Franco

by Kim Holden

  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 dr
ives 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 he
r 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."