The Club Is Open Until 8:00Pm

Lynnea's POV

"Oh Mon Dieu, Lynnea, j'aime votre musique! Puis-je avoir votre autographe?" A mass of fans asked as I was coming out of the Champs-Élysées concert hall in Paris. "Oui oui, qui sera premier?" I asked. Pretty much, they all had asked for my autograph and I asked who wanted to be first. They crowed around me with the little books with attached pens and I started scribbling my name over and over.

Collete, my manager was patiently waiting for me to be done. I caught her looking at the sliver watch on her wrist. I told the fans that I was sorry I couldn't sign everybody's and that I really had to be going. Some complained and again, I apologized before going into the car waiting to take me to my hotel.

Anna, the woman who kept my things in check, like a personal assistant was sitting opposite from me. "You had a call while you were performing." She spoke in English. "Really? It wasn't Bertrand was it? I told him not to call me until seven tonight." I explained. "No. It was an out-of-country call. From America." I shot her a funny look. "America? Who the hell is calling me from America?" She shook her head. "The man said that he knew you." I folded my legs and studied my nails. "I don't know anyone in America." I told her. "Also, he said his name was Gerald Way."

I looked at her quickly. "Gerard Way." Anna nodded slowly like she as trying to decide something. "Did he leave a number?" I asked. She nodded and took out a piece of paper from her planner. "I wrote it down just in case." She said handing me the small slip of paper. On it was scribbled a number. I took my cell out of my purse and dialed the number.

"Hello?"

"Gerard?"

"Speaking."

"It's me, Lynnea."

"I called you earlier. You remember me?"

"Truthfully, I haven't thought about you in a long time."

"I guess I could say the same."

"So why did you call?"

"I saw her, our daughter."

"And..."

"I was wondering if you could help me?"

"With what?"

"I wanna be her father. I mean I wanna be involved."

"How could I help with that?"

"She knows you. She would believe you if you told her I was her dad."

"Still, how do you expect me to help. I'm in Nice, and you're in New York."

"I thought you lived in Paris."

"Regardless."

"You could come to America. Meet her, tell her, everything would be set."

"...What was it like?"

"What, seeing Monet?"

"Seeing the daughter you walked out on."

"Are you still on that Lynnea. I told you I was sorry."

Sorry? Are kidding me. You left me to take care our 3-year old daughter alone. I'm not the one you should be apologizing to."

"You can drop that attitude anytime now."

"Attitude. This is how I actually feel towards you. I don't love you anymore, Gerard."

"Lynnea..."

"I'm not going to America."

"But-"

"I mean it. You're on your own."

Click.