The remaining hours are a deliberate attempt to entertain my mind and numb my sense of time: action movie, music, oatmeal that tastes like brown sugar sprinkled paste, and conversation with shoulder cuddling neighbor and his mom. They're from Albuquerque. Marian is an insurance agent who won the trip to England as part of a regional life insurance policy sales challenge this quarter. She narrowly beat out the undisputed reigning champ in Santa Fe by two policies. In my mind, while she tells the colorful tale, I picture them duking it out UFC style. I'm sure the actual events were scaled back slightly but when she uses words like bloodbath and brutal, that's where my tired, diversion craving mind goes. Her son, Calvin, the cuddler, is fourteen and obsessed with Game of Thrones and football. By football, I mean soccer. When he leaves to use the bathroom, she tells me about her recent divorce and that Calvin isn't taking it well and she hopes this vacation will bring them closer. Listening to her share her private details, I'm reminded that we all have issues and we all do our best to overcome them. Hold close the peeps you love while you're going through your shit, that's all any of us can do. I'm enjoying their company and sad that it only comprised the last hour of the trip because they will be the large part of the highlight reel of this flight.
The words, "On behalf of your British Airways flight crew, I would like to welcome you to Manchester," sound more like, "Unbuckle your seatbelt, you lucky sonofabitch, you're free," and I have the overwhelming urge to seek out the crew member speaking and hug her, a lift-her-off-the-ground-and-spin-her-around-in-a-full-on-fit-of-fucking-joy hug.
I high five the pilot when I exit the plane instead, hunched over and double leg limping down the concourse as I try to ease the stiffness out of my muscles and regain the natural posture and movement that's been impossible for the past fifteen hours. He high fived me back. He was a big dude too, I think it was sympathetic solidarity.
Customs is custom—a slow, tedious, but necessary process.
By the time my passport is stamped and I'm released into the wild, I'm practically stumbling through the building with one eye half open. Sleep is urgently needed, if not medically necessary. I'm thankful Gem is working this afternoon so I can taxi to the hotel and get a few hours' sleep before I see her tonight.
It's rainy and gloomy outside, but my lungs are doing fucking cartwheels inside my chest because they forgot what fresh air felt like.
The taxi driver is polite but not chatty, and since my brain is functioning at minimal to nil capacity, I'm grateful not to have to keep up with an exchange for the thirty-minute drive, because even small talk would be a struggle in my current state.
The Premier Inn is a modest, cozy looking hotel tucked away in a modest, cozy looking small town. There's a restaurant across the street called The Beefeater. Looks like I've got everything I need for two days right here.
Natalie, at the front desk, is friendly. She's a flurry of accent and fast talking. I've grown used to Gem's accent, but this woman has thrown me for a loop. I'm shocked into temporary high alert. "Pardon me?" seems to be my phrase of choice. She doesn't mind, which tells me that locals probably can't understand her either.
When I'm handed the key card, I feel like Marian on the plane winning her brutal battle with her Santa Fe nemesis and want to run down the hall hands over my head in victory like Rocky Balboa when he scales the steps of the Philly Museum of Art.
But I don't have the energy.
So, I shuffle instead. Open the door, drop my bag three steps in, and flop down on the bed.
Sleep is immediate and deep. Zero to REM in five seconds flat.
You know when your mom tried to wake you when you were little, but you were tired and didn't want to open your eyes, and you just laid there like a slug and hoped she'd go away?
But the second time she rustled you and said, "Mijo, time to get up," and you remembered it was Christmas morning and good shit was about to go down, you leaped from the bed?
That's what just happened. I'm kneeling upright on the bed like a goddamn meerkat on code red alert, searching for the signal that startled me awake.
Bang.
Bang.
Two knocks on the door, and I'm scuffing along the bed to the edge where I drop to feet that I'm not sure are awake enough to carry me to the door.
When my hand meets the doorknob, I realize it's probably not Christmas and Natalie's is the face I expect to be met with when I open the door. I'll admit, I'm not ready for the hardcore English to English translation my brain is about to fail miserably at.
But then I open the door, and it is Christmas. It's Gem. And her big, I'm-so-happy-to-see-you-that-it-makes-me-smile-extra-big-smile smile.
"Gem?" It should sound surprised, that's what I intended. It sounds like gravel instead.
"I woke you, didn't I?" she asks worriedly.
"No," I lie. "I was just in the bathroom."
"I messaged, but you didn't answer so I thought I'd stop by on my way home in case your phone didn't have service. They gave me your room number at the front desk."
"You could understand Natalie?" I ask.
She laughs. "The front desk woman?"
I nod.
"She's a scouser," she says, as if that explains everything.
"A what?"
"She's from Liverpool. Their accent's different from ours. It's like that in the North, town to town accents are different."
"You're not kidding." I'm standing on the inside of the door. Gem's standing in the hallway. I'm awake enough now to process how rude that is. I take her hand and pull her into a hug. "Hi," I whisper in her ear after I kiss it. "I don't think I've said that yet. Jetlag is fuckery of the highest order; I'm under its spell. It's not pretty, I'm sorry. Also, I haven't brushed my teeth since takeoff, which feels like a decade ago, so I'd advise breathing through your mouth when I release you. I promise I'll address the situation pronto."
Her chest rumbles with laughter against me. "I'll hold my breath until you brush. And stare at your amazing hair," she adds because this is the first time she's seen me with hair and it's growing out fast.
Squeezing her tight, I whisper, "You're a true friend. Thanks, on both counts," before letting her go and running for my bag in the middle of the floor and straight for the bathroom.
After I brush, I change into a clean shirt, and we walk across the street to the restaurant. It looks like a typical family joint you'd see in the states.
Gemma knows the server. They went to high school together. Introductions are made, I'm polite but suddenly ravenous and it's distracting. The last real meal I had was almost a day ago. Airplane food doesn't count. It's tasteless filler in small portions, probably lacking calories and any nutritional value.
After we order drinks and food, I dip my toe in the deep end. "How are you doing? Don't sugarcoat it. I really want to know."
Her eyes dip to the fork in her hand, she's running the splines between her fingers absently. "I'm scared." She rubs her lips together once. It's her nervous tick. "Franco, I've never been the type of person to be ruled by fear. Usually, I don't have use for it because it does no good. Lately, I'm blind scared."
I reach across the table, remove the fork from her hand, and replace it with my fingers. "Gem, look at me." She does, and she's not on the verge of tears, thank God. It's not that kind of fear. This is fear that's based on logical and rational thought. The type of fear that confronts head on, you don't hide from it. "Don't give up yet, honey. Don't give up until you've given it all you've got. And if you're not pregnant by the end of the year, then you reassess. I don't want to say life goes on, because that sounds callous as hell, but you'll figure it out. You're a tenacious, intelligent woman who has so much to offer and a world of possibilities, some you haven't even considered yet, are at your feet just waiting for you to pick them up and run with them."
Her teeth pinch her bottom lip, and she smiles. "I don't know what I would do without you. And sorry to be the Mayor of dooms town, but what do I do if this attempt f
ails? You go on tour in a few weeks. We won't be able to do this again for months. Do I pursue the clinical route? I know I'm overreacting, but the clock is ticking so loud right now that it's hard to think over it. I'm wondering if it will drive me mad in the end."
She's so sincere it's heartbreaking. She's not feeling sorry for herself, she's trying to do the right thing. And no one knows what that is, not even her because she doesn't have a crystal ball. "Let's stay positive and hope that my sperm are aggressive little fuckers tonight."
She nods. I feel like I'm losing her. Or that there's more going on than she's sharing.
"Gem, there's something else bothering you. I know there is, what is it?"
"My mum's birthday is later this week. I think it's hitting me so hard this year because I don't want to let her down." Her eyes are filling up, and her voice is getting thick. "I want her to look down on my child and me and be proud and watch us live out a long life together. I want her to see me do all the things with my son or daughter that she never got to do with me."
"Honey, your mom is watching over you, I have no doubt about that. And I guarantee she's pointing at you from her spot in heaven and bragging to all her friends, 'You see that badass? That's my daughter, and I couldn't be more proud of her if I tried.' Don't do this for her and her legacy, though I understand that you're compelled to. Do it for you."
"I've always been a people pleaser. I don't like to let anyone down," she admits.
"That sounds stressful. And tiring as fuck. And also a little like some kind of a damn superhero. You don't have to be a superhero, Gem. Be the best person you can be. Be generous in spirit and action. Be kind. Aside from that, let it go. You can't please everyone." And then a thought hits me, it hits me so hard it almost takes my breath away. "You told me when our first attempt at getting you pregnant failed that you didn't want to let me down. You're not doing this with me because you were afraid to say no, are you? I offered because something inside told me I needed to. That didn't mean you had to accept the offer. You could've said no. You can still say no, Gem. It won't change the way I feel about you. You've quickly become one of my favorite people. That endures if we're sleeping together or not."
The smile she directs at me tells me she's thankful for my words and she's going to be honest with what she's about to say. "I was completely shocked when you made the offer. So much so that if I weren't already sitting down, my legs would've surely given out. But I said yes selfishly. I really like you. You're such a good man, Franco. My child will favor me or favor the father, that was the thought that went through my mind when I made my decision. I asked myself if my child favored you in any way, would that be okay? My answer without hesitation was absolutely. Absolutely," she says again emphatically. "That made me say yes."
I nod. "Okay." I don't think I've ever received a better compliment in my life.
When the food arrives, we talk about her work and how the new project is coming along in depth. Some of the terms she uses I don't understand, but I ask questions.
The walk back to the hotel is slow. I'm holding her hand. I'm sleepy. She's sleepy. But we're both at peace for the moment. I want to take all her stress away, even if it reappears tomorrow. Tonight, it has no place inside room 111.
Thursday, March 22
(Franco)
I'm walking through the automatic doors of the airport, looking back to wave at Gemma standing on the curb next to her Fiat in her black dress pants, red heels, and leopard print silk blouse looking very professional and put together. But the tears running down her cheeks fuck up the whole image. The past two nights together were amazing. We connect on every level. I've never had that with a woman. I didn't know I could feel that complete.
Usually, I walk away from any experience and take away only the good from it. Whether it's something I learned or something that changed me, or even if it's just knowing that I've done it and never want to do it again, I try to put a positive spin on it.
Right now?
Walking away from her?
The stone floor beneath me may as well be quicksand.
Unease is swallowing me.
It's creeping up my limbs, into my organs, into my mind, and it's making me panicky. I've never had a panic attack but I'm losing my shit.
Toilet sign?
Toilet sign?
TOILET SIGN?!
Where are the fucking restrooms?
When I spot one I take off in a jog. My lungs aren't working. Why aren't my lungs working? I'm panting. I can't catch my breath.
I slam the door of the bathroom stall open, slam the door shut, fold my arms over my face, and lean into the wall for support.
Blocking out the bright florescent light helps.
Breathing doesn't. My lungs still feel like they're in a vise, squeezed shut, no chance for air to enter.
Words are whispering from my subconscious. Your friendship won't survive this. It can't. You'll never see her again.
Repeat.
Repeat.
Repeat.
"Shut up."
"Shut up."
"SHUT UP!"
Yeah, I said that out loud.
Loudly out loud.
I've never had a panic attack. Didn't think my body and mind were capable of it.
Apparently, I was wrong.
Because this shit is vicious.
As the nightmare begins to dissipate, I'm standing here sweaty, feeling like two giant hands held my upper and lower halves independently and wrung me out like a dishcloth moments ago. I'm drained.
Illogically and inexplicably drained.
I glance at the time on my phone and know I need to hustle to check in and make my flight.
I splash some water on my face on the way out and try to gather my wits.
And when I take my seat on the plane, wedged in between two dudes my size, I see it as an omen.
And for the next fifteen hours, I'm fucked.
Tuesday, March 27
(Franco)
Have you gone through a relationship breakup and wanted, with everything in you, for things to go back to the way they were before?
That's how I feel.
We weren't officially together.
We didn't break up.
I talk to her every day.
But something is different.
It's not just me.
I know it's not.
Something happened between us the moment I left.
Thursday, April 5
(Franco)
Gem messaged this morning. My monthly bill arrived this morning.
My heart sank. Not like a raft, but like an aircraft carrier it descended, fighting gravity with sheer strength and determination but was swallowed up nonetheless. I responded with, I'm so sorry, Gem. I wanted to type more. I wanted to type her a novel to console her. But my fingers couldn't map out the keys to make that happen. Instead, I stared at our words on my phone screen, her disappointment and mine stacked on top of each other, for thirty minutes. I let them sink in bone deep. And then I got up and carried it around the rest of the day. Disappointment is fucking heavy, like wearing lead shoes and a suit made of iron.
We leave for the American leg of our tour tomorrow morning.
Distraction commences in twenty-four hours.
Distraction that only helps me. Not her.
Bleak reality exists today.
Bleak reality that will still be there for her tomorrow.
Fuck.
That hurts.
All I want to do is help.
Just help.
Why is that so fucking hard for the universe to understand?
The harder I try, the worse she feels in the end.
Friday, April 6
(Franco)
The label car picked me up early this morning. I was waiting on the curb for him twenty minutes before he arrived, itching, like a runaway, for escape.
I've been in pep talk mode all morning. Get your shit together. This tour is important an
d only happens once. You can't let the guys down. You can't let the fans down. Hardening myself against heartbreak, because that's what this is. My heart is fucking breaking for Gem.
And by the time we pull up to Gus's house, I'm a soldier marching on, with the reminder that there's still a lot of good in my life and I need to be strong for Gemma. I need to be there for her even if I'm feeling like my heart's been put through the meat grinder. I hate feeling helpless. I paste on my best I-can-do-this smile and climb out of the car to greet Gus. Seeing him brings some relief.
And so it goes.
The tour begins.
Saturday, May 25
(Franco)
I've been messaging Gem the past several weeks. Funny memes. Stupid stories. It's no different than the things I would've shared pre-Manchester airport meltdown, but it's in excess. I'm forcing it, not that I don't mean it, but I'm forcing it. I've never been like this; my friendships are always easy, always laid-back. That's where the sincerity shines. But I can't stop myself, it's a compulsion to soothe her. A compulsion to make her happy. A compulsion to make everything better.
Every time I hit send, my gut twists and I think, This is the one she'll see through. This is the one that will make her question if I've lost my fucking mind. This is the one that will be too much and push her away.
But I still hit send anyway.
And then I hold my breath and hope for the best.
Wednesday, June 13
(Franco)
This tour is grueling.
Living on a bus is grueling.
But I still love playing every night.
Playing drums will always be my escape.
For ninety minutes, every twenty-four hours, I get out of my head, or so deep inside that nothing else can find me there. Either way, it's perfect.