Franco

by Kim Holden

  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)

&nb
sp; 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 I-
will-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