Franco (Bright Side, #3)

by Kim Holden

It seems she's one of those people who's incapable of ending a sentence without a pet name. I kind of hate that,

"Three dates in four days? This is serious, dude. I hope you're not proposing tonight, we haven't met her yet."

"I've always wanted to be a mum. I don't know if it's because I lost mine so young, or if I wanted to think of my uterus as something with the ability to give life, instead of take it, but it's always been the one thing I felt I was put on Earth to do. And I always thought it would happen in due time. I'd get my degree, start my career, meet the man of my dreams, marry, and have a baby. Turns out the man of my dreams part is tricky."

While we're shaking hands MFDM says, with his back to me, "That's Ridge." And then he adds, "He's deaf."

Shut the fuck up!! Omg

I'm one of those people who wishes success for everyone, no matter what they do, because life isn't a competition. It doesn't require that one person lose because another one wins. We can all win.

"You know I only want a child, right? God, that sounded insensitive," she adds under her breath. "What I mean is, I value you and your friendship very much, Franco. More than you know, I've never had a friend like you. But at the end of the day our lives are on different continents. I would never try to force my way into your life." She's stammering through her thoughts. "I just want a child with my last name to raise and love." She pauses and whispers, "Shit, this isn't coming out properly." It's my turn to interrupt and try to help because I'm the one who barged in and turned her world upside down. "Gem, listen to me. I would like you to fly to San Diego and stay at my house with me for a few days where we have some privacy. We've had sex. It was fantastic as I recall. We'll do it again. Repeatedly. I'm healthy. I'm clean. I'm a pretty outstanding dude, if I do say so myself. I come from good parents; I didn't have a fucked up home life. There's no history of disease or mental illness on either side of my family, other than my paternal grandmother's Alzheimer's. I drink a few times a week, but it's rarely in excess. And I'll admit to smoking weed on occasion, though it's been almost a year since I last did, and nothing harder than that…ever. I'll do everything I can to give you the baby you want. And when you go home, no one has to know. Even when, yes I said when, you get pregnant, no one has to know who the father is. You can tell them, and the kid, you went through wi...

"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."

"What are these?" "Patience, cock star. They're for the Drum Grotto."

Grabbing my phone from the nightstand, I open my music app and hit play on the playlist titled My sperm are better than yours, in keeping with the positive self-talk translates in positive action, and hit play.

"Do you think sometimes dreams are better left as dreams because they still hold possibility and wonder and there's no room for failure?" I don't hesitate, not even for a split second, because I believe it so fiercely. "No. I believe that dreams fuel life. And it's when you're chasing them that you're most alive. There's no reward in settling for the safety of status quo."

"Fear is a shitbag."

"Lift up your hips." "Why?" she questions. I slide the pillow underneath. "Lay there for thirty minutes. I read it increases the chance of fertilization. It's probably bullshit, but my sperm are doing the one-hundred-meter freestyle like Michael Phelps right now, let's help them out if we can." I've been doing my research, reading everything I can the past few days. When I return from my clean up in the bathroom, she hasn't moved, but she's covered with the sheet. And she's fast asleep. Before I blow out the candles, I watch her sleeping for a minute so I can remember this night. Because some moments are too important to forget.

There are some people in life that you can vent to, or pour out sadness to, or voice frustration to, and they readily and willingly absorb it for the sole purpose of ridding you of it. They're the same people who can immediately replace that negativity with their light. Their presence gives you the power to purge the bad and embrace the good. It's rare. I've only known a few people in my life who are that way.

Some people skim life and some people read so closely they see the things others don't. That's where the beauty lies, in between the lines, in the details. The story within the story.

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.

Jesus, this is fucked up. I. Want. Her. To. Want. Me. Like. I. Want. Her.

"There's a lot of shit going on in her life. And she lives on the other side of the fucking ocean. It's not that simple." He finally blinks. And then blinks a few more times. He's studying me. "Nothing worth fighting for ever is, dude. You love her, I know you do." I nod. "I do. She was the one." "Is," he says. "Is what?" I ask. "She is the one," he clarifies. "Don't try to logic this one out, dude. You're overthinking. Stop it, it's annoying."

Let it kill me. Let her kill me. And soon, too soon, she's crying out. No words, because our bodies are still doing all the talking, just sounds. The sexiest fucking sounds that a woman's ever made are spilling from her kiss swollen lips while she shatters underneath me. And that's all it takes. I erupt inside her. She's mine. For this moment in time, she's mine. Images start racing, uninvited, across my mind. Watching her walk down the aisle toward me in a long, white lace gown. Growing old with her. And just as quickly, the picture perfect life evaporates into nothingness when I hear her sniffle back tears. Moment over. She's not mine anymore.

"We end today, don't we?" was the last thing I said to her. It was a question that wasn't really a question. Until she answers it while she climbs in her car, "I don't want to. I really don't want to. But yes, naughty American boy, we end today. I don't want to be your burden," with tears streaming down her cheeks and drives away. And suddenly I'm not numb any longer. But I wish I was. Because everything hurts like hell. I'm screaming, "You're not!" but her car has already pulled out of the lot.

Assumptions are the fucking antichrist and only contribute to disaster in my experience. They're shit stirrers, not problem solvers."

"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,"

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.

The world would be a better place if more people went apeshit over things like sunshine.

She turned off her phone when we walked out the door of the clinic.

I hope she’s pregnant. I hope the doctors tried calling her after her tests were run and found out she’s pregnant. Lord please let her be pregnant 🥺

"We're pregnant." It's the sweetest and softest declaration of a dream come true I've ever heard. I've been surprised in my life. I've been happy. I've been grateful. I've been in awe. I've been in love. But not like this. Not overwhelmingly all at once like this. "You're pregnant?" I question. She nods, tears spilling down her cheeks into her wide smile, and she repeats louder this time, "We're pregnant."

Gus and Scout's little girl, Kate, is only four months younger than Rebel and they're inseparable. They've spent hours and hours at band rehearsals and seen us play live a dozen times in their four action-packed years of life. Rebel's always wanted to play guitar like Gus and Kate's always wanted to play drums like me. We joke that our kids got mixed along the way, but I love that they both have their own likes and personalities. Their little boy is almost three and Gracen isn't interested in music, but you can't get the kid out of the water. He'll be out there riding a board with us in the next few years. He's athletic as all hell for a little dude.