Between the Sets || Gerard Way

Chapter twenty two

"Oh my god, you're in love with him."

I almost dropped my plastic cup of pineapple chunks.

Frank.

He was grinning like he'd just caught me kissing a cardboard cutout of Gerard in the supply closet. Which, for the record, had never happened.

"Excuse me?" I said flatly.

"You heard me." He followed me out into the sun, skipping like a gremlin. "You're making that face."

"What face?"

"The Gerard face."

"There is no Gerard face."

"Liar." He jogged to keep up with me, then dropped into an exaggerated whisper. "It's the one where you look like you wanna stab him and kiss him at the same time. Very enemies-to-lovers. Very dramatic. I support it fully."

I sighed. "You are an actual menace."

"Thanks, I try. Also, I'm right."

I didn't respond. Mostly because I didn't have a defense prepared. Also because he was annoyingly close to the truth. And saying anything might've made it real.

Frank nudged my arm with his elbow. "Hey. Don't worry. Whatever's going on in that gothic romance novel of a brain you've got—Gerard's definitely spiraling just as hard."

I glanced at him. "You think so?"

"I know so," he said, with full chaotic confidence. "He sat on the bus last night staring into space for twenty solid minutes. He only does that when something's wrong or when he's composing a mental opera about a ghost girlfriend in Victorian London."

I snorted. "So you're saying there's a fifty-fifty chance it's not about me."

"Exactly," he beamed. "And I like those odds."

Despite myself, I laughed.

"You're weird," I muttered.

"But charming," he added.

"Barely."

"Painfully."

We kept walking. And for a minute, it felt normal—light, even.

Frank popped a grape into his mouth like he owned the sidewalk.

"I'm just saying," he said, chewing, "if I ever fake dated someone that hot, I'd never survive. I'd combust. Go full Shakespearean. Fall dramatically off the stage and die."

"You've done that sober," I pointed out.

"Exactly. And imagine me in love. Disaster."

I rolled my eyes and kept walking, but he wasn't done. He jogged ahead a step and spun to face me, walking backward now with dangerous confidence.

"Okay, serious question," he said. "If you had to pick one person from a band on this tour to bang—just one—who would it be?"

I choked. "Frank."

"C'mon. For science. Purely theoretical. One night. No strings. Complete confidentiality unless I'm bored and want to gossip."

I squinted at him. "You're asking like you're not going to say something completely feral after."

"I'm offended. I'm a gentleman."

"You licked an amp last week."

Frank shrugged like it was self-explanatory. "For tone."

I burst out laughing. "You're deranged."

He grinned like he knew it. "Okay, fine, if you won't answer, I'll go first."

I braced myself.

"Gerard."

I stopped walking. "You'd sleep with your bandmate?"

"I wouldn't enjoy it," he said with mock sincerity. "But I'd respect it."

"Frank."

"I've kissed him on stage like three times. I know he's good."

"You're going to hell."

"Do they have open bars in hell? Because I'll be fine."

I shook my head, still laughing. "You're insane."

"I try," he said, then elbowed me. "C'mon. Who's your pick?"

I gave him a long, flat look. "Honestly? You. Just to ruin your ego."

Frank gasped like I'd proposed marriage. "Bella Cameron. I am scandalized."

"You'd cry," I added.

"From joy."

We both cracked up then, stumbling a little from the shared laughter.

And for the first time all day, I didn't feel like I was holding my breath.