Stories of Greg (continued from here)

unexpected

Thursday morning, Greg texts to see if I want to grab breakfast. I'm still sleeping off the night before so I miss his message. When I wake up in the early afternoon, I bounce the invitation back, and we agree on Starbucks in fifteen minutes. I get there first, and watch him approach. We see one another and he smiles from across the street. While he's waiting for the light to change, a huge bus passes between us; when the street clears, he's nowhere to be seen. I frown, looking around. Where the hell did he go? Then I see him, popping his head out from behind a wall on the other side of the road. He's a twenty-seven year old man, playing hide-and-go-seek on a busy downtown street corner.

We have coffee and talk. It's casual, friendly, relaxed. We've been reclassified, despite lapses. I'm confident of this. I'm happy to be his friend, because I have truly grown to adore this charming young man, for all his playfulness, his wit, and his warmth. It doesn't hurt that he's so handsome, either. It's undeniably fun, and no small ego boost, to be seen with him in public. A friend of his joins our table outside; they have plans to work together on a project, so I get up to leave them to it. As I'm going, Greg asks if I want to get a bite later. I tell him I've got plans. "Art Walk," I say simply, not elaborating. I've got a date, but I don't feel like telling him. Firmly in the friends camp as we are, I know him well enough to know it might sting a little bit. We're detached, but attached. We're casual, but we care. We've been skirting dangerous territory for months, and I'm about to change everything, by seeing someone else. I'm well within my rights - we are, after all, just friends/neighbors with (some) benefits. I'm just not ready to tell him yet.

Later, my date comes over. I cook. We eat. We drink. We joke and talk and kiss a little. We're having a great time. We head out for Art Walk. We wander, we browse, we stop for drinks at Bar 107. We start to get drunk. We kiss some more. We wander some more. We go to The Association, and nestle into a couch towards the back. We drink and talk and flirt, intensely. The place is packed, the music is great, and we're having a lot of fun. I go the bar to get us a round. On my way back, I feel a tap on my shoulder. It's Greg. He's grinning as usual, clearly delighted to see me, and ready to hang out. I realize he's come here knowing it's my favorite downtown bar, and that the chances of my being here tonight are great. He has no idea I'm on a date. That is, until he takes in my surprised and slightly anxious expression, and glances downward at the two drinks in my hands. His face falls immediately.

"You're on a date, aren't you?" I don't know what to say. I'm drunk, and don't trust myself to speak. I just nod. I know my face says everything: I'm sorry. I should have told you. Please don't be upset. We're cool, right? We're just friends, right? You knew this was coming, right...?

He straightens up, giving me a look I read as one part sorrowful and one part anger. "I'm out of here," he says. He turns and moves away, disappearing quickly into the throng. I'm bothered, but too drunk and preoccupied with the good time I'm having on my date to feel much more than a medium-sized pang of regret. It's awkward, yes, and a little bit painful. We have, after all, had some really good times over the past few months...but it was never going anywhere. It was just fun. We'll talk about it. It'll be ok. These are all the fragmented half-thoughts that are in my head as my date and I continue our evening.

We leave, briefly hitting Spring Street before starting back towards my place. We're both happily tipsy, arms linked, laughing and enjoying one another's company. Suddenly, I realize I'm looking at Sydney, Greg’s dog, approaching us on the sidewalk. My eyes lift from leash to master: it's too late for either of us to turn away or pretend this isn't happening. Holy hell. What are the chances we'd run into one another twice on the same night. Jesus. A small, awkward, slightly ugly scene ensues: Greg turns his body as we move past, walking backwards, eyes on me intently. He raises his arms in a questioning gesture, and says incredulously, "Really? This guy?" I cringe. I'm embarrassed for all three of us. I know Greg is lashing out because he's drunk. But I know there's some real pain there, too. I'm stammering an apology to my date, who's not exactly sure what just happened, when my phone rings. I pull it out of my pocket, see it's Greg, and stupidly decide to answer. I don't remember what was said. Twenty seconds worth of me trying to placate my friend (my friend, right?), but also trying to enforce boundaries. I'm sympathetic but firm.

I hang up. The texting starts. I'm exceedingly jealous, he writes. I don't reply. I'm busy trying to pick my way through an explanation to my date, of who this person is and what this drama is about. He's sporting and generous and doesn't seem overly perturbed. We've been having too great a time together for him to feel threatened. When we get back to my place, I shut my phone off. So I'm unaware of the texts that continue to come. And I'm unaware of the email that will arrive early the next morning. And I'm certainly, at this point, utterly unaware of what the next four days are going to bring: a completely unexpected flood of emotion that will shake up the lives of two men and one woman. And that is still shaking them up, even as I write the first part of these belated, catch-up posts. I'm unaware of anything other than my date, whom I allow to spend the night with me - something I'd never once allowed Greg to do.

halfway in love

Friday morning, my date and I wake up together. We've had a really nice night and I just really enjoy his company. His energy is positive, calming, confident. There is something very sure - and reassuring - about this man, and I like it a lot. I've nothing breakfast-worthy in my fridge, so we walk across the street for a coffee. We briefly discuss the drama of the night before. I'm still surprised by Greg’s behavior, and still unsure how to address it. We're sitting there talking amicably, still getting to know one another, when I glance toward my building. Greg is walking out the front door, his notebook in hand. It's obvious where he's headed: the very cafe where we're sitting.

Holy fucking shit, I think. Are you kidding me?? I'm about to have my third unexpected encounter with him in twelve hours; my date, his second. I don't know whether to warn my date, to brace him for impact or not. But I don't have to, because it's mere seconds before Greg is upon us. The awkwardness is palpable in the hot morning air. Nobody knows what to say, or how to act. Greg gives a perfunctory nod, then disappears inside. I cannot believe the bad luck. My date and I laugh nervously and sip our drinks. I'm trying to seem neutral, unaffected, but the truth is, I'm feeling for Greg. I know he's probably seething at the fact that my date stayed the night, a privilege he was never allowed, and a sore spot between us. A minute later, he reemerges from Starbucks, and walks straight to our table. He puts his hand out to my date. He looks him squarely in the eye, and apologizes. "Hey man," he says. "I just want to apologize for my behavior last night. I know I was a little rough. No excuses, I wasn't a gentleman, and I'm sorry."

There's a brief exchange of testosterone and ego, the depths of which I can only guess at. It's expressed in the nuances of handshake, of eye contact - the man-to-man communique I can witness but will never fully understand. Greg directs his energy to my date, barely acknowledging me. Then he's gone as quickly as he's come. I have no idea what to think about any of this. My date leaves soon after. I walk him to his car a street away. Back on my block, I come upon Greg, who's loading his car in front of our building. At this point, it's comical how many times we've run into another in the past half day. But he doesn't laugh. He slams his car door, walking up to me quickly, and then immediately stepping back, agitated and incredulous. He runs his hands through his hair and shakes his head. He looks at me wildly.

"Why is it that I never run into you except the one day you're the last person I want to see?" I'm quiet, standing helplessly on the sidewalk. I know we need to talk, but I'm not sure where to start. What's to be said? And why is he this upset? "You let him stay the night?" He looks at me, wounded. "We've been hanging out for months, and you never let me sleep over."

I say his name, pleadingly. "We didn't want anything serious, remember? We talked about it. You didn't want anything. Neither did I. Where is this coming from?"

"Will you go for a drive with me?" he asks. "Please? I really want to talk to you." He's pacing. I've never seen him wound up like this. "I haven't slept all night."

I take stock of myself: I have no makeup on. I haven't brushed my hair. I'm not even wearing a bra. "Of course," I say. We get in the car and head west on Wilshire. He's driving fast, glancing over at me every few seconds. "I didn't sleep," he says. "I woke up every hour to check my phone, to see if you'd texted back. Did you get my email?" I tell him I haven't looked at my phone yet today. He looks directly at me. Again, I ask him to explain where this is coming from. A little bit of jealousy, ok, sure, that I can understand, but...

"Look, Ellie," he says. "I'm halfway in love with you..." He's still talking, but my brain has tripped on these words. He's completely sober. He's had the night to cool off, to gain some perspective on all of this. He can't be serious, but he is. He goes on to say that seeing me with another man was intolerable to him. That it made him realize what I mean to him. That all along he's known it, but maybe it's about time he showed me. That the thought of losing me kept him up all night. He tells me to read his email, which I do. It's an apology for "attempting to chase off" my "beau", but only because he "sometimes thinks I'm the Ellie for him". It ends with him begging me to call ASAP. It's signed, XO, Valentine.

I'm stunned. I did not expect this. At all. The next few hours are a blur. We stop at a camera supply store. He takes me to lunch, a delicatessen where we split a corned beef sandwich. When the food arrives, he moves to sit beside me in the booth. He spreads mustard on my half without my asking. We talk and talk and talk. He's intensely, insistently affectionate, putting his arm around me, kissing my cheek and forehead, gazing deeply at me. I allow all of this to happen, in spite of the fact that I've just sent my date home mere hours ago. I am too bewildered and busy processing to protest. My brain is on overtime; I've pulled out the file marked Greg, the one I'd handily filed away, knowing exactly what was in it and where it went - and now I've got it spread open before me. I have to reexamine its contents completely. I have no idea where it goes anymore. I have no idea where I want it to go. After we eat, we pay at the cashier stand. I make an offhand comment about wishing we'd saved some bread, to feed the ducks we'd been watching through the window, at the lake across the street.

"Could I maybe get a couple pieces of bread, to go?" he asks the cashier. I object, telling him not to be silly. He ignores me. The cashier tells him it will be two dollars for the bread. He asks her whether he can't just add a little extra to the tip line, to call it a day, rather than run his debit card again. She says something about that money going to the server. Unfazed, he says, "Ok, no problem. Just charge it then." He hands his card back to her. "We have a five dollar minimum on debit cards, sir." He doesn't even blink. "Wonderful. Can I please get five dollars worth of bread?" He smiles brightly at her, while I'm dying behind him.

We leave with a small bag containing five slices of bread and a cookie. We feed ducks, ducking and dodging the sea gulls who swarm us from above. He takes a picture of me, into which he'll later photoshop an eagle, mixed in with the various other birds hovering around us. As we're walking out of the park, he puts out his hand, silently gesturing for me to pass back to him the wrapped cookie he'd given me moments earlier. He trots a few yards over to a homeless person laying on the grass. I can't hear the words exchanged, but she lights up and happily accepts the cookie he hands to her.

Back at our building, he asks me to come up and listen to records (actual records) while he works. I oblige, though he doesn't do any work. He just plays music, and sits close to me on an overstuffed chair. At some point, he takes his guitar off the wall, and plays for me. He kisses me, and I allow it, hating myself for playing the lava game at warp fucking speed, but feeling powerless to stop.

I know that I need to get some air, some time alone to digest all of this. That I'm going to have to cut ALL of this off - the date and Greg - until I figure out what the fuck I want. That this is borderline disgusting behavior on my part, and it needs to stop, immediately. In my defense, I'm reeling with mixed, confusing emotions. I'm flattered. I'm intrigued. I'm excited. I'm unsure. I'm scared. I question what's going on, both silently and aloud: he's honest and vulnerable, in response. He doesn't have all the answers. He isn't sure about where he wants it to go, or how far. He just knows he wants to give it a shot, a real shot. My mind is split into two warring factions, one side urging me to go for it, because he truly is an amazing person. The other half is holding back, hung up on two major concerns: 1) My date - whom I really like. Really. And 2) the question of, how much could I really want this, anyway, if how casual it's been has never bothered me before? Eventually, I tear myself away from this confusing, overwhelming space. It's Friday night, and I have to get ready for work.

Tragically flawed

When I wake up, I read a text from Greg. It's a copy of the picture he took at the lake on the previous Friday, the one of me feeding ducks into which he'd photoshopped an eagle. I love this, he's sent with it.

I reply: That picture is awful.

He writes back: I like it. It proves that you're not a vampire.

It proves that I'm not pretty, is what it proves, I answer. I tell him that I did well at work the night before, and am going to go pay off my bike.

Want a lift? he asks. I explain that the bike shop is just a few blocks away on Broadway. Want a cohort? he amends. I accept the offer, and a few minutes later, he knocks on my door.

On the walk over, we rehash where things stand with us. I am strongly leaning towards not wanting to get further involved with him. In fact, I am nearly sure of it. I've agonized over the decision to tell him as much, because I can't seem to get my ass off the fence. And he knows it. He acknowledges my reticence, all the while gently reaffirming his own undiminished interest. I tell him that I've grown to adore him so much, to treasure his company and companionship and all of our fun times so dearly, that I'm terrified of what dating would do to our already great relationship. I know he's substantially younger (9 years), and that pretty much guarantees us an expiration date. I know at some point, he'll want someone closer to his age. Someone younger. And I have a feeling if (when!) it ends after getting truly romantically involved, it will end terribly. There'll just be too much pain. We'll have gotten too close, and our friendship won't survive. At this point, I tell him, I value our friendship way, way too much to risk losing it.

I don't tell him that I am also distracted by thoughts of someone else - the person he'd met, and who had sent him into a 12 hour tailspin the week before. I keep that variable out of the equation. And I don't say that this person, during the two dates I'd had with him, has drawn a strong reaction from me, physically. One that's been on my mind, and interfering with my ability to see things clearly.

He argues that we're nearly perfect for one another. That he doesn't care about my age, or that I dance. That everything lines up for us, that we get along like peas in a pod, that we're attracted to one another, get one another's senses of humor, that we have mutual interests. That he thinks we can retain a friendship if it doesn't work out. He wants to try, anyway. When we get to the bike shop, I realize I don't have quite enough to pay the layaway balance, unless I want to nearly clean out my checking account. I tell the guy helping me that I'll be back with the final $90 tomorrow.

Greg steps forward. "If she pays the balance now, can she take it home today?" The shopkeeper and I speak at the same time, him saying "yes" and me saying "no." I know where Greg is going with this, and shake my head firmly. Ignoring me, he takes out his debit card and hands it to the cashier. "Don't accept that," I say sharply. "Seriously." Greg smiles at me. "Come on, you were so excited to get your bike. Just pay me back tomorrow." We go a few rounds of me refusing and him insisting before I acquiesce, on the condition that he lets me pay him back (he doesn't, justifying the gift by explaining that he's made an unexpected repeat sale of one of his paintings).

Greg asks whether I have a helmet, and I laugh. "No way," I say. "I can ride a bike just fine." I look to the shopkeeper for support. "If you're over eighteen, you don't legally have to. But if you're going to be riding at night or in heavy traffic, I definitely recommend it." Greg looks at me pointedly. He knows I'd be doing both. "Uh uh." I shake my head. "I'll be fine." While we wait for them to customize my bike (I've had them add brakes to the front handlebars), we goof around in the shop. He takes a video, making me pose on a tiny kid's bike while he mock-interviews me about my big purchase. He teases me about how excited I am, but he's obviously getting a good deal of vicarious joy out of the experience. He's playful and affectionate, and pulls me to him to kiss my forehead and dance with me. His attention feels good. It always does: like wrapping myself up in a warm, familiar sweater. At one point, he brings me into his arms and playfully sways with me. It's the middle of the day, and we're standing in the middle of a bike shop, in the middle of downtown LA. He tells me if I don't let him take me on a date, a real date, that he's going to have to move away to escape me.

"Don't you dare," I whisper up at him. He leans close to my ear and sings: "I'm leaving, on a jet plane...don't know when I'll be back again..."

"Stop it," I say, punching his arm. He doesn't let go of me.

We've been waiting for some time, and Greg has a dinner date with his mom in a couple of hours. I tell him to go ahead, that I'll wait alone. He refuses. Another half hour passes. At this point, he's almost certainly going to be late to pick up his mother, but he won't leave. He tells me to wait at the front of the shop, and he'll go check on things in back, to see if he can't speed up the process. "You're going to have to come back for repairs and stuff, so I'll be the bad guy," he says. As he steps away, he turns and says conspiratorially, "I'll get you something free. Like a helmet."

He walks back to the service area, and I watch him conferring with the mechanic and shop manager. A few moments later, he waves me over. The shop manager gestures to a table nearby, piled with various helmets. "Let's get you a helmet," the manager says. "What's your favorite color?" I look at Greg, who's smiling, clearly pleased with himself. I won't find out until a couple days later that he's actually had to pay for the helmet.

The bike is ready a few minutes later, and we walk it home together. When we stop at Pershing Square to let the dog pee, he takes photos of me wheeling around on the pavement. My favorite part of the bike is the contrasting white tape I've had them put on the handlebars. I've mentioned it repeatedly to him, and now he teases me by making a point to comment on how cool it looks. I feel twelve and giddy, and he tells me how nice it is that I'm so excited and grateful. Later, he texts me a picture of himself just before he leaves for dinner. He's standing in the mirror, wearing a crisp white dress shirt and looking absurdly handsome - with his middle finger raised to the camera. What's with you and putting birds in all your pictures? I ask.

2 pts for you, he says, In the game of Ellie v. Greg. At work that night, I receive a text asking me if I want to come cuddle after I'm off. Something about it makes me feel panicky. I start to feel extremely anxious about where things are with him. I'm afraid they're spiraling out of my control, and I'm going to end up losing his friendship, if we don't set some boundaries once and for all. I text back, saying as much. I'm offering you my friendship, I say. I hope more than anything you'll accept it.

He doesn't give up. We smile, laugh, and generally adore each other to bits. We're excessively attracted to one another and somewhat mutually in love. The second I stop being all over you, you're gonna come and tell me you've been thinking about me and you might've been wrong again, he wrote. Tragically flawed we are.

What would dating change? I ask, not sure what point I'm trying to make.

I'd wear your jacket, he says.

I need to think, I tell him.

I need to drink, he says back.

Plot twist

When I get home from work on Wednesday night/Thursday morning, I am emotionally trashed. The texting I've done with Greg that night - and in fact, having spent the day with him - has me completely twisted. One minute, I look at all the amazing qualities he has as a person and that we have, together, and I feel like I'd be crazy not to date him. The next, I feel weirdly like I'm trying to talk myself into it. I'm scared of how bad it will hurt to lose him, when he's inevitably ready to move on from me.

Greg is too lovable, and our paths parallel in so many ways, that I know I can get really, really attached to him if I let myself. I know that if I start regularly sleeping with Upstairs while dating him, I'll fall in love with him. That's unquestionable. Then I'll really be fucked when it ends. I write Greg an email that says, basically, "Friends. That's my final answer. That's what I want: your friendship. Platonic. Please give it to me, because I don't want to lose you."

I can't sleep after I write it. I feel sick and unsure. I second guess myself. He writes back in the early morning. There's anger. Disappointment. He calls me out, fairly, on my many mixed signals. There is also kindness and generosity and understanding and respect. And a promise that I'll always have his friendship, but that maybe it's time we had a little space from one another. I am relieved, saddened, disappointed, and angry at myself - all sorts of messy, confusing emotions. Then, the plot twist comes. My date from the other day texts. He says he's having second thoughts about seeing me again, and about getting further involved (I haven't seen or spoken with him in a week). He says he's scared of getting hurt, and that he isn't sure I'm the right thing for him. In a nutshell, he dumps me. I'm surprised and disappointed, and my ego develops a big, ugly blue bruise. But then I realize how utterly ridiculous I am for feeling surprise. I should have seen this coming, one, and two, I fully deserve it, for having just cold put him on hold while I waffled. After the drama he was a party to, who'd blame him? I sit in the bathtub, stunned not at the fact that I've been dropped, but at the fact of how stupidly chaotic and drama-filled my life has become, in the course of a week. I'm thirty-six years old, I think. What the fuck. I'd been planning to go to work that night, to fully immerse myself in profitable distraction until the whole mess was a few days behind me, but when Cameron texts, wanting to go out, I jump at that plan instead.

An hour later I'm dressed to maim and on the train; we go to Akbar in Silver Lake. We take ecstasy. We dance to 80s deep cuts. We have an amazing, randomness-filled talk about life. We shut the bar down, catch a taxi home, and have food delivered: a huge serving of chili cheese fries. They come with a side of potato chips, and I actually use the chips to scoop up the fries. My name is Ellie, and I get by with a little help from my friends, their drugs, good music, and carbohydrates.

As simple as choosing

On Friday, I get an email from Greg, telling me he'd like to go for a walk today, to settle things mano a mano. Before I have a chance to reply, I run into him in the elevator. We both have our dogs, so we take them down to the street together. We walk in silence for a minute before he speaks. He tells me he understands everything I've been saying for the past eight days. That he hates the idea of making me uncomfortable with his overtures. He stops on the sidewalk and looks at me, and I catch my breath, to see how pained and sincere and open and vulnerable his expression is.

"But in spite of everything, I'd still date you if--"

"Then let's do it," I hear myself saying.

The air around us seems to freezes for a split second, while I brace myself for his reaction. It feels like hours. He stares at me, incredulous. If I'd been a third party, I would have looked at me the same way. I feel incredulous. Before replying with actual words, he makes a noise that seems to be equal parts disbelief, annoyance, amusement, and delight. I try to compose myself; I feel like crying. I suddenly want him, and badly so. I feel like I've just jumped off a bridge, tethered only by a rope around my ankle - the other end of which is tied around his waist. Everything he's been telling me since last week has led me to believe that I'll be safe if I take this leap - but I still feel terrified, for both of us. I am in no way sure he knows how fast and heavily I can fall. I am in no way sure he'll be able to keep us both alive. But I've gone and made the call to test us both. I've said the words, and there's no going back. The waffling is over. I know what makes me say it, and I know what doesn't.

I say it because in that moment, I realize how incredible - how miraculous - it is, that after all the hot-cold hoops I've put him through, here he is, still ready to take a chance with me. He's fearless, I realize. Fucking fearless. In that moment, there on the sidewalk, I realize what an incredibly beautiful thing his fearlessness is. How rare and precious it is. It kind of makes me fall instantly in love with him a little bit. Just the littlest bit. It kind of makes me see him in a way I never have before. I realize, suddenly, that I can choose to love him, if I want to. Or at least choose to see if I will. I've nearly rationalized this person out of my life because I've been afraid of what loving him could do to me down the line. But it's as simple as choosing to see it differently: to see the things that are already there (the friendship, fun, laughter), and the things that can be there. I don't say it because this hasn't worked out. I know how much it might seem like that, to someone reading this story in serial installments. But it isn't about that. That's the furthest thing from my mind. It's 100% about Greg himself, and about seeing, finally, how much he's brought to my life - about recognizing that those things could be just the tip of the iceberg. That I'd be a fucking fool to at least not give it a shot. Never regret the things you do in life. Only the things you don't do.

I know I don't need him in my life. I can be perfectly okay on my own. I know that without question. I was prepared to be single, for all intents and purposes, for a good long time, until some of the bigger puzzle pieces in my life fall into place. But Greg brings something really special to my life. He isn't a need, nor am I for him. But we give one another joy. Why wouldn't we want more of it? The next twenty minutes, walking around the block, are a blur. He seems surprised, skeptical, wary, excited, hopeful, happy. He tells me I'm crazy. He tells me he doesn't know what to think, or what to believe. I tell him I completely understood, and don't blame him one bit. But that if his offer still stands, all I'm asking for is one date - one official date, finally. He can't stop smiling, or looking at me. We're giggling. He takes my hand. He puts his arm around me. He tells me we'll have to take things slow, that we'll have to go on one date and see what happens. He says he's scared. I say I am, too.

-—

That night, we text up a frenzy. We make plans to hang out at the St. Patrick's Day block party the next day, held directly in front of our building. We text-banter nonstop in the hours before I leave for work.

Please please please just stay my friend, he says. I don't wanna lose this. No one else gets my jokes.

I write back: Friends first and above all. Pinky swear.

Ellie, I'm in, he says, and my heart soars a little bit.

We have a poetry slam, while I'm on the train to work: (me) Riding the blue line Someone sits too close; I move Green beer tomorrow (him) He receives a text The phone lights up; so does he Sydney scoffs and turns. (me) A guantlet is thrown Fuck, what rhymes with [his real name]? Dirty limericks rule. (him) Challenge accepted: We pronounce words differently. I say limerick

---

We speak again briefly, after I get home from work. Plans to meet up the next day, while we both are out with our friends. I'm excited about seeing Hollywood U2 again, about watching the concert with him. I tell him he'll find me by looking for the girl wearing yellow + blue instead of green. He tells me to Google "snowclone", a cool word he's just learned. We say goodnight, and the thoughts I have of him as I go to sleep are different than others I've ever had. It's as if he's completely new to me.

I can't wait to see him the next day.

Away team

Greg texts from Mas Malo, wanting to know if I'd like him to bring me back some chocolate flan. I tell him no thanks, that I'm not a fan of the flan. Neither is he. I'm a creme brulee guy, he says. Then, I adore you.

I respond: Just don't dessert me.

A few minutes later, he sends me a picture: a worm floating in a glass of amber liquid. Good idea or bad idea? he asks. I tell him I hear they flourish in the small intestines of nice Jewish boys. Flourish and multiply, I add.

You're just afraid that I'll get drunk and harass you, he says. Which I will. Then in a bit: Can I come over for a minute? I have a tequila worm and we're gonna do this together. Once here, he tries to convince me to split the worm with him. I refuse. Instead, we cut it and offer half to Chaucer, who wants nothing to do with it.

We mess around for a couple of hours, talking and listening to Washed Out. I slip my bare feet into his sheepskin slippers, clomping around and doing an exaggerated impression of him. I threaten to march over and knock on my neighbor's down the hall, and when I step halfway out my door, he pushes me the rest of the way out and locks it behind me. I'm wearing nothing but underwear and men's slippers. I rap on my door quietly, frantically whispering a demand for admittance. He cracks it slightly, then whistles loudly into the hallway to draw the attention of my neighbors.

When I announce that I'm hungry, he says, "That's my favorite thing to hear you say." I raise an eyebrow; I'm pretty sure there are things he prefers more. He laughs and explains, "No really. I'm terrible at taking care of myself, but I really love taking care of other people. I love feeding you." But I demur. He's spent a small fortune on food, drinks, and entertainment for me; until I can even the score a little bit, I'm determined to provide my own victuals.

He has some work to do, and wants me to come upstairs and keep him company while he does it. But there are some things I want to do around home, plus I'm feeling extremely worn out already: we stayed up until four am the night before, talking and showing one another our favorite YouTube videos. He attempts bribery: he'll order food for me; he'll put on Rear Window; I can bring my laptop and work alongside him.

At this last, I look at him. "Really? You wouldn't mind if I was just working on my computer while you painted?"

"I'd love it," he says. But I pass, lying to myself that I'm still going to vacuum and mop. That I'm going to organize my iPhoto albums, which have gotten out of hand. That I'm going to go for a run. He offers to come back down after he's done with his work, to sleep at my place and be "the away team". He knows I have difficulty sleeping outside of my own bed. "That way you can kick me out whenever, if you still can't sleep. You won't have to get up and leave." But I regretfully decline this offer, too. I'm just too exhausted, and facing down four consecutive nights of work starting tomorrow.

He leaves, but returns a few minutes later with food for me: two varieties of Udon soup from his pantry, and a bottled iced tea from his fridge. I shake my head in wonder, but he shrugs it off. He sits on the arm of my couch, and I stand between his legs. We're lingering, procrastinating the work we both need to be doing. He wraps his arms around me and makes up a silly, nonsensical story about the two of us and a bowl of Udon soup. When he leaves, I try and fail at writing anything of substance. I'm just unable to connect any creative dots. I'm feeling low and down on myself; job hunting is going poorly. Plus, I'm not feeling remotely ready to go back to work tomorrow, and dread the next four days.

smitten

I wait until I know he's out for a few hours, then I grab the two down pillows I've bought in the fabric district, a tape dispenser, and the three page invitation I've drawn. I take the stairs up to his apartment, just in case, so I don't bump into him. I prop the pillows in the corner by his door, and tape the pages to the wall.

You are invited to be my partner in feathery violence on International Pillow Fight Day, Saturday, April 7.

Itinerary as follows:

1pm - pillow decorating session (markers will be provided).

1:30pm - caloric fortification (known to some as "lunch").

2pm - journey to battle field.

3pm - THE BATTLE BEGINS (and lo, destruction was wrought, verily).

Please RSVP.

The response choices I gave:

Yes! I'm in! And I seriously can't think of a more fabulous way to spend a Saturday.

Regrets! The first Saturday of every month is reserved for ball-shaving and I missed last month, so the situation is DIRE.

Other (please indicate).

An hour later, he texts. You're the funnest girl ever invented. He comes down for a bit, and we talk and listen to music. I'm feeling a bit stressed about being unproductive, so I pull a Classic Ellie and displace some of my anxiety on to him. He calls me on it. It's your responsibility to take care of your own shit. Don't sleep all day. Get up and do what you need to do. I feel ridiculous. I'm supposed to be the more mature one. Are you sure you have room in your life for this? It takes a lot of energy to be in a relationship, to care about someone else and their feelings. I absolutely do, and tell him as much, but there's still some tension between us. He's internalizing the crap I've just dumped on him, and I hate myself for it.

When he gets up to go, I stand on the bed and wrap my arms around him. I make him repeat after me. My girlfriend is perfect for me....My girlfriend sometimes gets behind on sleep and gets cranky and starts saying stupid shit... I don't let him leave until he's smiling again.

When he turns at the edge of my hall to wave bye, I run and slide to him, sock-footed. He catches me and scoops me up. I wrap my legs around his waist and he pins me to the wall. His eyes break my heart, they're so full and sweet. He buries his face in my hair and says "I'm in love with you," then tells me to say it back. I say it softly first, then louder. Then I throw my head back and yell it, using his full name. "I'm in love with you, Gregory Brett Auerbach!!!"

He goes to work out, and I head out for a run. He texts when he leaves the gym. You're crazy. And lovely. Yelling in the hallway made me blush. And now I'm smiling about it. He stops by later, on his way to dinner with a friend, as I'm getting ready for work. While I chat up his friend, he stands close to me, his hand on my hip. As they're leaving, he leans in and in a low voice against my cheek, tells me again that he loves me. I cannot get enough - of the words, of the way he always puts his mouth close to my ear say them. The best secret never kept.

At work, I receive this: Sorry for getting a little touchy before, you're my favorite person/activity/cohort and I really love that/lover/provacateur/evacateur/promiscumistress/BFF/sex kitten/neighbor/cookmate. I read it several times, my eyes circling back to the BFF bit again and again.

Your sign is the best thing ever created on paper, he says.

I'm pretty sure Martin Luther scooped me with his proclamations, I reply.

He tells me he'd love to see me before I go to bed, when I'm done with work. Your creativity is so sexy, he adds.

When I get home, I go straight to his place, sweaty and flushed from my twenty minute bike ride. He's left the door open, so I let myself in. He's sitting at his new workstation, atop a bar stool under the Edison lights he's just hung. His laptop is open in front of him; I can see he's working in Illustrator. While I lounge in an overstuffed chair and regale him with work anecdotes, he finishes up his project. It's for me - his reply to my pillow fight invitation.

All the while he's working, printing, writing, spray-painting (all out of my view), he tells me how much he loves this, what we're doing - the creative, artistic, silly, playful exchange. I don't know how to tell him how one in a million he is, that he feels this way. I don't know how to tell him that guys don't do this stuff, and it means the world to me, too. Finally, he's done, and he presents his work to me. I'm speechless. He's designed, written, printed, and mounted a multi-media RSVP, complete with gold-leaf feathers on it. It's ridiculous and beautiful and over the top in the best possible way. He's checked boxes that say Hell Yeah! and Other!, and written I'd love to. I've become smitten, enamored, and generally taken aback in the loveliest of ways by the loveliest of girls, Elizabeth Baker. If she goes, I will most certainly be in attendance, in the best form, with the finest and cleanest down pillow that I can find.

I play him some music he's never heard, while he cooks me an omelette. Freelance Whales, The National. He's meticulous about how he serves me, plating it beautifully and adding garnish to the hummus he's put on the side. A fervid love of hummus is the latest culinary commonality we've discovered between us: we could both eat it by the spoonful, and do. We marvel for the dozenth time at how well we "synch up", as he puts it. He shows me some of the early work he's done on his next round of paintings. He plays his film school thesis project for me, and I read some of his shorter writings - pieces I'd skimmed on his portfolio site before, but never looked at closely. He wants to share these things with me, needs to even - but gets uncomfortable the minute I start to compliment his work, which is thorough, thoughtful, and exciting.

I leave to crash back at home; I'm utterly exhausted, and he has an 8am TV installation. As I'm collapsing into bed, the phone rings. He's calling just to tell me how much he cares about me, how happy he is we've gotten together.

I sleep harder than I have in ages.

Prom night ‘12

I'm finishing up getting ready when he knocks on my door and pops his head in, peering down to the bathroom where I stand primping. "Are you decent?" I hear two more voices, and before I know what's happening, the snap and flash of a camera catch me off guard.

"It's prom," Greg says, grinning. "We have to have a prom photographer, right?"

My jaw falls open as he steps over to greet me with a hug and kiss and the coyest What? face I've ever seen. More snaps, more flashes. He's brought his best friend (who brought along his girlfriend) to document the scene, to photograph us greeting one another, getting ready, and leaving together. He's been planning this for days, as a fun surprise to start off the night. I'm still processing this information when I realize he's holding a small wooden planter with three orchid stems.

"I didn't think you'd want to be encumbered by a corsage, but I still wanted to give you flowers." He holds up the base, turning it to show me what he's written in marker at the bottom. "See? I inscribed it." I read: Prom Night '12. I quickly run out of ways to exclaim my surprise and delight, and just keep repeating "You're ridiculous," while shaking my head.

We pose for several classic, cheesy prom shots, but his friend keeps snapping even while we properly greet one another, taking in each other's formal wear. It's the first time I've seen him in a suit, and I'm so impressed I'm actually a bit intimidated. I'll spend all night fingering the crisp, smooth fabric of his shirt, which is impeccably tailored and perfectly pressed. His pants and jacket are slim fitting, luxe, well chosen. I'll tell him later that when, in the past, the men in my life have wanted help assembling stylish, polished outfits (and I've faltered, because WTF do I know about men's clothes?), that his ensemble - and the way he wears it - is what they had in mind.

His friend continues to shoot nonstop until we're outside the building, encouraging us to mug and ham for the camera. Greg, who normally hates to have his photo taken, is fully committed and goofy, kissing my cheek, popping the corner of his glasses into his mouth, kicking up his heels. Out on the street, we say goodbye to his friends and grab a taxi. The event itself is much smaller and less formal than I'd anticipated, but the DJs are fantastic and we have a great time talking, dancing, and shamelessly flirting with one another. He says things I never expected to hear from anyone, much less him. He says things I hope I never forget. It's easy and comfortable to be with him. The more time we spend together, the more we realize how alike we are, in our personality quirks (read: neuroses); this amuses us greatly (probably because we both are neurotic).

Afterwards, we get breakfast at The Pantry, feeding one another bites of pancake, of egg-soaked sourdough and bacon. Back outside, we head towards our street before realizing it's too cold and my legs are too sore to hoof it all the way home. He jumps onto a low wall adjacent to the sidewalk and moons the street while I wave down a cab. I climb inside the car and he comes skipping to join me, tucking in his shirt and zipping up his pants while he runs. We sleep fitfully, tangled up in our limbs, the sheets, and a half-drunken desire to make love. In the morning, we lounge for hours and talk. I notice that I'm starting to mimic his speaking cadence - even his accent when it comes out after a few drinks.

He plays Moxy Fruvous for me and rubs my calves (brutally sore from racing him three blocks home a few nights prior). Without accompaniment, I sing Suzanne Vega's Gypsy in his ear, though I forget the third verse. I'm aware as I sing them how well the lyrics fit him. Distracted by the women with the dimples, and the curls.

He shows me two of his favorite short films, and listens thoughtfully, smiling, when I deconstruct Cashback.

"It's problematical," I say, and he encourages me to explain. He understands what I mean by "male gaze" (he's used the phrase himself before), and he doesn't get defensive when I criticize the film both from a feminist perspective and my own personal one.

We finally tear ourselves out of bed to walk the dogs and get coffee across the street. When I spill my caramel macchiato down the front of my favorite Free City t-shirt, we both laugh at me.

The sun is strong and it's a pretty day.

Wordless. Full of words.

It's just past seven in the morning when my father calls. I'm asleep - we both are. It's the first night Greg. and I have spent together where I've really, actually slept, and well.

The night before: running together in south central LA, then wandering around the Arts District, shivering and holding on to one another in the late night cold, clad only in t-shirts and sweat pants. "Ok, we've got a budget of $20," he says, peering into his wallet. It becomes an adventure, and we weigh our options carefully: hot soup, to warm us up; bubble tea, in Little Tokyo; Pinkberry; drinks at a lounge where jazz singers are having an open mic session (our first choice, but the menu prices force us back on our way). We choose a tiny sushi joint, ordering the most food we can for $10 - shrimp and vegetable tempura, and soup.

"If you don't charge us a split plate fee, we'll have more to tip you," Greg tells the server, with a smile. We're not charged for the split, and the sushi chef even prepares a couple of complimentary tasting dishes for us: savory chicken meatballs that crumble in our chopsticks, and thinly sliced Kobe beef of which Greg feeds me the lion's share. Everything tastes scrumptious to me, starving and cold from our long walk, though I refuse to eat the shrimp tails. "Come on, they're fried," he cajoles, but I'm having none of it.

Afterward, we amble back through Little Tokyo, talking about work, career options for me, the who-knows-maybe possibility of living together someday down the line. I tell him how fun and exciting it is to have an artist for a boyfriend. He tells me he's in it - our relationship - for the long haul. I tell him I am, too. He says the thing he's been saying for weeks now, and the way he says it - with that soft, happy smile and slight shaking of his head - makes me believe it: We're so great, baby. We're so great together. He tells me there are no "buts" with me. No problems, or issues, or exclusionary clauses to loving me.

Later, I'll tell him how easy it is to love him. That I've never known a man so easy to love, in fact, or who's made it so easy. You cleared out all the obstacles. You made a path for me, I'll say.

We take our remaining $7 and go to Yogurtland, where we guesstimate serving sizes by the ounce, trying to squeeze out every last dime. I'm a novice at self-serve fro-yo, and make my selections cautiously. "There are no rules here, you know." His eyes are bright. "You can even put toppings between layers."

We nearly nail it, coming in at $6.36. "We can still afford another cherry," Greg says, half seriously. "Grab one." I push him away from the counter, and we sit and gorge on nearly identical choices in flavors and toppings: dulce de leche, cookie dough, vanilla, cookies and cream, caramel syrup.

On the walk home, I'm asthmatic from the cold. Greg wraps his arms around me from behind, lifting my arms above my head and pressing his chest to my back. He instructs me to take slow, deep breaths, holding and exhaling with me while I try to fill my lungs.

Back at his apartment, he tends to his sick dog while I play my favorite numbers from American Idols past, and make him watch Johann Hari's speech about religious fundamentalism. When he takes issue with part of the speech and I get defensive, he calls me on it.

"Don't steamroll me," he says. "Just because I can't formulate my arguments as quickly as you doesn't mean I don't have something worthwhile to say. Someday you're going to talk right over someone who has some great, Christopher Hitchens-esque point to make, and you'll never even get to hear it."

Later, we get silly, looking up the words to the diarrhea song (the condition of which is affecting his dog, terribly) and watching funny YouTube videos. When I nearly fall out of his lap, hysterical, during my favorite Quiznos commercial, he shakes his head in wonder, staring at me. "Who are you," he asks, not for the first time. He shows me a mock-up of four versions of his latest piece, and we're in agreement on which one is the best. We don't go to bed until past two am.

—-

When the early morning call comes, I send it to voicemail without much thought. My dad knows the chances of me being awake at that hour are slim to none; he'll be expecting me not to return the call until later. We sleep until 11, and Greg makes us breakfast: eggs, bacon, broiled tomatoes, hummus. I hand grind coffee beans, which he then carefully brews in a pour over, using a drip kettle; he explains how the process keeps the grounds from becoming too bitter. When I help him unload/load the dishwasher, he comments on it, appreciative, and gets excited when he sees I've made his bed for him.

It isn't until after noon that I listen to the message my dad has left. His voice is hoarse, strained. He's in the hospital. Pneumonia. It's nothing to worry about, he says. He's going be sent home within the next day, barring any unforeseen complications. He doesn't leave the name of the hospital in his voicemail, and when I call his cell phone back, he doesn't answer.

I get online and start calling hospitals near the small city where he lives, outside of Tampa. The second one I try affirms he's checked in, and connects me to his room. His room number is the same as my apartment number. His voice sounds strong when he answers, and when he hears it's me, he exclaims excitedly, the phrase he always says when I call, his New York accent still thick and comforting to me: How ya doing, child?

He tells me he's about to be discharged. He tells me he's had three days of tests, at the hospital. He tells me he's just spoken to the doctor, an hour ago, and just gotten his diagnosis.

He tells me he has small cell lung cancer.

He tells me that the prognosis is not good.

He tells me that they want to start treatment immediately. That he told the doctor no one was laying a finger on him until he spoke with his daughter. He tells me he'd like to see me, and my heart splits, to think he thinks he needs to say it. Of course, I mumble, biting my tongue to not cry. I'll be there tomorrow.

Everything after that gets blurry.

He says something about making decisions. I hear the phrases "end of life" and "quality of life", but they sound as if they're coming from far, far away, or through water.

After we say goodbye, I go upstairs. Greg tries to hold me, but I'm too angry to stay still. So, so, so angry. There's no correlation, there's no point in tying the two things together, but I do it anyway: I've just lost my mother, less than three years ago. It's juvenile and self-indulgent and I know better than to think there's some force of judgment at work anywhere in the universe, but all I can think, over and over, is it's not fair. Both my parents, before I'm even forty?? It's not fair.

I clench my fists and yell and run to Greg's bathroom where I clutch at towels and cry out in rage. When I come back out, I apologize, and Greg shakes his head. "What are you sorry for? You have nothing to be sorry for. You wanna scream? Scream. You want to cry? Cry. You want to hit me? Hit me."

I feel stupid, useless, helpless, self-conscious. I don't know what behavior is appropriate. I'm angry at myself, because my tears feel like they're for myself. Like self-pity, which I have no business feeling. "Let's be productive," Greg says. He books me a flight, using his own miles, and necessarily paying for it because he's done so. When I ask him to, he reads to me from his laptop about small cell lung cancer. He doesn't say much, but I can see what he's not saying, in the way he glosses over paragraphs. He finally just looks at me and shakes his head. "Is that enough?" he asks gently, meaningfully. "It's cancer. Even if it's toe cancer, it's never good."

When I break down, he holds me tightly and tells me that it isn't necessarily a death sentence. Options. Treatment. But I know my father. He's the man who always swore he'd put a bullet in his own head when he started to feel his vitality slipping away.

I can't imagine the ways this is hitting him.

Greg tells me not to worry about us, but he makes me pinky promise I'll not stay in Florida forever, that I'll be back. I look him in the eye and tell him I may have to stay for a while, that I don't know what my father is going to want to do, or what to expect. He understands, he says. "We'll figure it out." He puts his forehead against mine. "I'm so sorry. No one should have to deal with this. Not you, not him. But you don't need to worry about us. Take that off your plate." He reminds me that I have good friends who love me, who'll help me (Cameron has already agreed to take care of Chaucer while I'm gone) - that I have a new boyfriend who'll do whatever he can to support me.

He walks me back downstairs, not turning or walking away until I've shut the door in front of him. "There's no reason for you to be alone right now," he says, but that's all I want. I want to write and eat and hold my dog and catch my breath. He doesn't let me go until I promise to have dinner with him tonight, again tomorrow before my red eye, and to let him drive me to the airport. When I object, saying how much I love the Flyaway, he gets genuinely upset. "If you take the Flyaway, I'll never talk to you again. Do you understand? I'm driving you to the airport. That's not open to negotiation."

Once alone, I don't write or eat or do anything until I type the words into the search engine.

small cell lung cancer

Crash course. There are two stages: limited and extensive. I read: The median survival rate (the time at which 50% of people have died and 50% are still alive) is 16-24 months, with a 2-year survival rate of 40-50% -- though only 10% of people with limited stage disease show no evidence of cancer 2 years after diagnosis. The survival rate at 5 years is 14% with treatment.

For extensive stage small cell lung cancer the median survival with treatment is 6 to 12 months with treatment, and only 2 to 4 months without treatment.

I read more: Only about 6% of people with this type of cancer are still alive 5 years after diagnosis.

I stop reading. I hold my dog. I write. I catch my breath, and take a deep one for what lays ahead.

Blake

I spent most of yesterday afternoon curled up in bed, trying to keep (find?) perspective and rehearsing cheery-sounding greetings/encouragements in my head, for when I see my father tomorrow morning. At some point, Greg knocked softly on my door, but I had nothing, nothing, nothing, so I didn't move from where I lay. When I didn't answer, he duct-taped some flowers to my door, and texted. I stole some flowers from downstairs but you're out. Just to be clear, I fully agree that I was an underachiever in just grabbing one stem. In the future, I'll steal for you in bulk.

I told him to come back, and he crawled into bed with me and lay on his side, watching me talk. "I have some good news," he said. "I have business in Florida, in about a week and a half. I'll get to come see you." His family has a home in southern Florida (about three hours from where my dad lives), and he's done some networking with galleries down there, so at first I believed this. Of course, it was a lie, and he admitted it. "I can't come out with you tomorrow, that'd be overkill and you have to get your bearings. But I can come out in about a week and a half. We'll go to Disneyworld." he said. "You shouldn't be alone out there. You don't need to be." I asked if we could go to the aquarium, where there was a really cool jellyfish tank with ultraviolet lights. "Whatever you want," he said, and touched my cheek.

I warned him that my father's house is...eclectically decorated. That it has multicolor walls. Orange. Sherbet green. That they're hung with a random assortment of tapestries, cheap tribal masks, and maps. That any cabinet not crammed with books is filled with horrifying tchotchkes. "The place is sort of insane," I explained. "In fact, I haven't been there since he got that cat last year. I'm worried for the cat's sanity." Greg said it sounded fabulous and he was looking forward to meeting my father. We talked about not knowing how long I'd be gone. When I started to get anxious, he told me to relax. "We'll figure it out. You don't know anything yet. What's important is that we love each other and we want to be together." For the dozenth time, he made promise not to move to Florida permanently. And he reminded me that there was no reason for me to stop writing while I was gone, or to stop looking for work.

Around nine, we walked to the grocery store for dinner supplies. Before I could stop him, he marched straight to the seafood counter and asked the butcher (fishmonger?) for a live lobster. My protestations were, predictably enough, ignored. "Can you take off the bands now, too?" he said to the guy. "We like to live dangerously." The counter guy pulled a fat, maroon-colored lobster from the tank and held it up for our inspection. When it started to thrash its claws about, he announced it was a good choice. "They're supposed to be lively," he explained. "That's what Martha says."

So we named her Blake.

We carried Blake home and I popped into the bathroom while Greg unloaded the groceries. When I came out, he asked me to check on her. "Is she still in the bag? I put her in the bottom right drawer of the refrigerator." When I opened the fridge to look, the drawer was empty. I peered around for minute, frowning, before I saw him grinning at me.

Blake spent her last minutes of life in Greg's kitchen sink (having first suffered the indignity of being sniffed and rebuffed by Sydney), after which I was given a chance to a) leave or b) at least avert my gaze for The Killing. I chose to watch, fascinated, as he butchered the beast up. We stuck her in the oven along with some asparagus that we dressed in soy sauce, and Greg showed me how to clarify butter. He kneeled down and looked at our dinner. "Is it supposed to still be moving?" he asked. I sat on the floor, indian-style, to watch the lobster steam and twitch. Fifteen minutes later, we feasted straight from the trays, using our fingers to tear meat from shell, and feeding one another drippy, buttery bites of animal and vegetable.

Afterwards, he made me wait on my favorite lounge chair while he sprinted across the street to Famima for a surprise. When he came back, he unloaded a bag with four tiny containers of Haagen Dazs, milk, and various kinds of cookies, candy, and my favorite cereal. He pulled out Hershey's syrup, peanut butter, and a banana from his pantry, and a Magic Bullet from his cabinet. I stared at the bounty, terrified, and he lifted me by my waist onto his kitchen island, to watch. "Shakes," he explained. "Endless varieties. Anything you want."

"You're making me a shake sampler?" I asked.

“A shake flight," he corrected.

Under my direction, he made two shakes before we had to let Sydney out for a pee. I borrowed a huge hooded sweatshirt and a pair of his Converse, and shuffled down the hall with him and his dog, sucking my cookies-and-cream shake through a bendy straw. When we got downstairs and he saw that it was raining, he ordered me to wait inside. "If she opens that door," he said to our doorman, "tackle her."

I let him get two steps out in the pouring rain before carefully stepping out after him. The sidewalk was slick and I had to slide my feet along so as not to slip in his oversized shoes. When I caught up with him, unsuccessfully trying to convince his dog to step into a puddle-filled tree well, he shook his head at me.

Back upstairs, he showed me something he'd spent the day working on: an idea he had for a new line of work he'd been experimenting with - one that would be both labor and technically intensive, but really interesting, and hugely marketable. I told him how much he impresses me, and he dropped his eyes and stepped away, smiling, in the way he always does when my praise pleases but embarrasses him.

We debated several movie choices before I realized I really wasn't up for anything, that I wanted to be done thinking, and to just sleep. I thanked him for being a spectacular boyfriend, for spending the day taking care of me, doing things to distract me. I pointed out that over the past days he'd spent several hours helping me in some way: cooking for me, doing work on my apartment (a panel/rod of my curtains came out of he wall), doing thoughtful, fun things to make me happy.

"I'd do anything to make you smile," he said.

I didn't sleep well, but that had nothing to do with him. Or Blake.