“Colin, you absolutely cannot hang up and call this poor woman to say you love her for the first time!” Kat says. “That ship has sailed. The price of admission has gone way up now.”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, genuinely confused.
“She’s saying you gotta grand gesture the fuck outta her, brah!” Keane shouts from the back.
“Language, Keaney,” Mrs. Morgan says, pointing at little Mia on Dax’s lap.
“I’ve heard Uncle Keaney say worse than that before,” Mia mutters, as Ryan is saying, “Keane’s right, dude.” Ryan grimaces. “Ach. I hate saying that, in any context. But Kat and Keane are both right—words won’t be enough anymore. I mean, you also need to say the words. And don’t scrimp on them. But at this point, you’re gonna need to ride in on your white horse before saying all the right words.”
“Sweep her off her feet, Colinoscopy!” Keane calls out.
“You need to do something that takes her breath away!” Kat agrees enthusiastically. “Something that shows her how much you’ve been listening to her. Something designed specifically for her.”
“Shit,” I mutter. “I mean, shoot. Sorry, Louise.”
“I’ve heard it all before,” Mia mutters.
I run my hand through my hair. “Okay, I hear what you’re saying. Any suggestions?”
“We don’t know the girl like you do,” Kat says. “What would make her feel like you’ve moved mountains to—"
“I’ve got it!” I blurt. “I know what to do!” I’m shaking from adrenaline. I leap up from my couch and pace around my living room, feeling electrified. “I’ve gotta go, guys! Thank you, Morgan Mafia! I love you the most!”
“Give us a hint!” Kat shouts.
“No time for that. Gotta go. I’ll fill you in later.”
“Go balls to the walls, Colinoscopyyyyy!” Keane yells.
“Roger!”
‘Rabbit,” the entire group responds, even Mia on Dax’s lap. Because that’s what any Morgan worth their salt always says after hearing the word “roger,” in any context.
I end the call with the Morgans and immediately place one to my brother in arms, my piscatorial best friend: Matthew Fishberger.
“Fish Tacoooo,” I say enthusiastically, after he picks up the call. “I need you and your guitar and your big ol’ songwriting brain, pronto.”
“Huh?”
“I need you to help me write a love song.”
“Wait, you want to write a love song?” Fish asks. I don’t blame him for being shocked. It’s the first time I’ve made this kind of request, in the history of our friendship.
“Yep. I’m going to write the most perfect, heartfelt love song in the history of the world for Amy—and we both know I’m gonna need a lot of help to pull that off.”
“Am I gonna be the one to sing this love song to Amy, or—”
“No, I’m gonna sing it to her, dumbass! Obviously. She’s my girlfriend!”
“Whoa.”
“Chop chop, Matthew! Get your ass over here. We don’t have a lot of time.”
“How long do we have?”
“We have to write it tonight, so I can sing it to her tomorrow. We’ll swing by the movie studio tomorrow before we head over to the Sing Your Heart Out taping.”
“I’m confused. I thought you were done shooting all your scenes for the movie.”
“I am. But Amy’s been ghosting me, and I have no idea where she’s been staying, so I’m gonna surprise her at work tomorrow. I’m pretty sure she’s gonna start work on the movie set tomorrow, now that I’m no longer there. So, we’re gonna show up and I’m gonna sweep her off her feet! Ka-bam!”
“Why has Amy been ghosting you?”
“Because I’m an idiot. I’ll tell you about it in person. Are you coming here or am I going there? Time’s a-ticking.”
“You’d better come here. I just smoked a huge bowl.”
I chuckle. “Okay, I’m on my way. Stay awake for me.”
“You’d better pack an overnight bag. Depending how long it takes us to pound out this ‘perfect’ love song, you might want to crash here tonight, so we can drive to the studio and the taping together tomorrow.”
“Good thinking. I’ll be there in twenty, Fish Head. Thanks.”
“Make it forty and grab me a pizza on your way. Ally’s having dinner at her mom’s tonight. I’m hungry.”
“There’s no time, Fish Head.”
“You want to exploit my songwriting skillz, then you need to feed me, Seymour.”
“Fine. One pizza coming up. Stay awake for me.”
“Make it two pizzas.” He snorts. “I smoked a lot of weed.”
Where does this lanky man put all the food he eats? “Fine,” I say, exasperated. “Two pizzas. Just don’t pass out on me before I get there.”
“Roger.”
“Rabbit. See you soon.”
Thirty
Colin
“Put a fire under your lanky ass, Matthew!” I shout at Fish, as he sloooowwwwly grabs his guitar case out of his car’s backseat.
“You’re a madman,” Fish replies calmly, straightening up with his guitar case in hand. “We’ve got plenty of time.”
“No, we don’t!” I shout in reply, beckoning furiously for Fish to hurry the fuck up. “We’re short on time, as a matter of fact, thanks to the surf sesh you insisted on having after breakfast!”
Fish rolls his eyes as he languidly closes his car door and presses a button to lock up. “You need to take a very large chill pill, my dude. It’s all gonna work out fine.”
We’re in the VIP parking lot of the studio where I worked last week. Shooting on my scenes is over, but production has resumed today for everyone else, after taking the weekend off. Luckily, when I texted the production manager, Margaret, and told her I’d left something behind on-set last week—and could I swing by with my bandmate, Fish, to retrieve it?—she said no problem, she’d put our names on the list.
And now, here we are. Poised and ready to sweep Amy off her feet with the world’s most honest and intimate love song, written especially for her and performed by me in front of every crew and cast member we worked with last week! How’s that for grand gesturing the fuck outta Amy O’Brien?
When Fish is finally ready to go, I begin sprinting toward the security check-in area. When we get there, the guard recognizes me from last week—but, unfortunately, he also recognizes Fish. Which means he suddenly realizes, oh my God, he was chatting with the drummer of 22 Goats all last week and didn’t even realize it! He asks for a selfie with both of us and then goes on and on about his love of 22 Goats. Which would be okay, I suppose, if Fish didn’t elongate the conversation by talking about music with the guy for half my life.
When I can’t take it anymore, I blurt, “Sorry, man. We’d love to stay and chat, but we’re running late.”