Unexpected.
A few hours later I call her cell.
And immediately hang up because a recorded message tells me the number is no longer in service.
Gemma Hendricks withdrawals suck.
Monday, January 29
(Franco)
Day two post-Gemma.
I've kept busy all day.
Distraction.
I surfed with the guys this morning.
Worked on my Triumph this afternoon and then took it for a ride at sunset.
Ate some cereal for dinner.
And then decided to burn off some energy before bed.
The Grotto is a sauna. It's not literally a sauna, it's my tiny third bedroom that houses my drum kit. Even with the air conditioning on and a fan blowing, like clockwork at the thirty-minute mark of drumming like a mad man, the room heats up and turns into an easy bake oven. That's when I hit my stride. I suppose it's like runner's high, endorphins are released, sweat coats and drips, and I'm reminded why I love doing this. Some people use meditation or prayer to find their center, to bring them peace.
I drum.
My hearing is shot from years of constant punishment. But there's nothing like the audible fuzz that hangs on after I'm done playing. My body's reluctance to let go of the music. It coats the inside of my skull like cobwebs when I walk to the kitchen to replenish lost liquids.
On nights like this, I play to exhaustion...and then I play a little longer. Every part of me used up and worn out. Like I've pushed my mind and body's purpose to the breaking point. Nothing makes me feel more alive than going to bed utterly drained. It's like a big high five from the universe for making the most of the past twenty-four hours.
After a bottle of water and a shower, my bed is practically whispering sweet nothings in my ear. We were made for each other, my sleep number and I. As I slip between the sheets, I lift my cell from my nightstand to check it out of habit. And promptly drop it to the floor when I see the text preview box with an extra-long, unknown phone number flash on the screen.
"Shit."
Scrambling out of bed and picking it up, I'm relieved the screen's not busted. My thumb hovers over the screen, hesitant to touch it. I'm not sure why. I miss this woman. I can't stop thinking about her. That scares me a little.
Fuck it.
Fuck being scared. I have an awesome friend who wants to keep in touch, that's what matters.
So, I tap the screen and the fear evaporates. I swear I can hear her speaking the words in her accent as I read them:
Dear Franco,
I have a confession. Turns out I need/crave witty banter on a regular basis. Functioning and this "life" thing is horrid without your humour. Can we be friends? From afar? Me texting you funny shit out of the blue in the future will be awkward without the title already in place.
Sincerely,
The Grouchy Northerner
I text back:
Dear Grouchy Northerner,
Ditto to the witty banter/"life" is horrid thing (but not to the extra u in humor, I'm not on board with that). Yes, to friends. Yes, to future funny shit that won't be awkward in the least because we're official.
Your Friend,
The Moping Bastard
Her response is lightning quick:
Dear Moping Bastard Friend Who Can't Spell Humour Properly,
Hoorah! Prepare yourself for a friendship unlike anything you've ever known. It will be glorious.
Your Friend,
The Less Grouchy Northerner Who Spells Humour Properly
We can do this.
Dear Goddess of Friendship and Funny Shit,
Consider me prepared to be dazzled.
Your Friend,
God of Friendship and Funny Shit
And just like that, the floodgates of communication are opened. Her final text reads:
Download WhatsApp on your phone. It's free to message. Free is much cheaper than texting.
I reply:
Done.
And then I search for WhatsApp in the App Store and download it.
Let the friendship resume.
Monday, February 12
(Franco)
Messaging Gemma has quickly become the highlight of my days.
I thought communicating with someone face to face and then moving to strictly electronic dialogue would seem artificial and disappointing, mainly because I'd miss out on her killer accent and adorable facial expressions, but her humor and personality resonate loud and clear through written word. I laugh out loud at something she writes during every exchange.
And we're already in the habit of recapping our days to each other:
Rook is rehearsing every day now for the upcoming tour.
She received a promotion at work the day she returned and is working on the hotel design project with her team.
I'm back in the routine of surfing every morning.
She's already seen her doctor and is scheduled for donor insemination next week. She's not wasting any time.
It feels nice to have someone to talk to every day who wants to hear it all, the big and the small, the good and the bad, the exciting and the mundane. And who responds with funny memes to it all, like it's an art form she's mastered.
She makes me laugh.
She makes me think.
She motivates me.
She challenges me.
She supports me when I need it.
She plays devil's advocate when I need it.
I like this woman.
I really like this woman.
Wednesday, February 14
(Franco)
I've been in the midst of an internal battle the past several days. Normally, I'm the type of person who trusts his instincts without question. I listen to my gut because it never fails me.
But this is different.
Because it doesn't just involve me.
It involves another person.
And potentially, if all went well, another.
I'm trying to look at the situation logically, and it's to the point where I've thought about it so much that I'm just confusing myself.
That's why I'm making this phone call, because I feel like she's the only person who can help me decide if my idea is batshit crazy or honorable.