Franco (Bright Side #3)

by Kim Holden

  "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'm-calling-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 shre
ds 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 life-saving, 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.