I've got sixteen solid songs." There's a long pause on the other end and then, "Seriously?" I'm nodding my head dramatically even though he can't see me. "Seriously." Another long pause. "I'll be over in ten." Ten minutes later, I'm standing in the driveway wishing I was smoking a cigarette, but most importantly not smoking a cigarette because I'm fucking determined to kick this shit and it's already been a week, when Franco pulls up to our house. He gets out of his truck and his grin is huge, even by Franco standards. His headphones are hanging around his neck, a pair of drumsticks are tucked into his back pocket, and he's carrying a case of Modelo. I point to the beer. "I see you brought lunch." "I like to call it inspiration," he says. He actually is pretty damn creative when he drinks, but I don't say anything. He knows the refinement and fine-tuning that needs to happen now is up to me and him. It used to be Bright Side I relied on. He knows those are big shoes to fill, but Franco hears music with his heart.
