"She could. That was the best night of that tour by far."
"Agreed."
The fifth contains two photos of my favorites drummers—John Bonham and Dave Grohl. Two completely different styles, but I grew up listening to and admire them both equally.
Gus shrugs. "You know, in case you need some inspiration."
"Thanks." I hold out my fist, and he bumps knuckles.
"These belong in here, so you don't have to stare at blank walls. The Grotto needed some character." He's a considerate bastard. His mom's child through and through. They're good people.
"I'm gonna grab a hammer and some nails."
Gus helps me hang four, and while I'm hanging the fifth, he announces, "I need to take a leak before we head out."
"No problem," I call back.
When he returns we get lunch—not brunch, lunch—and hit up an art studio downtown. It features several artists' work from all over the country. I could've bought ten paintings, but I settle on two by the same artist—D. Glenn. His style is raw and passionate, like flat-out sex on canvas. I'd like to meet this dude, I bet he's one smooth motherfucker.
The paintings are massive and take two people to hang. The larger of the two goes over my couch and the other above my bed.
When we're done, I find Gus standing in the living room with his hands on his hips staring intently at the wall above the couch. "Damn, is it just me, or is that painting hot as fuck? It's like I can hear Marvin Gaye in my head singing 'Let's Get It On' when I look at it." He exhales loudly. "I need to buy one of those for my room." Prying his eyes away, he looks at me standing next to him. "Listen, if this whole music thing doesn't work out for us, we should get our own show on HGTV."
"Decorating With Douchebags?" I suggest.
He slaps me on the back and points at me as he walks toward the front door. "That's catchy. Write that down."
"Will do. Thanks again for the Grotto artwork. It's perfect."
"Glad you like it," he says as he walks out the door and down my front walk. Raising his hand to wave, he adds, "Peace out."
"Take it easy."
After I lock the front door, I take a walk around my house to admire our handiwork. The house finally looks like a house. Lived in and homey. I can't wait for Gemma to visit. The last room I walk in, more out of necessity than to gloat, is the bathroom. I haven't peed all afternoon. I'm busy unzipping my fly and lifting the toilet seat, so it's not until I'm in full flow that I notice it. "Sonofabitch." There, framed and matted like all the others he gave me today, hanging proudly over my toilet, is me. Naked getting in the shower. It's the photo Gus snapped in L.A. and sent to Gemma. And apparently to himself. There's a sticky note stuck to it that reads, You're too damn sexy not to showcase in the shitter.
Fuck it. I'm leaving it. For now.
Saturday, February 17
(Franco)
"Franco, I know I'm going to sound like an absolute bitch asking you for this, but I've talked to my lawyer, and he's advised me to have you sign a contract."
It makes sense. "What does it say?"
"I'll email it to you so you can read it, but it basically states that no money is exchanging hands in return for sex. That the identity of the father of my child will remain a secret and that both of us agree not to disclose the information, unless we, mutually, deem it necessary in the future due to a health emergency. You will be required to notify me of any major changes in your health, especially if they may be hereditary in nature. No father will be listed on the birth certificate, and the child will have my last name. You are released of all rights as a parent, and obviously, I will never ask for any financial, emotional, or any other kind of support regarding the child. I just don't want you to ever question my integrity or that I'd take advantage of your kindness. You'll have no responsibilities or obligations to me or this child."
"I'll do whatever you want, Gem. I give you my word on that. As long as you don't cut me out of your life after I fertilize your garden."
She laughs. "If you manage to fertilize my lady garden, or not, you won't be able to get rid of me. Good mates are hard to find. I like you. A lot."
"Email it over. I'll sign it and send it back to you, and I'll give you the original when you get here tomorrow."
"Are you mad at me for asking you to sign it? I don't want you to be mad at me."
"You're protecting yourself and your child, I'm proud of you. It's what any mama bear would and should do." It's true.
"Thanks, Franco. Bye."
"Bye, Gem."
She emailed it.
I read it.
I understood it.
I agreed with it.
I signed it.
I scanned it and emailed it back.
And now I'm sitting here alone in my kitchen.
Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of me is thinking positive thoughts because I can already picture Gemma's belly swollen and round in her last trimester. And I can already picture her eyes bright with happy tears as she looks at the tiny, precious newborn in her arms. And I can already picture a toddler with huge, dark blue eyes and a full, breathtaking smile like her mom. But when I think about her dark, curly little ponytails, the other point one percent of me is sad, because she got them from me...and she'll never know that.
I know it's selfish. Goddamn, I know it's selfish. And I know it will pass. This isn't about me. But it's stirring up things inside me that I hadn't thought of in these terms.