand percent in his heart—and that kind of grief was unimaginable to even consider. But the past two months I've witnessed life slowly breathing back into him. At first it was gradual, and I almost wanted to deny the progress I was seeing, because if he plummeted again I didn't think I could take watching it. So, I stood by with reluctant and slightly pessimistic hope that my best friend was recovering and clawing his way out of the depression that gripped him. And once the steady climb became noticeable, it skyrocketed. His confidence in his talent has never been what it should be, but the Gus I watched from behind my drum kit performing in front of me on New Year's Eve was the fucking rock star I always knew he had inside. And I don't mean a showy, cliché douche, because that will never be Gus—I mean a front man, with the confidence to back up his undeniable talent. And watching him in the studio these past couple of weeks confirmed the evolution. It's next level. I'm so proud of him. "You ready?" Jamie asks as he and Robbie join us in the living room. I laugh because he says it like they've been waiting on me. "I don't know..." I run my hand over the top of my freshly shaven and smooth head while showcasing my Twin Atlantic t-shirt with my other hand. "Clean shave, clean shirt, brushed my teeth, what do you think? It's not just for show." Robbie just smirks and shakes his head because he knows I'm busting their balls. "Let's go, showboat." Walking toward the door, I call him on it, "Damn right, I'm gonna meet someone tonight. I can

feel it in my—" Gus interrupts me, "Balls?" "I was going to say gut...or even heart...but yeah, balls works too. Later, twat biscuit." "See ya, dicksicle. Have fun and be safe," Gus calls as the door shuts behind us. The air is warm tonight, and it feels good to be outside. We've been cooped up in the studio recording our second album for a couple of weeks now, and don't get me wrong I love what we're doing, playing drums is what I live for, but I also love being outside. Being in the water surfing, or walking the beach, or riding my motorcycle is where I am if I'm not playing drums. Every day we aren't on tour, I'm outside. I go a little stir crazy when I'm penned in by four walls for too long. Jamie and Robbie are arguing with the passion of two scorned teenage girls about a video game they've been playing. I've never been much into gaming so it's like following a foreign movie without subtitles and I tune it out. The first thing I notice about the bar when we step inside is how mellow it is. L.A. is a pretentious bitch; everything in this city is based on looks, appearances, stature, success...or a damn good fabrication of those. It's an illusion that houses nuggets of authenticity. And I feel like those nuggets are so few and far between that I gloss over them because it's too hard to distinguish the real from the fake. L.A. is not my scene, so the atmosphere in here makes me smile and forget about the people not so far away trying to be someone they're not. "Modelo okay?" I ask Jamie and Robbie. They give me two thumbs up because it's a little loud to talk over. "Cuervo shot, too," Jamie mouths. I nod, and then gesture with my chin at a door leading to a patio. "Go see if you can grab us a table out back. It's too nice to sit inside tonight." They nod and make their way past the pool tables, through the throng and disappear out the door. There are three bartenders: two dudes and one cute little brunette. I get her attention and smile, being the flirt that I am, and she saunters my way. "What's it gonna be, handsome?" She's even cuter up close. I pin my pointer finger down with my thumb and show her three digits. "Three Modelo, three Cuervo shots." She flashes a pouty smile, all full lips, and quickly turns and walks to the other end of the bar to fill my order. My eyes drop to her ass as it comes into view moving away from me. She's wearing shorts so tiny her cheeks are hanging out. Don't get me wrong, it looks good, she's in fantastic shape that's for sure, but here's the thing...I like some modesty. I know that's weird for a twenty-six-year-old guy who has a Ph.D. in flirting, but I think a little modesty reveals humility, which is one of the sexiest traits in a woman. I like a girl who's pretty, but doesn't know it, if that makes sense. Pretty, but doesn't shove it down my throat. Unassuming does it for me. So, when the bartender returns with the shots, she's somehow made the transition from cute to an afterthought. That's how quickly I can write potential off, in a split second. I know, I'm fickle, but if I'm going to spend quality time with a woman, I want to enjoy their company. It takes all kinds to make the world go around and I've dated them all, believe me, maybe that's why I'm so damn picky. I'm not looking to settle down or fall in love, but I still treat dating like an interview process, and vet like a mofo, because crazy or high maintenance isn't something I'm willing to entertain even on a casual basis. I don't care how amazing they are in bed, it's not worth it. Needless to say, I don't date much these days. She pops the bottle caps off the beers and places them on the bar top next to the shots and flashes her smile again. "That'll be twenty-one dollars, sugar." I hand her twenty-five and ask if she can help me carry the beers outside. She eagerly obliges,

and when Jamie eyes her walking toward their table, with me walking behind, his sober expression lights up into mischief. He's into her. The kid can't hide an emotion to save his life. He sucks at poker because, you know, no poker face. The only person he can beat is Gus, and I half think that's because Gus lets him win. She sets the beers on the table. "Hi, boys." "Hi," they both answer. Robbie is unimpressed with her saccharine tone. He's only into blonds, so Miss Mahogany Mane doesn't stand a chance anyway, but he's not even trying to hide his displeasure. Jamie, on the other hand, is still grinning like crazy. She turns to me and bends over slightly, so her cleavage is strategically at eye level. "Let me know when you're ready for more, hun." It seems she's one of those people who's incapable of ending a sentence without a pet name. I kind of hate that, too, but I'd like good service tonight and I don't need her spitting in our next round of drinks, so I wink and offer, "Sure thing." She sashays away, ass swinging like a clock pendulum while Jamie drools. "Wipe your chin and close your mouth, man, it's embarrassing," I say to Jamie when she's out of earshot. I'm laughing at him, God this kid kills me. He's like a mini-Gus, except they're nothing alike. They share a lot of the same personality traits, but they project them differently. They're both insanely nice and generous, but while Gus does it with an easy, it's-who-I-am attitude, Jamie is more naïve, like a baby animal that you want to protect from the fierce, vicious world outside for fear he'll get eaten alive. Jamie's smiling because he knows I'm joking, but his eyes are still glazed over with the prospect of getting in her very tiny shorts. For being on the shy side, the kid gets his fair share of tail and then some. Chicks dig his innocence. Women are attracted to Gus and Jamie like moths to a flame. Though Gus has been converted to monogamy by Scout, and I love seeing that change in him. "What? She was hot," Jamie defends. I nod. "She's cute." And shrug. "Not my type." He nods slowly, and a smirk plays at his lips. "She didn't pass the test, huh?" He knows the list of shit that turns me off with women is long and getting longer by the day. I take a long pull on my beer before I answer his taunt. "Nah, I just didn't like the fact that everyone else has seen ass-ets before I'd have a chance to unwrap them myself. She's all yours." Robbie holds up his tequila shot. "I need to unwind. Let's get fucked up." He's a man of few words. Jamie and I raise our shot glasses, and as the three clink together, we repeat after Robbie, "Let's get fucked up." An hour passes in no time, and we've downed two more rounds of drinks when it starts sprinkling rain, which is pleasant until the clouds open up and it turns into a downpour chasing us inside. I glance at my watch—it's only nine o'clock and I'm already feeling a little hazy. "You two wanna play some pool before we have another beer?" I need to slow down if I want to walk out of here tonight of my own volition, instead of carried out by my compatriots. "Sounds good. I'll take your money. Rack 'em up," Jamie says confidently. I'm shit at pool. I know it's a game of geometry and angles, but my mind doesn't work that way, which means I always lose. And we always play for money, so not only do I lose my dignity, but I lose cashola, too. Technically, it should be the last thing I enjoy doing, but I love it. I have a pool table at home, and I can play whenever I want, but I'm still shit even with the practice. I guess that's proof you don't have to be good at something to enjoy it. Robbie and Jamie are both skilled, and they kick my ass quickly, jabbing me with put-downs

the whole time. I accept them graciously, which is kind of unlike me not to verbally, good-naturedly poke them back, but my attention keeps being drawn to a couple sitting at a small table not far from us. They look tethered, like an invisible, giant hand is holding them down in their seats even though everything in them wants nothing more than to jump up and run for the door like the building is on fire. The guy is average in the looks department, but he looks cynical and jaded. I'd wager his day gig has him confined to a cube farm doing mundane work that has already stolen his soul and left him a cookie cutter soldier of boredom and mediocrity with no hopes or dreams. I know you think I'm exaggerating but I'm good at reading people and this dude looks like he would be torture to spend five minutes with, as if he could suck the life and creativity out of you like a dementor in the Harry Potter films and you'd be left only a zombie like him. He's frowning, sulking like he's Captain in charge of the S.S. Asshole. I'm not a fighter, but I kind of want to kick his ass, because he's so blatantly treating her like an irritation. She, on the other hand, is a completely different story. Her hair is strawberry blond, more red than yellow, and it's the first indicator of the fire housed inside. She's wearing a You Me At Six t-shirt, which has me smiling because I already like her taste in music; a determined smile that seems to be a defiant, feisty, fuck you to his lackluster and piss-poor demeanor; and leopard print flats on her feet that for some reason just scream vixen to me, and not slutty vixen, but sassy, I-dare-you vixen. She has my full attention. I'm out of our game of three, and Robbie and Jamie are still playing, so I take a seat on a stool next to their table. I'm eavesdropping, and their conversation is sporadic and limited at best—single or two-word exchanges. "Hungry?" She's not kissing his ass, but it's a polite attempt to relieve the awkwardness. Which he deflects with a simple, childish, pouty, "No." "Another drink?" She needs, more than wants, another drink to cope with her predicament, I can hear it in her voice. "No." He really could care less if he's coming off as a dick. I hate that. "Play pool?" She's about done. That was short and sweet and sounded annoyed as all hell. "No," the asshole replies. I'm straining to hear her say something else. Please say something else. Anything. Because she has a British accent that's broken and a bit rough—not the stuffy, proper, royal type. She's just gone from intriguing to downright sexy. "Toilet." It sounds final. She points to the restrooms on the other side of the bar. He raises his eyebrows lazily to acknowledge the announcement and continues to look miserable. And when she stands and walks to the restroom, I follow her. She's not aware I'm following her because I'm not tailing closely, but I can take her all in. She's maybe five and a half feet tall, loose curls fall to the middle of her back, her t-shirt's oversized and knotted at her hip, and her legs are wrapped in skinny jeans. She looks casual, but fucking adorable. I hang outside the ladies room door for her and when she exits I step in front of her and block her progress. She looks up at me and cocks her head. "Sorry, I need to get by." The accent? From two feet away? Directed at me? I just died. I give her my most nonthreatening grin because I don't want to scare her and come off like a creeper. "You really in a rush to get back to the walking dead?" She shakes her head adamantly, but she's trying not to smile, I can tell. "Nah, I'm in a rush to leave while the wanker's not looking. Sneaking out the back proper getaway-like." I laugh, because just listening to her accent has my heart smiling in my chest, but her attitude

has me wanting to take her outside in the rain and have a long, drawn out conversation with her to see what she's made of. "Is he your boyfriend?" She barks out a laugh. "Hardly. Blind date. My first and last blind date. Ever." She does the sign of the cross over her chest. "Swear to God." "Come out back on the patio with me. I'll buy you a drink." I don't know why, but I need to know this woman. Need. To. I wink and add, "I promise, I'm not a wanker." "Well, aren't you a bloody charmer. Not a wanker, huh? Not sure I believe you." Her small smile tells me otherwise. Like I said before, I'm good at reading people. I shake my head, and all I can do is grin at her as she follows me outside. The rain's stopped, and it's muggy. I love the air after a rainstorm, it's clean and damp and fills your lungs with purpose and weight, as if it knows its job is to sustain us. We take the only two dry chairs under an umbrella in the corner and seconds later one of the male bartenders appears. He's as flirty as his female coworker and eyeing my little Brit hard. I don't like it. "Another gin and tonic, love?" What is it with the bartenders here and their goddamn pet names? "Nah..." and then she pauses and looks at me. "You sticking around or you leaving with your mates soon?" I'll do whatever she wants me to do. "I'll stick around if you keep me company." "Right then." Her eyes flash to the bartender. "Another gin and tonic with a cucumber slice please." The bartender reluctantly looks at me, because he wants to continue visually feeling her up. I narrow my eyes for a second to let him know I'm on to him and that I'm not cool with it, and I answer, "Modelo and a shot of Cuervo." After the bartender leaves, she laughs, and it's devilish and in stark contrast to her sweet appearance. "A tequila lad, I might be in trouble." I raise my eyebrows. "What? You don't like tequila." "Nah, I love it. Just seems that lads who like tequila are always a bit on the naughty side." I laugh because she's not trying to be seductive, she's just stating a self-truth. "Is that so?" She nods, sits back in her chair, and crosses her legs. Her foot that's suspended bounces a few times, and it's self-assured, not nerves. "Yeah, that's a fact." Her posture tells me she's not going anywhere, but she's not exactly flirting either, so I ask, "Do I look naughty?" She cocks her head and purses her full lips. "Mmm... I'm going to say a bit, but I think it's just the tattoos talking. Naughty enough to be fun, yeah. Proper criminal naughty, not a chance." I smile again. "Fair assessment. Definitely naughty enough to be fun. What's your name?" "Gemma. When I was born, my granddad took one look at me and said, 'Well, ain't she a gem.' That's how I got my name." "I think he was right. I like it." I like everything about her so far, the name fits. "What do they call you?" "My name?" She nods and smiles like I'm teasing her. "Right." "Franco." "Any story to go along with it?" "Nope. My dad just liked the name, I guess. I have one brother and three sisters. My mom and dad took turns naming us. I got Dad, he liked Franco, end of story. So, what's the story with the wanker blind date?" She looks back over her shoulder through the window. The walking dead is long gone. She

lets out a sigh of relief. "A friend's brother...or maybe it was cousin...I don't remember. A mutual friend, I use that term loosely now, unbeknownst to us, set us up on a blind date. Lured us here under false pretense, introduced us, and then abandoned the most poorly matched couple ever to engage. Failure was immediate. He bought me red wine and tried to impress me with his vast knowledge of Kanye. I don't fancy either. It went straight down the shitter after that, and he got pissy I wasn't swooning over his rubbish taste in alcohol or tunes. It was a wretched reminder of why I don't date. Already trying to purge him from my memory, I guess. I'm sure he's doing the same." I nod toward the writing on her shirt. "You like music?" Her eyes light up. "Love it." Not sure I want to tell her I'm in a band or not now. I'll have to feel her out. "Who are you into?" She points to her shirt, "Obvs," and smiles so I know that wasn't meant to be rude, her pointing out the obvious. "Josh Franceschi is my future husband—he just doesn't know it yet. Catfish and the Bottlemen, Walking on Cars, and Nothing But Thieves are ace, too." I nod. "So, basically you're only into British bands." She blushes. "UK. Yeah, it's where my heart is, can't help it. It's in my blood." She points at my t-shirt. "Twin Atlantic are amazing too. McTrusty's accent..." She fans herself with her hand to illustrate how hot it is. "Jesus, that man can make anything sound sexy." "But, he sounds like you. I didn't think Brits even noticed other Brits accents." She takes a sip of her drink the too-friendly bartender just dropped off and gets a dreamy look in her eyes like she's thoroughly enjoying talking about him. "Sam McTrusty's accent is not like mine. He's Scottish. Totally different. When he sings the word generator, it sounds like sex. When I say generator, it sounds like...well...generator. Nothing special." "Oh, it sounds special." I wink, because goddamn does it ever. "How long have you been in the states?" "Round about a year now. My work visa is almost up and then that's me back home next week." "Where's home?" It crushes me a little to ask, because even though I don't know her, I don't know why but I don't want her to leave. "Little town in northern England between Manchester and Liverpool." There's clear cut fondness and pride in her eyes when she says it. She takes another sip of her drink and I can't take my eyes off her lips. "You from here? Los Angeles?" I shake my head. "God, no. I'm from San Diego." "Ah, San Diego, heard of it but haven't been. I really haven't been out of L.A." "I'm sorry," I apologize with a smile, so she knows I'm kidding. Sort of. She smiles, too, and it matches mine—apologetic. "Yeah, I'm not too keen on L.A. I miss my small town. It's a bit mental here." She nods in my direction. "What're you doing here, then?" I make the decision to tell her. "I'm in a band. We're here working for a few weeks." She narrows her eyes like she's not sure she believes me. "You're winding me up?" Laughing, I answer her suspicion, "No, I'm serious. I'm in a band." A sly look sinks into her eyes, and I don't know what it means. Is she impressed, or does she still think I'm lying and she's caught me? "Working? What do you mean, like playing gigs?" I shake my head. "No, recording an album." An innocent smile is bleeding through and it's transparent. She's impressed. She believes me. "What's your band called?" I'm holding my breath for some reason. I'm hoping she's never heard of us; I hate groupies. "Rook." She lifts one shoulder slightly and paired with the look on her face it says I'm sorry before she

even opens her mouth. "I'm sorry, I don't know that one. What do you play? What instrument?" I'm not offended. I'm so not offended. "It's okay, we're not British. I wouldn't expect you to have heard of us." Her cheeks redden, but her smile softens, and I continue. "And I play the drums." That devilish laugh bubbles up again. "I was right then about you, a bit naughty." I raise my eyebrows and neither confirm nor deny. She glances at her watch. "Bollocks!" She's already standing and pushes in her chair, looking flustered. "What's wrong?" Wiping sweat from her brow that isn't there, she says, "It's my roommate's dog. She's sick, and my roommate's out of town at a funeral, and I was supposed to give her medicine thirty minutes ago." She's genuinely distressed and that makes me sad because she's, you know, distressed, but also a little happy because I know she's telling the truth and this isn't an excuse to blow me off. "Listen, I realize that dating is off the table because you're completely repulsed by it at the minute due to the wanker, and geography will eventually make it impossible anyway, but can I call you? See you again? No expectations, we'll just have fun while we're both here." The terror fades and her eyes brighten. "I'd like that." I take out my phone and hand it to her, and she quickly types her number in. I text her, Hi, and she smiles when her phone chimes from her pocket. "Can I walk you to your car?" "Oh, nah, I don't have a car. I walked. I just live in the apartments 'round the corner." I shake my head and inwardly cringe that she just divulged that personal information to a stranger. "You shouldn't tell a dude you just met where you live. I could be a serial killer." She smiles that confident smile. "But you're not, naughty boy. I thought we already confirmed that." I grin. "Can I walk you home then, since I already know where you live?" "Yeah, I suppose so. I don't usually walk alone after dark." Robbie and Jamie are still playing pool when we walk back through the bar, and by the looks of it, they're hustling two middle-aged dudes. I tell them I'll be back in fifteen minutes and they both slap me on the shoulder, it's a Get 'em, Tiger! gesture, but they hold back on words, thank God. The walk is fast paced. She's worried about the dog. When we get to her door, I make a mental note of her apartment. Number 215. I point across the parking lot. "We're in 171." She nods and repeats, "171, got it." This is a little unusual, because I want nothing more than to kiss her, along with a few other things, but I'm nervous. I'm never nervous around women. I know how to handle myself. Her eyes are searching me up and down. "Listen, Franco, I'm honestly usually not this forward, so don't think badly of me for asking, but I need to medicate the dog. Your lips are lovely, and it's been a really long time since I've been properly kissed..." She pauses and embarrassment and bravery duke it out in her lopsided grin. Bravery wins and she continues, "Are we going to snog, or shall I just go in?" I throw my head back in laughter and then I take her face in my hands and look her in the eyes. "You're fucking perfect, you know that?" Her head nods between my hands and she winks. "I tend to agree with you." And then I kiss her and her mouth has the same effect on me that her accent does. I'm lost in it. She's not shy, her hands are resting on my hips, but as the kiss deepens arms snake around me and she holds me tight. I have to remind myself this is only a kiss and this isn't going any further than a kiss. My dick, on the other hand because it's been a long ass time, wants more. It's begging for it. The walk back to

the bar is going to be uncomfortable at best. I've decided that I want to live like this, my mouth attached to hers, forever. Because not only is her tongue driving me mad, but the sounds she's making are blowing my mind. It's not moaning, it's not heavy breathing, it's not whimpering...it's just pleasure. That's the only way I can describe it. She's with me completely. We're both feeling it, and she's not ashamed to let me know exactly how into this she is. And when I feel the minute shifts of her body against mine, I know I need to let her get inside to the dog, or there's going to be an embarrassing, but damn satisfying, dry humping session on her doorstep. Grudgingly, I break the kiss and stare in her eyes. She returns the unabashed stare and licks her lips. "Right. Guess we're going to snog then." I want to kiss her again so goddamn bad. My hands are still tangled in her hair, and it would be so easy to lower my face to hers, but instead I say, "You'd better get inside to the dog." She nods very slowly; it's dubious agreement. "Damn dog." I kiss the tip of her nose before I release her. "I'll call you tomorrow, Gemma." "You'd better. And I was right," she says while she unlocks her door. "About what?" I can't wait to hear what she says. "Definitely the fun kind of naughty." She winks and opens the door. "Night, Franco." "Night, Gem." Her fingers wiggle a goodbye before the door shuts. Fucking hell. That's all I'm thinking. Fucking hell. I feel like I've lost it. And not in a bad way. I have to close my eyes for a minute and regain my senses because she's stripped me down in such a basic elemental way. A few hours ago I wasn't thinking about much, just trying to clear my mind and have a good time out with the boys. And then Gemma appears and blows everything apart like a grenade. I felt her with everything inside me. It was like she set fire to a pile of kindling with her presence and I was standing right in the middle of the pyre, being devoured quickly and thoroughly. And now I can't think about anything else but her. She makes me happy. And horny. And everything else in between. I can't wipe the smile off my face. I usually smile. But this? This is the kind of smile that will take hours to fade. My cheeks hurt already. And I fucking love it. When I return to the bar Jamie and Robbie rib me. I don't give it back. I don't give them anything except my gigantic Gemma-induced smile. And they laugh at me. And I don't fucking care. We drink another round. Or three. Jamie and Robbie play another round of pool. Or three. It's late, or rather early when we head back to the apartment. I've had my fill of alcohol and I'm relaxed. My extremities feel loose and detached as if sleep is already settling in, but the core of me, my mind and my organs, are still buzzing with the excitement of the evening. The boys are still giving me shit as I unlock the door of our apartment and we're all laughing as we walk in. For a second I think I should shush them, because we're all drunk, and loud, and Gus is probably sleeping, until Gus walks out of the kitchen in his underwear carrying a glass of milk. And the sly smile on his face tells me he's up to something. Or was up to something. It's obvious he's had a

stellar night too. "You should've come with us tonight, scrote. I met a wild little strawberry blond from Northern England named Gemma. She's got a penchant for leopard print, You Me At Six, and gin. She's perfect. Got her number. A good time was had by all." I'm phishing. I know if I share, so will he and I want to know what that goddamn smile means. I love seeing him this happy again. And then I catch a whiff of something heavenly, and I know exactly who put that smile there and what he's been up to. And my stomach is growling because I know there are cookies in this apartment. And I know who baked them. Which means they're the most delicious cookies within a five hundred mile radius, because that girl can bake. I need cookies. "Was Scout here? Where're the cookies?" Jamie breaks me from my bloodhound-like response to the scent when he says, "Holy shit, what happened to the table? And the wall?" I look down to the small table next to the door, and the drywall is history. It took some punishment from the table, which looks like it didn't fare so well either. Gus's eyebrows lift in an admission of irreproachable guilt. The guy never hides anything, I love that about him. He's the real deal and doesn't hide from what's going on in his mind. It reflects in his expressions because he doesn't filter. He doesn't mask. "Girl Scout may have stopped by tonight to deliver some cookies." That explains the property damage. The table versus drywall debauchery makes perfect sense now, Scout didn't make it two steps inside the door before it was on like Donkey Kong. Good for him. Good for them. But I poke him anyway because it's kind of my job as his best friend. "That doesn't explain the property damage." He raises his glass of milk and shrugs in true Gus, easygoing form and says, "Let's just say they were really good cookies. Excellent even. Probably the best cookies I've ever had," as he walks away in victory toward his bedroom. And fucking hell. Now I'm thinking about Gemma again. And how I would give anything...anything...to taste her cookies.

Friday, January 19 (Franco) We've been in the studio all day. And all day I've been on my game, focused on the music. But the moment we all climb in my truck to head back to the apartment I'm thinking about Gemma. And the fact that she's the first woman in a long time to wind me up like this. I know she's only here for a few more days, but I can't stop thinking about her. And I don't think last night was a one-sided attraction; that kiss was a sincere connection. A physical act so blistering it couldn't have been faked. She was into me. Fuck it. I'm texting her when we get home. I text from my truck in the apartment parking lot, Dinner tonight? because apparently, I'm already obsessed with this woman and can't wait another two minutes until I'm inside. I'm holding my phone in my hand, staring at the screen, like some lovelorn sap from a chick flick, waiting for an immediate response. "Chill the fuck out, dude," I say it out loud. It's a reminder to stop acting like a goddamn hyper puppy. My phone pings in my hand before I step over the threshold, so I shut the apartment door and step back out into the parking lot. I close my eyes and take a deep breath because my heart is racing in my chest. It's that rare pounding that reminds me that I'm alive, and more than that, it reminds me that another human being can create need and want and lust in an instant so intense that it's a drumroll beneath my ribs. It should be terrifying, but it's not. Gemma: I've eaten. I have leftovers if you want to come over. My feet are walking to 215 before I've read if you want to come over. My hand is raised, poised to knock on the door, and I'm still three steps away. Two steps away the door opens. I guess we're both anxious. And there stands Gemma. In leopard print shorts and a black tank top with a union jack flag on the front. It only reinforces everything else about her that screams subtle sophistication. I'm one who defines sophistication as setting oneself apart from the rest of the crowd. And not in a douchey, I'mtoo-good-for-you manner—but worldly, unique, classy. Classy is all about the way a woman carries herself. And Gemma can rock the hell out of classy in a pair of animal print shorts and a tank top. "Hiya." She's beaming. It's a smile that springs forth from a chasm of happiness deep inside. "Hey, Gem." I'm smiling, too. And my heart is racing again, spurred on by her joy. Happiness in another person always finds its way inside me. I subconsciously welcome it into my soul. I feed on it. It's not a complicated process. It just happens. When I was young, I watched my grandmother, who lived with us for a short time, battle Alzheimer's. It stole not only her memories; it stole her ability to function. But it never stole her happiness and kind heart. And I remember at eleven years old thinking how admirable that was. Because she fought to hold onto it. My friend Kate only reinforced my feelings when she got sick. She was positive and happy up to the very end. She steps back so I can walk in. And by the time she's shut the door behind me I'm lost in the aroma of something hearty and meaty and...substantial...as if just the scent the food is giving off is enough to satisfy my hunger. "What smells so good?" Her smile drops from one corner of her mouth, but it doesn't extinguish the happiness she's radiating. It's just transformed into something slightly more pride based. "Scouse." "Excuse me? In English this time for us Americans." I can't help smiling even while I'm teasing her.

She turns, but not before I catch her wicked grin, and heads for the kitchen. "It was our language first." "You win. Sounds better with the accent too." She pinches the fabric of her shorts and mocks a curtsy as she walks through the kitchen doorway. "All right then." She walks to a cupboard and pulls out a bowl and a glass. And then she proceeds to unlid a crock pot and ladle out the concoction that smells so good I can already taste it. When she points to a small table and chairs in the corner, I sit like the obedient starving man that I am. "What's scouse?" I ask as she places the bowl in front of me. "Meat, potatoes, carrots, onions." Taking the spoon in my eager hand, I shrug. "It's stew." She grins. "Call it whatever you like. It's still scouse." I take a bite, and it's the best stew I've ever tasted. So much better than normal stew that I decide the special name is justified. "This is good." "Course it is. It's my mum's recipe. You want milk or water to drink?" "Beer?" I ask hopefully. "None of my own, only my roommate's beer in the fridge," she answers apologetically. "Would she mind?" "He," she corrects. "And yes, he would mind very much." "Your roommate is a dude?" I don't know why I'm so stunned, but I am. "I haven't seen his twig and berries, but yeah, judging by his burly beard and deep baritone voice, I would say yes, definitely a bloke." "How'd you meet him? How'd you become roommates?" I ask, curious. "I answered his Craigslist ad," when I open my mouth to interrupt, and almost spit out the stew in my mouth in the process, she gives me a pleading look not to, "which I know was stupid and naive, I've been told so a million times by a million different people since. But here's a little secret about me," she widens her eyes, "I'm trusting." "That's no secret. Possibly to your detriment. You shacked up with a strange dude in a foreign country and you let me walk you home last night after knowing me for an hour." She smiles a smile that tells me I'm wrong. "I've good instincts. You're harmless. And sweet. And easy on the eyes." Just then a guy walks into the kitchen. No beard. He's young. Way too young to be the roommate in question. "Hiya, Brandon," Gemma greets. He raises his chin in answer, with aloofness only a twelve-year-old boy can pull off like a boss. "Want some scouse?" He shakes his head; it's so minute it's almost an insult, while he walks to the refrigerator and pulls out a Gatorade. A prompt exit without ever uttering a word follows. "Friendly kid," I say sarcastically. The silent treatment when she was obviously trying to be nice was a dick move though. "He's my roommate's son. He doesn't speak." I raise my eyebrows. "I noticed." She shakes her head at me like I didn't understand. "No, he can't speak. His vocal chords were damaged. He literally can't speak." "Oh." And now I feel like the dick. "Milk or water?" she asks again, returning to the original conversation. Her voice is light and happy again.

Or maybe it never changed, and it's just me feeling guilty. I laugh at her teasing parental tone. "Milk, please." When she sets the glass in front of me, I'm halfway through the bowl and already hoping she has enough to offer me a second. I haven't had a home-cooked meal since New Year's Day dinner with my parents. "Do you have any bendy straws?" I ask through a full mouth of food. "Bendy straws?" I shrug. "It's rock star stuff. You wouldn't understand. Bendy straws are the shit." Surprisingly, she shrugs with me in solidarity. "I don't have any, but bendy straws are fab. Why don't Americans use them? It's all we use in England." I clutch at my heart. "I knew I loved you Brits." "Shut up, naughty American boy." I do. Shut up. Because she asked so nicely. And I finish two bowls of better-than-stew scouse, like a starving man. Then we move to the couch to watch a movie. As soon as she sits down next to me and her presence and scent and Gemma-ness invades my personal space, I'm lost in her. She's talking, and I'm listening. And I'm talking, and she's listening. And we're watching the movie in between. But we both know we don't want to talk. Or listen. Or watch. We want to touch. We want to taste. The chemistry between us is a crackling static charge. "Can I use your bathroom?" I blurt, because the situation in my shorts is critical. "Course. Right down the hall on your left." She points to the hallway and her eyes flit to mine and then away. The eye flitting was the equivalent of me adjusting myself in my shorts—she's trying to relieve the ache too. When I return to the couch, she's sitting in the same spot, but she's hugging a throw pillow to her chest tightly. I want to be that pillow. As if she's clairvoyant, she says, "You want to go in my bedroom and finish watching this on my telly?" She doesn't take her eyes off me, but she tips her head toward the TV in the corner. And her eyes convey the same Gemma playfulness and confidence, but her voice doesn't match it. It's quieter than usual. Not quite so commanding, but wishful. I want to say yes as soon as I hear bedroom, but I wait her out and take another moment's pause so I don't look like a man drowning in need. Because I am a man fucking drowning in need. What happens next is one fluid motion. Gemma grabs the remote from the couch next to her in one hand and takes mine in the other. She flips off the TV while leading me to the hallway and tosses the remote on the end table. And before I can blink we're behind a closed door. In Gemma's bedroom. It all happened quickly, like high-speed video. One moment we're sitting in the living room stalking each other with our eyes and the next we're standing in her bedroom stalking each other with our hands. My right palm is on her collarbone, my fingers sweep beneath the strap of her tank top. Testing my restraint against the soft allure of skin. My left hand settles on her hip, low on her hip. So low that my fingers are resting on the upper swell of her ass. Her right hand is splayed out against my chest. My heart thundering beneath. Her left is curled around the back of my neck making my skin blister out in goosebumps. Fuck. Gemma makes me want to break every rule of decency there is.

And I know she'd love to let me. I'm not the only naughty one in this room, guaranteed. When we lean in to touch our lips to each other, it's slow. Controlled. And that's when the hurried shift happens. Our eyes are locked. Lips so close there's the hint of contact. A tease. That we both pull back from. She cocks an eyebrow in challenge and acceptance reading the silent dare between us. No kissing. At least for the moment. Because touching feels too damn good. Her hand on my neck releases and a finger lightly traces just above the collar of my t-shirt from the back to the front. I haven't taken my eyes off her, but all my focus is on the ball of nerves gathered beneath my skin following the trail of her finger like a magnetic pull. When she moves north and skims up and over my Adam's apple, I swallow and it bobs against her finger increasing pressure. Which increases intimacy and her breath hitches but she continues her journey. She rounds my chin through a day's stubble and halts at my mouth. Lightly tracing my lips parts them, because breathing through my nose is no longer getting enough oxygen to my brain. I'm taking in deep breaths through my mouth to steady myself. To steady my control. To remind me that I'm present and this is really fucking happening. I'm holding my tongue, until I feel the top edge of my lower teeth skimmed by her fingertip and my tongue wants in on the game and circles the welcome invader. Her eyes widen slightly, and I decide it's my turn. Finger still in my mouth, I take her wrist gently in my hand and suck her as I slowly remove it. Staring into her I count to ten because the stillness is foreplay like I've never known. This stare, this stillness, is communicating everything I want to do to her. And she's doing the same. And it's fucking dirty as hell. I can feel the vibration between us. There's not enough air in the room. Both of our chests are heaving with effort. And effort looks phenomenal on her. The full swell of her breasts peeking out the top of her tank top is more pronounced, as if her nipples are barely concealed. Her cleavage begging to be divided. And Jesus Christ I can think of about five different ways to divide and fucking dominate it. She licks her lips, an unconscious act driven by desire, but it sets me in motion. Her wrist still in my hand, I turn her so she's facing away from me and then I drop it. I rake my fingers through her long, silky, thick hair once before gathering it in my hands, twisting it twice and lifting the sexy mass of waves and curls to reveal her neck. A neck I want to taste. A neck I will taste. I hold her hair in place on top of her head with one hand while coaxing her left hand to come up and pin her mane in place so my hands are both free to roam. Goddamn, it's such a small thing, but her standing here, so trusting with her back to me and her hair held up, it's like an offering. A beautiful, fantasy-worthy offering. I'm not touching her. Yet. But, that's about to change. I bow my head and whisper her name, "Gemma," against the back of her neck. It's drawn out for effect. And affect it does. She physically shivers. A full body shiver, from head to toe. I run my hand down her free arm starting at her shoulder. The pace is torturous and when my palm brushes the back of her hand I lace my fingers with hers. She squeezes back tightly. The pressure is an arousal gauge. It's peaked. Maxed out. And because I can't take it any longer, I step into her. My erection greedily pressing into the small of her back. She meets the contact and presses back into me. Shit, this feels good. I raise our interlocked hands to the base of her throat, and when I unfurl my fingers, she mimics me and our fingers remain touching, mine alternating between hers. And then I press her palm to her skin. Slowly, so slowly, I guide her hand horizontally until our fingers are beneath both the straps of her tank and bra.

Poised to make our descent. She's right there with me, letting me guide, and providing no restraint. Her chest is rising and falling in greedy anticipation. Because my hand is bigger than hers, even though her palm is flush against her skin, it's the side of my hand overlapping hers that reaches her nipple first. A rush of air escapes her, and a faint, "Yes," is buried within it. Her nipple is hard and needy. And when the sensation under my skin is gone I know it's lost to her. She can feel it now. It's hers to please. I stop when I know it's centered beneath her, add pressure and drag her hand back and forth, only an inch to each side, until I feel her ass cheeks clench against me and I know things downtown are heating up. The drag continues a few more reps but I'm aching for her, so I keep moving until I feel her tight and strained under my middle finger. I run it back and forth scraping against the length of my finger until I hear her whisper my name, "Franco." I've always been indifferent to my name. Not anymore. Not when she says it like that. I clamp her between our thumbs and forefingers. She's working with me. Twisting gently, pinching, rolling. And while she's lost in our mutual pleasure fest, I remember that her neck, which I intended to give attention earlier, is exposed. Waiting. As is her upper back where her tank top dips. So, while my hand is busy, I touch the tip of my tongue to her spine just above the material of her shirt. And I paint a path to her hairline. Stopping to add my lips several times, because she tastes so fucking good. At her neck, everything picks up and mere licking and tasting aren't enough. I'm sucking. Feasting. Hard enough to leave a mark. She sighs her approval. I wrap my other arm around her and unbutton and unzip her shorts. And when I do she moans. And it's not an average moan. It's deep gratitude for the pleasure she's experiencing paired with a plea for more. More. It's a plea I have to answer. As we continue to pleasure upstairs, I venture downstairs on my own. Her panties are low cut. My fingers slip inside them with ease. And as soon as I'm in the time for slow and controlled is over. She widens her stance. It's another plea. She's wet. So fucking wet beneath my touch. My fingers glide against her. Circling once. Twice. Before two fingers plunge in. Curling, pumping, pleasing. "Yes. Fuck." It's no longer a whisper. It's a demand. Those little two words coax my eyes open to take in the woman who has me completely enthralled. Slipping her hand from beneath mine at her breast, she leaves me palming her on my own. My hand mourns her absence until I feel it slide in between us and grip me through my shorts. She's stroking the length of me. "Fu—" Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bang. Five rapid, but very precise, knocks on her bedroom door. She freezes. And then her hand drops me in an instant, and she's steps away. "What's wrong? Can't you ignore it?" Please ignore it. "It's Brandon," she whispers as she zips her shorts.

"So?" So! She's still whispering, "He always knocks five times if he needs something. If it's urgent." I'm still staring at her, unblinking, so she adds, "Because he can't speak." She opens the door and any irritation or ill-feelings toward the kid vanish when I see his face. Embarrassment is washed over it and his eyes are downcast. He mouths the word, Sorry, and points toward the living room. It's then that I notice the front of his white t-shirt is splattered with a brown, soupy, foul smelling concoction. And then we hear noise from the living room. Something crashes to the floor. That was something breaking into many small pieces. Followed by, "Shit. That's not good." It sounds slurred, slowed by a quantity of alcohol that inhibits normal speech. Gemma walks immediately toward the commotion. Brandon and I step in line behind her toward the living room. I don't know what I'm walking into, but I'm sure of three things: I'm about to meet Gemma's roommate, I'm still half sporting wood, and poor Brandon smells like a ripe garbage can that's been sitting on the curb in the hot sun all day. A man is kneeling on the floor clumsily trying to pick up pieces of a broken lamp. He startles when he realizes I'm standing next to him and looks up at me through watery eyes. He's crying. I have no idea what's driving the tears, but he looks emotionally wrecked. "I broke the lamp. It was an accident. I'm sorry." The dude is wiped. He's apologizing to a complete stranger in his apartment, and it hasn't occurred to him how weird that is. I squat and begin picking up the pieces. They're sharp, and he doesn't have the dexterity to be gentle. I glance at his clothes for the presence of emptied stomach before I make my suggestion. He's clean except for the puke on his shoes. Unfortunately, Brandon was the lucky one to get unloaded on. "Why don't you sit down and take a load off and get those shoes off, man. I'll get this." He pats me on the back like we're old friends, "Thanks, buddy," before he struggles to his feet and stumbles to the couch where he skips sitting and drops into a prone position like a falling redwood. "Timber," I say under my breath. I'm thankful that went so well and that he's not an angry, alcohol-turns-me-into-an-aggressive-asshole drunk. Brandon walks in, shirtless thank God, with an empty grocery sack and helps me clean up the wreckage while Gemma, now sporting latex gloves, scrubs vomit from the carpet. When she's done, she snaps the gloves off inside out, drops them and the rag in the sack of pummeled ceramic I'm holding, and suggests, "Why don't you go shower, Brandon." He shyly nods his agreement and heads down the hallway toward the bathroom. She stands and reaches to take the trash from me. I hold it back and head for the front door so I can drop the bag, and the putrid smell, in the dumpster outside and she walks with me through the parking lot. "You didn't have to do that, Franco. Thanks." I shrug and smile so she knows I'm not upset by the recent events. "We've all been there." She looks contemplative and then agrees, "Yeah, I can't fault him. He lost his mum last week. It was unexpected. He's taking it hard." I nod. The way he was crying before he passed out, it was obvious this bender was his way of trying to cope with something. His tears looked like the release of deep-rooted emotion, not misplaced sorrow and regret over the breaking of a lamp. "That's right. You mentioned a funeral last night when you had to get home to take care of the dog." She nods. "Death fucks people up." She nods again, but this time the look on her face tells me she's intimate with loss.

I shift gears because I can't bring this conversation down anymore and I need to make sure she'll be safe tonight. "Is he violent when he drinks?" "No. I've never seen him this drunk, but he's the type who gets chatty and giggly when he drinks. He doesn't have a violent bone in him." I suspected he wasn't the fighting type by our brief interaction, but I needed to confirm. I look at Gemma. "What's his name? I feel bad not calling the dude by his name." "Jeremy," she says. "In my mind at the moment, though, because I'm a selfish cow, I'm calling him Jeremy, the mood slayer." "I don't know, Gem. You looked fucking hot in latex, down on all fours, scrubbing vomit from the carpet." I use my most convincing, sexy voice. She counters with her sexy voice, which honestly isn't much different than her regular voice because the accent makes everything sound like she's trying to slay me. "Mmm... Vom is dead sexy. You can call me the filthy, domestic duty seductress." I toss the trash in the dumpster and then turn to her, close my eyes and rumble out my best, over the top, porn-worthy moan. "I love it when you talk nauseatingly and literally dirty to me." She keeps up the exchange, "Totes filthy." Until she can't and cracks a smile, which fades to sincerity. "I really am sorry, Franco." Pulling her into a hug next to the dumpster, I kiss the side of her head. "Don't be sorry. You fed me the best stew I've ever eaten and let me touch your boobs." Laughter bursts through her, and I feel her body vibrate against mine. "Shut up, naughty American boy." I laugh with her because it's contagious and whisper in her ear, "Tomorrow night I've got band stuff, but can I take you out Sunday night? I'm not much of a cook, but I know a great burrito place, and I'll let you touch my boobs." She pulls back from the hug and her eyebrows rise while she looks longingly at my chest before asking, "Promise?" I nod solemnly before I give her a peck on the lips. "Go shower. You smell like someone puked a low-grade, skunky brewery on you." "You're so romantic," she deadpans. "To my core. And then some," I tease. I don't miss the glance she steals at my midsection before she turns to make the journey back to her apartment. "See you Sunday night. I should be home by eight. Waiting to fondle your spectacular breasts." "I've been working out. They're a solid seven on a scale of one to ten. I hope the anticipation keeps you up all night," I call back over my shoulder. I hear her laugh. "A seven? I can't imagine that level of splendor, definitely not sleeping tonight." "You're welcome," I yell because we're far enough apart now we're shouting to be heard. "Sweet dreams, naughty American boy." "Night, Gem."

Saturday, January 20 (Franco) I woke up a little after five this morning and couldn't go back to sleep. So, I showered, and I'm sitting in my bedroom ready to go for the day, and it's only six o'clock. We don't have to be on the road to the studio until seven-thirty. Which gives me plenty of time to think. And worry. I'm a quiet worrier like my dad—I blame him for the hereditary affliction. I tend to keep negative feelings tucked away behind my smile. Today's significant. It's a day we all knew was coming, but refused to discuss. Sometimes when a situation is potentially explosive, it's best to leave it alone and deal with detonation at zero hour instead. It's hard to think it was a year ago today that Kate died. Some days it feels like yesterday, and some days it feels much longer than a year—either way, it sucks. We all miss her. She was an unofficial, but integral, part of this band. Whether she was writing with Gus, or singing with us at practice, or cheering us on from the crowd or side stage at one of our gigs, she was part of us. We wouldn't be half the band we are if it weren't for her influence and inspiration. She pushed Gus, she pushed all of us, to be more creative, to play from the heart. I miss that. And besides being crazy talented, she was one of the best people I've ever known. She would do anything for anyone, whether she knew them or not. And her sense of humor was off the charts. She left her mark on everyone, we're all better for having known her. Today is a reminder of all that. The passage of time has healing powers, though. It can turn grief into gratitude. Giving thanks for knowing and loving a friend like Kate. The tattoo on my wrist is a reminder of her legacy and will be with me for the rest of my life. I look at it often, Do epic. Two little words that make me feel powerful. Today I'll celebrate her. Jamie and Robbie will be with me. It's Gus I'm worried about. This anniversary will mark the progress he's made. Or set him back like a sonofabitch. I'm scared to walk out of this room and find out which one. I can hear his muffled voice through the wall. He's awake and talking on the phone. I can't make out words, but I would guess he's talking to his mom, Audrey. I'm sure she's celebrating Kate today, too. I'm glad she's the first person Gus is talking to today. If anyone can put you in a good mood, it's Audrey. There's movement out in the hallway now, Jamie and Robbie must be up and around. I find them in the kitchen. Robbie is always quiet, but for the first hour or so he's awake he's zombie-like. I nod at him because speaking to him is like poking a bear with a sharp stick. He nods back, opens the fridge to pull out a Red Bull, and retreats with it to the bathroom to shower and rediscover his communication and social interaction skills. "Morning, Franco," Jamie says when we're alone. There's a fragile look in his eyes, today is messing with him too. "You talk to Gus this morning? How is he?" He's not just wearing his heart on his sleeve, he's serving it up on a platter for the world to see. He's a good dude, who's just as worried as I am. I shake my head. "Nope, haven't seen him yet." He nods his concern and takes two English muffins out of the bag on the counter. The dude is addicted to English muffins and has two every morning, toasted with orange marmalade, no matter where we're at. He's like an eighty-five-year-old woman. When we travel, he brings his toaster for Christ's sake. "Want one?" he asks. "Sure, why not. Let me in on this geriatric obsession." The English muffin and orange marmalade is tasty, I can see the appeal now. We eat them

while scrolling through the photos on our phones and sharing old pics of Kate. It's funny how many we have between the two of us. And in every single one, she's smiling like it's the best day of her fucking life. That's how she looked all the damn time. All smiles. And after trading shots for a few minutes, we're both smiling too. It's impossible not to. Her spirit is infectious. "You still have the video of the karaoke battle between Kate and Gus in Minneapolis?" he asks. I laugh. "Hell yes, that's one of my prouder moments. I'm keeping that video for-fuckingever." The video that I filmed one night when were in Minneapolis recording "Finish Me" with Kate the month before she passed, is buried deep in my history but I find it in no time and hit play. The footage that follows is priceless. On the screen, the hotel suite we all stayed in is panned, and the following faces come into view: Keller, Kate's boyfriend; Gus; Robbie; Jamie; and Kate's friends Shelly, Duncan, and Clayton. They're all sitting on chairs and a couch forming a semi-circle—a rapt audience for the epic battle about to take place. After capturing the audience's enthusiasm live, I focus on Kate standing before them with a microphone, while I announce the rules. "Tonight's battle pits amiga," she raises her fists up over her head, taunting her opponent, and the crowd goes wild, "versus amigo." I boo Gus loudly and his, "This is rigged, goddammit," is loud enough that it's picked up on the video. I laugh through his protest and continue with the rules. "Each contestant will sing one song. The only criteria for song choice is it must be insanely sexy. Sorry, Gus, I know this puts you at an immediate disadvantage, since you struggle desperately in that arena. Winner will be decided by applause and will be forever hailed as Karaoke Royalty and will reap whatever benefits the title generates, including, but not limited to, taunting the loser unmercifully." Kate, despite being tired as hell from a long day in the studio, is bouncing on the balls of her socked feet. She was always that way, like there was so much happy energy buzzing inside just waiting to be unleashed on the world. "Without further ado, I give you, Kate Sedgwick." I prop my phone up on a table off to the side to capture all the action and hit play on the karaoke machine. The TV screen lights up with the lyrics as the first note plays. I picked the song for Kate. And I've never been more pleased with myself then when Gus immediately groans, "I'm fucked." "You lose," I wholeheartedly agree as Kate starts singing "Sex" by The 1975. Because she's here amongst her closest friends, I know she'll play to the crowd, and she doesn't disappoint. She goes down the line and pauses on each person, directing lines from the song at them personally. Which, frankly, leaves us all a bit jealous of Keller. By the time she's done, Clayton's blushing wildly, Gus is graciously accepting his defeat, Keller's on his feet applauding, and I'm high fiving Kate for an outstanding performance. I hit stop on the video because that's where it ends. Gus didn't even sing his song—he conceded, punched me in the shoulder, fucking hard, and hugged Kate instead. "It's hard to believe she's gone, isn't it?" Jamie says, bringing me back to the here and now. "How could someone that full of life, have it taken, robbed," he corrects, "from her? It's not fair." I shake my head as my smile fades. "It's sure as hell not fair." "I need another English muffin," he says it like they have healing properties. "Me, too." Robbie rejoins us as we're finishing up and we move to the living room to wait for Gus. It's almost time to leave and worry's set in again. We stand as a united front of concern and support when Gus walks out of his room. He looks relaxed, but I can't read him. "Morning. You okay, big man?" He nods. "I'm okay, dude." He is. I can hear it in his voice. "I'm always gonna miss her, but she's right here." He pats his chest. "Which has me thinking, I know we're supposed to finish up

'Judgment Day' today, but I think in Bright Side's memory we should just jam. We should just play. See what we come up with. You know that she's been watching us in the studio. So today, let's do something she loved." That's the best idea I've heard in a long time, and apparently, I'm not the only one because Jamie and Robbie are nodding their agreement beside me. I head for the door, ready to get this Kate celebration underway. "Let's do this. I'm officially declaring it Kate Day." It's mandatory that Kate Day begins with coffee, because it was the girl's life blood, so we hit up the drive thru at Starbucks on the way to the studio. Our producer, MFDM (the Motherfucking Dream Maker), is reluctant when Gus pitches his idea that we jam today, but it's short lived because he had a soft spot a mile wide for Kate too. It begins with Gus and his acoustic guitar. He's strumming one string of notes and humming another. His musical mind is a complex space. And his talent is scary. I can see the gears turning in his head and whatever he hears inside is ten steps ahead of what he's playing. He quickly swaps out his acoustic for his electric and immediately starts adjusting his effects pedals and delay until they mimic the sound he's looking for. When he begins playing again, I can hear it coming together and my head's bobbing along to the beat that I'm tapping out on my thigh. Gus nods to me and gives me instruction to play along. It's a struggle at first—what he wants and what I'm playing are two different things—but as he talks me through it, and I make adjustments, it doesn't take long before I can hear his vision. And I'm all over it. Over the next several hours Jamie and Robbie join in, and a new song is born. And by two o'clock in the morning it's birthed. Recorded. Its name is "Redemption" and it's aptly titled. This entire album feels like redemption. We're coming back stronger than we were before. This is it. This is our moment. And the best thing is, we all feel it.

Sunday, January 21 (Franco) I texted Gemma this afternoon from the studio to set up dinner plans for tonight. Gus read the texts over my shoulder and now he's relentlessly riding my ass about it. When he gets excited about something he won't let it go, so I know this is his form of approval. I do the same thing to him— paybacks, I guess. "Three dates in four days? This is serious, dude. I hope you're not proposing tonight, we haven't met her yet." Gus is blocking my bedroom exit with his hands resting on the doorframe above him. He fills the space and I'm forced to talk or put my head down and try to bust through like a linebacker. I might have the slight edge on him where muscle and mass is concerned, but he's got an inch or so on me height-wise. "Gonna grab some burritos and then we'll probably pick out china patterns and baby names after she gets handsy with my boobs." "Second base, shit wit? This is serious." I shrug. "She's been eyeing them for days. Sometimes when it feels right my shirt comes off and I get slutty on the third date." "Don't let her pressure you, son. Your virtue is a precious, precious gift," he teases. Just then the doorbell rings and when Gus takes off in an all-out sprint for the front door, I have a bad feeling. And then I hear her sweet voice. "Hiya. I'm looking for Franco." I pat down my pockets for my cell wondering if she texted to say she was coming over. No phone. Shit. "You must be Gemma. I'm Gus." They're shaking hands when I walk in the room. "Nice to meet you, Gus," she replies politely. "Hey, Gem. Sorry, I didn't get your text about meeting here," I say. I need to get her out of here before Gus embarrasses me. It's coming, I can sense it. I don't miss that her eyes rove up and down my body before she says, "You texted me." I'm confused for half a second before Gus hands me my phone with a wink. "You kids have fun tonight." Shit. That wink was evil. It said, You're fucked—I hope you enjoy it as much as I have. I take the phone with narrowed, accusatory eyes. "Thanks?" "The pleasure is all mine." His smile is too pure. Too happy. Jesus. I don't even want to know what that means. Gemma takes my hand when I offer it. "Let's go, I'm starving." Gemma waves at Gus, naïve to the fact that we're likely knee-deep in a Gus created fiasco. "See ya, Gus." "Later, Gemma. Take care of my boy. Don't let the tattoos fool you, he's a delicate little blossom." I shake my head. "Night, shithead." He laughs. "Night night, you sexy beast." I wait until Gus shuts the door behind us before I open my texts to Gemma on my phone. The last one was sent thirty minutes ago. It's a photo of me from the back. Naked. Getting in the shower. The text that accompanied it reads, Just grabbing a quick shower. Drumming all day like a god makes my ass sweaty. Meet me at my place at 8:00? Gemma's reply reads, I approve. O.O See you at 8:00. "That fucker," I say under my breath.

Gemma laughs at my outburst. "What?" I slip my cell in my back pocket. "Goddamn Gus. He filched my phone, snuck a nudey shot, and sent you those texts tonight." Her smile hasn't faded. "Remind me to thank him next time I see him. I don't know about your boobs, but your backside is a ten. A solid ten." I cover my face with my free hand and scrub at it to relieve the tension. "I suppose it could've been worse. You're not running away." She pries my hand away from my face and raises her eyebrows. "I'd have to be mental to run after being presented that kind of teaser." I open the passenger door to my truck and help her in since it's lifted. It only takes a few minutes to drive to Chubby's Burritos and my stomach is growling by the time we walk through the door. "What's your poison, Gem? Pollo, carne asada, carnitas, barbacoa?" "In English please, for the Brit? I've never eaten a burrito." The way she pronounces burrito sounds like she's adding an extra syllable. She decimates the word. "What?!" I know it was a loud exclamation when everyone in the small restaurant turns and looks at me, so I tone down my shock. "That's unacceptable. You haven't lived, my dear. Chicken, cow, or pig, call your meat first and then we'll add the rest." She doesn't hesitate, "Chicken." "Do you like rice?" She nods. "Love it." "Refried beans?" She looks slightly confused again. "Jesus, how have you survived without Mexican food?" She looks down at her gorgeous body. "Fantastically, it would appear." Her confidence makes me smile. "You've got me there," I agree. "So, no to beans is what you're telling me?" She shakes her head. "No beans." "Guacamole?" Her face squishes up in disgust. "God no, guacamole is vile." I'm wounded, truly wounded. "Avocados are sacred. What do you mean guacamole is vile? I'm pretty sure repentance is required for speaking such blasphemy in a holy place like this." "Chubby's Burritos is holy?" she asks. "Yes, heathen, it is. Wait until you taste your burrito. It'll be miraculous, life changing. You'll likely weep from sheer happiness." "I had no idea. Suddenly this dinner date feels like a baptism. I feel underdressed. I should've worn my fascinator." "What the hell is a fascinator?" "It's a fancy headband with ornamentation like ribbon, netting, or feathers. It looks similar to a hat, but not such a fuss to wear. They're worn for special occasions, like a wedding," she explains. "Yes, you definitely should've worn it, what with all the blessings and burritos to celebrate tonight." "You forgot boobs," she adds. "Damn, you're right. This is shaping up to be a momentous night—" The older woman at the counter interrupts. "Que puedo servirle?" I order in Spanish while Gemma tries to hold back an amused smirk. Color her impressed by my bilingual skills. We find an empty table to wait on the hallowed last supper, before she says anything. "Spanish,

huh?" "My mom's from Mexico, so we grew up speaking Spanish," I explain. We speak more Spanish than English at home, always have. "When did she immigrate to America?" I love that she's interested in my family. "She came for college when she was eighteen." "What made her decide to stay?" "The big, charming surfer who lived in the dorm room next door." "Your dad?" she speculates. I nod. "Are they still married?" "They just celebrated their thirtieth wedding anniversary and are crazy in love to this day. It's cute." My parents could make even the most cynical person believe in true love. I want what they have someday. Admiration pours from her sweet expression. "That's beautiful." "So, Gemma, I feel like a dick. I've been talking to you for a few days now and I haven't asked what you do." I really do feel like a dick for not asking her sooner. I felt like an idiot when Gus asked me this afternoon and I didn't know. "Guess?" she challenges. I have no idea what she does for a living so I'm going to throw out random, outrageous guesses. "You obviously don't farm avocados because you have zero respect for them." "Zero respect. Nope, not an avocado farmer." "Zoologist?" I guess. She shakes her head and laughs. "No, but I do have an unhealthy obsession with sloths." I didn't peg her for a sloth girl. "Sloths? Really?" "Mmm." She hums reassurance. "I think it's their dead, soulless eyes and dim wit that I find so alluring." "Captivating qualities," I tease. "I'm a complicated woman." I nod. "Training for a tryout with the Lakers?" She tilts her head like she's thinking it over. "Basketball, right? I'm lacking the inherent skill, height, and peen, to make the team." "But you are poetic. Peen. Team." I raise my eyebrows and lob another guess. "Writer?" "I love to read, but I don't write." "Phlebotomist?" She laughs again. "You really are absolute shit at this, aren't you?" I shrug because I'm not, I love making her laugh. Mission accomplished. "So tell me. What do you do?" "It's not going to sound nearly as glamorous following phlebotomist, but I'm an architect." "It doesn't sound glamorous at all. Keep phlebotomy in your back pocket." I tease and then I lay sincerity on her. "Jesus, an architect? On top of everything else, you're smart and creative too? Where does it end with you?" It's then that our food arrives and Gem is introduced to the mother of all burritos. She photographs it with her phone to mark the occasion. I jump back into our conversation while we eat. "What are you working on?" "My team designed a small contemporary art museum here in L.A. It's the first project I've seen through from inception to completion. It's been my blood, sweat, and tears the past three years. I've been on site here for the past twelve months of construction."

"That's impressive." It is. Holy shit. She accepts the compliment humbly. "Thanks. It's been so rewarding to see it through. I'll likely cry like a bloody baby at the grand opening this week." "Do you know what and where your next project will be?" "My team is designing a boutique hotel in Manchester. That will be the focus when I get home." "Wow, good for you. You must love what you do." "I'm passionate about it. It's all I ever wanted to do, design buildings. I've been with the firm since I graduated from uni six years ago. I'd like to make partner eventually." She sounds determined. I love determined. Determined makes dreams happen. "Good for you," I repeat. "Thanks." When I polish off my burrito, I ask another question while Gemma finishes hers. "How old are you?" I assume she's around my age and it really doesn't matter, but now's a good time to ask. "Twenty-eight. Twenty-nine in a few months. You?" "God, you're ancient." I wink. "I'm twenty-six." "Franco?" "Yeah?" "This old lady should've worn her fascinator. This burrito is outstanding." Her sense of humor is my favorite thing about her, but I love there's always truth mixed in amongst it. "I've set the bar high. Don't expect to go anywhere else except my mom's house to get a burrito this good." She rests her fork on her plate, wipes her mouth with the napkin from her lap, and drops it on top of the plate. "I feel like I'm going to explode from all the glory in my belly." "You ready to go?" "Yeah. You want to come back to my place for a drink? I bought gin and tequila today." "Gin and tequila? In my experience, they don't play well together." "They're mortal enemies, but I didn't know what you'd feel like drinking, so I bought both." "Let's go find out. I'll decide when we get there." I hold her hand while we walk to my truck and I remember the first time I held a girl's hand. Her name was Allison Espinoza. Eighth grade. She had her lip pierced, always wore red Doc Martens, and was obsessed with eighties new wave music. Our romance was short lived, one date to the movies to see Spider Man 2, but I'd never been so thankful to have hands filled with nerves and the capacity to feel touch. And I'm feeling that way again right now. The anticipation driving to her place is killing me. I'm one to keep my shit in check, but I can't do it with her. Brandon is watching TV in the living room when we walk in her apartment. He waves. "Hiya, Brandon," Gemma greets. She's like an older sister to this kid. I can hear how much she cares about him. "S'up, Brandon," I say. We're bros after the pukefest, broken lighting bonding session. The microwave reads nine thirty-two when we walk in the kitchen. I'd lost track of time but it's still early. Gemma pulls two shot glasses from the cupboard. "Shots?" "Can you handle tequila?" I'm skeptical. I know this woman is made of tough stuff, but... "Like a champ." That was a challenge if I've ever heard one. "Pour," I order. We clink our shot glasses together and say, "Cheers," at the same time.

It burns down my throat. Gemma winks when she sets her empty glass on the counter without so much as a grimace. "Another, naughty American boy?" I return a wink of my own. "Pour." "Cheers," is repeated. One more will make me loose but not drunk after all the food we've just eaten. "One more." She pours only one this time. "Cheers," I say alone. This time I set my shot glass in the sink and rinse it out along with hers. She screws the lid back of the tequila bottle and looks at me. "Let's go sit by the pool. The weather's brilliant tonight. We should be outside." Agreed. "Let's do it." The complex's pool isn't far from her apartment. It's too cool to get in and swim, but I'll never pass up a chance to be near water. We sit in two armless lounge chairs side by side, so it's basically like sitting in one big chair together. The tequila's kicking in for both of us, I can see it in her eyes. They're hazed with honesty. She's an open book ready to relate her tales. And I want to hear them all. "Tell me about yourself, Gem." She bends her legs at her knees and rolls on her side to face me. "What do you want to know?" Everything, I want to say. But I start with, "What were you like growing up?" "A proper girly girl with a bit of a rough edge. I loved makeup, Harry Potter and Twilight books, and our local rugby team." "Team Edward?" My younger sister was obsessed with Twilight. I've never read the books but I took her to see every movie on opening night because no one else would. Even I have to admit Edward is one smooth dude. She sighs contentedly and her eyelids flutter. "Always and forever. Edward was everything: protective, intelligent, romantic, fierce, loyal, and sparkly." "What's your guilty pleasure?" This should be good. I know she won't say anything I expect. She pulls her bottom lip in and pinches it down with her top teeth while she thinks it over. "Hmm...Justin Bieber." Taken by surprise, a startled chuckle escapes as I shake my head. "You're joking?" Her eyes widen momentarily with guilt, "Nope. Even have Bieber jammies to prove it," before settling into pride. The sudden transition is hilarious, alcohol animates her. "The lad put out banger after banger off this last album. I tried to fight it at first, but no one was immune to its powers." "You realize he's Canadian?" "And thus, a guilty pleasure," she justifies with a wink. "What do you want to accomplish in the next five years?" She doesn't hesitate, and though everything about her is sexy, the fact that she's driven enough to answer this question without a second thought might be the sexiest thing I've seen so far. "I hope to make partner at the firm I work for. That's my professional goal. But my priority is having a child. That's my personal, but more importantly, my life goal. I've always wanted to be a mum." That was an answer I didn't expect. "What's the rush? You're still young," I question. "I thought I was ancient," she reminds me teasingly. "For most women twenty-eight is young, but my family isn't like most. There's a high occurrence of uterine cancer on both sides. I've lost my mum, my gran, and two aunties to it. All in their early thirties. I go for regular check-ups, but because of the unusually high risk, I'm choosing to have an elective hysterectomy when I'm thirty as a preventative measure. My womb is technically in countdown mode preparing for a grand exit. I'd like

to make use of it while I still can, if possible." "Shit. I hate that word. I fucking hate it. Cancer is an evil that shouldn't exist. I'm so sorry, Gem." She nods and blinks repeatedly to clear the tears from her eyes. When one breaks free she swipes it away quickly. "I'm sorry." Sucking in her lips, she pinches them between her teeth until the surge passes. "I'm sorry. I'm usually not this emotional about it. My mum's been gone for twenty years. Apparently, I shouldn't drink and discuss this subject." I rub her arm to give her all the comfort I can. "Those tears are love. Don't ever apologize for that." She takes a deep breath and a solemn, grateful smile settles in at the acceptance of my words. "Thanks. I just don't like crying in front of people, is all." "I know we haven't known each other long, Gem, but I'm gonna let you in on a secret. I'm outstanding at friendship. Seriously, if I lived in England, I'd be knighted by now." Her smile tips up and she almost laughs. "And listening is my forte," I add. "So, talk, cry, yell, do what you need to do to deal. I'm here." "Thanks, Sir Franco." "Anytime. Can I ask you a question, and don't answer if I'm being a dick and overstepping my bounds, but why don't you have the surgery now and adopt instead? It could save your life." She hesitates. "I'm a dick; that was too personal. I'm sor—" I whisper, but she cuts me off. "No, you're not. You're the furthest thing from it. But, can I just say, that I've never had this conversation with anyone. Not my dad. Not my closest friends. No one. They all know about the surgery, but they don't know about my other plans prior to that." I take her hand in mine and interlace our fingers to offer some support and thanks without interrupting. "Adopting isn't easy, but it's entirely possible and something I'll definitely pursue if I can't make plan A reality." "You like a good plan, don't you?" I'm cheering her on, whatever it is. The smile that lights her eyes is the fire of determination. "I fucking love a good plan." "I like it when you get that look in your eyes. Go on, tell me about plan A." "I've always wanted to be a mum. I don't know if it's because I lost mine so young, or if I wanted to think of my uterus as something with the ability to give life, instead of take it, but it's always been the one thing I felt I was put on Earth to do. And I always thought it would happen in due time. I'd get my degree, start my career, meet the man of my dreams, marry, and have a baby. Turns out the man of my dreams part is tricky." "Dudes can be douches," I offer. She huffs out a laugh and nods. "Unfortunately, yeah, a lot of them can be. About a year and a half ago I stopped dating because I was so discouraged. It's not that I was forcing an agenda or a timeline, I was frankly just pissed that I had such horrid judgment when it came to men. So, after I hosted a fuming pity party of one for a month, I did some legendary soul searching, scratched husband off my to-do list with I-am-woman-hear-me-roar gusto, and decided that every problem has a solution. Next month, I have an appointment with a doctor to hopefully provide that solution." "What? Like a sperm donor?" Even though I know my best friend, Gus, wouldn't exist if Audrey hadn't made the same decision, I still feel bad for Gemma. Why couldn't one of the douches she dated have been a stand-up guy that made her happy and married her so she could have it all? Her nod is minimal. She thinks I'm judging her and is regretting telling me any of this, I can see it in the wrinkle of her forehead and the pursing of her lips. "Donor insemination. You think I'm a

nutter, don't you?" I shake my head. "Nope. Your body, your choice. You met my friend, Gus?" "Yeah. He introduced me to your magnificent bum, how could I forget." "His biological dad is his mom's best friend. Years ago, she asked him for his swimmers and he heeded the call. Turns out the two of them, with some medical intervention, build quite stellar offspring." Her expression flips from worried to surprise. "You're joking?" "Nope." "Huh." She pauses and I can tell she's stunned. "That's amazing." She processes the thought over another prolonged pause, and then eventually moves on to the next topic when she's done with the mindful examination. "Any other questions?" "Tell me about the dudes you dated in England? Maybe I can tell you where you went wrong." "Rugby players. Always rugby players." "Why rugby players?" She shrugs. "Don't know. I grew up going to rugby matches with my dad and loved the sport. And I've just always been attracted to big blokes, I guess." "Size matters? Thank God for that," I interject. "Turns out sizable, American, tattooed drummers with wicked wit and a cheeky smile might edge out rugby players on sex appeal." She raises her eyebrows as she tries, unsuccessfully, to repress a satisfied and telling smirk. I pump my fist in the air in victory. "Yes! Drummers finally get the justice they deserve!" She's laughing next to me, but every feature on her face is beginning to tire. I don't know if it's the tequila or exhaustion. I know she works long days. I pat my chest. "Come here, you look sleepy." Burrowing in like she intends to stay snuggled for a good, long while, she says, "I'm knackered." "You should probably go in and go to bed." "Would you think badly of me if I asked you to come sleep with me? Just sleep." It's been over a year since I fell asleep next to someone. I miss it. Sleep, though an unconscious act, is intimate and vulnerable. "I don't think I could ever think badly of you, Gem. Do you like to spoon? I'm a major league spooner." "I love a good cuddle." "Let's go." We went inside. She put on her Bieber jammies. And we spooned like our bodies were created singularly for the act. I haven't slept that good in I can't remember how long.

Tuesday, January 23 (Franco) I feel my phone vibrate in my pocket while we're driving to the studio. It's early, which means it's probably my mom. She's always up early and assumes everyone else is too. After everyone piles out of my truck, I slip my phone out of my pocket to check the text. It's Gemma. Morning. Would you want to go with me to the museum's grand opening tomorrow evening? It starts at 7:00. Me: Morning. Can I wear jeans? I don't have any nice clothes with me and I won't have time to shop. Gemma: Jeans are fine. Me: What time should I pick you up? Gemma: 6:15 Traffic is always murder. Me: See you at 6:15. Gemma: Thanks!

Wednesday, January 24 (Franco) At six o'clock I walk into Gus's bedroom. He's talking on the phone with Scout. "Sorry to interrupt, man, but do you have any clean shirts? Like maybe a button down or something? I'm going to this thing with Gem tonight and all I have clean is a white t-shirt." I know he won't but it doesn't hurt to ask. Jamie would be the man to ask in a situation like this, he's the neat, prepared one of the group, but he's way too small for me to fit into any of his clothes. Gus holds the phone away from his face and answers, "You're welcome to take a look in the dresser but I think all my clothes have already been worn. I was holding out on laundry until this weekend when I'm home. If there's something that works and doesn't stink, it's yours. Sorry, dude." The dresser is empty. All his clothes are in piles on the floor. Looks like a clean white t-shirt and jeans it is. And when Gemma opens the door of her apartment at ten after six, I feel like a bum. Tasteful, fitted teal dress that touts, I'm a professional, respect me goddammit, is paired with leopard print sky high heels and sexy hair that taunts, I'm a goddess, respect me goddammit. With the heels, she's only a few inches shorter than me and I don't have to bend over to kiss her. "Hi. You look incredible." She smiles and rubs away at my bottom lip with her thumb, I must be wearing her lipstick now. "Hiya. Thanks. So do you." "You sure I'm not going to embarrass you wearing jeans and a t-shirt?" I ask, because I really do want to see what she's accomplished, but I don't want to reflect badly on her in front of her business associates. "I'm trying to be mindful of your professional reputation and not look like an asshat." "Simple, white v-neck tee—that hugs you quite nicely I might add—is always classic. You look handsome." When she raises and wiggles her eyebrows, it puts my mind at ease. Gemma gives directions while I drive and we talk about what happened in our lives today in between. "It's there on the right. The white building. Take a right at the corner and park around back in the lot." Holy. Shit. It's spectacular. And not just because I know the woman sitting in the cab of my truck in the seat next to me designed it. It's breathtaking and stands out, even in a city like Los Angeles that's known for its distinctive architecture. It's bright white. Three stories of angles that look like they shouldn't structurally work together, but they do. And though it's supremely modern, it's not sterile. There's a softness about it that's inviting, luring you, like you somehow know that nothing but beauty is housed within. When I park, we both get out and I meet Gemma with an outstretched hand at the rear of my truck. She gladly accepts it and looks at me with a shaky smile. "Is it strange that I'm nervous?" "No. You created art that's about to be judged in real time, by real people. That's scary." It is. Any artist can relate, no matter the medium. I rub the back of her hand that I'm already holding with my free hand, and then squeeze it between both of mine so she knows I'm here for her. "They're going to love it though. You have nothing to worry about, if the outside is any indication of what's inside." I

stop and point at the building. "Look at it, Gem. You did that. That's fucking impressive as hell. I'm not trying to blow smoke up your ass, but I've traveled all over, seen a lot of cool ass stuff, but I've never seen anything like that. It's incredible." Her nerves diminish when she flashes her smile. "I needed to hear that, thanks." "You're welcome, badass architect. Now come on, let's go party and celebrate you and your kickass creation." She laughs. "I should've warned you, other than the crew involved in construction, this will probably only be people involved in funding the project. Partying will likely be limited to champagne, fancy little hors d'oeuvres I can't pronounce, and stuffy uncomfortable conversation. I'm sorry if I gave the impression it would be fun." I wink. "I can make anything fun, Gem." I can, especially with her. The entry is expansive, high ceilings, and lots of windows. It's bright and warm and welcoming. There are a few clusters of people standing near the doors. I'm guessing they're the guests who lean toward the anti-social side of the gauge and are counting down the minutes until they can make an exit. Gemma knows the first two dudes we pass. "Hiya," she lilts. The rise and fall of her voice within two syllables is almost childlike, innocent and sweet, denoting kindness. She isn't fake. She doesn't go out of her way to be nice. She just is. One grunts, he looks only half engaged in the land of the living, like wakefulness is waning and he's on the verge of falling asleep. The other makes up for his lack of enthusiasm and then some. "Hi, Gemma." Eyes blinking so rapidly it makes me dizzy and a crazed smile to match, he's the picture of nervous, prepubescent boy crushing hard on the cute girl walking by. Except he's probably forty. And it's fucking creepy. "Don't take any candy from that one," I whisper in her ear as we continue walking. "Or get in his van if he offers you a ride." She doesn't even try to hold back her approving giggle. "Noted. I need to use the toilet before we go in. Want to grab us some drinks?" she asks pointing at a table near the front doors with glasses of champagne and expensive bottled water. I bow deeply. "Consider me your servant for the day." Eyes twinkling, she flirts. "Oh, I quite like that. Are you good with commands, squire?" "I'd love nothing more than to accommodate all of your needs tonight." I would. "All the needs?" she asks. I nod. "Wow. You're going to be busy, naughty American boy." While I'm waiting on Gemma, two women walk through the entry a few feet from me. One is incredibly tall and the other incredibly short. The tall one is holding a cell phone in one hand and immediately picks up a glass of champagne in the other, her heels clicking against the polished stone floor. The short one looks like she's trying to stay out of Tall's spotlight, her sensible footwear moving her along silently like a shadow. A woman jogs out to greet them, the rush is exaggerated to make the guests feel overly welcome and significant. The self-important look on Tall's face tells me she expects this treatment. They shake hands and the jogger looks like she's addressing royalty. "So nice to meet you, Miss Rolff." Tall looks disinterested and tired and says nothing in response. Bitch. Short is trailing behind them at a distance like she's trying to blend into the background and not be seen, when her purse slips from her shoulder and spills some of its contents on the floor. I'm already heading her way to help her because she looks humiliated, and before she can drop to her knees to pick it up, I'm there.

"I've got it," I say while picking up her wallet, a package of tissue, keys, a tampon, and a Milky Way candy bar. Her cheeks explode into a riot of red when she looks up at me. "Thank you. Very much. Thank you. Thank you." She's stumbling nervously over her words, avoiding eye contact. I don't want to make her more uncomfortable, so I don't push it. Tall is now perched—yes, she's not sitting, she's perched—on a stool talking to the jogger twenty feet away, the glass of champagne in her hand already emptied. It's a showy display to attract attention. I have none to give and turn to look again at Short. "Want one?" I offer her one of the glasses of champagne in my hand and smile so she knows I'm not messing with her. I also smile so I don't look threatening because Gus always tells me I look like I'm about to annihilate someone when I'm not smiling. She nods, accepts the drink, and whispers, "Thanks. Thanks a lot." My guess is she's a nervous repeater. Gemma's smiling approvingly at me when I return to her. "Your mum raised a nice lad, you know that?" "I'll tell her you said so. The poor girl dropped all her shit. I felt bad for her." Before I can go on, someone is standing next to Gemma with their hand on her shoulder. "Gemma, the museum is phenomenal." "Thanks, Jeremy. You remember my friend Franco?" It's a cheery introduction. Jeremy. Her roommate. He looks different sober, not hunched over vomit on the floor, or face-down prone on the couch. He's bashful. "Afraid I made a horrible impression. I'm sorry, Franco. It's nice to officially meet you though." I shake his hand. "No worries, I'm sorry to hear about your mom." He nods solemnly. "Thank you." Gemma segues the sad conversation into happy territory. "Jeremy is a photographer and is shooting the museum opening for a magazine article and for my firm to add to our portfolio." "A photographer. Awesome. Do you do any portrait photography?" "I started in this industry working for a fashion magazine. I've since transitioned to architecture and landscape because the subject is a little less high maintenance and easier to work with." His candid answer draws a knowing huff of laughter from me. "Understood." But I have to ask, "Would you be interested in doing it again? I'm in a band and we need a photographer from time to time for promo." He nods. "Sure. Yeah, it would be fun to dabble in it again with the right people." "Do you have a card?" Good photographers are hard to find and if Gem thinks highly of him that's good enough for me. He pulls one from his wallet and hands it to me with an offer of genuine thanks. I like this dude. "Thanks, man. I'll pass this on to our management." With a tip of his head, he says, "Thanks, I appreciate it." And then adds, "It was nice to meet you, Franco. I'd better get back to work. Great job, Gemma. It's a pleasure to shoot—a true work of art." Her smile is gracious as she accepts the compliment. "Thank you." Over the next hour we walk all three floors. Gemma is stopped frequently and offered words of praise and compliments. She's in high demand, everyone knows this project is her baby and wants to talk to her. You can tell the difference between the people who worked hands on with her every day versus the money people who are meeting her for the first time. The investors are impressed with her work, but expect to be commended in return for their contribution and overabundance of cash in the

bank. I'm not down with that. Gemma isn't either. She's polite but we quickly move on from them in favor of the stone masons, or drywallers, or HVAC dudes, who are more down to earth. On our way back down to the first floor I stop in the restroom. On my way out, someone has his lips on my little Brit's cheek. Lips that linger a beat too long for my liking and leave her looking beyond uncomfortable. He's drunk. "Hello, sunshine," I hear him slur as I approach. Judging by what I've seen already, I'd wager he's an investor, but he's talking to her like he's familiar with her. "Mr. Knott," she says curtly. She's already annoyed with this ass. He's dressed in clothes that are supposed to say, I don't give a fuck and that makes me cooler than Jesus. But it's obvious he's trying too hard, because all I'm hearing is, I do give a fuck, lots and lots of fucks. In fact, I want everyone to notice how many fucks I give, and that makes me a douche canoe. I tip my chin in greeting and insert myself in the conversation. "How's it going?" He looks from me to Gemma without acknowledging me first. Clearly, his mom and my mom didn't teach manners the same way. She jumps in to smooth over what's already awkward, thanks to him. "Mr. Knott, this is my date, Franco Genovese." Mr. Knott shrugs, trying to look unconcerned, but there's unease in the motion. He's stiff as a suit of armor. I'm guessing he's asked Gemma out and been denied in the past. A fake smile is plastered on his lips like he borrowed it from someone else and it doesn't fit, when he turns his head to address me. "Franco, is it?" It usually takes a lot to rile me up, but this dude has my number. Everything about him makes me want to kick him in his designer dress pant clad nads. "Yeah. Franco." Someone taps Gemma on the shoulder and she turns from our debacle to hug the woman behind her and say hello. Mr. Knott, the thundercunt, is looking me over and it's obvious he doesn't like what he sees. I guess my tattoos aren't worthy. Fuck him. Tattoos are always worthy. "It's all so clear now. I didn't realize Miss Hendricks had an affinity for blue collar. That explains a lot." That was a jab at me. And at her. This fool is drunk off his ass. And a pathetic, poor loser. That's a bad combo. "Dude. Slow your roll. Seriously. I'm here to celebrate Gemma and her work." And because I can't help it, I add, "And fan her, or feed her grapes, or massage her, if need be, she's worked hard the past year." I doubt this guy gets humor, but I need a little bit of it to diffuse the tension. And Gem's panic. She's just turned around and entered the conversation again and her big eyes look like they're about to leap from their sockets. He grunts or huffs, I can't tell which, so I'll call it a gruff. He's not amused and the gruff was him establishing dominance. I'm waiting for him to piss on her to mark her and just get it over with. Taking her hand, I walk us away before this deteriorates into physical contact and I drop this fucker and his disrespect to the floor. "Thanks, Franco. He's Associate Curator and been a pain in my arse the past few months. The spoilt brat doesn't like to be turned down," she whispers as we walk down the stairs. "I got that, loud and clear. He's an asshole," I say. Once we reach the main level, Gemma wants to leave, I can tell she's about at the end of her polite rope, but I think she feels obligated, as the face of her company, to stay a little longer. Endless small talk with acquaintances and strangers is exhausting. The people she worked closest with and liked were here early on and have left. All that remains are the awkward interactions. "Can we go out to the entry and grab another glass or four of champagne?" Yup, she's looking for backup.

"Absolutely. I'm a big guy, you want to stand in the corner and I'll stand in front of you and shield you from the room for a while?" Solutions are my specialty. She laughs appreciatively at my protective tone. "I may take you up on that." We take a seat on two stools in the corner instead. The entry is empty except for Tall and Short from earlier. Tall wanders our way. She's swaying on her stilettos and I'm worried she's going to go down hard any second. It would serve her right for abandoning her friend earlier. Short is trailing behind and looks embarrassed. Tall stops in front of us. She looks weary and I'm positive alcohol isn't the only thing in her system, she's clearly in the midst of a drug-induced fog. She introduces herself to Gemma first. "I'm Catarina Rolff. My father, Mark Rolff, is a significant donor to the museum. He's in Dubai on business and sent me in his place." She holds up her hand to cup around her mouth like she's about to say something discreet but fails to lower her voice. "This party is fucking boring. All stuffy old guys." She directs the comment at Gemma, as if they're in cahoots, before her eyes flit to me and she skips Gemma's end of the introduction. Dilated eyes are lewdly slithering over me in an act of undisguised leering that makes my skin crawl. "Who are you?" she finally asks, the question lacking even a hint of grace. I don't answer. My grace is gone too. Gemma ignores the outburst, as well. I think we're both hoping she'll walk away if we don't say anything. Tall tries again. "I know you. How do I know you?" "We don't know each other," I assure her. "Have we met at a party? You look familiar," her speech is as lazy as her attention span. I shake my head. "Nope, pretty sure we haven't." Gemma is trying to hide a smile, the fact that she's not the focus of creepy attention is entertaining her. Plus, she's never seen me get recognized in public and I think she's picked up on the fact that that's what's about to go down, in train wreck form, no less. It's quiet for several seconds and then another subdued outburst is unleashed, "You're in that band! What's the name?" She's snapping her fingers slowly because coordination isn't up to par due to her self-medication. "He's the drummer for Rook," Gemma answers proudly for me. Yup, she's having fun with this. I sit back and wait to see what more she has in store. Tall claps her hands once like she's just discovered the answer to all the problems of the cosmos. "Yes! I fucking knew it! Rook! I saw you guys play last fall in..." she pauses so long I assume she's lost her train of thought, "Brooklyn, I think." I nod. "That so?" That's when the shift from a curiosity to a conquest happens again, because suddenly I'm somebody worth knowing due to the fame element. I fucking hate that. "I'll give you my number. I have a suite at the Hilton, you should stop by tonight." Not if you were the last woman on Earth. "I have a date." When I look at Gemma she looks like she wants to break the champagne flute in her hand and shank her with it. Repeatedly. In the face. She also looks smug because I just brushed the hot mess off without a second thought. Tall's laugh is dry, evil. "She doesn't have to know, love." "Cat's out of the bag. She's the gorgeous woman sitting right in front of you. And she deserves an apology, that was rude," I add. Before she snatches you bald and I cheer her on for doing so, I want to interject, but I don't. The smile that emerges isn't apologetic, or embarrassed. It oozes superiority. "Sorry."

Gem's raging, I can see it in her eyes, but she replies sweetly, "Oh, don't feel sorry for me. His cock is massive." The wink that she adds is priceless. I have to cover my face with my hand because I can't stifle the laughter. As Tall turns and slinks off unabashed to the champagne table for a refill, I hold my palm up facing her and whisper, "Remind me not to fight your battles for you from now on, killer. That was classic." She high fives me. "Stupid slag. Can you believe the nerve of her?" She's still fuming. "Nope." I offer her the bowl of mixed nuts on the table, which she refuses with a cute scrunched up nose. So I kiss her on the side of her head instead. "Some people just suck. We should introduce her to Mr. Knott." She laughs reluctantly. "They'd be a proper match." And then the giggle turns sincere. "I might've taken it a step too far broadcasting the size of your tool." "That was my favorite part. Can you say cock again? Please?" I may be toying with her now, but it was hot. "Cock," she says it so slowly it sounds like two syllables. Pointing to the server walking through the room with little goodies on a tray, I say, "Me and my massive cock are just gonna go grab us a snack. We'll be right back." She smiles. "You do that. And be careful with that thing." I'm still laughing as I stop the dude and relieve him of two napkins topped with what looks like bruschetta. When I return, Short is apologizing to Gemma for Tall's behavior. Tall, or Stupid Slag, as she'll forever be known in my memory, is a model. Short is her personal assistant. Her name is Helena. We chat up Helena for a few minutes and she's definitely a nervous repeater, but when she relaxes a little she's witty. We cover a few topics before her cheeks burst into flame and she quietly tells me she's a Rook fan and asks for my autograph. She's a cool girl. I sign a dollar bill she digs out of her purse, because she doesn't have any paper. "The rest of the band's not here, are they?" Helena asks shyly, but hopefully. "Nope. Hoping for a glimpse of the blond wonder, huh?" Females love Gus, it's a scientific fact. She shrugs unevenly. That's a yes. "We could call Gus if you want?" Her back straightens stiff and tall and she's shaking her head briskly. But just as quickly she freezes and asks, "Really?" "Sure. We'll Facetime him; you can say hi." Her eyes are darting around the room like pinballs as she thinks it over. "Really?" she asks again. "Sure." "Do it, Helena. Gus's nice, you should talk to him," Gemma encourages. There's a bubble of calm that surrounds Gemma and I love being on the inside of it. Helena is feeling it too. Gemma has a gift for putting people at ease. Her charisma is rare, not many people I've come across can draw people in like she can, even complete strangers. Just being around her makes me unbelievably happy. She's sunshine in a human. Helena nods enthusiastically. "Let's do it." I dial Gus immediately so Helena doesn't have time to talk herself out of it. I'm just going to spring the dude on her. When his face appears on my screen, I cut him off because he's on speaker and I don't need

Helena overhearing the no doubt crude, but creative, greeting he'll produce. "Hey, Gus." He looks puzzled. I rarely call him Gus, so I automatically have his attention. "What's up with Facetime, dude?" "Can't a guy just Facetime for no reason?" He ignores my answer and continues as if I didn't say anything. "Are you with Nana? Lemme talk to her, her favorite great grandson wants to say hello." The last time I Facetimed Gus I was at the nursing home visiting my great grandma, who adores Gus like he's one of her own. She wanted to say hi to him because she hadn't seen him in a while. "I'm not with Nana. But I am with someone who wants to say hello." I stand next to Helena and she goes stone still when she sees Gus on my cell. "Gus, this is Helena. Helena, this is Gus." Gus smiles and tips his chin. "S'up, Helena?" She raises her hand to wave. She's nervous as hell but her grin is ear to ear. "Ohmygod," she whispers. "Helena is a Rook fan, man. She's a new friend of Gem and me." I turn the phone toward Gemma so he can see her. They trade salutations. "Hola, Gemma." "Hiya, Gus." And then I turn back to Helena and me. Gus joins in because he's nice and always knows what to say. "Any friend of Gemma and Franco's is a friend of mine." We all talk for ten minutes, and by the end Helena is perhaps the happiest woman in the state of California. Gus and I have promised to send her Rook t-shirts, signed vinyl, and two VIP tickets for the L.A. show of our upcoming tour for her and her sister, who's also a fan. After the Mr. Knott, Stupid Slag downers, the night ended on a good note. As we're leaving, I take Gemma's hand in mine and stroke the back with my thumb. "Thanks for sharing your creation and talent with me, Gem. It was an honor to be there holding your hand tonight." She smiles. "Thanks for your kind words. Your approval means a lot to me. And ditto, it was an honor to be there holding your hand tonight. I thought Helena was going to cry, you and Gus made her so happy. It was lovely." "The woman deserved a medal of honor for putting up with Stupid Slag, it was a small consolation to call Gus and give her some tickets. It was probably no different than watching people fawn all over you tonight. People love you, Gem. I hope you realize that. You put out this light that people can't resist being drawn to. That's a gift." She smiles. "I meant what I said earlier tonight, your mum raised a good lad." "And your dad raised a good woman." He did.

Thursday, January 25 (Franco) It's the big man's birthday today. Gus is twenty-three. Here's a little fact about Gus. He's a t-shirt whore. He loves them. So a few years back Jamie, Robbie, and I started gifting Gus the most horrendous t-shirt we could find on his birthday. Here's another thing about Gus—if he receives something as a gift, he'll wear it no matter what because he's sentimental as hell and he honestly doesn't give a shit if people laugh at him. I think he looks forward to seeing what kind of abomination we can come up with to celebrate his big day now that it's become tradition. Last year was downplayed because it was the month from hell, so this year the boys and I have been searching high and low for just the right tee to make up for it. The laugh Gus barks out when he unwraps his gift tells us we brought the thunder and then some. "Oh shit, you've outdone yourselves." He immediately strips off the one he's wearing, shrugs on the birthday tee, and then spins in a circle to model for us. Jamie turns to me and looks defeated. "It doesn't even look that bad on him. What the fuck?" "He's too fucking pretty, Jamie. That's the problem." I have to laugh because only Gus could pull off a mint green t-shirt with a taco eating cat riding a unicorn on the front, and not look like a complete asshole. "We'll try harder next year. There's a shirt out there that's going to make him look awful and we're going to find it, goddammit." Robbie tosses a bag at him, it's the other half of our gift. "And because we're enablers. Happy birthday, Gus." Gus catches it and peeks in the bag. "You shitheads are too good to me. Thanks. This should last me a few days." It's fifty packs of gum. Literally, fifty. And he's not exaggerating, it will probably only last him a few days the way he burns through it. We sing "Happy Birthday" to him, and stop at the donut shop on the way into the studio because it's the closest thing we'll get to cake today. We've got a long day planned out and lots to get done trying to get the last few songs fine-tuned before we go back to the apartment tonight. MFDM can't look at Gus with the damn cat shirt on with a straight face the entire day. That alone was worth it. Day made.

Friday, January 26 (Franco) We went surfing early this morning at Trestles. Rented boards and wetsuits, because we all needed to unwind and get in the water. Surfing is critical to wellbeing for all of us, being away from it for too long manifests itself in negative ways. Riding, being one with the ocean, appreciating nature, is religion for me. The guys are much the same. It was an hour well spent. Therapy. And besides the restorative, zen-like aspects, a sea lion popped up in the water two feet from Gus and he screamed like a terrified little girl. It was priceless. A spectacle that everyone within thirty feet of us in the water thoroughly enjoyed. Gus was heckled by friends and strangers alike, with absolutely no mercy. It's a good thing he's such a good sport. Our last day as a band in the studio was gold after that. The perfect ending. We're all happy. You know it's gone well if we're all happy. It's not that we're tough to please, we just have high standards. So, when we've reached a certain level of agreement, it's a sign that the planets have aligned, and the rock gods have blessed the project. We picked up some tacos and a case of beer on the way back to our temporary home. A quiet celebration ensued on the balcony of the apartment. Redemption, in so many ways, is a reality. Gus went to bed early because he has to be back in the studio to record a final guitar track early in the morning. He held off on it so his girlfriend and her cousin could be there with him. Jamie and Robbie got in some Xbox time. Which is vital to their existence. And me? I walked over to see Gemma. She asked me to spend the night again. I couldn't say no. We're getting attached. I love it because I haven't felt this way about a woman in a very long time, if ever. And that scares me because deep down I know it's deceptive optimism. We will end. In a matter of hours when I leave in the morning, most likely. I'm trying not to think about it but I know it's true. Until then, I'm an ostrich sticking my head in the sand and choosing to blow off imminent reality. I've never done that before and it's a daily effort to ignore my nagging, doomsday subconscious. When she flips off her bedroom light, I tell the realist in me to back the fuck off and I strip down to my boxer briefs and crawl into her bed. She meets me under the sheets. And she's all skin. Every inch of her is bare. Guess the Biebs won't be spending quality time with us tonight. It's instantaneous. I'm hard. The kind of hard that begs, kicking and screaming for contact and slow, gratifying, explosive relief. "Franco?" she whispers timidly. "Yeah, Gem?" "Thank you for making my last days in L.A. memorable." "I know realistically we'll probably never see each other again after tomorrow, Gem, but I just want you to know that it has been a pleasure spending time with you this week. I hope every last one of your dreams comes true. Because you deserve it." "I wish the same for you. And I want you to know that I don't get naked for just anyone. It's been almost two years. Normally, I wouldn't be so bold," she confesses sweetly. "I'm pretty fucking hot, I know that's damn hard to resist," I tease. "God, I'm glad the lights are off. It's embarrassing how hot my cheeks are." "Are you blushing?" I ask. I wish I could see it. "A bit. Promise it won't hinder my enthusiasm though." Holy shit, as if I wasn't already excited by this prospect. "One more thing." We're both lying on

our sides facing each other. My hand seeks out her hip and rests there because I can't help touching her. My thumb brushing back and forth, is a barometer of the desire that's building. She scoots forward until her breasts are pressed against my chest. "What's that, naughty American boy?" I inch forward to meet her, until the rest of me is touching the rest of her. Everything housed inside my underwear is viciously berating me, Why didn't you shed the chonies, you moron! "I would fucking love to wholeheartedly earn that title tonight." I roll my hips into her. A kiss butterflies playfully across my lips. "And because I'm a team player, I would love to help you in any way I can." She drapes her leg over mine and the grinding becomes a two-player game. The length of me rubbing against her sweet spot. My hand is exploring, the small of her back, and then to the curve of her ass. "Damn, that's generous of you." Her lips find my neck. Soft kisses alternate between the trace of her tongue and gentle nips of her teeth. "Can I tell you something?" Fingers splayed, I give her backside a satisfying squeeze that makes us both sigh. "You can do anything you want, Gem. Anything." "I've never known a man that lights me up quite like you do. My lady parts are in a fucking riot at the minute." When she pulls back, I want to vocalize that my man parts are likewise in the middle of a goddamn revolution...but she strips my underwear off and her hand wraps me in a carnal cuddle. And the stroking that ensues is the thing fantasies are made of. "Fuck." It's a low, guttural, release of pure pleasure. "We should definitely address the riot and make sure its demands are heard and fully acted on." Rolling her to her back, I climb on top. My mouth descends on hers. And hell yes, we're a fucking team. This kiss is different. Kissing in the nude always is. A naked body stirs everything into a goddamn frenzy. Need, anticipation, and raging desire make it next level intense. But this? Gemma and I? We're nuclear. One hand snakes under her head and winds up in her hair, the other greedily palms her breast. Lips are still engaged in the fray. The mouth is a magnificent tool to communicate intimacy—kissing, licking, sucking, nipping—it's screaming, I'm so fucking into you, without saying a word. And it's at this moment that I wish I had more than five senses to relate to her with. I want more of her. I can't get enough. I'm settled in between her legs, slowly creating friction. We've both hit the fucking roof, arousal seems an amateur term for what's driving us. "Franco," she pants, "I'm going to lose my fucking mind." She's pleading for more. Even though the last thing I want to do is leave this bed, I'm with her on the losing my fucking mind if fucking doesn't commence soon thing. I retrieve a condom from the pocket of my shorts on the floor, tear it open, and roll it on. Climbing back on at the foot of the bed, I take an ankle in each hand and spread them wide. Fingertips tease the soles of her feet before trailing up her shins. Over her knees. To her thighs. She quivers. "Feel good?" I ask. Approval is in the form of a moan, "Mmm hmm." "What about this?" I trace the line of her upper thigh. "Even better." "And this?" Teeth take to the flesh of her inner thigh. Enough pressure to apply stinging

pressure, before soothing it with my tongue, and a kiss. "God, yes." Breaths grow shallow. "And then there's this..." My thumb circles, replaced by my tongue. Parting her, I ease up and down once to tease her. Jesus, she tastes good. Words are lost in the hum she emits and it's so damn sexy. "I'm going to play with your body all night if you keep making sounds like that." That's me groveling for more. She repeats the hum and it's like a flame introduced to gasoline. I scale her body until our mouths connect. Kissing is clashing. It's needy and aggressive. Any hint of sweetness in this woman has been consumed by vixen. And I fucking love it. Her nails are raking my back. I'm pushing the boundaries of touch, spurred on by lust. Tweaking and rolling her pebbled nipple with one hand. The other slid under her with a firm grip on her ass cheek. Burying my face in the crook of her neck, I whisper, "I'm going to make sure you never forget me. Are you ready for the best fuck of your life?" "So ready," she whispers back. There's no easing in. No gentle introduction. I plunge hard and deep. "Oh God," she gasps. "You good?" I question. "Excellent," she sighs. She bends her knees to gain leverage and her hips meet my every thrust. Kissing is impossible. Sweat slicks our skin. Complimentary, but very dirty words are exchanged. Goddamn this woman speaks my language. We change positions when she forces me to sit up and climbs onto my lap facing me. The moonlight slicing between the curtains highlights her, and the view when she proceeds to ride the hell out of me is spectacular. She's clenching around me, tighter and tighter. It's rapture building. And when I prompt her to let it all loose, that's all it takes. She goes up in flames. "That's it. God, that's it... Yes... Yes." It's all the spark I need. It consumes me whole in a blinding expulsion of unadulterated pleasure. "Holy fuck." The pause to catch our breath and collect our wits post mega-orgasm is exaggerated. It takes a minute to come back to the present when your mind and body have just been blissfully razed and ruined in the name of lust. I'm still inside her and she's making no attempt to leave my lap. "Franco?" "Yeah, Gem?" "I'm crowning you king." I raise my eyebrows. "Royalty, huh?" She nods her head appreciatively and her devilish smile plays at her lips. "Fucking royalty. Literally." This woman slays me.

Saturday, January 27 (Franco) My cell is vibrating on the nightstand next to Gemma's bed. I've been awake for a while but my arm is under Gemma's sleeping head and I don't want to wake her so I'm still in bed. I pick it up with my free hand to silence the noise. It's a text from Gus, We're on the road headed home and I just realized I forgot my black hoodie at the studio. If you have time before you leave town can you grab it? Followed immediately by another text, If not, no worries. And another, It's only my favorite. And another, I'll probably cry for days if I lose it forever. I reply to stop the whining, If you shut up I'll stop by and grab it. His response is quick. It's a link to the YouTube clip of "Holding Out For a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler. I can't help but laugh because I know the song and video in all its eighties gun fighting glory. Gus and I smoked some weed one night years ago and stumbled upon this little nugget of gold. We watched it over and over. What began as pure cheese was somehow brilliance after an hour of viewing it repeatedly. The weed was good. Obviously. Another text comes in right behind it, My hero accompanied by several dozen emojis starting with a pink heart, kissy face, thumbs up, and party hat, but when I get to the bowling ball, Australian flag, and pineapple, I realize he's just poking buttons to fill up the screen and I stop reading, but my chest still rumbles with amusement. "What's so funny?" Gemma's sleepy voice asks as her face tilts up to look at mine. I stroke the hair out of her face and whisper, "Gus texted. It was funny. I'm sorry I woke you." Her eyes are still hazed with sleep, but her smile is bright. "S'okay. I need to get up." She traces the lines of the tattoo on my chest. "Just don't want to because when I do you'll have to leave." I wrap my arm that's already under her head around her and rub her upper arm. "We should shower first." The shower sex was spectacular. The goodbye that followed wasn't. It was the opposite of spectacular. It was shit-tacular. Because this is where it ends. We both know it. I go home today. She goes home tomorrow. The temporary us remains here. A memory. In a funk driving out of the L.A. apartment lot I almost forget Gus's sweatshirt, but I make a Uturn and go back for it. The red lights are all lit inside the studio when I enter, so I take it slow and quiet. Our producer, MFDM, is at the controls in the sound booth. Tape is rolling on a guy playing acoustic guitar in the booth opposite. He's probably Gus's age and his sound is soulful. He's not wearing headphones, which is strange for many reasons. His eyes are closed, the lids barely touching, as if he's walking a razor's edge of deep concentration. The body of his guitar is held flat against his torso, the hold on the instrument unconventional. But the longer I watch, it's not. He's one with the guitar, like it's an extension of him. His body sways slightly in response to the music he's making. Every musician I've ever known, no matter the instrument they play, reacts differently to music. Playing and creating is one of the most intimate acts a human can engage in. It's personality and heart projected,

that's what art is. But this guy, there's something different about him. There's something about watching him that reminds me of Gus. They're nothing alike in the way they look or play, but there's this feeling that what you're witnessing is special. That there aren't many people in the world who have the gift like they do. I have goosebumps by the time silence descends on the room. MFDM holds his hand up in the air as if signaling him to stop and then quickly gives him a thumbs up and waves him to the booth. He never talks, which I guess makes sense since the dude doesn't have headphones on. I clear my throat to let MFDM know he's not alone. "Hey, sorry to interrupt." He startles, regardless of my warning, with a hand to his chest. "Franco, what are you doing here? Gus wrapped up the last piece this morning. We're done." The door opens, and the guitarist from the booth enters. I don't want to drag this out any longer because I need to get out of their hair and let them work. "Yeah, I know. Gus forgot his hoodie and asked me to pick it up. Mind if I take a quick look around for it?" "No, go ahead." "Thanks." When I turn the guitarist is sitting on the couch behind us, his attention on the phone in his hands. "Nice work, man. That was clean." When I move he looks up at me. He's wearing an easygoing smile. I step forward and extend my hand, not wanting to appear rude. "The name's Franco." His focus is on my mouth, not my eyes. While we're shaking hands MFDM says, with his back to me, "That's Ridge." And then he adds, "He's deaf." At the same time I say, "What?" and feel like a jackass for doing so, the door opens and a blond woman walks in and hands Ridge a bottle of water and interrupts the whole scene. I'm thankful because I need a second to start over with Ridge and make this right. He touches his fingertips to his chin and quickly signs thank you. I recognize it because my sister taught my niece to sign before she could talk. Thank you was one of the signs. She signs back. It's more than one word. I keep my mouth shut as I watch him reply. The blond looks at me with a friendly smile. "I'm Sydney." "I'm Franco. It's nice to meet you." She finger spells something to Ridge. "Franco?" Ridge says apprehensively, like he's trying it out to make sure he's saying it correctly. Sydney smiles and nods. "Sorry, names are hard to lip read sometimes. It's nice to meet you, Franco. I'm Ridge." His enunciation is surprisingly clear for someone who can't hear. I shake my head and smile. "No worries. It's nice to meet you. You're incredible, dude. It was an honor to eavesdrop on your session." Ridge nods and the smile that looks like it's probably a permanent fixture widens. "Thank you. We have a lot of work to do, but it's getting there." "Are you a solo act, or are you part of a band?" I ask. It doesn't matter which, this guy just needs to make music regardless. "I'm in a band with my brother, Sounds of Cedar, and I play a little on my own too." "Awesome, I'll check you out. I wish you all the best." I extend my hand again and he shakes it. "I'm sorry to interrupt, but thanks for taking a few minutes out to talk."

"Thank you. Do you play guitar?" Ridge asks. I shake my head. "Nope. Just admire those who can." Ridge nods to accept the compliment. "Take it easy, Ridge. Sydney." "You, too," they say in unison. "Later, MFDM. I'm gonna look for Gus's hoodie in the booths and then I'm out." "Franco, do you have plans? Think you could hang out for a few hours and help me out? Jake's gone home, family emergency, his daughter fell off the swings at the park and they think she broke her arm." Jake owns the recording studio. And though MFDM can handle most everything on his own, especially when he's working with a full band and has extra sets of eyes, ears, and hands, working one on one with an artist is more difficult. "Sure. I can stay." I love performing, but the technical side of making music has always interested me. MFDM encouraged Gus and I to get much more hands on with the album we just finished and we enjoyed it. I think MFDM did too. He's a quiet, serious guy, the opposite of Gus and I, but the contrast works. "You missed me, didn't you, you big softy?" "I need help is all," he corrects with a hint of amusement in his voice. "It's okay, stop, you're making me misty." I swipe at non-existent tears just to rile him up. He shakes his head. "Go find Gus's hoodie and then come back in here and we'll run through Ridge's tracks we recorded this morning." I find Gus's beloved hoodie balled up on the floor in one of the booths. I take a photo of it looking pathetic and unloved before I pick it up and text it to Gus along with, This is fucking disgraceful, to shame him. He replies immediately, Word. Finder's fee is my undying appreciation—that shit's for life. And it opens up banter. What if I'd rather have beer? Gus: Beer is a half-assed replacement for my gratitude. My feelings are hurt. But ok. My mission accomplished, I return to the booth. It's different listening to music critically that isn't your own in the studio. Different perspective, when you remove personal attachment and investment. But equally intense process because I want to see this guy, Ridge, succeed and put out the best songs he can. I'm one of those people who wishes success for everyone, no matter what they do, because life isn't a competition. It doesn't require that one person lose because another one wins. We can all win. Six hours later, I'm walking to my truck to head home and pull my phone from my pocket to check it. There's a text from Gemma. It reads simply, Goodbye, with a YouTube attachment. I hit play before I start the engine. The song is called "Goodbye Los Angeles" by Future Husbands. I've never heard of the band or the song and maybe that's one of the reasons it punches me in the face unexpectedly. The woman's voice is brilliant and the lyrics are eerily fitting... Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life Farewell dear Sunset Strip, Goodbye to Hollywood lights Hey La Cienega, Guess I'll be seeing ya, but not tonight I've got to hop a plane, drag myself back to them, it's not alright They say home is where the heart is I'm leaving mine with you Goodbye Los Angeles, seems like it happened so fast One day we fell in love, I moved in but it couldn't last

The odds were against us, we tried but it turned to dust and slipped from our grasp Would I do it all again if I knew that it would end? Please don't ask They say home is where the heart is I'm leaving mine with you Goodbye Los Angeles, I've had the time of my life Farewell my friends, you know I couldn't forget if I tried Hollywood Boulevard, I'll miss you and all your stars they shine so bright Now I've got to hop a plane, swear I'll be back again, it's gonna be alright They say home is where the heart is I'm leaving mine with you I'm leaving mine with you I probably listened to the song fifty times on the drive home to San Diego. And I smiled the entire time. Because Gemma has the power to make that happen.

Sunday, January 28th (Franco) Day one post-Gemma. I didn't think it would be this... Hard. It's weird. I can't stop thinking about her. I'm not obsessing. It's just that I'll see something or hear something and it reminds me of her. Or I think of something funny, and pick up my phone to text it to her. And then I remember that she's gone. And that the phone number is probably out of service because she won't need it anymore. I'm a realistic dude, I knew our time together was temporary. But there aren't that many people you meet who are instantaneously woven into the fabric of your life like they were always meant to be there. Sex aside, which was mind-blowing, I genuinely miss her friendship. A ten-day bond that felt more like ten years strong. Unexpected. A few hours later I call her cell. And immediately hang up because a recorded message tells me the number is no longer in service. Gemma Hendricks withdrawals suck.

Monday, January 29 (Franco) Day two post-Gemma. I've kept busy all day. Distraction. I surfed with the guys this morning. Worked on my Triumph this afternoon and then took it for a ride at sunset. Ate some cereal for dinner. And then decided to burn off some energy before bed. The Grotto is a sauna. It's not literally a sauna, it's my tiny third bedroom that houses my drum kit. Even with the air conditioning on and a fan blowing, like clockwork at the thirty-minute mark of drumming like a mad man, the room heats up and turns into an easy bake oven. That's when I hit my stride. I suppose it's like runner's high, endorphins are released, sweat coats and drips, and I'm reminded why I love doing this. Some people use meditation or prayer to find their center, to bring them peace. I drum. My hearing is shot from years of constant punishment. But there's nothing like the audible fuzz that hangs on after I'm done playing. My body's reluctance to let go of the music. It coats the inside of my skull like cobwebs when I walk to the kitchen to replenish lost liquids. On nights like this, I play to exhaustion...and then I play a little longer. Every part of me used up and worn out. Like I've pushed my mind and body's purpose to the breaking point. Nothing makes me feel more alive than going to bed utterly drained. It's like a big high five from the universe for making the most of the past twenty-four hours. After a bottle of water and a shower, my bed is practically whispering sweet nothings in my ear. We were made for each other, my sleep number and I. As I slip between the sheets, I lift my cell from my nightstand to check it out of habit. And promptly drop it to the floor when I see the text preview box with an extra-long, unknown phone number flash on the screen. "Shit." Scrambling out of bed and picking it up, I'm relieved the screen's not busted. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitant to touch it. I'm not sure why. I miss this woman. I can't stop thinking about her. That scares me a little. Fuck it. Fuck being scared. I have an awesome friend who wants to keep in touch, that's what matters. So, I tap the screen and the fear evaporates. I swear I can hear her speaking the words in her accent as I read them: Dear Franco, I have a confession. Turns out I need/crave witty banter on a regular basis. Functioning and this "life" thing is horrid without your humour. Can we be friends? From afar? Me texting you funny shit out of the blue in the future will be awkward without the title already in place. Sincerely, The Grouchy Northerner I text back: Dear Grouchy Northerner, Ditto to the witty banter/"life" is horrid thing (but not to the extra u in humor, I'm not on board with that). Yes, to friends. Yes, to future funny shit that won't be awkward in the least because we're

official. Your Friend, The Moping Bastard Her response is lightning quick: Dear Moping Bastard Friend Who Can't Spell Humour Properly, Hoorah! Prepare yourself for a friendship unlike anything you've ever known. It will be glorious. Your Friend, The Less Grouchy Northerner Who Spells Humour Properly We can do this. Dear Goddess of Friendship and Funny Shit, Consider me prepared to be dazzled. Your Friend, God of Friendship and Funny Shit And just like that, the floodgates of communication are opened. Her final text reads: Download WhatsApp on your phone. It's free to message. Free is much cheaper than texting. I reply: Done. And then I search for WhatsApp in the App Store and download it. Let the friendship resume.

Monday, February 12 (Franco) Messaging Gemma has quickly become the highlight of my days. I thought communicating with someone face to face and then moving to strictly electronic dialogue would seem artificial and disappointing, mainly because I'd miss out on her killer accent and adorable facial expressions, but her humor and personality resonate loud and clear through written word. I laugh out loud at something she writes during every exchange. And we're already in the habit of recapping our days to each other: Rook is rehearsing every day now for the upcoming tour. She received a promotion at work the day she returned and is working on the hotel design project with her team. I'm back in the routine of surfing every morning. She's already seen her doctor and is scheduled for donor insemination next week. She's not wasting any time. It feels nice to have someone to talk to every day who wants to hear it all, the big and the small, the good and the bad, the exciting and the mundane. And who responds with funny memes to it all, like it's an art form she's mastered. She makes me laugh. She makes me think. She motivates me. She challenges me. She supports me when I need it. She plays devil's advocate when I need it. I like this woman. I really like this woman.

Wednesday, February 14 (Franco) I've been in the midst of an internal battle the past several days. Normally, I'm the type of person who trusts his instincts without question. I listen to my gut because it never fails me. But this is different. Because it doesn't just involve me. It involves another person. And potentially, if all went well, another. I'm trying to look at the situation logically, and it's to the point where I've thought about it so much that I'm just confusing myself. That's why I'm making this phone call, because I feel like she's the only person who can help me decide if my idea is batshit crazy or honorable. "Hi, Franco." I rarely call her on the phone, but every time I do she never sounds surprised to hear from me. I swear that she has a sixth sense about the people in her life and she's part fairy godmother. "Hey, Audrey. Is this a bad time?" I know she's at work—it's eleven o'clock in the morning on a Tuesday—so I ask to be polite. "Of course not." Gus's mom puts everyone's needs ahead of her own, so I don't know if she's lying or not. "What can I help you with?" See? I delve in, despite my reservations, because I don't want to waste her time. "Can I ask you a few questions about Gus and Gustov?" Gustov is Gus's biological father. "Sure." There's no apprehension. She's one of the only people I've ever known who holds back judgment until they know the whole story. Gus inherited the gift from her. It's the way we should all live, but most people don't. "Did having a child fathered by Gustov complicate your friendship with him?" I blurt, and I feel like an ass for the lack of grace on the lead in and delivery. She doesn't falter. "Quite the contrary, I would say it strengthened an already solid friendship and bonded us for life." "Did you look at him differently when you were pregnant, or after Gus was born, knowing that you'd created a child with him? I'm sorry if this is all too personal. You don't have to answer if you don't want to." I'm sweating, this conversation is so uncomfortable. "Other than being supremely grateful to him and appreciating his kind heart that much more, I would say no." "Again, you don't have to answer this, but hypothetically if having Gus would have been the result regardless of the father, would you still have involved Gustov or would you have gone with an anonymous donor?" "Without a doubt, Gustov. Familiarity, and the fact that I knew his participation came from a place of deep friendship, made all the difference. I knew I was carrying a child that was half of a man I already adored and admired. There's comfort in that that's irreplaceable." That's the answer I needed to hear. My intuition feels like it's just received a standing ovation. "Thanks for being so candid, Audrey." "Anytime. I'm always here if you need to talk. About anything," she adds knowingly. "I appreciate that." "Franco?" she says. "Yeah?" "You are a blessing. Your children will be too." There's no pause before she goes into her next

offer. "Stop by sometime soon, we'll all have dinner." "Will do. Thanks again." "You're welcome. Bye, Franco." I don't have to ask her to keep this talk between us because Audrey can keep a secret better than anyone I know. "Later, Audrey." When I end the call, I set my cell down on the kitchen counter and stare at it. And then I run to the bathroom and take a piss. Because I'm stalling, not because I have to go. Walking around the house, I'm trying to quiet my mind and my heart rate. I'm pacing from one end of the living room down the hallway to the bedrooms and back again because it's the longest straight shot in the house. It isn't long enough. My mind is racing, reeling, dizzy. Bending over, I rest my hands on my knees and take a few deep breaths. Deep breaths are supposed to be cleansing, not add fuel to the fire. "Fuck me, this is crazy," I say out loud. Then I answer to verify and validate, "It's good crazy, though." Marching, on a mission, I walk to the kitchen, pick up my phone and dial the one person who will always give me a kick in the ass when I need it. "What up, fuck nut?" Gus answers. "Tell me to stop being a fucking pussy, or I'll regret it for the rest of my life." The request is loud but rushed, he probably didn't understand it all because I was talking too fast. "One more time for the kids back home?" He should sound confused. He doesn't. That's why our friendship works. I repeat slowly, "Tell me to stop being a fucking pussy or I'll regret it for the rest of my life." "Franco." That's his serious voice to get my attention. He busts it out only on rare occasion. "Hit me with it." "Stop being a fucking pussy, dude. Regret is a motherfucker that follows you around for life. It haunts you. You don't want that shit. Do you hear me?" He's good. That was convincing. Well done. "I hear you," I answer. "You go do what you gotta do," he commands. "Gracias, homie." I mean it. "Adios." "De nada, homie. Peace out." I don't hesitate in ending the call, finding her name in my contacts, and tapping it. It goes immediately to voicemail. Shit. At the beep, I'm rambling. "Gem, it's me...obviously, it's me...you already know that because phones are smart and shit." Insert sigh, because I'm hopeless at adulting today. "Call me. Please. As soon as you get this. Call me—" I'm interrupted, not because I've come to my senses and stopped the babbling, but because there's ringing in my ear. And it's her ringtone. For half a second, I think, Jesus, it's like we're on the same wavelength and she knows I'm trying to reach out to her with something really important. But then I realize she has an iPhone and probably just saw she missed a call from me. "Bye," I blurt out, because I'm an idiot, and tap the screen to end the voicemail message. I then, immediately, tap again to answer her incoming call and put it on speaker because my hand is shaking and I don't want to hold the phone because it makes it worse. Sitting down at the kitchen table, I place my cell on the table in front of me and bend over to talk directly into it like a lunatic who doesn't know how a phone works. "Hi, Gem." Fucking hell, I'm so glad she can't see me

right now, or she'd turn me down flat before she heard the entire offer. "Hiya, Franco." "Happy Valentine's Day." It sounds mechanical. I feel shitty about that because I do mean it, I just should've saved it for after I get the hard stuff out in the air instead of before while my mind is freaking the fuck out. "Happy Valentine's Day. How's your day?" She doesn't sound put off, maybe she can't hear the crazed overtones in my voice through the phone. "Good." I glance at the clock, it's noon, which means it's eight in the evening where she is. "How was yours?" "Good. Just got done with tea and I'm sat down to watch the telly." "When's your appointment again?" I know when her appointment is. It's next Tuesday at ten in the morning. She knows I know, but she confirms anyway. "It's next Tuesday at ten in the morning." "Gem?" Jesus, just say it. "Yeah?" "You have a second option available. If, you know, you wanted to go a different route." "What would that be?" "You could come here. To my house. Instead." I can't believe I actually got the words out. "Franco?" It's quiet. "I'm offering to help you try to conceive," I pause because I'm suddenly sweaty and feeling asshole-ish again because she may think this is the worst idea she's ever heard, "naturally." "Hold on a sec," she says quickly. I hear a racket and shuffling, doors opening, doors closing. Another door opening. Another door closing. "Sorry, couldn't talk, my roommate was in the room." "Where are you now?" "In my car." "Can you talk now?" Silence. "Gem?" Silence. "Gem, talk to me. Please." "Are you serious, Franco?" "I couldn't be more serious if I tried." Silence. "You don't have to answer me now—" She interrupts. "You know I only want a child, right? God, that sounded insensitive," she adds under her breath. "What I mean is, I value you and your friendship very much, Franco. More than you know, I've never had a friend like you. But at the end of the day our lives are on different continents. I would never try to force my way into your life." She's stammering through her thoughts. "I just want a child with my last name to raise and love." She pauses and whispers, "Shit, this isn't coming out properly." It's my turn to interrupt and try to help because I'm the one who barged in and turned her world upside down. "Gem, listen to me. I would like you to fly to San Diego and stay at my house with me for a few days where we have some privacy. We've had sex. It was fantastic as I recall. We'll do it again. Repeatedly. I'm healthy. I'm clean. I'm a pretty outstanding dude, if I do say so myself. I come from good parents, I didn't have a fucked up home life. There's no history of disease or mental illness on either side of my family, other than my paternal grandmother's Alzheimer's. I drink a few times a week, but it's rarely in excess. And I'll admit to smoking weed on occasion, though it's been almost a

year since I last did, and nothing harder than that...ever. I'll do everything I can to give you the baby you want. And when you go home, no one has to know. Even when, yes I said when, you get pregnant, no one has to know who the father is. You can tell them, and the kid, you went through with the appointment you have scheduled that they don't know about anyway. I'll remain anonymous." "What's in it for you, Franco?" she whispers. "Your happiness." That's it. That's all I want. She sniffles. She's crying. "Gem, I'm going to be honest. The thought of you going to some sterile clinic and being filled with some stranger's seed makes me sad. Conception should be more personal than that. I'm not perfect, but I could offer you a connection that you wouldn't get otherwise. Just think about it. Not to mention that you'd be carrying the coolest kid ever created. Our genes? Together? The possibilities? The potential for sarcasm alone would be off the charts. And forget about looks, Jesus, she'd be adorable." She laughs, it's muffled through the tears. "She?" "Or he, whatever. Either one would be graced with good looks unlike those the world has ever seen." "Sarcasm and looks, that alone is tempting." She's playing along now, which means the shock is wearing off. And now that I've relaxed too, I can bow out and give her some space. "Please don't answer me tonight. Think about it. This is important, and I want you to do whatever feels right for you. If it's what you already have planned, that's awesome. If it's me, that's awesome. Our friendship doesn't change either way, you're stuck with me in that department." Silence. "Gem, did I just fuck everything up?" I whisper. Oh God, I just fucked everything up. The silence is only hesitation this time before her voice says softly, "No. Not at all. I was just thinking how thankful I am that my blind date was such a wanker or I wouldn't have a friend like you." "God bless the wankers." "Cheers to that. God bless the wankers." "Now go back inside. And call me tomorrow." "I will. Thanks, Franco. For everything." "Anytime. And always. Night, Gem." "Night." Tapping the red circle on my phone, I sit back in my chair, close my eyes, and begin the countdown to tomorrow.

Thursday, February 15 (Franco) I can't describe how much I love seeing her name come up on my cell screen. Today it's mixed with nervousness. "What's up, Gem?" "Yes," she says. "Yes?" I ask apprehensively. I don't want to get excited if this is a false positive and I'm interpreting it wrong. "Yes, I'd like to come to America next week and try this with you." It's her determined voice. "You would?" "I would. Knock me up, please." I have to laugh because she's trying to ease this odd exchange with humor. "I'll do my best." "It looks like the best flights I can find will be arriving this Sunday evening and leaving Wednesday morning. Is that okay with you?" "I get to show you around San Diego, and we get to snuggle and make babies for three nights?" "That's the plan." "Or we could just stay naked and not leave the house?" "If you like, yeah." "I like." "Is that a yes, then?" she asks. "It's a hell yes," I confirm. "Thanks, naughty American boy. Don't mean to cut this short, but I've just nipped out of work to call and have to get back in. I'll email my flight itinerary later on." "Okay." "Bye, Franco." "Bye, Gem." Gemma's coming here in four days. To my house. In four days. I bought this house over a year ago when we got our advance on the first album. And there's still stuff in boxes in the living room. There's nothing on the walls. No blinds on the windows, except my bedroom. The bathroom is still painted a repulsive color that reminds me of gravy. And not like biscuits and gravy cream, but turkey dinner brown. I don't like looking at turkey gravy when I'm sitting on the throne, and I don't want Gemma to either. I know her visit is about the baby and I shouldn't be worried about this stuff, but... I have shit to do. A lot of shit to do. Unpack. Clean. Paint. Window coverings. Hang photos. Goddamn, I sound like my mom. I need help. So I make a reactionary call that I'll probably regret later, because if there's one other person on this planet who knows even less about this kind of thing it's...

"What are you up to today, twat gobbler?" Please say not much. Please say not much. Please say not much. "Not much." Yes! "I just got home from PetSmart. Had to buy Spare Ribs a scratching post. The little diva suddenly thinks her Adamantium claws need to be sharpened several times a day on the side of my nightstand. It feels like a vendetta, dude. She needs something else to take out her vengeance on." Gus doesn't even sound pissed. He sounds like he's on the cat's side. God, he cracks me up. "I need some help." "With what?" I know that's a yes. He's the type of friend who would never turn me down. Even if I called him at two in the morning to paint my bathroom, he'd do it. "Home decorating." "Come again?" He sounds confused. I pause. "Gemma's coming to visit and stay with me in a few days. I want my place to look nice. I need to paint the bathroom and get blinds and stuff to hang on the walls." Before he can give me shit, I stop him. "I promise beer and cheese pizza." "Gemma's coming to see you? Righteous." And that's where he leaves it because he's not one to pry. He knows if I need to talk about it I will. "Are you in?" It's exasperated, I'm desperate. "If you let me pick out the paint color for the bathroom, I'm in." It's an unthreatening ultimatum. This could go so horribly wrong. "Promise you won't turn my bathroom into a disaster?" "Dude, it's already shit brown. Anything is a step up." "True. Okay, deal. I'll pick you up in ten." Ten minutes later Gus is climbing in the passenger seat of my truck dressed in an old t-shirt with cut off sleeves that reads I'm just here for the tacos, and frayed out shorts, and we're headed to Home Depot. The paint department is daunting. Too many colors. Gus is like a kid in a candy store with the rainbow of paint sample cards in front of him. His intensity is frightening. "Remind me again what color your tile is?" "White. Everything's white except the walls." He's taking this seriously. I guess I need to too. He rubs the scruff on his chin, thinking. "The possibilities are endless." "Right?" I agree, suddenly into this process. "You're lucky the previous owner went neutral with the palette." His eyes are still roving the color wall. Who the fuck are we and what happened to Gus and Franco? But I roll with it because this needs to happen and we're both into it. "True." "What's your favorite color, dick cheese?" "Red." "You can't go red. The space is too fucking small. Red would overpower it. You need something more subdued. Go bold with the artwork instead." I'm staring at him like I have no idea who he is. "How do you know all this shit?" He glances at me over his shoulder. "I watched a lot of TV last fall. There was a 'Property Brothers' marathon on HGTV." I shrug, unfamiliar with the show and he returns his focus to the paint samples and explains, "People buy fixer-uppers, and then two cool ass brothers turn catastrophe into their dream home." "Never seen it."

"That's a travesty, homeowner. Jonathan and Drew are wizards. You need cable," he adds to drive the point home. He plucks a card from the wall with four shades of blue. "What about light blue?" "Reminds me of the ocean. I like it." "It's soothing, right?" Soothing? This is outta hand. "It's better than gravy," I concede. "Done. Dolphin blue's the winner." Gus gets in line with his paint chip like he knows what he's doing. He doesn't, he's never bought paint or painted a room in his life, but I give him credit for taking charge. While the paint is being mixed, Jacob, the friendly Home Depot paint department dude gathers rollers, brushes, tape, and a drop cloth for me. He recognized Gus and is all too happy to help. We signed his orange apron. He was stoked. While we're standing in line to pay, Gus and I decide that we should stop at Bed Bath and Beyond next door and buy things to complete the bathroom makeover. Two hours later, we each walk out of Bed Bath and Beyond pushing a cart filled with stuff I should've bought a year ago: blinds for the living room and kitchen; curtains for the bedrooms; a comforter, new sheets, and pillows for my bed; a new mirror, towels, and a bath mat for the bathroom; a set of matching dishes, glasses, and cutlery; a few picture frames; and candles. Because Gus says chicks dig candles. I think he just liked smelling them all. "Look at you, all grown up and shit," Gus teases as we load the bags in the backseat of my truck. I nod confidently, owning it. "And shit." He laughs, but I know he's proud of me because he took this shopping excursion so seriously. Back home, we work like a well-oiled machine for the afternoon. Stereo blaring The Hunna and Modelo flowing. We knock out painting the bathroom first and move on to hanging blinds and curtains next, which proves more difficult than you'd think. So we stop and wash the new dishes instead while we wait for the pizza to be delivered. And Gus texts Scout, Come to Franco's after work for pizza. Wear clothes you can trash. And bring a power drill, please. She replies, Should I ask questions? He responds, Nope. Trust in the process, sweetheart. Scout shows up prepared. And she knows how to use a power drill and hang curtain rods. Gus and I shower her with praise, nonstop. For an hour it goes on and on, because once we start something, and push it so far that it turns into an annoyance, we can't stop. But we do after she makes a vague threat to Gus about stopping something related to panties and her purse and he gives me the Iwill-fuck-you-up-if-you-open-your-mouth-again stare. By ten o'clock everything's done. Even the last of my moving boxes are emptied and put away. The three of us are sitting side by side on my couch, inhaling the fresh paint fumes drifting out from the bathroom, eating another slice of cold pizza, Gus and I drinking the last of the beer, Scout drinking water because she's responsible and needs to drive them home, admiring all we've accomplished today. "It looks great, Franco. Good job you two, I'm impressed," Scout says. I accept the compliment. "Thanks, Scout. Your man is an interior design savant, you're a lucky woman." Before she can answer, with something snarky no doubt, Gus barges into the conversation, "Tomorrow we need to check out the art district. You need a painting for this wall." He points to the wall behind him over the couch. "And one for your bedroom."

I nod. "I don't have anything going on tomorrow. Okay." Gus stands, takes Scout by the hand and helps her stand before placing a kiss on her cheek. And in that one simple, quick gesture, I realize that my best friend is in love. He's a goner. And the way she smiles and looks at him, I know she is too. I wonder if they realize it yet. "Thanks for the chow and cerveza. I need to run a few errands in the morning, so I'll stop by and pick you up, and we can grab brunch and then shop." He closes his eyes and shakes his head like he's just heard the words coming out of his mouth for the first time all day. "Jesus Christ, did I just say 'grab brunch and then shop?'" I cringe and nod. "You did. It was pretty fucking awful." He grabs his crotch with his free hand. "I felt my balls shrivel." "You've been talking like that all day, man. You were in a DIY trance. Not yourself." He looks at Scout with a plea. "If I setup a goddamn Pinterest account, I want you to punch me in the fucking face." She nods. "Pinterest. Punch to the face. Got it." And then she turns toward me. "We should get together one night while Gemma's here. I'd like to meet her." "Done." "Later, fudge nugget," Gus says on his way out the door. "Later, nut juggler. Later, Scout. Thanks." "Bye, Franco." As friends go, I couldn't ask for better.

Friday, February 16 (Franco) My doorbell rings at eleven o'clock in the morning. Six times it rings. One right after the next. It's Gus. It has to be Gus. No one else is that annoying on purpose. When I open the door, he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair on top of his head. "Morning. I need help." "True that. I'm glad you've finally recognized there's a problem." He rolls his eyes. "My brand of crazy is too adoring to cure. I'm talking about the shit in my truck." I slip on my flip flops and follow him out to his truck parked on the street. He opens the passenger door, and there are four thin cardboard boxes, about twenty inches tall each, stacked up next to each other on the seat and two more on the floorboard. I gather four into my arms; they're heavier than they look. He gathers the rest and shuts the door gently with his foot. The care he takes with his truck is hilarious. It's so rusty and beat up, but the way he treats it you'd think it was pristine. "What are these?" "Patience, cock star. They're for the Drum Grotto." My favorite drum kit is set up in one of the spare bedrooms. It's where I practice every day. Gus named it the Drum Grotto because it's small like a cave and there's not much natural light that comes in through the tiny window. Plus, grotto's supposed to sound sexy. It does. It's my favorite room in the house. We set down the boxes and start tearing into them. I notice that he leaves one of his untouched. Inside the boxes are black frames, each containing something music related. The first is the cover art of our first album. "This cover is still killer." A gloss black crow on a matte black background, Rook in bright red letters. "Nothing like simple to make a statement," Gus says. The second is an action shot of me playing drums. I'm shirtless, covered in sweat. "This was Denver, right?" I ask. "Yup, first nationwide tour. It was hotter than hell in there that night, remember?" I can't wipe the smile off my face thinking about it. "Like Satan's oven. The photographer was amazing, though. This is a great shot." The third is Rook: Gus, Jamie, Robbie, and me standing in front of Joe's Bar before the first show we ever played as a band. Gus laughs. "We were so young—we look like kittens." We were young. "I didn't even have any tattoos yet. And we look scared shitless." "We were scared shitless. Remember, Jamie threw up behind the amp stack right before we went on?" Gus reminds me. And then he busts into full on belly laughter. And I can't help joining him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "God, that's right. It was all nerves. Poor kid." "That's gold right there. Those were the good ole days." The fourth is a photo taken in Grant, Minnesota. It's Rook and our friend, Kate Sedgwick, on stage during a performance. I can't hold back the smile, or the lump in my throat when I see it. "She was so pissed at you when you forced her on stage that night."

He's smiling. It makes me so happy that he can smile when he talks about her now. "She was. Until she opened her mouth. And then it was on. Damn, that girl could sing." "She could. That was the best night of that tour by far." "Agreed." The fifth contains two photos of my favorites drummers—John Bonham and Dave Grohl. Two completely different styles, but I grew up listening to and admire them both equally. Gus shrugs. "You know, in case you need some inspiration." "Thanks." I hold out my fist, and he bumps knuckles. "These belong in here, so you don't have to stare at blank walls. The Grotto needed some character." He's a considerate bastard. His mom's child through and through. They're good people. "I'm gonna grab a hammer and some nails." Gus helps me hang four, and while I'm hanging the fifth, he announces, "I need to take a leak before we head out." "No problem," I call back. When he returns we get lunch—not brunch, lunch—and hit up an art studio downtown. It features several artists' work from all over the country. I could've bought ten paintings, but I settle on two by the same artist—D. Glenn. His style is raw and passionate, like flat-out sex on canvas. I'd like to meet this dude, I bet he's one smooth motherfucker. The paintings are massive and take two people to hang. The larger of the two goes over my couch and the other above my bed. When we're done, I find Gus standing in the living room with his hands on his hips staring intently at the wall above the couch. "Damn, is it just me, or is that painting hot as fuck? It's like I can hear Marvin Gaye in my head singing 'Let's Get It On' when I look at it." He exhales loudly. "I need to buy one of those for my room." Prying his eyes away, he looks at me standing next to him. "Listen, if this whole music thing doesn't work out for us, we should get our own show on HGTV." "Decorating With Douchebags?" I suggest. He slaps me on the back and points at me as he walks toward the front door. "That's catchy. Write that down." "Will do. Thanks again for the Grotto artwork. It's perfect." "Glad you like it," he says as he walks out the door and down my front walk. Raising his hand to wave, he adds, "Peace out." "Take it easy." After I lock the front door, I take a walk around my house to admire our handiwork. The house finally looks like a house. Lived in and homey. I can't wait for Gemma to visit. The last room I walk in, more out of necessity than to gloat, is the bathroom. I haven't peed all afternoon. I'm busy unzipping my fly and lifting the toilet seat, so it's not until I'm in full flow that I notice it. "Sonofabitch." There, framed and matted like all the others he gave me today, hanging proudly over my toilet, is me. Naked getting in the shower. It's the photo Gus snapped in L.A. and sent to Gemma. And apparently to himself. There's a sticky note stuck to it that reads, You're too damn sexy not to showcase in the shitter. Fuck it. I'm leaving it. For now.

Saturday, February 17 (Franco) "Franco, I know I'm going to sound like an absolute bitch asking you for this, but I've talked to my lawyer, and he's advised me to have you sign a contract." It makes sense. "What does it say?" "I'll email it to you so you can read it, but it basically states that no money is exchanging hands in return for sex. That the identity of the father of my child will remain a secret and that both of us agree not to disclose the information, unless we, mutually, deem it necessary in the future due to a health emergency. You will be required to notify me of any major changes in your health, especially if they may be hereditary in nature. No father will be listed on the birth certificate, and the child will have my last name. You are released of all rights as a parent, and obviously, I will never ask for any financial, emotional, or any other kind of support regarding the child. I just don't want you to ever question my integrity or that I'd take advantage of your kindness. You'll have no responsibilities or obligations to me or this child." "I'll do whatever you want, Gem. I give you my word on that. As long as you don't cut me out of your life after I fertilize your garden." She laughs. "If you manage to fertilize my lady garden, or not, you won't be able to get rid of me. Good mates are hard to find. I like you. A lot." "Email it over. I'll sign it and send it back to you, and I'll give you the original when you get here tomorrow." "Are you mad at me for asking you to sign it? I don't want you to be mad at me." "You're protecting yourself and your child, I'm proud of you. It's what any mama bear would and should do." It's true. "Thanks, Franco. Bye." "Bye, Gem." She emailed it. I read it. I understood it. I agreed with it. I signed it. I scanned it and emailed it back. And now I'm sitting here alone in my kitchen. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of me is thinking positive thoughts because I can already picture Gemma's belly swollen and round in her last trimester. And I can already picture her eyes bright with happy tears as she looks at the tiny, precious newborn in her arms. And I can already picture a toddler with huge, dark blue eyes and a full, breathtaking smile like her mom. But when I think about her dark, curly little ponytails, the other point one percent of me is sad, because she got them from me...and she'll never know that. I know it's selfish. Goddamn, I know it's selfish. And I know it will pass. This isn't about me. But it's stirring up things inside me that I hadn't thought of in these terms. I grew up in a family that was tight, a family that valued family and all the bonds and traditions that came with it. It wasn't perfect, there were times my brother and I fought so fiercely it threatened to reduce the house to rubble around us. But during times like that, my mom came in, picked us both up by our ears and reminded us we were blood. Love survived regardless of arguments or

disagreements. I always admired the way our parents were strict on morals and right from wrong, but always let love lead by example. We never questioned that they loved us. Never questioned that we loved our siblings and they loved us back. It was created and thrived. I always wanted that for my kids someday. Even though I thought kids would be way down the road. Way down the road suddenly feels like light years away. I don't like light years away. And then I remind myself again, this isn't about me. This is about Gem.

Sunday, February 18 (Franco) Gem insisted she take a cab from the airport instead of me picking her up because customs takes forever and she didn't want me standing around waiting for her. Instead, I've been standing at my front door watching the street for the past thirty minutes for any sign of a cab. Of course, when I step away for a minute to use the bathroom, she rolls up, and I miss the greeting I had planned. It was to be an ambush at the curb. Instead, the doorbell rings while I'm washing my hands. I haven't seen her in a few weeks, the rustling in my shorts is a wily reminder of just how much her presence affects me. She's dressed in all black, except her leopard print Chucks. Her hair is knotted, slightly askew on top of her head leading me to believe that travel has been hectic. The circles under her eyes confirm a lack of rest. But she's smiling, so big I can see all her teeth, like she can't hold back her excitement. No words have been spoken. We're just smiling like fools at each other, her on my doorstep, me on the inside of my screen door. "Hey, gypsy." She lifts her bags, one in each hand, to show agreement of the title. "Your no vacancy sign isn't on. I'm assuming I'm still welcome." I don't have an addictive personality. There's nothing in my life that I pursue in excess, except maybe drumming. But Gemma? I might be addicted to her. Opening the door for her, she steps in wide-eyed taking in the pool table and living room within view. "Wow, Franco. This is amazing. I was expecting a proper bachelor's lair. But a craftsman style bungalow, this is cozy." Ten points to the Decorating Douchebags! I shrug to hide how happy I am that working our nuts off to get this place ready has paid off. "Thanks." She slips off her shoes at the door, and I unload her of her bags. "Can we play?" Running her hand across the felt on the pool table, she wiggles her eyebrows suggestively. Her flirty question and expression beg for a loaded response because I can't very well tell her how bad I suck at pool. "Are you good with a stick and balls?" She nods convincingly, but a devilish smile is bleeding through. "Very. I've keen dexterity." Her fingers are fluttering in front of her to illustrate her point. "It's a gift." I'm in trouble. She's been here sixty seconds, and I'm already picturing her naked on top of my pool table. I mutter something under my breath; I can't be sure but it sounds like, "Shit. Fuck. Goddamn," because I'm only thinking in expletives right now. Gemma's giggle confirms it was cursing gibberish. I nod my head toward and call off the rooms as we walk past. "Kitchen. Spare bedroom. Bathroom." "Your bum is definitely display worthy," she says pointing to the framed art over my toilet. "It's my home screen wallpaper on my cell, as well." I skip the compliment and continue the tour. "Drum grotto." I'm nervous all of a sudden. The spotlight is shining on me. I don't want that with her. I just want to be Franco. She walks in the room timidly and turns around two steps in to look at me. "Is it okay if I'm in here? This feels like such a private space." The unexpected sincerity makes me smile. It's not the crazed reaction of an avid Rook fan; it's respect for my passion, my career. It's little gestures like this that make people stand out, a testimonial to their character.

My nerves are fading. "Of course it's okay." Now that she's in here I don't want her to leave. My favorite room in the house is perfect. She goes immediately to the photos on the walls, and I tell her about each one. She asks a lot of questions, and it feels good to talk about it. I draw such a distinction between my personal life and my career because one is real and the other is fantasy. Some people can't reconcile the two, and fame makes authentic relationships difficult. Not on my end. I treat everyone the same, regardless of who they are. But some people only want to be friends with fame, not with me. I'm not my fame, I just happen to be a drummer in a band that works their asses off and who's had some luck in the success department. It's the reason I keep my circle small: pretty much childhood friends, the band, and my family. Not because I'm a dick who doesn't want to let people in, but because, honestly, there's only so many times I can be used before it starts feeling like a kick to the face. A kick to the face that always leaves me questioning my integrity, even when I wasn't the one pulling the 'I'm-a-shady-human-being' bullshit. Her grin is ear to ear by the time we're done looking at and discussing the photos. "I'm proud of you, Franco. You're living your dream." I shrug. "I'm no different than you. I'm just doing what I love." "We're lucky, aren't we?" She means it. Truly. I love humility—it's the equivalent of a neon sign advertising My heart isn't an inconsiderate bastard, I'm nice. For real. Every day this woman is more and more perfect. I nod. "Truth." Her eyes shift to my drum kit, and she taps the ride cymbal with her pointer finger. "I have a confession to make." "Is it dirty? Please tell me it's dirty?" I know it's not by the tone of her voice, but I have to tease to lighten the mood. She smiles at my come on, "No," but it quickly fades into her serious face again. "I've never heard you play. I've never listened to Rook. I didn't want it to make things weird between us." She sounds ashamed. I'm fucking ecstatic—separation of church and state and all that shit. She likes me, for me. "It would be awkward if you listened and thought we were complete shit. You know, because Gus doesn't have a British accent." A smile breaks out at the jab. "Or idol worship. What if I fell in love with your mad skills and started throwing my bra and panties at you? That would be weird." "You already do that." "Shut up, naughty American boy. I also wanted to wait until I could see you perform live because live is always better. A Rook initiation in the wild." "Are you saying you want me to play for you?" She nods and it's confirmation, truth, and conviction. I'm nervous again. Not because I can't perform, I can play in front of anyone, anytime, anywhere. I'm nervous because I don't want to let her down. I'm selfish. I want her to dig what she hears. I know how much she loves music and I want her to be into it. "Turn around," I request as I turn on the stereo behind my drum kit. I don't spend a lot of money, but I did drop quite a bit on this setup and the speakers. I play along to tracks when I practice. "Why?" she asks as she turns her back to me. "You have no poker face." She doesn't. Her face is overly expressive and cannot be repressed. Sitting on the stool, surrounded by my kit, I pick up my sticks. And instead of hitting play on the stereo, I sit. It's quiet, still, because I'm staring at her. Staring at her wondering what kind of an indicator this moment, her opinion and my need for approval, is.

"Are you taking your clothes off?" she asks suspiciously, and it rouses me from my thought train that has gone off the tracks. I laugh and clear my throat. "Sorry to disappoint you, but I can't drum in the buff. I need some restriction down below, or things would get aggressively out of hand. You might lose an eye." "Can't have you flailing about below the belt then." "Nope. Close your eyes." "I already have my back to you," she rebukes, but she already has them closed. I can see her in the reflection of the glass on the frame on the wall in front of her. "Are they closed?" I ask anyway. She nods. "Good. Now imagine me naked." And with that, I hit play on the stereo and drop into "Redemption." Sometimes, when I'm in the zone and feeling the song with everything in me, I close my eyes and just let it fly. "Redemption" leads into "Killing the Sun" and it's not until I stomp out the final thump of the bass drum, that I open my eyes to find her standing directly in front of me facing me. I was right about the poker face: non-existent. And I'm so thankful that Gemma apparently has an issue with authority and doesn't do as she's told. Her big eyes are glued to mine, unblinking, and paired with the maniacal grin on her face, tell me she liked listening to me play. Loved it. I can't help but match her smile as I switch off the track. "You're shit at following directions, Gem." "Bloody hell, you gave me no choice." She's fanning herself. "That was a full-on sensory diddle. I needed to watch to get the whole effect." After some lightning fast maneuvering, she slips her bra off from beneath her tank top and tosses it at my face. "Christ, it's like staring into the sun...or at a fucking unicorn...you're all blindingly bright and shiny and enchanting. It's too much, I can't take it," she says as she walks out of the room into the hallway. I catch her in the living room and wrap my arms around her from behind. She leans back into me and welcomes the contact. "Thank you." I don't know what else to say. I don't need validation. But her reaction, humor included, put a smile on my face that I'm sure won't go away for days. Sometimes confidence is boosted when you didn't even know you needed it. Consider me boosted. And coming from her, it means even more. "You're welcome. Now walk with me to my purse so I can get my phone." "What do you need your phone for?" "I need to buy Rook's album on iTunes. We're going to listen to it while we eat and I kick your arse at pool." I leave Gem to fiddle with her phone while I make dinner. Beer and nachos are on the menu tonight. I'm not talented in the kitchen but I can whip up world class nachos: seasoned chicken I grilled earlier, mega quantities of freshly grated Monterey Jack cheese, homemade salsa, jalapenos, cilantro, and sour cream. I hold the guac since it repulses her. Gem walks in as I'm putting the final touches on the cheesy masterpiece. "I'm starving and that looks like all my dreams and wishes served up on a platter." I hand her a bottle of water, at her request because she's a responsible mother-to-be, and she clinks the neck together with my beer bottle. Plastic on glass makes for an unimpressive sound. She says, "Cheers," at the same time I say, "Salud," and all is right in the world. I know outside this house there are billions of people doing a billion different things, but I feel a little sorry for them at the moment. Because they're not in my shoes, in Gem's company. She makes everything better. She's like fireworks, and not the boring beginning and middle part, but the fucking finale that lights up the sky

in a riot of color and sound. "Can we eat while we play pool? I've already racked." I grab the platter of goodness and follow her to the dining area where the pool table resides. "Whoever loses has to take off an article of clothing." She glances down at her tank top, nipples perky as all hell, and leggings. "Can I put on a jumper before we start? And two more pairs of socks? And maybe a hat?" "Nope. I recall some trash talking earlier, something about kicking my ass. What are you worried about, hustler?" "I may have misrepresented my aptitude for the game," she says sheepishly. She wildly misrepresented. Gemma is, without a doubt, the worst pool player I've ever seen. She makes me look like Tom Cruise in "The Color of Money." Her leggings are history. And because I like to keep things even, I throw the second game, and we both start the third game in underwear and shirts. I know it's contradictory, but every time she walks past me in her tank top and cheeky bright pink bottoms, or bends over and flashes her ass or cleavage depending on where I'm standing—and believe me, I strategically place myself to take in all the angles—she looks like the most innocent form of sin imaginable. A good girl with a bit of a naughty side. The nachos lay in ruins on the side table—we demolished them in no time. Our album has played through once on her phone. Empty beer and water bottles are lined up keeping each other company. I'm buzzed. Which makes the ass and cleavage show so damn hard to resist. Gem's eyes are warm and her smile dreamy and inviting, despite the lack of alcohol. "I forfeit. You win." Reaching behind my head, I strip my t-shirt up and over my head. In reality, we're both winners, because her tank top joins mine on the floor. I've backed her up against the pool table, thigh to thigh, pinning her in place. My lips greedily on her neck. My hands tangled in her hair. She's equally eager. Her hands are gliding over my ribs down...down... Bang. Bang. Bang. Gemma freezes, panicked like she's been caught in the act. "Ignore it," I whisper against the hollow of her throat. "They'll go away." Bang. Bang. Bang. Then comes shouting from the other side of the door. "I know you're in there, dude! The lights are on!" He knows I'm anal about things like that and would never leave the lights on if I wasn't home. "Put your clothes on and come answer the door! Girl Scout wants to meet Gemma!" "Can they see us? He doesn't know why I'm here, right?" Gemma says with one hand attempting to cover her ample bosom and one splayed over her undies. I sigh. Because Gus and his timing couldn't be worse. And then I laugh. Because Gem's modesty is grappling alongside fright and it's cute as hell. "There aren't any windows. They can't see us. And no, he doesn't know, he's making assumptions." Bang. Bang. Bang. "I'm coming!" I yell.

"I don't need a mating play by play, dude! You copulate, we'll wait!" Gus replies loudly. My eyes shift to Gemma, and she's trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle a giggle as she shimmies into her clothes. I can't help but laugh too. "I guess I asked for that one." "You kinda did," she agrees. "Gem's coming, too!" I yell and am rewarded with a halfhearted slap on the shoulder to shut me up. Gus is laughing heartily, I can hear it in his voice. "Like I said, not necessary to share the details! But I'm proud of you for being a generous lover, dude! That's important!" Fully clothed, I walk to the door. Scout and Gemma are both shaking their heads and blushing when I open it. I tip my chin at Gus. "Hola, cock blocker." Gus opens his mouth to continue the closed door banter, but Scout shuts him down. She looks mortified. "Franco, I'm so sorry. I thought Gus called to let you know we were stopping by. We can go if this isn't a good time." "No, come on in. We were just playing pool," I lie. Because Scout is nice and I want Gemma to meet her. Gus opens the screen door for Scout to enter and he follows her in with a whisper directed at me. "Dude, I was kidding. I didn't think love would already be in session this early. I feel like a dick, I can make up an excuse, and we can totally leave." "It's okay. Stay. Dick," I tease. I wonder how he knew what we were in the middle of, and like he can read my mind he nods subtly to Gem...whose tank top is on backward, and whose face and hair looks guilty as hell. Gus doesn't miss a beat in trying to smooth this over. "Scout, before I introduce you to your future bestie, I need to show you how pretty we made the Grotto." "Gus?" Scout protests to his suggestion and gives an apologetic shrug to Gemma. "We really aren't this rude, I promise. I'm so sorry. I'm Scout, Gemma. It's nice to meet you." Gemma shakes her hand. "Nice to meet you, too, Scout." Gus's big arm gathers his girlfriend in and sweeps her off to the drum room. "Come on, you have to see this. We're geniuses. And hi, Gemma." I know what he's doing. He's trying to give Gemma a minute to right herself. "Hiya, Gus." "We'll be right back. I'm sorry," Scout apologizes again. When they're out of sight, I whisper, "Your shirt's on backward. And your hair looks like you've just handily, and quite aerobically, dominated me." Her hands fly to her hair. I wink. "Why don't you run to the bathroom while they're busy in the other room? I'll get us all something to drink." She nods, her face flooded red by embarrassment, and hurries off to the bathroom. When everyone assembles in the living room again, it's quiet. But not for long. Because Gemma and Scout hit it off like destiny has always intended them to be best friends. Chicks can be brutal. I have three sisters, I'm well-versed in cattiness. But these two aren't and it makes me like them even more. The laughter is instantaneous and nonstop. The instafriendship is like Gus and me, only less crude. And way prettier. Gus checks his cell after an hour and announces, "We'd better get going, Scout. I promised I'd help Ma with some stuff tonight." I know he feels bad about interrupting us earlier, so I don't know if he really does need to help Audrey or if it's a polite excuse to give Gem and me some alone time. He's a good guy, either way.

Scout and Gemma exchange phone numbers, friend each other on Facebook, and hug and I know I'm witnessing some powerful, female, mystical bonding for life voodoo. It's awesome. Gus hugs me, mimicking the girls. It's exaggerated and long. He even strokes my bald head. "Thanks for coming over," I tell him. I mean it. My blue balls don't, but I do. "Sorry again, dude." "No worries. The force is strong with these two." I point to our girls standing at the door talking. He looks at them and smiles his Scout-is-everything smile, because serious contentment is what he thrives on these days. And she provides it. "It's cool, right?" I agree. "It is." More hugs all around and they're on their way. Gemma is still beaming when the front door clicks shut. "She's so nice, Franco. Really and truly nice." She says it like she's beyond excited about the revelation. And knowing her and Scout like I do, I know they'll stay in touch. They're perfectly paired. "She is. I'm glad they came over, and you two got to meet." "Me too." "You want anything else to eat or something to drink?" She shakes her head sweetly. "No, thanks." "You tired? Jet lag is a bastard." She nods once, but the gleam in her eye negates it. "A bit. But we can sleep in tomorrow, right?" I take her by the hand and lead her toward my bedroom. "I am your baby making man servant for the next few days. You tell me when and where to be and if clothes are required, that's all I need." She stops at the bathroom. "I just need to use the loo, I'll be in in a sec." "Take your time." While she's in the bathroom, I undress. And then I light the candles Gus insisted I buy and turn off the light. Propping pillows up against the headboard, I climb in and rest back against them, covering myself to the waist with the sheet because the dude downstairs is ready to report for duty, and even though the candlelight is setting the mood and casting a glamour shots type glow, when he's this excited he looks overly aggressive. It's quiet, too quiet, and that's when I remember the playlist I created. I'm not a sappy dude, but I like to think I'm compassionate. Even if this isn't the happily ever after scenario she always dreamed of, I want her to have good memories about the conception. And I know fucking isn't a philosophical act, but I just want her kid to be created in a moment of good. Happy, calm, loving sperm make happy, calm, loving baby—that's my plan. Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I open my music app and hit play on the playlist titled My sperm are better than yours, in keeping with the positive self-talk translates in positive action, and hit play. I'm well into song two when Gemma walks in. And my breath is taken away. Her hair is up, and she's wearing a pale pink silky nighty that barely brushes the tops of her thighs. The pale hue of the fabric against her pale skin paired with the candlelight is stunning. "You look gorgeous, mamacita." In true Gemma form, she pauses to curtsy and say, "Thank you," on her way to the bed. When she's sitting in bed under the covers next to me, her eyes roam the room. "You did all this for me?" "I'm shit at romance, Gem. And I know this isn't your fairy tale ending with a wedding featuring a rugby player with beastly good looks and a personality like Edward Cullen—" She interrupts, "You're not shit at romance. Cullen's got nothing on you except sparkles." "Blame Gus for the candles."

"And the music? I quite like this song. They're British." She turns her head to face me for the first time and winks. That wink. Everything stops. Goddamn, she's beautiful. And funny. And smart. And she wants to have my child. Even if, according to the contract we signed, the child never knows who their father is, I'll know that I got to be a part of making Gemma's dream come true. That's an honor. "I figured I'd better keep it strictly British or it would squelch the vibe for you. And God forbid conception takes place to the wrong song and jinxes your kid, and they grow up loving only American bands. That would be tragic." I smile at her, and she rubs her lips together nervously. No witty comeback. The importance of tonight just hit her, and her eyes drop to her lap to meet it, wrestle with it. I lay my hand, palm up, on the bed between us. It's an invitation for contact and comfort. Her hand is trembling slightly when she laces her fingers with mine. I don't know if it's adrenaline or second thoughts. "Gem, you don't have to do this. With me," I add in a whisper. "If you're having second thoughts and want to go the medical route, I completely understand." I'm watching her profile for further signs of distress. She's staring straight ahead, her lips rubbing together furiously to stifle emotion. She's a fairly private person, I know this is hard for her, but when the first tear falls from the corner of her eye, I can't hold back. "Hey, honey, look at me." Reluctantly, she tilts her chin to meet my gaze. Every emotion I've ever seen a human being project is flashing across her face like a movie screen. Releasing her hand, I wrap my arm around her and pull her into me. She rests her cheek against my chest under my chin and holds me in an embrace, arms tight around my waist like everything inside her is at odds. Holding her, I stroke her hair. I'm not going to force conversation. I'm not going to pretend I know what's happening in her head. I'm not going to judge. I'm just going to hold her because sometimes touch is the only way to tell someone that you care unconditionally. It doesn't require complicated, deep explanation—it only requires effort. Effort is who I am, I can give her effort all night long. "I'm sorry, Franco." It's muffled, the words spoken into my skin. Kissing the back of her head, I whisper, "No need to apologize." I want to say more, but I shut it off there because she's the one who needs to talk this through if she wants to. And if she doesn't, we go to sleep. She sniffles and raises her head to look me in the eye. Her mascara-ringed eyes are shiny with more unshed tears. "Jesus, I'm a mess. I never cry, and I've now managed it three times with you. I'm sorry. You must think I'm a lunatic." "Nope, and no apologies for tears, remember?" She nods and exhales deeply. It's a cleansing, tension releasing breath. "I'm scared." Her voice rings clear and resolute despite the vulnerable message. "What are you scared of?" I prompt. Her big blue eyes fix on mine, and I know she's about to be real with me. Soul bearing real. "Do you think sometimes dreams are better left as dreams because they still hold possibility and wonder and there's no room for failure?" I don't hesitate, not even for a split second, because I believe it so fiercely. "No. I believe that dreams fuel life. And it's when you're chasing them that you're most alive. There's no reward in settling for the safety of status quo."

She swipes under her eyes. It smears mascara across her cheekbones instead of clearing it away. I don't tell her because I don't want her to get rid of it. Life can get messy when you're fighting like hell. I think it's a sign of the courage she's digging deep for. "What if I'm a horrid mum?" "Impossible. Your heart's too big," I answer because it's true, all the best moms I know have huge hearts. "What else are you scared of?" "I'll be a single parent, what if I die? My child will be left alone." "What if you don't and you live a long happy life with them?" I counter. "What if I can't afford to give them the life they deserve?" "Then you'll give them what you can, and that will be enough because they'll be loved like mad and that's what really matters." Another deep breath and I'm sensing that she just needs to give all of her fears, irrational or real, a voice. "Fear is a shitbag." I have to laugh because the tone of voice she used tells me she's gathering her courage and is about ready to kick fear square in the balls full force. "Agreed. It is." Pulling back the sheets resolutely, she climbs out of bed and heads for the door. "Where're you going?" I call after her. "We're starting over. I'm going to wipe this mess off my face and come back, and we're going to pretend that I didn't just break down like a blithering pussy." "Leave the mascara, it's kinda sexy," I yell because she's already in the bathroom judging by the light in the hallway. "I look like a fucking raccoon; that is not sexy. Unless the threat of rabies turns you on," she yells back. The water turns on and off, and I hear the towel ring mounted on the wall squeak as she dries her face and hands. Then the light flips off, and suddenly we're back to where we were when this all began. Her footsteps padding on the hardwood stop short of the doorway. "Franco, can you restart the music from the beginning? This sex soundtrack of yours is outstanding, and I couldn't fully appreciate it while I was whining." I smile to myself, open the playlist, hit play on song one, turn it up, and reply, "It's called My sperm are better than yours," as I climb out of bed and walk to meet her in the hall. "I knew I picked the right man for the job," she says with a grin when we come face to face. The fear is gone. I look her up and down. The faint glow of the candles from my room highlights her. "You really do look gorgeous in that nighty, Gem, but I'd love to touch and taste what's underneath." "In the hall?" "For starters, yeah." Grasping the hem, I raise it up and off, dropping it on the floor next to her. When I step into her, she stands her ground and accepts the contact. Hands on her hips, I take another step forward. She's forced to take a step back. We continue until her back is against the wall. I'm fully loaded, the length of me pressed against her belly. Lowering my mouth to her shoulder, I press my lips and let them linger. Followed by a sweep of my tongue so soft there's only a hint of contact. When her head drops to the side to allow full access, I know she approves, and I continue toward her ear, while my hands begin to explore. Fingers wrapped, palms flush, pads of my thumbs anxiously brushing back and forth looking to connect with anything that will make her gasp. Cupping the underside of her breasts, I restrain myself and give them a gentle squeeze before my thumbs get greedy again and sweep up and over repeatedly. She hums as her fingernails drag lightly down my back and her hips move against me. "I don't think I've told you how thankful I am that drumsticks are rough on your hands. Your callouses are

heavenly." I smile against her earlobe and say, "I tend to do things I'm passionate about to the point of exhaustion." Flexing my hips, I grind her into the wall and add, "I go hard when it feels good." "God, do you ever," she pants before taking my face in her hands and guiding my mouth to hers. With everything winding up so goddamn fast I expect her to come at me with everything she's got, so when she slows it down and meets my parted lips with a soft peck to the corner of my mouth before sucking lightly on my bottom lip, I'm surprised. The change in pace and intensity is so fucking sexy. Her hands are still resting on my cheeks, holding me in place, while she takes command. When her lips grace my top lip with a kiss, I meet her with a kiss of my own and it turns into the sweetest fucking game of tag. A playful nip from her. A tip of the tongue tease from me. An open mouth taunt from her. An open mouth answer from me. But when I feel her smile against my lips everything shifts, because holy shit this woman can ignite me. Taking her hands in mine, I thread my fingers through hers and pin them to the wall above her head. Her grip is strong. She's with me. She knows things are about to change. I think the best sex is a mixture of harmony and discord. A battle within the bliss. Because anything that feels this damn good should make you want to work your ass off for it. Chase it. Sweat for it. Force your muscles to burn for it. Make your lungs gasp for it. When we come, I want to feel like we've fucking earned it. The kiss deepens. Sweet just turned sinful. Kissing...it's tongues and teeth and moans and sighs. It's as sonically arousing as it is tactilely arousing. She's shifted her stance to favor one side so she can wrap her calf around mine. She's slick as she rubs against my thigh. I'm doing some major grinding of my own against her hip. Holy shit, this isn't enough. Releasing her hands, I place them on my shoulders. Never breaking the kiss, I reach down, grasp just below her ass, pick her up so she's above waist height, and guide myself in. "Yes," she moans. It's loud. I fucking love loud. Sometimes mind-blowing sex requires a vocal release. It drives everything to new heights. She shouldn't be able to move much pinned between me and the wall, but she is. The kiss has been broken by necessity to breathe. Chests are heaving with exertion. Lungs doing their part to partake in the full body experience. Her legs are wrapped tightly around me. Squeezing to angle her hips and deepen our connection. "Fuck, Gem. This feels good." "It does. Good call starting in the hall." It's then that I make the decision to move us because there's something I need to do. Shifting one arm to her back, I hold her to me and walk us into my bedroom, never breaking our connection.

My ear and neck are being paid particularly close attention to by her beautiful lips all the while. When we reach my bed, I lay her down on her back. Gliding in and out slowly at first but building in intensity quickly. It doesn't take long before I'm driving deep, sweat is beading, and we're both panting. I'm seconds away. "Don't close your eyes, honey." This is why I moved us to the bed. So I can look her in the eye when this happens. I explode inside her, and I swear it's my body's need to claim her physically that fuels it because it's like nothing I've ever experienced. Without a condom, as caveman-ish as it may sound, she's mine. This is our special moment. And she's right there with me. Calling out my name with such conviction that it's an unfiltered mixture of sincere and erotic gratitude. Eyes locked until we both still and our bodies relax into the satisfying exhaustion that hits instantaneously post-orgasmic high. Touching my lips with the tip of her finger, she brushes it back and forth while her mischievous grin breaks out ear to ear. The gesture says nothing and everything all at once. I can't help but smile back. "Goddamn, if you aren't pregnant after that it isn't for lack of trying." She giggles. "If conception is based solely on the experience, I'm likely having triplets." I pull out, kiss her on the forehead, and grab a pillow. "Lift up your hips." "Why?" she questions. I slide the pillow underneath. "Lay there for thirty minutes. I read it increases the chance of fertilization. It's probably bullshit, but my sperm are doing the one-hundred-meter freestyle like Michael Phelps right now, let's help them out if we can." I've been doing my research, reading everything I can the past few days. When I return from my clean up in the bathroom, she hasn't moved, but she's covered with the sheet. And she's fast asleep. Before I blow out the candles, I watch her sleeping for a minute so I can remember this night. Because some moments are too important to forget.

Monday, February 19 (Franco) Gemma and I are up early, despite the late night. She wants to see San Diego, so each day I'm going to pack in some sightseeing. "You want coffee, Gem? It's decaf," I yell from the kitchen, while my old-school Mr. Coffee percolates a liquid wakeup call on the counter next to me. I looked at the space age Keurig at Bed Bath and Beyond when Gus and I were there but couldn't bring myself to retire my old diehard and replace it with technology. There's something about the prolonged wait, the aroma, and the noisy brew that makes it tastes that much better. A good cup of coffee should be a production. Even if it's this weakass decaf. I know pregnant women should eliminate caffeine, so I'm trying to be thoughtful. She's in the bathroom putting on her makeup, but she wanders into the kitchen to join me, wearing only a bra and panties, to answer. They're mismatched, red lace on top, white cotton on bottom. Devil and angel, it's quite a combo. "Yes, please." I look her over, damn she looks edible. And it is breakfast time. "You're beautiful." Her cheeks blush slightly, but she tips her head and smiles. "Thank you." "Cream? Sugar?" "Little bit of both, please." I doctor her cup up just as she's asked and hand it to her. "Mmm," bliss hums from her throat as she swallows and her eyelashes flutter. Which is funny because she's only had time to apply one false lash and she's lopsided. "You want something to eat before we go? Bagel? Cereal? I can make eggs." I ate a bagel and cream cheese while she was in the shower. "I usually don't eat much in the morning. I'll grab a bagel on our way out to take with and snack on." The view is outstanding when she turns and walks back to the bathroom. Fifteen minutes later, she and her bagel are ready to go. My San Diego sightseeing list is long. First stop is the beach. Because that's how every day should begin. A light layer of fog is hanging low. I love the sun, but it's mornings like this that the beach feels intimate and protected from the rest of the world. The separateness and security it offers always makes me more contemplative. Introspection is strong under cloud cover. Gemma and I take our shoes off and walk hand in hand in the wet sand close to the water. We talk about little things, like seagulls and shells. And big things, like deep-held values and the greatest songs ever written. Every comment, every answer, every explanation, sheds more light on this incredible woman. She's opinionated, sarcastic, and politely outspoken. And I don't know if it's just the accent, but I get the feeling she's the type of person who could tell you to, Fuck off, and you'd take it as a compliment and respond with, Thank you very much. But she's also silly and fun and playful and owns it without a shred of embarrassment. Which is vital to surviving friendship with me. Second stop is the San Diego Zoo. Because...sloths. It turns out Gemma wasn't lying about being obsessed with sloths. We watch them for an hour, though they barely move. She makes up names for all of them, like Lefty and Slippery Nick and Mr. Lucas Lightning Leadfoot, and tells me facts about what they eat and their most common cause of death. She also invents a somewhat perverted, and highly entertaining, story about their active nightlife strictly for my entertainment. I buy her a stuffed animal sloth at the gift shop on our way out,

so she has a souvenir. She immediately names him Cecil. Third stop is home. Sex. On the couch. We didn't make it to the bedroom. It was even better than the hallway last night. Fourth stop is dinner at Delgado's. It's classy. Gem protests when we walk in the door because she feels underdressed. She's not. They don't have a dress code. I order halibut. She orders crab. The banter before, during, and after dinner is endless. Her wit is always sharp, but it's in rare form tonight. Twice we laughed so hard it brought tears to our eyes and the attention of everyone within twenty feet of us. I wasn't sorry, not even a little bit. That kind of laughter is a gift. Final stop is home. And hell yes. Sex. In bed. It. Was. O U T S T A N D I N G .

Tuesday, February 20 (Franco) I showered first this morning. While I'm brushing my teeth, Gem wanders in, undresses, and gets in the shower. I can see her through the glass door. It's the kind of company I could get used to every morning. "Why do you shave your head, Franco?" Gemma asks as I apply shaving cream to my skull. I glance at her and tease, "You don't like the bald look?" "With a face like yours and those insanely intense eyes you could wear your hair any way you like and it would look handsome. I'm just curious what made you decide to shave it in the first place?" I've shaved my head so long that I kind of forgot that I have the option to stop and let it grow out again. "I had a close friend who had cancer. She went through chemo and lost her hair." I shrug, I always avoid this story because people's reaction is usually to tell me what a good guy I am for the act. It wasn't about being a good guy, it was about supporting someone who was self-conscious about losing her hair. It was about her, not me. "She never complained but I knew losing her hair bothered her. I didn't want her to be alone in it." Gem's quiet. No, You're a great guy. No, That was nice of you. And when she asks, "How is she now?" I want to hug her because she gets it. It was about my friend, not me. "She fought like hell. Twice. We lost her a year ago. She would've loved you." Guaranteed she would've. "Cancer is a bloody fucking bastard. It always comes for the good ones first." She's lost so many, she knows. "Yup," I agree as I run the razor down the center of my head, and that's where we leave it. By the time she finishes in the shower, my head and face are smooth. Sad discussion aside, everything feels normal, hopeful. There are some people in life that you can vent to, or pour out sadness to, or voice frustration to, and they readily and willingly absorb it for the sole purpose of ridding you of it. They're the same people who can immediately replace that negativity with their light. Their presence gives you the power to purge the bad and embrace the good. It's rare. I've only known a few people in my life who are that way. Now I know one more. Coffee and bagels and we're out the door for another San Diego adventure. The beach is first. The weather is much the same as yesterday. The walk and conversation are too. I know this is only the second day she's been here. The second day we've done this. But I'm going to miss her when she goes home. Second stop is Balboa Park. There are many museums, but the reason I brought her here is to show her the Japanese Garden because it's one of my favorite places. Every time I walk through the gate to enter, it has the same effect on me. Calm. It's not that I'm a high-strung person, I'm fairly laidback—but this place, it's healing. All the negative drains out of me as I walk through and I always leave feeling like a better version of myself. I know she'll relate. Gemma is mesmerized by the koi pond. She's never seen koi apart from photos or on TV. The level of curiosity she shows to things she's interested in is fascinating. She analyzes and asks questions with deep thought behind them. Nothing superficial—the how, what, where, and whys are in depth. I love that, because it shows she's paying attention. Life's too short not to. Some people skim

life and some people read so closely they see the things others don't. That's where the beauty lies, in between the lines, in the details. The story within the story. She sees it. She gets it. Third stop is my parent's house for an early dinner. Pulling in their driveway, I offer a preemptive apology, "I'm sorry ahead of time for the embarrassing shit my mom no doubt is going to say and do. Just be thankful my dad is out of town at a convention and you're only getting one-on-one treatment instead of a tag team of the dynamic duo." She laughs. "You think I'm kidding? God bless you," I add sarcastically. My mom greets us on the front step. "Hola, mijo," she says while she hugs me. She hugs with the strength of ten grizzlies. She's not a big woman, I don't know where it comes from. "Hola, Mamá. Qué pasa?" She releases me before she can answer and goes straight for Gemma with laser focus. When I hear the air audibly forced out of Gem, in the form of a surprised and impressively loud wheeze, I remind my mom, "Easy on the lovin', Mamá. Don't break mi amiga, please." She releases her in a flourish, because she goes big with everything. Passion is her middle name, her life force. "It's so nice to meet you, Gemma. I'm Maria. Franco's told me so much about you." I haven't. I told my mom I had a friend visiting from out of town and I'd like to bring her over for homemade tamales because they're the best. That's it. I like to keep it vague with her because it's fun when she makes assumptions. Phishing for information is a game, a past time that she believes herself to be slyly, and exceedingly, skilled at. She thinks she's sneaky. In actuality, she's boldly obvious. And completely harmless. It's hilarious. Gemma subtly straightens her shirt and collects a deep, lung-inflating breath, before answering. "It's nice to meet you as well, Maria." My mom physically startles at Gem's accent and a huge smile breaks out across her face as she ushers us into the house. "Are you from England?" Gemma takes off her jacket, and I hang it on a hook by the front door. "Yeah, I'm from a small town in northern England." Mom looks at me and nods shrewdly. That means she approves, the nod is her stamp of approval. I'm convinced she thinks she's so sneaky that no one except the person she directs the nod at can see it. In actuality, it was so bold, because she can't temper her passion, that the neighbor down the street saw it. She cracks me up. My parents live in the same house they bought when they married. It's a small, humble, threebedroom ranch. It's dated—they don't believe in updating—but they're the heavyweight fucking champs of maintenance. They have a love affair with home repair, it's an obsession more than a necessity. My dad fixes stuff long before it breaks. Same goes for cleanliness. It's paramount. Sacred. The house has always been neat as a pin, nothing out of place. Even when all five kids lived at home. Looking back now, I realize how miraculous that was. Back then we just knew Mom would give us a verbal ass lashing if we didn't comply. Dinner consists of the tastiest tamales in SoCal and a peppering of questions from my mom: "What do you do? How long are you in the states? How did you meet Franco? How old are you? Tell me about your family? Where did you go to college? What are your hobbies? What do you think of my son's music? How often do you floss?" (My dad's a dentist, teeth are kinda our thing.) "Do you own a home?" (She's a realtor, houses are kinda her thing.) Gemma Hendricks is a goddamn saint. She answers every question in detail, like she's enjoying the grilling she's receiving.

The approving nods Mom's directing at me are even accompanied by the rare widened eyes under arched eyebrows combo. In summary, it means, Did you hear that, Franco? Holy mother of macaroni, she's perfect! Stop fucking around, take a goddamn knee, and propose already. I want this girl to be my daughter-in-law and have my grandbabies. Like yesterday. Of course, she wouldn't use those words but that's the gist of it. She's constantly and lovingly reminding me that I'm not getting any younger and that I should be married by now. Don't get me wrong, my mom thinks the world of me and brags endlessly about how proud she is of the man I am, and the band, but marriage is a touchy, old school subject for her. My two older sisters are married. My younger sister is engaged. And my older brother, Julian, is divorced but has two kids, so the grandkids appease her. At my mom's request, which is a demand in the form of a polite question with por favor tacked on the end, I do the dishes when we're done eating, so she can show Gemma the family photos in the hallway. The hallway is a shrine and the photos are a pictorial history of the Genovese clan. Baby photos through present. All of the embarrassing stages captured and preserved for prosperity. When Gemma returns to the kitchen the smile on her face is hiding blackmail. And my mom's smile says, Mamá knows best. I love this girl, son. Fucking marry her or I'm disowning you. She never would, but she's fantastic with passive threats. It's my signal to leave. I kiss Mom on the cheek. "Gracias, Mamá. The tamales were killer." "De nada." She returns a kiss to my cheek and says in her version of a whisper, "I like this one, mijo," which is a normal speaking voice to anyone else. I smile to acknowledge her, hoping it won't provoke her to expand further on her comment. She winks and pats my cheek like I'm still six years old. After she wraps Gemma in another rib cracking hug, and hands me a grocery sack full of foil wrapped tamales, I'm rushing us to my truck to make a getaway. Gemma's smirking at me from the passenger seat when we back out of the driveway. I shake my head. "I'm scared to ask what that look means." The smirk stretches into her giant grin. "Wee Franco in the tub with his brother was adorable." When we were little my parents always made the boys take a bath together and the girls take a bath together. There are photos on the wall to memorialize it. "Did Mom tell you the story about the dinosaur in my hand in the photo?" "She did. She said you called him Pedro and carried him everywhere you went." I know I'm probably blushing, which is stupid. "She tells everyone that story." "Because it's cute." "Not when you're twenty-six," I say under my breath. "What did you think about the awkward thirteen-year-old punk rock Franco with braces and Ramones t-shirt class photo?" "Hot. Awkward fifteen-year-old Gemma with braces and a Harry Potter t-shirt would've crushed on you hard." I laugh. "God, we would've been a pair even back in the day." "Totes. Your parents' wedding photo was lovely. Very traditional." "My parents were married in an old Spanish Mission here in San Diego. From the stories we've heard," I glance at her, "and believe me we've heard them all," eyes back on the road, "it was a day long spectacle. My mom's grandparents, parents, and nine siblings and their families came from Mexico for it. My dad's family was local so they were all there. The Catholic ceremony was long, half in English, half in Spanish, to accommodate both sides of the family. The reception went on late into the night. Mi abuela," I glance at her to clarify, "my grandma," she nods and I continue, "and aunts made tons of homemade food. My dad's best friend was in a band and they played. I'm sure the photo album and stories don't do it justice, it was an epic celebration."

The smile she's wearing is sentimental, I'm sure she's thinking about her own parents. "That's beautiful, a blending of cultures and families. They make a striking couple, the contrast made for some stunning children." "We're a melting pot, that's for sure." We are. Five kids and some of us don't look related. Some tall like my dad. Some short like my mom. Dark hair. Blond hair. Brown eyes. Blue eyes. Fair skin. Dark skin. We have it all. "I can see now where you get your good looks. Your dad's height, facial structure, and crystal blue eyes and your mom's dark wavy hair, perfect full lips, and intense stare." "I got my dad's fairer skin too, but I tan easily thanks to my mom's genes, I think. I'm always outside, so I've had a perpetual tan for about twenty-five years." "You look different with hair too." When I look at her she raises her eyebrows to show her approval. "You like me with hair?" "I like you either way. You have envy worthy hair is all I'm saying." She definitely likes me with hair. "Maybe I'll let it grow out. Shaving it every day gets old sometimes." It's decided, today's the last day I shave my head. "Think I should grow a beard too?" "Mmm..." She's looking at me closely, thinking it over. "Nah, clean shaven is better. Your chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline are ridiculous. It would be a crime against humanity to hide them." "Goddamn, you're good for my ego, Gem. Only Gus tells me I'm pretty," I tease. "Do you really doubt your looks?" she asks seriously. "I wouldn't say I doubt them. I just don't give them much thought, I guess." I shrug, because I don't. "I've always been pretty funny; I figured girls were always into my personality more than my looks. Which is fine, because at the end of the day, that's what matters." "The whole package is wildly attractive." She's not flirting, it's matter of fact. "Wildly? I like that." Now I'm flirting for the both of us. "And right back at ya. Everything you've got going on is wildly attractive too." I catch her smile out of the corner of my eye. It's the kind of smile that means my compliment found its target and made an impact. When we get home everything slows down. It's still early, but it's our last night together. "Is there anything else you want to see or do?" I ask before we get out of my truck in front of my house. She shakes her head and sentimentality settles into her smile. "No. I've had the best time, Franco. Thank you for showing me around your hometown and introducing me to your mum and Scout. I feel like I know you better than I know most people back home I've been around my whole life. I didn't think it was possible to adore you more than I already did. I was wrong." "I told you I'm good at this whole friendship thing." I wink. She leans across the seat and kisses me softly on the lips. "You are. You're the best." And then she's out the door. Inside, I kick off my Vans and Gemma heads for the bathroom. I'm not sure why I'm so tired, but I am. I head straight for the couch. I'm sitting slouched down, eyes closed, trying not to think but instead to just be present, when I hear her walk in the room. Her socked feet are quiet, barely giving away her movement. I fight the urge to open my eyes because I'm afraid it will kill the moment. Sometimes connection demands to be felt inside and out without the added stimulation of sight.

I feel her hands on my shoulders first, they're warm through the material of my t-shirt. Her thumbs caress my collarbone, but I feel it everywhere—her warmth spreading. The impression of her against the outside of my right thigh. Followed by the impression of her against the outside of my left. And finally my lap welcomes the weight of her. Hands skim down my chest, around my ribcage, and settle in under my back. Her head on my shoulder. Warm breath on my neck. My hands meet her hips, one dragging fabric as it works its way to the nape of her neck. The other comes to rest on the small of her back, fingertips tucked under the waistband of her panties. When I still and hold her, her entire being relaxes into me. No words. No movement, other than breathing. I've never been at one with another human being like this. Shit, I'm going to miss her so fucking much.

Wednesday, February 21 (Franco) When I wake, I instinctively know it's almost time for the alarm to go off. I've always been that way. My body knows. Checking my phone, it's six in the morning. Gem needs to be at the airport at seven to catch her flight home. She shifts in her sleep from her stomach to her side facing away from me. Her back is bare. I'm running last night through my mind as I watch her. We held each other on the couch until the room went dark. Then we moved to the bedroom. Took off our clothes. Got in bed. And kissed. That's it. We. Kissed. The kisses were slow. And innocent. And inventive. And inviting. And inquisitive. They were complete. Thorough. In a way that sex isn't. And they went on for hours. Until we fell asleep in each other's arms. I've never, in all my life, been kissed like that. When she shifts again, a whisper comes with it. "Franco, you awake?" "I'm awake," I answer and roll into her. Kissing the back of her head, I rest my hand on her side where her hip slopes into her waist and tuck my knees up against the back of hers. Reaching back, her hand smooths back and forth across my hip. "Morning." "Morning, honey." "What time is it?" she asks sleepily. "Six." My morning wood hasn't fully abated, and it's on the rise now that's it's pressed up against her. "Franco, I have to say, you are the most virile man I've ever known." "You mean horny?" I clarify. "No. I mean everything about you is two hundred percent male. Your height. Your build. Your tattoos. The way you touch me. The way you look at me. Being near you makes me feel sexy. I've never felt that with anyone else." I gather her hair and wind it up and off her neck so I can put my mouth there. "You certainly don't need me to make you sexy. You do that phenomenally all on your own," I say between kisses as my hand slides over her hip and between her thighs. "Jesus, Gem, you're already wet." "Your massive cock is grinding against my arse. I can't help it." Her hips are moving with my hand now. And I am, indeed, grinding against her ass. "Massive,

huh?" She moans as my tongue toys with her earlobe. "Massive," she agrees. "Say cock again," I whisper. I plunge two fingers in as she answers. "Cock." The word is a rush of air, breathless. "Why does that sound so fucking filthy when you say it? I love it." Stripping the sheet back so I can take in the full view, she rolls over to face me. Before I know it, her legs are wrapped around me and I'm nudging my way in. There's no kissing, because we're watching what's going on down below between us. I'm propped up on my elbows. Hips moving in unison. Rolling into each other until she gasps and I'm deep. Rolling away, the length of me visible, already missing her. Repeat. Again. And again. Give and take. In and out. The added visual is... "Fucking hell, Gem, I love being inside you." Deep moans that I know are the first notes of ecstasy, hum from her lips. "Louder, Gem," I coax. Volume gets me off. The moan mounts; it's building. "Louder, Gem." No more coaxing, I'm pleading. "It feels so fucking good, Franco." She's listening. My neighbors probably heard that. Words are lost in release. Complete fucking lack of restraint. Holy shit, is it sexy. And though I don't want to, I close my eyes, because everything that comes surging out of me draws them shut and forces a growl from my chest. This woman...

Friday, March 9 (Franco) Gemma and I message each other every day. Until yesterday. I messaged. No response. Maybe she's busy? I thought. Maybe she lost her phone? I thought. So, I messaged again when I woke up this morning. I surfed and checked my phone. No response. Band rehearsal and checked my phone. No response. Maybe she's been in an accident? I worried. Maybe she's unable to respond? I worried. So, I messaged, Are you okay? Because I'm not one to interfere, but I am a silent fixer. Meaning I lurk in the background, rather than hover in the forefront, and try to help. I visited my brother, Julian, at his tattoo studio and talked to him about a tattoo I want to get before the tour starts and checked my phone. No response. I went to Mom and Dad's for dinner and checked my phone. No response. Now I'm home. It's late. I've been pacing the living room down the hallway path, thankful I have hardwood because carpet would be worn down to the pad if I didn't. I'm tired. I have a headache. My body desperately wants to sleep them both off. But I have this nagging feeling that something is wrong. My phone ringing inside my pocket makes my heart pound. It's probably Gus, Jamie, or Robbie—they're the only ones who would call me at midnight. But when I see her name on my phone my heart sinks because she doesn't call, she messages. Only bad news would warrant a call following radio silence. I make a quick note to work on my pessimistic side because it's obviously winning. "Gem, is everything okay?" I sound panicked. I'm trying not to, but I do. "Hiya." Never has a cheerful greeting sounded so dire. "I'm sorry I haven't messaged you back. I wanted to call and apologize for being rude. I've never liked getting my period, but it was particularly annoying this month. My reaction to it was much more visceral than I anticipated it might be. I'd prepared myself and done all of the necessary pep talks: This may take time. You can't expect success on the first try. I'm a rational person, I believed what I was saying in theory. When theory became reality, all reason evaporated, and I found myself in the fetal position crying and I couldn't stop. For twenty-four hours. I've never been one to shut down in the face of failure. I was embarrassed to tell you we'd failed because I feel like I let you down. Like my body rejected your kindness—" I cut her off. "Gem, stop. Please don't. This is about you and your future family. It's not about me. Please don't worry about me. We're a team that's focused on you, that's it. Period." "I'm British, we pride ourselves in being stoic. I'm a blithering mess," she responds. There's so much going on in her head, I can hear the static raging. "That's okay. Feelings are like physics. Force generated creates an equal and opposite reaction. Intense passion put into something creates a result equally as passionate. Pregnancy would've resulted in extreme happiness. It makes sense that the opposite outcome would result in extreme disappointment. Don't be so hard on yourself. What you do going forward is what will define you, though. You can't give up. We'll try again." "I can't take time off from work this month to come visit. My team has deadlines that need to

be met. And I can't ask you to come here." "Why not? Ask me," I pause for a millisecond and amend because I don't want her to have to think. "Or better yet, don't ask me. Tell me." "Franco," she sighs. It's not exasperation. It's not desperation. It's the equivalent of dropping into my arms because she's exhausted and is relieved to have someone prop her up temporarily until she finds her footing again. Because she will find her footing and when she does she'll be back to driven, determined, I-make-shit-happen Gemma. Everyone deserves to falter in crisis, vulnerability is part of what makes us human. It's whether we let the crisis swallow us whole, that defines us. "Just tell me what day I need to be there and how long, Gem." I prompt because she can't hesitate if she's going to push through this. "Erm..." She's thinking, not delaying, so I wait. "I'm looking at my calendar." "Take your time." "What about your tour? You have rehearsals and—" Considerate Gemma is putting my needs ahead of hers. Again. I repeat, "Tell me what day I need to be there." "The twentieth." "Done. Message me the name of a hotel near you too, and I'll book a room. Unless your roommate doesn't mind hearing you shout my name repeatedly in the middle of the night or sex on the kitchen table?" She laughs. Yes! "I love my roommate dearly, but she's not tolerant of the telly turned up to ten. Having to listen to us turned up to ten in the bedroom next door to hers might be a bit much for her." "Hotel room it is."

Tuesday, March 20 (Franco) Flying doesn't bother me as far as the fear aspect of it goes. There's no anxiety involved. I don't run over emergency scenarios in my mind. I don't pray upon takeoff and landing. What I don't like is the discomfort. I'm big. Airplane seats are not. My legs are too long. My shoulders are too broad. I need to be shoehorned into the space. Bodies aren't meant to be shoehorned; they rebel like a motherfucker when they're under duress. I'm sitting in 21E, giving thanks like a pardoned death row convict that I was able to sweet talk my way into an aisle seat because at least I can spill into the walkway instead of into my neighbor. It's not ideal because I'm still wedged in tight like a size ten foot wearing a size eight shoe, my knees will be bruised from hours of grating on the folded up tray table and my left elbow will be purple from passersby and beverage cart assaults, but it's so much better than enduring the stink eye from someone who feels encroached upon when I'm in a middle or window seat. Holding a tense, unnatural posture for hours is strenuous. There will be no sleep on this flight. Many bathroom visits to stretch my legs, but no sleep. I would've gladly forked over the money for first class but it was sold out, this being a last-minute trip and all. Around the eight-hour mark of the fifteen-hour flight, the teenage boy next to me falls asleep. And about ten minutes into slumber his head takes a dive from upright to my shoulder. He sleepily, and obliviously, snuggles in. I let him, even though I can't move my arm because someone should get some rest if they can. And if my mass provides a pillow at least I've made myself useful. Four hours later, my bladder is regretting the bottle of water I drank, and my right side is overheated because the little dude runs hot when he's sedate. I'm trying to decide the gentlest way to exit to the bathroom, I don't want to wake him but I don't want to piss my pants either, when he hears my silent pleas and transitions to the shoulder of the passenger on his right. It equals rolling over in bed from one side to the other. My bladder thanks him. I slip out quickly into the aisle before he decides his mom's bony shoulder isn't as comfy as mine. The remaining hours are a deliberate attempt to entertain my mind and numb my sense of time: action movie, music, oatmeal that tastes like brown sugar sprinkled paste, and conversation with shoulder cuddling neighbor and his mom. They're from Albuquerque. Marian is an insurance agent who won the trip to England as part of a regional life insurance policy sales challenge this quarter. She narrowly beat out the undisputed reigning champ in Santa Fe by two policies. In my mind, while she tells the colorful tale, I picture them duking it out UFC style. I'm sure the actual events were scaled back slightly but when she uses words like bloodbath and brutal, that's where my tired, diversion craving mind goes. Her son, Calvin, the cuddler, is fourteen and obsessed with Game of Thrones and football. By football, I mean soccer. When he leaves to use the bathroom, she tells me about her recent divorce and that Calvin isn't taking it well and she hopes this vacation will bring them closer. Listening to her share her private details, I'm reminded that we all have issues and we all do our best to overcome them. Hold close the peeps you love while you're going through your shit, that's all any of us can do. I'm enjoying their company and sad that it only comprised the last hour of the trip because they will be the large part of the highlight reel of this flight. The words, "On behalf of your British Airways flight crew, I would like to welcome you to Manchester," sound more like, "Unbuckle your seatbelt, you lucky sonofabitch, you're free," and I have the overwhelming urge to seek out the crew member speaking and hug her, a lift-her-off-theground-and-spin-her-around-in-a-full-on-fit-of-fucking-joy hug. I high five the pilot when I exit the plane instead, hunched over and double leg limping down

the concourse as I try to ease the stiffness out of my muscles and regain the natural posture and movement that's been impossible for the past fifteen hours. He high fived me back. He was a big dude too, I think it was sympathetic solidarity. Customs is custom—a slow, tedious, but necessary process. By the time my passport is stamped and I'm released into the wild, I'm practically stumbling through the building with one eye half open. Sleep is urgently needed, if not medically necessary. I'm thankful Gem is working this afternoon so I can taxi to the hotel and get a few hours' sleep before I see her tonight. It's rainy and gloomy outside, but my lungs are doing fucking cartwheels inside my chest because they forgot what fresh air felt like. The taxi driver is polite but not chatty, and since my brain is functioning at minimal to nil capacity, I'm grateful not to have to keep up with an exchange for the thirty-minute drive, because even small talk would be a struggle in my current state. The Premier Inn is a modest, cozy looking hotel tucked away in a modest, cozy looking small town. There's a restaurant across the street called The Beefeater. Looks like I've got everything I need for two days right here. Natalie, at the front desk, is friendly. She's a flurry of accent and fast talking. I've grown used to Gem's accent, but this woman has thrown me for a loop. I'm shocked into temporary high alert. "Pardon me?" seems to be my phrase of choice. She doesn't mind, which tells me that locals probably can't understand her either. When I'm handed the key card, I feel like Marian on the plane winning her brutal battle with her Santa Fe nemesis and want to run down the hall hands over my head in victory like Rocky Balboa when he scales the steps of the Philly Museum of Art. But I don't have the energy. So, I shuffle instead. Open the door, drop my bag three steps in, and flop down on the bed. Sleep is immediate and deep. Zero to REM in five seconds flat. You know when your mom tried to wake you when you were little, but you were tired and didn't want to open your eyes, and you just laid there like a slug and hoped she'd go away? But the second time she rustled you and said, "Mijo, time to get up," and you remembered it was Christmas morning and good shit was about to go down, you leaped from the bed? That's what just happened. I'm kneeling upright on the bed like a goddamn meerkat on code red alert, searching for the signal that startled me awake. Bang. Bang. Two knocks on the door, and I'm scuffing along the bed to the edge where I drop to feet that I'm not sure are awake enough to carry me to the door. When my hand meets the doorknob, I realize it's probably not Christmas and Natalie's is the face I expect to be met with when I open the door. I'll admit, I'm not ready for the hardcore English to English translation my brain is about to fail miserably at. But then I open the door, and it is Christmas. It's Gem. And her big, I'm-so-happy-to-see-youthat-it-makes-me-smile-extra-big-smile smile. "Gem?" It should sound surprised, that's what I intended. It sounds like gravel instead. "I woke you, didn't I?" she asks worriedly. "No," I lie. "I was just in the bathroom." "I messaged, but you didn't answer so I thought I'd stop by on my way home in case your phone didn't have service. They gave me your room number at the front desk."

"You could understand Natalie?" I ask. She laughs. "The front desk woman?" I nod. "She's a scouser," she says, as if that explains everything. "A what?" "She's from Liverpool. Their accent's different from ours. It's like that in the North, town to town accents are different." "You're not kidding." I'm standing on the inside of the door. Gem's standing in the hallway. I'm awake enough now to process how rude that is. I take her hand and pull her into a hug. "Hi," I whisper in her ear after I kiss it. "I don't think I've said that yet. Jetlag is fuckery of the highest order; I'm under its spell. It's not pretty, I'm sorry. Also, I haven't brushed my teeth since takeoff, which feels like a decade ago, so I'd advise breathing through your mouth when I release you. I promise I'll address the situation pronto." Her chest rumbles with laughter against me. "I'll hold my breath until you brush. And stare at your amazing hair," she adds because this is the first time she's seen me with hair and it's growing out fast. Squeezing her tight, I whisper, "You're a true friend. Thanks, on both counts," before letting her go and running for my bag in the middle of the floor and straight for the bathroom. After I brush, I change into a clean shirt, and we walk across the street to the restaurant. It looks like a typical family joint you'd see in the states. Gemma knows the server. They went to high school together. Introductions are made, I'm polite but suddenly ravenous and it's distracting. The last real meal I had was almost a day ago. Airplane food doesn't count. It's tasteless filler in small portions, probably lacking calories and any nutritional value. After we order drinks and food, I dip my toe in the deep end. "How are you doing? Don't sugarcoat it. I really want to know." Her eyes dip to the fork in her hand, she's running the splines between her fingers absently. "I'm scared." She rubs her lips together once. It's her nervous tick. "Franco, I've never been the type of person to be ruled by fear. Usually, I don't have use for it because it does no good. Lately, I'm blind scared." I reach across the table, remove the fork from her hand, and replace it with my fingers. "Gem, look at me." She does, and she's not on the verge of tears, thank God. It's not that kind of fear. This is fear that's based on logical and rational thought. The type of fear that confronts head on, you don't hide from it. "Don't give up yet, honey. Don't give up until you've given it all you've got. And if you're not pregnant by the end of the year, then you reassess. I don't want to say life goes on, because that sounds callous as hell, but you'll figure it out. You're a tenacious, intelligent woman who has so much to offer and a world of possibilities, some you haven't even considered yet, are at your feet just waiting for you to pick them up and run with them." Her teeth pinch her bottom lip, and she smiles. "I don't know what I would do without you. And sorry to be the Mayor of dooms town, but what do I do if this attempt fails? You go on tour in a few weeks. We won't be able to do this again for months. Do I pursue the clinical route? I know I'm overreacting, but the clock is ticking so loud right now that it's hard to think over it. I'm wondering if it will drive me mad in the end." She's so sincere it's heartbreaking. She's not feeling sorry for herself, she's trying to do the right thing. And no one knows what that is, not even her because she doesn't have a crystal ball. "Let's stay positive and hope that my sperm are aggressive little fuckers tonight." She nods. I feel like I'm losing her. Or that there's more going on than she's sharing.

"Gem, there's something else bothering you. I know there is, what is it?" "My mum's birthday is later this week. I think it's hitting me so hard this year because I don't want to let her down." Her eyes are filling up, and her voice is getting thick. "I want her to look down on my child and me and be proud and watch us live out a long life together. I want her to see me do all the things with my son or daughter that she never got to do with me." "Honey, your mom is watching over you, I have no doubt about that. And I guarantee she's pointing at you from her spot in heaven and bragging to all her friends, 'You see that badass? That's my daughter, and I couldn't be more proud of her if I tried.' Don't do this for her and her legacy, though I understand that you're compelled to. Do it for you." "I've always been a people pleaser. I don't like to let anyone down," she admits. "That sounds stressful. And tiring as fuck. And also a little like some kind of a damn superhero. You don't have to be a superhero, Gem. Be the best person you can be. Be generous in spirit and action. Be kind. Aside from that, let it go. You can't please everyone." And then a thought hits me, it hits me so hard it almost takes my breath away. "You told me when our first attempt at getting you pregnant failed that you didn't want to let me down. You're not doing this with me because you were afraid to say no, are you? I offered because something inside told me I needed to. That didn't mean you had to accept the offer. You could've said no. You can still say no, Gem. It won't change the way I feel about you. You've quickly become one of my favorite people. That endures if we're sleeping together or not." The smile she directs at me tells me she's thankful for my words and she's going to be honest with what she's about to say. "I was completely shocked when you made the offer. So much so that if I weren't already sitting down, my legs would've surely given out. But I said yes selfishly. I really like you. You're such a good man, Franco. My child will favor me or favor the father, that was the thought that went through my mind when I made my decision. I asked myself if my child favored you in any way, would that be okay? My answer without hesitation was absolutely. Absolutely," she says again emphatically. "That made me say yes." I nod. "Okay." I don't think I've ever received a better compliment in my life. When the food arrives, we talk about her work and how the new project is coming along in depth. Some of the terms she uses I don't understand, but I ask questions. The walk back to the hotel is slow. I'm holding her hand. I'm sleepy. She's sleepy. But we're both at peace for the moment. I want to take all her stress away, even if it reappears tomorrow. Tonight, it has no place inside room 111.

Thursday, March 22 (Franco) I'm walking through the automatic doors of the airport, looking back to wave at Gemma standing on the curb next to her Fiat in her black dress pants, red heels, and leopard print silk blouse looking very professional and put together. But the tears running down her cheeks fuck up the whole image. The past two nights together were amazing. We connect on every level. I've never had that with a woman. I didn't know I could feel that complete. Usually, I walk away from any experience and take away only the good from it. Whether it's something I learned or something that changed me, or even if it's just knowing that I've done it and never want to do it again, I try to put a positive spin on it. Right now? Walking away from her? The stone floor beneath me may as well be quicksand. Unease is swallowing me. It's creeping up my limbs, into my organs, into my mind, and it's making me panicky. I've never had a panic attack but I'm losing my shit. Toilet sign? Toilet sign? TOILET SIGN?! Where are the fucking restrooms? When I spot one I take off in a jog. My lungs aren't working. Why aren't my lungs working? I'm panting. I can't catch my breath. I slam the door of the bathroom stall open, slam the door shut, fold my arms over my face, and lean into the wall for support. Blocking out the bright florescent light helps. Breathing doesn't. My lungs still feel like they're in a vise, squeezed shut, no chance for air to enter. Words are whispering from my subconscious. Your friendship won't survive this. It can't. You'll never see her again. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. "Shut up." "Shut up." "SHUT UP!" Yeah, I said that out loud. Loudly out loud. I've never had a panic attack. Didn't think my body and mind were capable of it. Apparently, I was wrong. Because this shit is vicious. As the nightmare begins to dissipate, I'm standing here sweaty, feeling like two giant hands held my upper and lower halves independently and wrung me out like a dishcloth moments ago. I'm drained. Illogically and inexplicably drained. I glance at the time on my phone and know I need to hustle to check in and make my flight. I splash some water on my face on the way out and try to gather my wits.

And when I take my seat on the plane, wedged in between two dudes my size, I see it as an omen. And for the next fifteen hours, I'm fucked.

Tuesday, March 27 (Franco) Have you gone through a relationship breakup and wanted, with everything in you, for things to go back to the way they were before? That's how I feel. We weren't officially together. We didn't break up. I talk to her every day. But something is different. It's not just me. I know it's not. Something happened between us the moment I left.

Thursday, April 5 (Franco) Gem messaged this morning. My monthly bill arrived this morning. My heart sank. Not like a raft, but like an aircraft carrier it descended, fighting gravity with sheer strength and determination but was swallowed up nonetheless. I responded with, I'm so sorry, Gem. I wanted to type more. I wanted to type her a novel to console her. But my fingers couldn't map out the keys to make that happen. Instead, I stared at our words on my phone screen, her disappointment and mine stacked on top of each other, for thirty minutes. I let them sink in bone deep. And then I got up and carried it around the rest of the day. Disappointment is fucking heavy, like wearing lead shoes and a suit made of iron. We leave for the American leg of our tour tomorrow morning. Distraction commences in twenty-four hours. Distraction that only helps me. Not her. Bleak reality exists today. Bleak reality that will still be there for her tomorrow. Fuck. That hurts. All I want to do is help. Just help. Why is that so fucking hard for the universe to understand? The harder I try, the worse she feels in the end.

Friday, April 6 (Franco) The label car picked me up early this morning. I was waiting on the curb for him twenty minutes before he arrived, itching, like a runaway, for escape. I've been in pep talk mode all morning. Get your shit together. This tour is important and only happens once. You can't let the guys down. You can't let the fans down. Hardening myself against heartbreak, because that's what this is. My heart is fucking breaking for Gem. And by the time we pull up to Gus's house, I'm a soldier marching on, with the reminder that there's still a lot of good in my life and I need to be strong for Gemma. I need to be there for her even if I'm feeling like my heart's been put through the meat grinder. I hate feeling helpless. I paste on my best I-can-do-this smile and climb out of the car to greet Gus. Seeing him brings some relief. And so it goes. The tour begins.

Saturday, May 25 (Franco) I've been messaging Gem the past several weeks. Funny memes. Stupid stories. It's no different than the things I would've shared pre-Manchester airport meltdown, but it's in excess. I'm forcing it, not that I don't mean it, but I'm forcing it. I've never been like this; my friendships are always easy, always laid-back. That's where the sincerity shines. But I can't stop myself, it's a compulsion to soothe her. A compulsion to make her happy. A compulsion to make everything better. Every time I hit send, my gut twists and I think, This is the one she'll see through. This is the one that will make her question if I've lost my fucking mind. This is the one that will be too much and push her away. But I still hit send anyway. And then I hold my breath and hope for the best.

Wednesday, June 13 (Franco) This tour is grueling. Living on a bus is grueling. But I still love playing every night. Playing drums will always be my escape. For ninety minutes, every twenty-four hours, I get out of my head, or so deep inside that nothing else can find me there. Either way, it's perfect.

Saturday, June 23 (Franco) We played Grant tonight, a tribute to our friend, Kate. Gus's dad even flew in from Boston to play violin with us on stage. The night was nothing short of magical. This experience was a slap to the face. A wake-up call. If I want this whole thing to stop being weird with Gem, I need to stop making it weird. I march on the bus, after a shower, and pluck my phone from the charger ready to dial her number and make this all better. But I don't. Because there's a message from her. A message that I can't fault her for at all. A message that I'm actually hoping works out. A message that's probably best for both of us. I have an appointment with the doctor to go through with the donor insemination next Monday. Those words were typed with tears in my eyes. I'm sorry, Franco. Thank you for everything you've done for me. This isn't anything against you, this is about time running out. Please don't hate me. But it still hurts. I can feel her pain in every fucking word. And buried deep within the hurt I feel for her, is my own selfish and unwarranted hurt. I know she's not sleeping with anyone else. But she just slipped away, right through my fingers. I could chase her. I could beg her to rethink. I could beg her to try again with me when we get to Europe soon. She would probably do it. But here's the thing, I'd have no way of knowing if she was doing it out of guilt for me, or out of want for her. Jesus, this is fucked up. I. Want. Her. To. Want. Me. Like. I. Want. Her. When did this happen? The shift? When did this turn into us in my mind, instead of her? First I type back, I could never hate you. True. So fucking true. Then I type the words that will haunt me forever, I know it, because as soon as I hit send on them, I already regret not fighting for us: Good luck. She doesn't message back.

Tuesday, June 26 (Franco) For days, she doesn't message back. Neither do I.

Wednesday, June 27 (Franco) Gus's head is hanging upside down from the bunk above mine. His lips are moving, but I can't hear him over the music blaring in my ears, and coddling my broken heart. I pop an earbud out and re-enter the outside world. "What?" "I said, what's up, dick biscuit?" Dammit, it's his caring is sharing voice. I've been trying to keep this split-that-isn't-really-a-split-because-we-were-never-really-together under wraps. I stare at him and watch his face transform into a tomato from the blood rushing to it. "Nothing. Why?" His face disappears but only for a moment before his feet drop to the floor next to me. His elbow is resting leisurely on his mattress, and he's looking down at me with those intense fucking eyes that see through bullshit. "Dude, you've been listening to James Bay on repeat for the past four days." He says it like it explains everything. It does explain everything, so I avoid eye contact when I answer, "I have not." "Yes, you have. I can hear it. Listen, you don't have to talk about it, but I swear to God if I hear 'Need the Sun To Break' one more time I'm gonna call Gemma myself." I sigh. "Our situation is too complicated to overcome." It's my explanation. An explanation he doesn't accept. He's not blinking. "How's that working for you?" I pop out the other earbud and toss them on my bunk. "Shitty." He's still not blinking, and it's starting to freak me out. "James Bay can't fix shitty. But you can." I huff out a laugh that's not at all funny. "There's a lot of shit going on in her life. And she lives on the other side of the fucking ocean. It's not that simple." He finally blinks. And then blinks a few more times. He's studying me. "Nothing worth fighting for ever is, dude. You love her, I know you do." I nod. "I do. She was the one." "Is," he says. "Is what?" I ask. "She is the one," he clarifies. "Don't try to logic this one out, dude. You're overthinking. Stop it, it's annoying." Fuck, I hate it when he's right. "I overthink and overcomplicate, it's how I adult. It's a must. Otherwise, chaos would take over, and I'd wake up one day in Peru raising alpacas and selling their wool for beer money or some shit." He's blinking again, mystified by the nonsense spilling out of me. "I've been plenty fucked up in my day and not once did I consider the Peru, alpaca, beer scenario. Though it honestly doesn't sound bad." I ignore the teasing. "She lives in England. I live in San Diego." I say it like it explains everything. "Exactly. It's not like she lives on the red planet, dude. It's the twenty-first century—there's this sorcery called cell phones and airplanes, they make contact possible when distance is an issue." He raises his eyebrows and taunts, "They're fucking magical." I huff because I don't want to crack a smile. I want James Bay to continue serenading me like a heartbroken motherfucker so I can wallow. Then I ask, "If you were me, and Scout was Gemma, what would you do?" "Scout's in San Diego." He looks around the bus like he's in search of something important and looks me in the eye again. "I'm in..."

When he trails off, I fill in the blank, "Massachusetts." "Massachusetts," he repeats and nods his thanks for the assistance. "Distance is an evil bastard, I'm not gonna pretend it's not. But I'll tell you this, hearing her voice on the phone every morning makes my entire day. I can't imagine my life without her in it." He smiles just like he does every time he thinks about Scout, it's content and sure. "I see two paths for you. One ends with you and Gemma happily ever after. You'll figure out how to make that happen because you're charming and crafty and shit. And the other ends with you old and alone living with a dozen stray cats who rule you. Don't get me wrong Spare Ribs is cool as hell, and she does rule me," he adds reluctantly, "but I don't think that's the life for you. Call her." We reach our destination two hours later. After some quick math in my head to calculate the time difference, I determine it's eight in the evening. And after trying to talk myself out of the call several times, I step off the bus, walk twenty paces down the alley behind the venue we play tonight as if I need complete isolation to make the call, and I dial Gemma's number. The connection is delayed but when the ringing commences I almost kill the call. I'm sweating, even though it's drizzling and the wind is cutting and cold. My heart is beating out a rebellion in my chest. One ring. Panicky hope springs. Two rings. Three rings. Panicky hope stutters. Four rings. Five rings. Panicky hope sours. And I end the call, not sure if I'm more afraid of her answering or ignoring. Why are feelings so fucking fragile? I power down my phone, drop it in my pocket, and continue walking a loop around the building before I climb back on the bus and listen to "Need the Sun To Break" for the fiftieth time today.

Friday, June 29 (Franco) The flight from Philadelphia to London is only seven and a half hours. Seven and a half hours in first class is cake. Sleeping is how I spend ninety percent of the flight. I should've taken advantage of all the amenities first class has to offer, but the tour is starting to take a toll on me physically. I never sleep well on the road, but it's been weeks since I had a good night's rest. There's a dude in a suit holding a sign outside customs with our tour manager's name on it. He loads us up in a bus and drives us from Heathrow to the O2 arena in southeast London. It's gloomy, rainy, and chilly outside, despite it being summer. It reminds me of the day I arrived in Manchester to visit Gemma a few months ago. Soundcheck is routine. Doing it every night for the past few months, we can do this shit with our eyes closed. The show is fantastic. European crowds are different than American crowds. I would never say one is better than the other, but the contrast freshens things up. I think it gave us all a boost we didn't think we needed, but that made a difference in the energy we brought out. The crowd was fierce. We were fiercer. That's the perfect storm. We sign some autographs after the show for VIPs, and Gus, Jamie, and Robbie decide they're too amped to go back to the bus just yet and are going to a pub around the corner. I'm in. Until Gus pulls me aside and tells me he forgot his cell charging on the bus and could I go grab it for him while he takes a piss so we can go. I open the back door of the venue to rain. A goddamn downpour. Running through it, I'm cursing Gus, and getting wet. At the door, I stop. My heart stops. Everything stops. Because Gemma is standing, soaked to the bone, next to the bus. I knock on the door and the driver quickly opens it. When we step on, he steps off. Convenient. I also notice Gus's cell isn't plugged into the community charger. I've just been set up. "Hi, Gem." It's only a whisper, it's all that shock will allow. "Hiya, Franco," she whispers back. "Gus set this up?" I ask. "And Scout." Her head moves in the affirmative. I nod. Standing this close to her feels fantastic and horrible all at once. Fantastic because I love her and it would be so easy to say it right now. And horrible because I know I won't and I know this is goodbye. It has to be. She needs to move on to something real. "Franco?" I know she's staring at me. But I'm staring at the floor, until I close my eyes and refuse to open them. The unease is hanging over us like a dark, stormy cloud. The shift from the last time we were together noticeable. "Yeah?" I'm a perceptive guy. And my guts are clenching, preparing for the delivery of crushing words we can no longer ignore. "I'm not good at this, but I think we need to..." She pauses, but leaves the thought unfinished when she speaks again. "My heart already hurts." The words hurt her as much as they hurt me, I can hear it. Opening my eyes, I look at her and immediately want to look away. Her eyelids and lips are pinched tightly attempting to dam her emotions. They're failing. Big tears are leaking from the corner

of her eyes and the pained expression tells me her soul is leaking out with them. I don't want to say the words, but they come anyway. "We end tonight, don't we, Gem?" I want to snatch the words from the air and swallow them back down inside where hearts and minds can't acknowledge them. But I can't. Reality is a motherfucker. A sob erupts from her, confirmation that all good things must come to an end. And it kills me, for so many reasons it fucking kills me. Pulling her to me, she burrows her face into my chest and clings like she never wants to let go. And she cries. She cries like she's mourning the past months: the laughter, the companionship, the friendship, the intimacy. Not because she regrets it, but because she's grateful for it. And doesn't want to give it up. Even when it was awkward or the past week that we haven't talked. I know, because I feel the same way. Somewhere in the midst of her tears, mine join in. Silently, an impossible future with her is slipping away like smoke. This is goodbye. A fucking miserable goodbye. Tipping her chin up, I'm met with blurry, gorgeous, heartbroken eyes. Her hand strokes my cheek once, and I can't help but press it to her warm palm. How is it that in the moment touch can feel permanent even when it's fleeting? Long after she's gone, I'll feel her like a ghost. Tears streaming, she's shaking her head. Defiantly rejecting everything in existence, except us, like our temporary is eternal. I stop her with a kiss. Because touch is the only way we're going to be able to convey what we're feeling. We're past words; words will only make this worse. Emotion has heightened all of my senses. Her lips are soft, so soft, and shudder against mine. The mixture of our tears is salty on my tongue. The sharp inhalations of breath feeding her tears and sadness are all I hear. She smells so damn good, forever and always Gemma. I open my eyes, and despite her crying, or maybe because of it, she's the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. Vulnerability opens up the heart, and hers is as big as it is radiant. She fucking glows from the inside out. I'm so lucky. We're so lucky. Until the moment she walks out the door, we're going to revel in it. I lead her to the back of the bus. We take our clothes off. And climb in bed. Rolling her to her back, I climb on top. And the final dialogue begins. Both of our bodies have a lot to say. Touch starts as a whisper. Lips nudging. Tongues brushing. Fingertips ghosting. Whispers notch up when tongues begin to clash, and hips begin to grind. And before we know it, our bodies are shouting over the top of each other, and it's way too much and not nearly enough. I need fucking relief. I'm settled in between her legs; a breast in each hand being paid special attention; my mouth on her mouth, neck, anything within reach. The tip of me is nestled against her, the slightest bit of entry is heaven. But when she wraps her legs around me and pulls me in, I swear I see stars. The moan that escapes us both is guttural. Pleasure has never sounded so damn good. Pleasure has never felt so damn good. Skin on skin. Fuck, I never want this to end. Let it kill me.

Let her kill me. And soon, too soon, she's crying out. No words, because our bodies are still doing all the talking, just sounds. The sexiest fucking sounds that a woman's ever made are spilling from her kiss swollen lips while she shatters underneath me. And that's all it takes. I erupt inside her. She's mine. For this moment in time, she's mine. Images start racing, uninvited, across my mind. Watching her walk down the aisle toward me in a long, white lace gown. Growing old with her. And just as quickly, the picture perfect life evaporates into nothingness when I hear her sniffle back tears. Moment over. She's not mine anymore. I kiss her gently on the forehead, holding back my tears, roll off of her, and watch her climb out of bed and walk to the bathroom. I'm numb as I listen to the water run. Numb as I dress. Numb as I watch her dress. Numb as we take each other in with our eyes for the last time. One blank stare taking in the other, unblinking. Loving, cataclysmic shock. Numb as I walk her to her car. Numb as I squeeze her to my chest and knot the back of her jacket in my hands. Numb as we kiss. And kiss. And kiss. When she backs away and unlocks her car door, she raises her hand in an attempt to wave. I raise my hand too. Our waves are shit because it hurts. Our goodbye is shit because it hurts. We haven't talked except when we first saw each other, and I think that's how it's going to end. How we're going to end. "We end today, don't we?" was the last thing I said to her. It was a question that wasn't really a question. Until she answers it while she climbs in her car, "I don't want to. I really don't want to. But yes, naughty American boy, we end today. I don't want to be your burden," with tears streaming down her cheeks and drives away. And suddenly I'm not numb any longer. But I wish I was. Because everything hurts like hell. I'm screaming, "You're not!" but her car has already pulled out of the lot.

Saturday, June 30 (Franco) All the "should haves" are beating me up today. Like the fucking Incredible Hulk, they're pummeling the shit out of me. I should've stopped her. I didn't. I should've told her how I feel. I didn't. I should've asked her if she's pregnant, if the procedure worked. I didn't. I should've done a lot of things. I didn't.

Monday, August 20 (Franco) Gus and I are sitting at a table outside a café in Paris. We play tonight, but it's too nice to be inside, so we took a walk past Notre Dame and are drinking coffee now and filling up on pastries. All the pastries. Relaxing, the calm before the storm. Gus has his Ray-Bans on, I can't see his eyes, but I know they're boring into me and he's leading up to a heart to heart. "Dude, what happened with Gemma? You know I don't do nosy, but this shit needs an intervention." I shrug. "I don't know, honestly. It got messy. It wasn't supposed to get messy, you know?" I ask. It's a question with no reference because he has no idea what Gemma and I agreed to or what we were doing. He's trying to follow along without prying. "Life is fucking messy. You know that, dude." I take a big bite of the almond-filled, flaky goodness in my hand and talk while I chew. "I know. This is different. We hung out in L.A., it was supposed to end there. But when we both got home we decided the whole friendship thing was a necessity." I'm staring at myself in the reflection of his dark lens and I look so damn confused. "She's rad, Gus. Everything about her did it for me, I should've known at that point to reel in my shit, but I couldn't. So, I took it a step further, and friendship took an unexpected diversion because I couldn't get enough of her. The path I led us down was way more intense than either of us expected. Too many variables. Too many emotions. Too many opportunities for failure. Her plate is fucking heaped. I thought I could help, but I think I suffocated her. And in the process of my well-intentioned smothering, I fell in love with her. That wasn't supposed to happen either." "Did you tell her you love her?" he asks. It's not that Gus doesn't have the softest heart of anyone I know, but a year ago, we wouldn't have been having this conversation. Being in love has changed him. Made him more open. I shake my head. "No, that would make everything worse. She doesn't need that right now. That would turn operation shit storm into a full blown clusterfuck." "Life is only as complicated as you make it. I know that's shit advice coming from me, because for a long time I made it my mission to fuck everything up, but don't pass up this chance with her, dude. Don't." He's adamant. "You don't understand." He takes his sunglasses off and sets them down on the table between us. He's wearing his I'mcalling-your-fucking-bluff eyes. "For real, dude? Scout and I have so much baggage between the two of us, it's not even funny. But, you know what? It doesn't matter. When tough shit comes, we deal. And when good stuff comes, we appreciate. I made the mistake once not telling the girl I loved how I felt about her. You better believe I'm never going to make that mistake again." "What if I told her I loved her and she never talked to me again?" "Then you wouldn't regret never saying it and wondering what would've been. But that won't happen." "How do you know?" "Scout." I wait for him to continue, because that answer makes no sense. "Scout and Gemma talk. Almost daily from the sounds of it." My head snaps up. He has my attention. "Scout and I talked last night for a long time about you two. We don't know the details of what's going on because you're both vague as hell. Vague is fucking annoying by the way, because I'm

your boy and all, but I respect your privacy. Rest assured though, Gemma feels like you. She's bearing all the guilt. Just like you're bearing all the guilt. I'm not saying there's not heavy shit going on, but everything would be so much better if you both ditched the guilt, were honest with each other, and got on with the whole kickass romance thing. She's into you, dude. Being your best man is on my to-do list. I'm going to look fucking stellar in a tux." "You think she loves me?" "Unless she's in the habit of lying to her new bestie, affirmative." And then doubt creeps in. "She'd never move to the states. She has a great job and her dad and —" He cuts me off. "Again, use your words," he says slowly, eyes wide to drive the point home. "Talk to her. Ask her. Don't assume. Assumptions are the fucking antichrist and only contribute to disaster in my experience. They're shit stirrers, not problem solvers." "True enough." Food for thought.

Thursday, August 23 (Franco) The tour ended last night. Followed by a celebratory late dinner and drinks to cap off the past five months. I couldn't be more proud to be a part of this band if I tried. They kept the restaurant open an extra hour for us. And kept the pints flowing. We're all dragging ass to get to the airport this morning. Even thick, gray cloud cover is too bright for any of us. We're all wearing our sunglasses and I notice that none of us makes an effort to remove them when we walk into the terminal. It's one gigantic hangover shared by four, apparently. I stand in line behind Gus, yawning so wide I fear my jaw may unhinge. Jamie and Robbie are in front of him, both fiddling with their phones. Too much concentration is required to tap buttons on my phone, my head thumps just thinking about it. The only thought that keeps returning is Gemma. Flying home feels like running away from her. Abandoning her. Decision made. I pat Gus on the arm and then gesture with my thumb over my shoulder. "I need to go to Manchester and tell someone I love her before I go home." Three sets of ears are listening now. "Have a good flight, ladies." Gus is grinning. "When are you coming home?" "When I have nothing to regret." "Good answer, shithead." "Thanks, dick muffin." I knuckle pound with all of them, and then remove myself from the line and go in search of the KLM customer service counter to change my flight. Exchanging the ticket is surprisingly easy. Waiting six hours for the flight unsurprisingly isn't. Though, by the time I board, my hangover has subsided and I feel human again. It's edging on six o'clock when the taxi drops me off at Gemma's address. She rents a room in a small two-bedroom row house from a friend. It's right in the center of town. Brick road out front and flowers in the flower box under the front window. It's quaint and picture perfect like it's been plucked out of a movie. I contemplate asking the taxi driver to wait for me in case she isn't home, but then I decide, Fuck it, pay him, and set off for the front door determined to sit on the stoop all night if need be. Ringing the doorbell dials up everything, my nerves are blistering beneath my skin. The doorknob rustling nearly puts me over the top. But when the door opens, it's a fifty-year-old brunette. I met her roommate, Adelaine, once this spring when I visited. She wasn't the friendliest woman. She's the first person I've met in twenty-six years who earned the title curmudgeon. I doubt she'll remember me. Until she cuts me off before I can make an introduction and surprises me. "Gemma's not home from work yet." Guess she remembered me. "Do you mind if I sit here on your front step and wait for her?" I ask politely. This woman scares me a little. Gem told me Adelaine's all bark and all bite with most people, except her. And since I'm not Gem, I'm leery. She nods unapologetically. "Yeah, I mind." She tips her head to the side to indicate I move on. "There's a park at the end of the road. Haul your arse there and park it on a bench." Subtlety and tact isn't Adelaine's specialty. "Will do," I answer and head back down the stairs with my bag. It feels heavier on my shoulder now that I've been spurned by the curmudgeon.

An hour passes. Then two. The sun is setting when I see headlights at the far end of Cross Road headed this way. When they stop in front of Gem's house, I stand and start walking. When a figure emerges from the right side of the car, I break out into a jog. And when I'm close enough to see her strawberry blond hair illuminated by her porch light, I'm running like Usain Bolt. Because I sound like a fucking Clydesdale running up the sidewalk, she turns at the commotion before she opens the door. It's dark enough now that I don't think she can see it's me running at her but she stands her ground. And when I turn and start up her steps the light hits me. And our eyes meet. I'm pretty sure everything around us just stops...or ceases to exist. I've come all this way on a mission. Determined. This is the part where I should have something to say. Something heartfelt. Or even something funny to open with. Just something. But seeing her has shocked my system and robbed me of words. I want to stand here for the rest of my life and look at her. I stop one step down from her so we're almost eye to eye. "Gem," is the only thing my brilliant mind can come up with. "Franco." She's in shock too. "I was just passing through," I say, an attempt at casual until my brain catches up. "Is that so?" She doesn't believe me, I can hear it in her voice. "No, that's a lie. The tour's over and I cancelled my flight home and bought a new ticket to come here instead...because I needed to see you." Her eyes drop from mine as if my gaze is too heavy to hold. She shakes her head and the look that settles into her features is undeniable truth. "We can't keep doing this, Franco. My heart honestly can't take it. It's in bits." So is mine. "Gem—" She cuts me off. "Please just let me say this before I start crying." It's too late, the tears have already hit her cheeks. "I've scheduled the hysterectomy. Maybe I had wildly unrealistic expectations, but the monthly disappointment was a foe I gravely underestimated. It's a beast that tore me to shreds and left me weaker in spirit each time. I have a new respect for women who battle infertility—they're warriors Franco, with fortitude forged out of steel. Wanting a child so badly and not being able to conceive feels like punishment. Like the universe is denying my worthiness to mother a child. It's fucking hell. Couple that with the fear that my lady parts are a grenade set to go off soon and it's too much. I can't take disappointment when it comes with fear as a conspirator." Growing up, my mom always told us kids we could be anything we wanted to be. Do anything we wanted to do. Looking at her shattered in front of me, I know now, that's not true. I tried. She tried. We tried. I couldn't do what I wanted to do. We couldn't do what she wanted to do. "Gem—" Steady trails of tears are carving black paths of mascara down her cheeks. "I need to finish while I can still speak," she says as she stutters in a breath. "I couldn't go through with the donor procedure a few months back. I know you've probably wondered about that." "Why not?" I ask. "Because it wasn't you," she whispers. "Thank you for everything you tried to do for me, Franco. I've never met someone so selfless. You're the best man I've ever known. I know I said I'd regret it if I didn't try getting pregnant, but now my biggest regret is having the best friend I've ever had and losing him."

"You didn't lose him. I'm here. I'm not going anywhere." And that's where the conversation ends. My hand instinctively nestles in under her hair and wraps the back of her neck gently. Her eyes flutter at the contact as I pull her into me. This is where we belong. Us. Two humans fit together. Giving. Taking. Being. For several minutes, we breathe each other in. Her chin is resting on my shoulder, mine on hers. Chests rising and falling in unison. I don't ever want to let her go. I can't. I won't. Everything building inside me is so fucking intense it's a vibration and I don't know how to release it. This is my moment to lay it all out. "I love you, Gem." I pull back and take her face in my hands. "I fucking love you." She looks stunned. Not deer in the headlights stunned, but stunned like she's just been blindsided with something she thought impossible. "Please say something, Gem. The longer my declaration goes unrequited, the more I feel like I may need to throw up in your flower box." "You love me?" she whispers. "So damn much," I whisper back. She's trying to hold back a sob but the corners of her mouth are fighting to tip upward. Emotions plainly warring it out within her. She gives up on attempting a smile and drags in a ragged breath to calm herself first. Her cheeks are still cupped in my hands and I can feel her facial muscles relaxing. "I love you, too, naughty American boy. But—" Relief floods through me. "No but's. I know we have a lot of shit to figure out, I know that. We'll take it one day at a time. I'm a patient man, honey." "God, that you are. How can we possibly make this work?" I only have one answer to that. "How can we not?" She's smiling when our lips finally touch. Her smile pressed against mine? I don't think I've ever felt anything so perfect in all my entire life. The impression of her happiness on my lips is everything. Eventually, after what feels like hours of needed and wanted and soul affirming kisses, we head inside. We walk past Adelaine sitting on the couch, who tips her head at us in a nod of approval. She's still wearing her sour expression so it's diluted slightly. "I think she hates me," I whisper in Gemma's ear on the way up the stairs to her bedroom. "She hates you less than most. Consider yourself flattered." Only tonight would that sentiment be comforting. "Did you meet this one on Craigslist too?" I ask. She tries not to laugh. "No, she's my co-workers auntie. She went through a bitter divorce and needed a roommate. She doesn't much like men." I grimace. "I noticed." Inside her room, she changes into her Bieber jammies. I strip down to my boxer briefs, but dig a pair of basketball shorts out of my bag and put them on over the top of them. And we turn out the light and get in her bed. It's unspoken that we're starting over from the beginning, sex is out of the question. I'll wait forever if that's what it takes. I'm hers. To confide in. To vent to. To celebrate with. To grow with. To show her strengths. To bear her vulnerabilities. To laugh with. To cry with. To love. And to be loved by. I'm hers. She snuggles into me and she feels different than past times I've held her like this. She's my other half. Like for the first time in my life, I know what being unquestionably whole feels like. And I realize that the notion that my heart beats for me alone is a lie.

It beats for us.

Friday, August 24 (Franco) I know Gem wants to explore every deep subject, put it all on the table. I remind her that we have time—Rome wasn't built in a day. Our future doesn't need to be either. Our future is a certainty. That's all I need. All we need. First agenda item is to get her through this surgery. The hysterectomy is potentially lifesaving, which is the thing we're focused on. But it also heralds in the end of a dream. A deeply personal dream that she's basically been grieving on a monthly basis for half a year already. Her grief crushes me because no one wants to see the person they love most hurting. But I feel it too. The past few months, I've often dreamed of a little girl with big blue eyes and dark curls. She was the most implausibly angelic image my subconscious has ever conjured. And from every dream I woke with a feeling of contentment that's not readily described. It was affirmation or confirmation. Something foreign, but at the same time something that I hoped with everything in me was attainable because it filled me up in a way I didn't know existed. Long story short, Gem and I grieve the child that we will never have together. Hand in hand. Tear for tear.

Thursday, August 30 (Franco) I've been here for a week now. Gem and I have talked it over, and I'm leaving Monday to go home for a few days and make sure my house is still standing, and my family hasn't filed a missing person's report on me. Gem's roommate, Adelaine, has been surprisingly civil. Shocker. I would expect all-out hostility by now, a week in should be enough to wear out my welcome. But this morning after Gem left for work, I was in the kitchen eating cereal trying to be quiet and make myself as small as possible, which is hard for a dude that's well over six foot and two hundred pounds. Guys my size don't exactly blend into the background and go unnoticed. Adelaine walked up to the small enamel topped table and placed both hands firmly on the back of the second chair opposite me. She held me in a stare before she spoke to make sure she had my attention. I'm beginning to think she's some sort of British Secret Intelligence because she has all of the intimidation tactics mastered. I set my spoon down in my bowl of Lucky Charms and returned the attention. And then she smiled. Smiled. It was off-kilter—I blame that on it being woefully underused and out of practice. But it transformed her from someone you'd cross the street to avoid, to someone you'd say hello to if you crossed paths. "You're good for Gemma. She's like a daughter to me. Don't bugger it up or I'll cut your bollocks off while you sleep and feed them to the neighborhood cats." Pardon me while I cross the street again and wave from a distance with one hand, nuts protectively grasped in the other hand. "Umm, thanks?" Was that a compliment? "You're welcome," she says, askew smile still in place. Apparently, Adelaine's compliments are of the grisly variety. Thankfully, she turns on her heel and heads for the front door to catch her bus. "Have a nice day, Franco." "You too." It comes out quietly. I have trouble generating volume when my balls have been threatened by James Bond's female counterpart. The days are long while Gemma's at work, but I find things to keep me busy: walking the town; talking on the phone to my mom, Julian, Gus, Jamie, or Robbie; reading from her bookcase; Skyping with MFDM on a project he's producing but wants my feedback on; beating my drumsticks on anything readily available for hours. If keep my hands and mind busy, it's all good. Gemma's hysterectomy is scheduled for two weeks from today. It's a date that's etched in my brain. My world now orbits around it, and everything exists in relation to it. Hers does too. I want to relieve that stress if only for a few hours. So, at dinner I suggest, "Let me take you somewhere this weekend." She smiles. "You're getting tired of my house, aren't you?" "Adelaine did threaten to cut my family jewels off this morning and make cat food out of them, but I think she meant it in a good way, if that's possible," I add when Gemma grimaces. "No, it's just that I'm leaving for a few days and I want," I shrug, "I don't know, I just want to take you somewhere relaxing this weekend. Where do you want to go?" She's thinking it over between bites of her curry. "How about Chester?" "Chester?" I repeat. She nods. "It's an old and charming town, but without the pretense. And the drive's not far." "Done." When she smiles her agreement, it's the first time I've seen a glimpse of the old carefree

Gemma I first met in L.A. It's like for a moment, the strain's evaporated. It's the best outcome I could hope for.

Saturday, September 1 (Franco) Chester is old and charming as promised. It looks like something out of a children's storybook. The hotel I booked online is impressive. Our room has a balcony that overlooks the river. It's like a postcard. After we check in and drop our bags in the room, we venture out. The sun is shining brightly today, and there isn't a cloud in the sky. That's rare for England and I quickly learn that the English don't take it for granted. Everyone we encounter comments on it. "Gorgeous day, isn't it?" and "Weather's crackin' today." and "Sun's beaut." I like it that a sunny day is cause for such obvious appreciation here. There's something insanely humanizing about appreciating the little things, so much untainted happiness to be found there. The world would be a better place if more people went apeshit over things like sunshine. The entire day was taken at a lazy pace, something we both needed. Slowing down gives you time to recharge, time for reflection, time to evaluate. We walked the town and stopped in several shops, including a hat shop. I finally got to see a fascinator in its natural habitat. Gem bought one and looks straight up regal in it, like some kind of royalty. I bought a wool hat like Cillian Murphy wears in the TV show "Peaky Blinders," not because I look good in it, but because I'm obsessed with the show and feel like a badass wearing it. Score. After we shopped, we walked to an old church with a falconry. The falconry was a first for me. They keep and care for about two dozen hawks, falcons, and owls. I was like a little kid when I got to wear a thick, protective leather glove and hold a hawk on my forearm. I felt like a beast master. And Gemma was fucking giddy when they let her do the same with a snowy white owl. I took photos of her posing with it. She squealed that she felt like Harry Potter. The joy on her face and in her big toothy smile was so innocent, so pure. That's one of my favorite things about Gemma, she doesn't hide from her emotions. Good or bad, she lives in them, confronts them, accepts them, and feels them bone deep. It's one of the reasons her charisma is like the polestar. It's subtle, but undeniable in its force. She's a genuinely relatable and likable woman, what you see is what you get, and people dig it. I'm batshit for it. After the falconry, we pass a tattoo parlor, and I make the spur of the moment decision to get my nose pierced because I've been contemplating it for years. Gem, despite looking so pale I fear she may pass out at the sight of the needle, got her tragus pierced. After we both put an extra hole in our heads, the sun is low in the sky, and we decide it's time for dinner. "What are you hungry for?" I ask as we walk hand in hand down the sidewalk. "Let's find a pub. After surviving the needle trauma, I could do with a pint or two and a burger and chips." I can't stop smiling at her. "Perfect. I'm getting french fries, though, weirdo." She elbows me in the side for the jab and then pulls me in through the door under a sign that reads The Pied Bull. I smell fried food and ale, consider me home. We're well into our first pint when Gem decides to go serious with the conversation. "I've been thinking about you a lot this week, Franco." "Hard not to, I've invaded your life and home like a bull in a china shop," I tease. She smiles that smile that's driven by happiness. "I quite like that part. Waking up next to you every morning is my favorite part of the day." I raise my glass. "Cheers to waking up to your beautiful face."

She taps her glass to mine. "Cheers to waking up to you and all six foot plus inches of your glory." I wink. We haven't had sex since I've been here. I think we both know there needs to be a natural progression to starting over. But I can't deny that her flirting has me twitching down below. "You need to be in San Diego. Your work is there. Your family is there. Your friends are there. Your life is there." I'm shaking my head to let her know she can stop the list. "Parts of my life are there. The most important part is sitting across the table from me." "I don't want you to have to choose between me and everything else." "I'll make it work. As Gus reminded me, we live in a world of technological sorcery and air flight that makes distance suck less." She's not going to push me away. "I think I have a solution that would be easier." "I'm all ears." "I've been talking to my contacts from the L.A. project this week, doing a bit of networking. They put me in contact with a few architectural firms in the San Diego area." I can't hold back the smile that's spreading across my face. "I researched them all, and two felt like they would be a good fit, they've amazing reputations and are doing really innovative projects that would challenge me. The first flat-out turned down my interest, they're small and have no openings. But the other was quite keen on the idea of bringing me on. I'd have to start over at the bottom again—" I stop her, not to argue against it, but to play devil's advocate because I don't want her doing something for me that goes against her dreams. "You've worked so hard to get where you are. You'll be a partner soon, this move would set you back years." "Franco, I've learned something this year. I love my career, and it's something I want to do for the rest of my life, but I can do it anywhere. My mind and creativity comes with me wherever I go." She looks pointedly at me. "My heart, on the other hand, goes wherever you go. I don't fancy being separated from it or you. They've offered me a position starting in three months. I'd start on a yearlong work permit while they sort out my green card." She's staring at me like she's just asked me a question. I suppose, in essence she has, but all I want to do is stand up on the table and start yelling about how much I love this woman. Instead, I ask, "What did you tell them?" and hold my breath. "I told them I needed the weekend to think it over. What do you think?" she asks, suddenly nervous. "Is this really what you want?" I have to ask because the selfish side of me wants to shout, Hell yes! Let's go home and start packing. And that would be inconsiderate because she's ready to sacrifice everything in her life for me. That's huge. She nods and she's wearing her determined face. "Absolutely, naughty American boy." One more attempt at an alternative before I start celebrating. "You know I'd move here for you? If you wanted to stay, I'd make it work." "No." The way she says it leaves no doubt in my mind that she's thought this through. I unleash my smile full force, throw my hands up over my head, and try to moderate my voice to acceptable levels. It's hard given the ale and my excitement. "Fuck yeah, Gem's going to be a Californian." She's beaming at me. "I'm so relieved, Franco. I feel like you just lifted the weight of the world off my shoulders. And I feel rather pushy, but like I said, I love waking up next to you every morning. And your bed is quite comfy—" I stop her, because she's trying to ask if she can move in with me. "Mi casa es tu casa, Gem. I like my house better when you're in it."

She smiles. "Thank you." Eating is smattered with questions about her dad, family, and friends. I want to make sure she's okay being away from them. I know she lived in the states for a year already and knows what she's in for, but I need to ask. We also discuss her belongings and her car. She'll sell her car and bring very little with her, mainly just clothes and a few personal items like family photos. The burger and fries are probably the best I've ever eaten. I don't know if it's my current mood and all the ale in my system influencing the opinion, but my belly is currently blissed out. Gemma finishes her second pint as I start my fourth. The ale's strong, her eyelids are beginning to droop adorably. My senses, are likewise, getting fuzzy. We settle into easy conversation, all talk of the move set aside for now, we're just two friends talking. And laughing, because that's our specialty. Damn, I've missed this so much. Watching Gemma swipe mascara streaked happy tears from under her eyes, paired with her big smile and giggles, is oddly one of the most satisfying things I've ever seen or heard. Every time this happens between us I feel like it draws us closer. Laughter is bonding and healing like nothing else. The walk back to the hotel is long. I give her a piggy back ride for several blocks until she whispers in my ear, "Franco, can you stop please and put me down? There's something I need to do." I squat and release her legs so she can slide down and I turn around when her feet hit the ground. She wastes no time in taking my face between her hands and pulling my mouth down to hers. Despite the grip she has on my cheeks, the kiss that lands on my lips is soft. So soft. Followed by another. And another. It takes a few seconds for me to remember that, though I really like the things her mouth is doing to me, there's more of her to be touched. More of her that needs to be touched. My arms wrap around her, and my hands find her back. One slides up under her hair until it meets the skin at the nape of her neck. The other goes south. Way south. The kisses deepen. In pressure at first, but it's not long before we're invading each other's mouths. Desperate to connect. She pulls back and smiles at me and everything inside me lights up. It's one of those moments in life that you realize exactly, without a doubt, what happiness feels like. Slowly our smiles fade as they're traded out for desire. Which still makes me incredibly happy, but it's hard to grin when flat out need is permeating every cell of my body. Fuck, this woman can push my buttons. One hand still at her neck, the other is, quite aggressively, clutching her ass. A fact I'm fully aware of on a physical level, and choosing to ignore on an I'm-in-public-and-peopleare-watching level. Her words stop me mid-grope. "I'll race you back to the hotel room. Whoever's naked first wins." I'm running, her hand in mine, praying that I'm going the right direction. The lobby is empty when we enter, and we cross it doing a weird speed walking thing because we're both trying to act adult and avoid the all-out horny sprint to the elevator. But after I push the call button, I realize we're wasting precious seconds that my mouth could be on hers and I rectify the lapse in judgment. She whispers, "I've missed this," in between soft kisses. The ding of the doors opening signals the end of round one, and we dart inside for round two. When the elevator dumps us out on three, we manage to navigate our way down the hall. It's a team effort, like a three-legged race, except we're two bodies joined as one from our mouths down to our toes. We don't break, and it's slow going what with all the crashing into walls and shuffling.

Periodically, I open an eye to check room numbers and when the correct one pops into view, I back Gem up against the door to open it. Together we stumble in but the abrupt entrance, and the jostling that results, separates us. She's pulling in air, encouraging her lungs to keep up with the demand being put on them. And me? I'm stripping my t-shirt over my head and toeing my Vans off. When I unbutton my jeans, the lack of movement in front of me pulls my focus to her. She's still fully clothed. Her eyes are on me, loving and lusty. "I thought this was a race. Pick up the pace, slacker. I'm winning." She kicks off her leopard print flats—they sail across the room in flight. It's reckless and sexy. She watches as I unzip my jeans and drop them and my underwear at the same time and step out of them both. The smile on her face is wicked, her eyes glued to my manhood prepared and ready to rock the hell out of us. "Bloody hell, I win either way." Her eyes rise slowly to meet mine as she shimmies out of her jeans and panties. I help her with the buttons on her shirt. Then I help her with the clasp on her bra. And then I help myself...to her. The race is over. We come together in slow motion. Two lovers getting reacquainted with the curiosity and attention of strangers meeting for the first time. And the second time. And the third time. I tell her I love her. And then I tell her again. And again. Until I lose count. She tells me she loves me. Over and over. Until I lose count. Love in all its incantations, promises made with flesh and bone and word and intent. That was our night. That is our future. I fucking love this woman.

Wednesday, September 12 (Franco) The past two weeks have been dizzying. The trip home to San Diego was fruitful—my house is still standing. And I had a long update with Gus. He fucking loved it and only told me, "I told you so," three or ten times. I also talked to my mom and dad and told them about Gem moving in with me. Mom was over the moon. She nearly picked me up off the ground when she hugged me. I've been back in England for over a week now, and I feel Gem winding up a little tighter every day. Her nerves are spiking up as the hours dwindle, and the operation grows closer. She's been incredibly strong and talks about it when she needs to so she doesn't keep it penned up inside and explode. Last night she cried. It broke my heart because there was nothing I could do except hold her. Surgery is scheduled for tomorrow morning. We visited her doctor's office this morning, all the necessary blood work, tests, and exams were done to prepare for it. The countdown is underway. I feel sick. And helpless. She turned off her phone when we walked out the door of the clinic. She's shutting everything and everyone out so she can deal with this. We had dinner with her dad. He's a pilot, so he's not home much, but he arranged a few days off to be here for her surgery. He's a quiet man, private and stoic. A man of few words and little emotion, but he loves his daughter more than anything, you can see it in the way he looks at her. It's the same way my parents look at my siblings and me. It's real and reliable and never-ending. I'm thankful she's always had him in her life. I made her take a hot bath with me when we got back to her house to help her relax. She sat between my legs, her back resting against my chest. We didn't say a word. And she fell asleep, mental exhaustion finally getting the better of her. When the water cooled, I gently woke her, dried her off, and helped her into bed. And as she drifted off to sleep next to me, I prayed. I haven't prayed in years, but I prayed with everything in me tonight. To know that devastation is coming for the person I love most in the world and knowing there's nothing I can do to stop it, is humbling. I want to stand in front of Gem and shield her from all the bad in the world. But I can't. Not with this. So I prayed.

Thursday, September 13 (Franco) This morning has been eerily quiet. We dressed, grabbed the bag she packed yesterday, and drove to the hospital. The smell of a hospital always makes me nauseous, and given that my stomach was already queasy, I'm in quite a state by the time they take Gem back for prep. I kiss her and tell her I'll see her in a few minutes, because they've promised I can see her before they sedate her. There are magazines on the table next to me. My phone is in my pocket. But neither offers the kind of distraction I need, so I stand and take a walk down the hall. Not far enough that I'll miss them when they come out for me, but far enough to stretch my legs. And then I return, and the pacing begins because it's how I deal with nerves. Down to the end of the hall and back. Repeat. Repeat. When I'm at the end of the hall, I see the door that Gem walked through open. My feet instinctively start walking faster. And when I see strawberry blond hair, I pick up the pace. She's clothed, holding her bag, and she looks stunned. When I'm a few steps away, she smiles at me, and it stops me dead in my tracks. The smile is off, fear or shock is mixed in amongst excitement or happiness. I can't put my finger on it, but it's quickly making me uneasy. "Gem?" I prompt. One exaggerated breath in and out and her smile grows. It's forced, like she's trying not to cry. And then she shakes her hands and arms at her sides—warding off nerves or bracing herself, I'm not sure which. "What's going on?" I whisper. Sifting through all the contradictions in this scene is not something my brain is capable of at the moment. I need answers to make sense of it. Her smile is trembling now, but the joy in it is significantly outweighing the shock and apprehension, and it's building at an alarming rate. The two steps to get to her, despite my urgency, are in slow motion. Her eyes never leave mine, and in the time it takes to enter her personal space, she's placated me without saying a word. I'm reassured. Comforted. Guaranteed. At peace. Loved. Needed. Wanted. And I know, without a doubt, that she's mine. And I'm hers. Whatever she's about to tell me, it will only make us stronger. "We're pregnant." It's the sweetest and softest declaration of a dream come true I've ever heard. I've been surprised in my life. I've been happy. I've been grateful. I've been in awe. I've been in love. But not like this. Not overwhelmingly all at once like this. "You're pregnant?" I question. She nods, tears spilling down her cheeks into her wide smile, and she repeats louder this time, "We're pregnant." Shock's loosened its stranglehold on me, and I pick her up off the ground in a hug and yell, "Holy shit, we're having a baby!" Gemma is laughing in my arms, and she doesn't even shush me. The nurse walking by does, though.

Gem calls her dad and tells him briefly what's going on, so he doesn't make a trip to the hospital. He asks a few questions, but she reassures him that everything is fine. After that we head home. The ride home is quiet; we're both lost in our thoughts. Forever I've been a planner, tried to do everything in the right order, at the right time. I prided myself on being responsible and methodical. But from the very moment I met Gemma, the script got thrown out the window. I've taken chances on her, with her, that I wouldn't have considered in a million years with anyone else. I guess when you find the right person, there are no rules. You make them up as you go along. When we get home it's empty, Adelaine's at work. I follow Gem up the stairs so she can change into different clothes that aren't sad I'm-going-to-the-hospital-to-have-an-operation-I-don't-want clothes. When she's in her bra and panties, I stop her and kneel in front of her, hands on her hips, and kiss her just below her belly button. "I can't believe my bun is warming in your oven." Her fingers thread through my now grown out hair and I tip my chin up to catch the smile I know will meet me. "That's a lovely analogy. A little Franco or a little Gemma bun." Gem is officially the most content human I've ever seen. "It's a little Gemma bun," I declare. "You think it's a girl." It's a gut feeling, maybe because I've dreamed about her so many times. I lean back on my heels and look her over, nodding all the while. "It's a girl," I confirm. This is real. A baby. A baby girl I'm already in love with. I fucking love Gemma. And then the thoughts flood in... I need to buy a kid's drum kit. Decorating with Douchebags has some serious work in store to make the spare room into a nursery. I wonder if Gem will eat pickles with ice cream. Rebel is a good name for a little girl. Fuck minivans, they're lame. Gus will be a righteous godfather. "Marry me." It's the only thought, in my patchy stream of consciousness that I verbalize, because it's the only one I can make a reality at this moment. And I'm so amped up I need action. I need to do something to propel our family forward. The time for delay is gone where she's concerned. She's staring at me. Stunned. "Was that a question?" she asks, because my delivery was definitely telling more than asking. I nod, and then smile sheepishly. "Sorry, my manners are shit when I get excited. I know this is sudden, but honestly, I could've asked you to marry me that first night at the Y-Not. You're kind of a big deal, Gem. And I want in on it. For life. Marry me?" She bends over and pulls my t-shirt over my head. Apparently, we're going to discuss this with words and action. "We don't have to go the traditional route. I mean I'm already moving to America to be with you, and we have a baby on the way. I don't want you to feel obligated to marriage. We'll still be a family without a ring on my finger." I follow suit by standing and stripping off my jeans while the debate continues. "What if I'm down with tradition? What if tradition and the idea of being married to you rocks my fucking world?" She's smiling at my choice of words, but I know she felt the love behind them. "The tattooed, naughty American boy wants to be married?"

"Only to you," I answer seriously. For the second time today there are happy tears in her eyes. "Only to you," she repeats whisper soft. "Let's get married." I trace my fingertips up her arms from her wrists to her shoulders. Goosebumps break out in a riot. I love that. "I love you, Gem," I whisper because the room is suddenly too quiet, so peaceful and I don't want to disturb it. I want to live in it with her. She places a soft kiss on my chest and speaks into my skin. "I love you, too." The words are warm as they settle in. Reaching around behind her, I unclasp her bra and slip it down her arms. My lips want to feast on her neck. Brushing away her hair, I hold it up on top of her head. My tongue treads lightly, and she sighs. "We're going to consummate the fuck out of our engagement." Lips parted, my kiss tugs at her flesh where her neck swoops into her shoulder. Followed by a nip and peck to soothe it. I'm making my way around to stand behind her. My mouth is mapping out a path of pleasure. "I thought you were supposed to consummate a marriage." Her words are faint, breathless. My hands are on her hips, thumbs tucked inside her panties, as my mouth continues making a meal of her. "I vote from now on we consummate everything." "Perfect," she moans. The tip of my tongue glides slowly down her spine, and when I reach the small of her back, her panties start their descent. "The big things." A kiss to the skin revealed as the fabric dips below the cheek. "And the small things," I say, teeth to skin mid-thigh, biting softly. "We consummate all the things." Releasing her panties, they drop from her knees to pool at her feet. She wastes no time in stepping out of them. In a matter of seconds, she's stripped me of my underwear, and we're tangled on the bed. Two bodies creating friction, trading promises, dispensing love. We were made to do this, Gemma and me. We did, indeed, consummate the fuck out of our engagement. For hours. Then I held my girls while they slept.

Sunday, May 26 Four years later (Franco) "Daddy, is Mamá Maria making tamales for my party?" Rebel asks me while I'm brushing my teeth. I nod at her in the mirror. She smiles wide, it's Gemma's toothy grin on the face of a four-year-old. Our little girl also has her mom's big sapphire blue eyes, kind heart, and ability to befriend anyone. She holds something up in her hand above her head so I can see it. "I'm bringing this for Gus. Revenge will be mine." She follows up the vengeful announcement with a fit of giggles. Did I mention she has my sense of humor? I hold my hand up as I spit out toothpaste in the sink and she high fives me. "Right on, Rebel. I'll distract him, and you can put operation whoopee cushion into motion." She squeezes it enthusiastically, and it farts loudly. We both laugh. She's definitely mine. "Hop up here, birthday girl. Let me do your hair while your mom's finishing up your nasty mushy peas," I say the last part extra loud for Gem's benefit. "I heard that," Gem yells from the kitchen. Her cooking is the best, but I've never been able to stomach a bowl of peas. Rebel and Gem can't get enough of them, so I give them a hard time. "Mommy's mushy peas with loads of salt and vinegar are the best thing ever!" Rebel declares as I help her crawl up onto the bathroom counter. She sits with her legs folded under her and her back to me. Her long, dark brown curls are wild from a night of sleep. As I tame them with a brush, I ask, "I thought your guitar was the best thing ever?" She nods at me in the mirror, her expression serious. And then she reconsiders her stance. "Mushy peas are the best food." She hesitates. "And Mamá Maria's tamales. And Nana Audrey's cupcakes." Rebel adopted Gus's mom as a second grandma. "And Auntie Scout's double chocolate chip cookies." Gus and Scout are her godparents, but she calls them Auntie Scout and Uncle Gus sometimes. "My guitar is the best instrument." Her guitar is half-scale for her tiny hands. As I start braiding her hair, I taunt her playfully, "I thought drums were the best?" "Drums are best for you and Kate. Guitars are best for me and Gus." Gus and Scout's little girl, Kate, is only four months younger than Rebel and they're inseparable. They've spent hours and hours at band rehearsals and seen us play live a dozen times in their four action-packed years of life. Rebel's always wanted to play guitar like Gus and Kate's always wanted to play drums like me. We joke that our kids got mixed along the way, but I love that they both have their own likes and personalities. Their little boy is almost three and Gracen isn't interested in music, but you can't get the kid out of the water. He'll be out there riding a board with us in the next few years. He's athletic as all hell for a little dude. "True enough, the world needs guitar players and drummers. Who's going to play bass?" "Kate and Gracen's new baby sister will be our bass player." Scout's due in three months. It's a girl. Rebel could be right. I fasten her braid with a hair tie. "That's a strong possibility, dude." She spins on her knees to face me. "And Stella can sing. She has a pretty voice." Stella is Gus's step-niece. She's several years older than Rebel and Kate, and they idolize her. She's such a great kid. "She does. What are you gonna call your band?" She's holding my right hand, tracing the letters of her name tattooed across my knuckles. Gemma's name is on my left hand. "Bigger Than Crimbo," she says without a second thought.

I laugh because it's a saying Gem says sometimes when something is massively impressive. "Perfect. It's subtle and screams humility. I like it." Our little girl will never lack confidence. She nods, pounds knuckles, and hops down. "Gracias, Daddy." "No problem, mija." I walk to our kitchen where Gem is, indeed, mashing nasty peas. Her hair is pulled up on top of her head in a messy bun. She's been cooking all morning for Rebel's birthday party today. I wrap my arms around her middle and kiss the back of her neck, because I can't resist and whisper in her ear, "We made an incredible little human." "We did," she agrees. I can hear the smile in her voice. This woman is the best mom and wife. "Can you believe she's four?" "Nope. We need to figure out how to slow this train down or she'll be graduating and out on tour with Bigger Than Crimbo next year." "Bigger Than Crimbo?" she laughs. "Dare I ask?" "Her future band with Kate, Stella, and baby Hawthorne," I inform her as straight-faced as I can, because in all honesty, nothing would make me happier than to see it come to life. "Julian's tattooing it on her for her birthday." "Please tell me he's working it into the pony full back piece?" Rebel is obsessed with tattoos and started asking for one of her own when she was two. Her ideas change frequently, but she's currently in love with the idea of covering her back with pastel colored ponies. My brother, Julian, drew her a design last week as an early birthday present to hang on her wall instead. "Bigger Than Crimbo arched in Old English script across her shoulders with the ponies below would be epic," I encourage. She sets her spoon down in the bowl and turns in my arms to face me. "Epic," she agrees with a smile. I kiss her, and when I pull away, I know exactly what she's thinking because it's written all over her face. We say it at the same time. "God bless the wankers." It's our ode to the first time we met and to fate or destiny, or whatever fucking awesome magical force brought us together. If her blind date at the Y-Not wouldn't have been such a douche, we would've never happened. So every time we need to give thanks for our family and us, we say it. Because it all comes full circle. God bless the wankers.

Acknowledgments So many people to thank. I love this part because I get to unleash all of the love and appreciation I've kept bound up during Franco's journey. First shout out goes to you. Yes, YOU. So many books to read, I'm honored you chose mine. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. ALL the thank yous. Story time. Two years ago, Totally Booked put up a lovely post about Bright Side on Facebook (thank you Jenny and Gitte). And Gemma, a wild little strawberry blond from Northern England, with a penchant for You Me At Six, leopard print, and gin, commented. An immediate, hardcore friendship was born. This book is a salute to that friendship and one of the best people I know, and though the story is fictional, Gemma is not. She's truly special and one of a kind. Thank you, my Jama, for being my bestie. Thank you for turning me on to my favorite music, for listening when I need to vomit nonsense, for making me laugh until I cry, for sending me photos of nice looking dudes when I need a writing muse (or even when I don't), for sharing your precious family with my family (because bromance is everything and so is Lola), for teaching me how to put on makeup, for gifting me Bieber jammies, for spotting Pedro in the wild with me, for teaching me fun British terms, for trying guac and root beer for me even though you think they're vile, for inspiring me to be a better person, and for attending the fucking Casa Bonita Frozen Strawberry Margarita Mixer with me. You truly are sunshine in a human. I'm raising my shot of Jager and toasting you. Cheers! I love you. My rough drafts are always, well, rough. Super rough. Thank you to Lindsey Burdick, Amy Donnelly, Allison Dunnings, Gemma Hitchen, Colleen Hoover, and Janet Wallace for reading an early copy (and ignoring the fact that I can't place a comma to save my life) with an open mind and offering thoughtful feedback in return. Your keen eye, talent, honesty, precious time, and big hearts mean the world to me, and this book is better because of you. Thank you for your friendship. I love you. Amy Donnelly at Alchemy and Words. This is the part where I bow down and kiss your feet. Thank you for being with me from beginning to end on this project. From the endless struggle with plot while writing through to the final proof and formatting, you're my hero. Your thoughtful attention to detail always turns my books into something I'm proud to publish. Thank you for that. But more importantly, thank you for your friendship. Every day it's solid and steady. Thank you for listening to me cry and for making me laugh. And for being an adopted member of our family. I love you. Big thank you to Susan Rossman for dropping everything to proofread this little book. Your heart and spirit are larger than life. It's an honor to call you my friend. I love you. This cover. This. Cover. Brandon Hando, aside from being the love of my life for twenty-six years, your creative eye never fails to floor me. Thank you for your endless patience and support and for always designing a cover (and swag, t-shirts, etc.) that captures the heart of the story and makes me smile like a lunatic. Sometimes your covers are subtle. Sometimes they're not. But they're always symbolic and artistic. And you never stop until I love it as much as you do—that is everything. This

cover is a bit of a departure from what we usually do, but it truly is Franco. Massive thanks to Love N. Books (www.LoveNBooks.com), photographer Daniel A. Flores (www.DFVFX.com), and cover model Graham Nation for making it possible to put a flesh and blood Franco on the cover. Graham, if I ever meet you in person, and I call you Franco, can you just roll with it and pretend I'm not crazy? Shout out to Ridge from "Maybe Someday" by Colleen Hoover. He's one of my absolute favorite characters ever. Thank you, Colleen, for letting me borrow him for a few pages and include him in a cameo. Love you both. Beth Flynn. When my grace stumbles and my sanity is threatened, you're always there. Thank you, sis. I love you. Miss Allison Dunnings is a wildly inspirational person in my life for a million and one reasons—a precious human full of life, bravery, curiosity, positivity, and love. She's also crazy talented at writing music and has the voice of an angel. Thank you for letting me include your song "Goodbye Los Angeles" in this book. I'm forever grateful. I love you. If you'd like to make your ears happy and listen to "Goodbye Los Angeles," or any of Future Husband's music (I'm begging you to do so because it's magical) please visit her website at: https://futurehusbands.bandcamp.com/ Music will, always and forever, fuel my writing. It inspires me endlessly. Thank you to the following bands on my playlist for streaming through my earbuds, keeping me company, prompting plot, and evolving characters in ways that wouldn't have been possible without you and your art: The Chainsmokers, X Ambassadors, Zibra, DJ Snake featuring Justin Bieber, Future Husbands, The Beach, Nothing But Thieves, Royal Blood, The Hunna, Bishop Briggs, James Bay, Sunset Sons, You Me At Six, Walking On Cars, and James Arthur. Special thanks and hugs to The Hunna. Their song "Bad For You" pulled me out of month's long writer's block and helped me finish this story. Thank you to my agent Jane Dystel at Dystel, Goderich & Bourret LLC for your ongoing support of me and belief in my little books. Big shout out to Lauren Abramo, as well, for all you do. I appreciate you both, and your team, so very much. Mom and Dad, you rock. Thank you for forty-four years of love and support. I love you. To my husband, B., and my little dude (who's not so little anymore), Phoenix, I love you. More than anything, I love you. You are the other half of my heart and soul and a daily reminder of all that's precious and important in life. Thank you for your unconditional love, patience, and humor. And last, but certainly not least, thank you from the bottom of my heart to every reader, blogger, fellow author, and Bright Sider for your friendship. Writing started as a dream, and it remains so to this day. Thank you for standing beside me and holding my hand while I chase it. I'm hugging you—I hope you feel it because I'm putting everything I've got into it. Seriously, I'm holding my breath and squeezing really, really hard. I love you all.

Franco Playlist "Roses" (feat. ROZES) by The Chainsmokers "Gorgeous" by X Ambassadors "Heartache" by Zibra "Let Me Love You" (feat. Justin Bieber) by DJ Snake "Goodbye Los Angeles" by Future Husbands "Geronimo" by The Beach "Honey Whiskey" by Nothing But Thieves "Little Monster" by Royal Blood "Bad For You" by The Hunna "River" by Bishop Briggs "Need the Sun to Break" by James Bay "September Song" by Sunset Sons "Give" by You Me At Six "Love Backs Down" by Walking On Cars "Say You Won't Let Go" by James Arthur

Other Books by Kim Holden All of It Seventeen-year-old Veronica Smith has it all: a loving family, a funky car named Jezebel, and a plan to go to college after graduation. On the first day of senior year she meets Dimitri Glenn—a mysterious transfer student with gray eyes and a mischievous smile who seems determined to win her heart. But there's something odd about Dimitri, leading Veronica to wonder if there's more to him than meets the eye. Before long she finds herself in a whirlwind romance that seems too good to be true—until a series of devastating events leaves her questioning everything. It's not until she chooses to think with her heart instead of her mind that she can rise from the ashes to learn the truth of their connection. Bright Side Secrets. Everyone has one. Some are bigger than others. And when secrets are revealed, some will heal you... And some will end you. Kate Sedgwick's life has been anything but typical. She's endured hardship and tragedy, but throughout it all she remains happy and optimistic (there's a reason her best friend, Gus, calls her Bright Side). Kate is strong-willed, funny, smart, and musically gifted. She's also never believed in love. So when Kate leaves San Diego to attend college in the small town of grant, Minnesota, the last thing she expects is to fall in love with Keller Banks. They both feel it. But they each have a reason to fight it. They each have a secret. And when secrets are revealed, some will heal you... And some will end you. Gus This is the story of Gus. Losing himself. Finding himself. And healing along the way. "...but the honest-to-god truth is I don't even know how to function anymore. Bright Side wasn't only my best friend; she was like my other half... The other half of my brain, the other half of my conscience, the other half of my sense of humor, the other half of my creativity, the other half of my heart. How do you go back to doing what you did before, when half of you is gone forever?" So Much More Love is strange. It comes out of nowhere. There's no logic to it. It's not methodical. It's not scientific. It's pure emotion and passion. And emotion and passion can be dangerous because they fuel love...and hate. I'm now a reluctant connoisseur of both—an expert through immersion. I know them intimately. When I feel in love with Miranda, it was swift and blind. She was the person I'd elevated to mythical status in my head, in my dreams.

Here's the thing about dreams, they're smoke. They're spun as thoughts until they become something we think we want. Something we think we need. That was Miranda. She was smoke. I thought I wanted her. I thought I needed her. Over time reality crept in and slowly dissected and disemboweled my dreams like a predator, leaving behind a rotting carcass. Reality can be a fierce bitch. So can Miranda. And I can be a fool... Who believes in dreams. And people. And love.

About the Author I love reading, writing, traveling, music, coffee, tacos, nice people, my big dude (husband), and my little dude (son). And lots of other stuff too. I also love to make new friends. Come and find me in one of these spots. We'll hand out. It will fun. https://www.facebook.com/kimholdenauthor (While you're on Facebook look for our closed group, Bright Siders, it's jam packed with the nicest people on the planet.) https://www.instagram.com/kimholdenauthor https://twitter.com/KimHoldenAuthor https://www.kimholdenbooks.com