by Kim Holden
"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, in
telligent, 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."