Franco

by Kim Holden

  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 is
n'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.