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
(Franco)
My doorbell rings at eleven o'clock in the morning.
Six times it rings. One right after the next.
It's Gus. It has to be Gus. No one else is that annoying on purpose.
When I open the door, he pushes his sunglasses up into his hair on top of his head. "Morning. I need help."
"True that. I'm glad you've finally recognized there's a problem."
He rolls his eyes. "My brand of crazy is too adoring to cure. I'm talking about the shit in my truck."
I slip on my flip flops and follow him out to his truck parked on the street.
He opens the passenger door, and there are four thin cardboard boxes, about twenty inches tall each, stacked up next to each other on the seat and two more on the floorboard. I gather four into my arms; they're heavier than they look. He gathers the rest and shuts the door gently with his foot. The care he takes with his truck is hilarious. It's so rusty and beat up, but the way he treats it you'd think it was pristine.
"What are these?"
"Patience, cock star. They're for the Drum Grotto."
My favorite drum kit is set up in one of the spare bedrooms. It's where I practice every day. Gus named it the Drum Grotto because it's small like a cave and there's not much natural light that comes in through the tiny window. Plus, grotto's supposed to sound sexy. It does. It's my favorite room in the house.
We set down the boxes and start tearing into them. I notice that he leaves one of his untouched. Inside the boxes are black frames, each containing something music related. The first is the cover art of our first album.
"This cover is still killer." A gloss black crow on a matte black background, Rook in bright red letters.
"Nothing like simple to make a statement," Gus says.
The second is an action shot of me playing drums. I'm shirtless, covered in sweat.
"This was Denver, right?" I ask.
"Yup, first nationwide tour. It was hotter than hell in there that night, remember?"
I can't wipe the smile off my face thinking about it. "Like Satan's oven. The photographer was amazing, though. This is a great shot."
The third is Rook: Gus, Jamie, Robbie, and me standing in front of Joe's Bar before the first show we ever played as a band.
Gus laughs. "We were so young—we look like kittens."
We were young. "I didn't even have any tattoos yet. And we look scared shitless."
"We were scared shitless. Remember, Jamie threw up behind the amp stack right before we went on?" Gus reminds me. And then he busts into full on belly laughter.
And I can't help joining him, tears pricking the corners of my eyes. "God, that's right. It was all nerves. Poor kid."
"That's gold right there. Those were the good ole days."
The fourth is a photo taken in Grant, Minnesota. It's Rook and our friend, Kate Sedgwick, on stage during a performance.
I can't hold back the smile, or the lump in my throat when I see it. "She was so pissed at you when you forced her on stage that night."
He's smiling. It makes me so happy that he can smile when he talks about her now. "She was. Until she opened her mouth. And then it was on. Damn, that girl could sing."