Frontwards

Wednesday 13th February, 2006.

Unsurprisingly, Frank was feeling just the tiniest bit delicate this morning.

He woke me up with a long, self-pitying groan. When I opened my eyes, he had his hands over his face.

“Good morning, handsome,” I smirked. So this is what it feels like to be the sober one. Feels pretty good, actually. And I used to hate smug people like me.

Frank did nothing more than groan again and shake his head. When he finally moved his arms back down to his sides, the look on his face was so pathetic that I had to chuckle. He did not look amused.

“I feel like hell,” he simply said.

“You look it,” I replied, because I value honesty.

Eventually he managed to haul himself out of bed and towards the bathroom, in the hopes that a shower would make him a little more alert or at least wash the stench of alcohol from his pores.

As he was showering, I got myself out of bed and over to the mirrored wardrobe doors, peeling off my pyjamas as I went. I stared at my reflection for a good few minutes. I barely even recognised this woman. She looked too old to be me. Her hair was too long and her body had changed. Her breasts and stomach were swollen. Her skin was just the slightest bit tanned. There were too many wrinkles on her face and freckles on her skin, but she was still me. I turned to the side to admire my bump. It’s as if every time I catch my reflection, it has gotten bigger. It definitely looks like a pregnant bump now. I smiled a little.

Frank came back into the bedroom as I was doing this, with nothing but a towel around his waist. Good lord. With all the hormones and whatnot, how on Earth am I supposed to control myself around that?

“Hey, fatty,” he grinned, stepping over to me and putting his arms around my bare waist. We looked at each other through the mirror. We looked like a strange couple. We are a strange couple, I guess. Frank has his tattoos and piercings and jet-black hair and smudged eyeliner and pelvic bones. I have glasses and freckles and mousy hair and more wobbly bits that I’d care to mention. God knows what our kid’s going to end up looking like.

Frank bent down to plant a soft kiss on my lips. “You’re beautiful,” he said, as if he had heard this entire inner monologue and was trying to make me feel better.

It worked, though. I smiled. “You’re not so bad yourself.” I looked back into the mirror. Sure, we looked weird together. But we looked happy.



Thursday 14th February, 2006.

So it’s been so long since I had a boyfriend that I completely forgot about Valentine’s Day. In years passed I have typically spent the day giving dirty looks to couples who look too happy, spending obscene amounts of money on crisps and chocolate, and watching horror films alone as a firm stance against the holiday.

But this year, I am one-half of a couple, and we are exactly the kind of couple that I always hated so much. A smug, happy, loved-up couple. Urgh.

Having said that, I spent most of the day watching Jerry Springer with Alice, while the guys were doing whatever it is that they do in the studio. I don’t know. Music stuff, I guess?

Anyway, Frank returned at around 4pm with a bunch of flowers for me so it wasn’t so bad. I mean, I have pretty horrific hayfever so I couldn’t enjoy them as much as he probably would have liked, but he tried and it was pretty adorable.

So adorable, in fact, that Gerard banished us from the hotel room until we stopped being ‘so fucking disgustingly happy’. We decided, with this turn of events, to go for a walk.

“So, happy Valentine’s and stuff,” Frank said in a typically masculine way as we wandered along the streets of LA.

I chuckled a little and felt for his hand as our arms swung along beside us. “And happy Valentine’s to you,” I grinned.

We ambled along a little more, just chatting idly and making fun of all the overly-cute couples passing by. They were probably doing the same about us. Well, they would be if there were as awesome as we are, anyway. But I don’t know.

We ended up at Los Angeles National Park, at sunset. All this stupid crazy cliché romance stuff never appealed to me but there’s a good reason that every shitty rom-com ever made features a scene like this. It’s actually pretty perfect.

“So I guess we should start making wedding plans,” Frank said as we settled onto a bench.

I leant my head on his shoulder. “I guess we should,” I agreed, inspecting my ring just to make sure this was all real and not a wonderful, crazy dream.

“When do you wanna do it?” he asked.

“I don’t really know,” I shrugged. “Pretty soon I guess. I don’t want to look all pregnant in a wedding dress.”

Frank chuckled. “That’s reasonable. So like, in a couple of weeks?”

Holy shit that’s soon. But I’m getting fatter by the day. “Sure,” I replied. “Where shall we do it?”

Frank thought for a moment. “I always thought I’d get married where my grandparents did,” he said. “It’s just this tiny little church in Jersey, but it’s beautiful. My grandma took me once when I was a kid and I was like, fuckin’ 7 years old and I went; ‘Grandma, I’m going to get married here too.’”

God, he’s just too cute. I smiled and nodded. “Okay. Tiny little church in Jersey it is.”

Frank gave a short laugh. There was a silent pause before he spoke. “Things are so easy with you, Dais,” he sighed. “There’s no bullshit. There’s no drama. Everything’s just great. That’s why I love you.”

The sky had turned that orangey pink of a summer sunset and we could see the ocean and the LA skyline from here. The air around us smelt like flowers and salt. Somewhere in the distance, there were a couple of dogs barking. And here on this bench was a couple very much in love, planning their wedding.

Once again, things were going just a bit too well. Suspiciously well. I knew it wouldn’t last.