<center>
<big>Brynn McTavish
http://i54.photobucket.com/albums/g9...tuff/bryn3.jpg
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ December 07, 2008 10:22 PM: Message edited by: everyday arsenic ]</font>
<center>
<big>Brynn McTavish
http://i54.photobucket.com/albums/g9...tuff/bryn3.jpg
<font color="#a62a2a" size="1">[ December 07, 2008 10:22 PM: Message edited by: everyday arsenic ]</font>
(circa early December 2004)
Braving the cold for beer and pizza was a rather definitive statement for the musician, who could not have possibly hated the cold any more than she already did. Sitting the six pack down on the counter, she went about unwrapping the onion-layers of her winter ensemble. First came the gloves, tugged off by the fingertips with her teeth. Dragging the toboggan from chin length blond curls, she stuffed the gloves in and it retired the rainbow knitted pile to the countertop, undoing the loops of her scarf. It was then she noticed the machine was blinking.
"Dave, you didn't call, did you?" She leaned back, cornflower blue eyes directing a quick glance into the living room. All she could see was Dave's back as he tinkered with the DVD player. They never had figured out how to hook the damn surround sound up to the new speakers she bought.
"Huh," she mused, shrugging off her coat and hooking it over the back of a chair at the kitchen table. "We were only gone for like, what, half an hour?" Next came the thick, bright blue cable-knit sweater, and it joined her coat over the chair back.
She punched the play button before stepping back, adjusting faded corduroys and the pale pink long sleeved T-shirt that had been buried under her winter wear.
You have one new message the machine announced in its flat, digital voice. Beep.
"Uh, hey Brynn. And Dave, if you're there. It's Sybel... look, slight change of plans. I'm at home packing now, I'm gonna drive down to the airport and see if I can't change my ticket from Thursday to tonight, or maybe first thing tomorrow."
Brynn glanced up when Dave stepped into the kitchen, hushing him before he had time to talk, one finger lifted to her lips. Only to whisper, "...just me, or does Sybel sound like she's been crying?"
It was a theoretical question; Brynn didn't know what the drummer sounded like when she cried, because in the seven years she'd known her, she'd never known Sybel to cry. Sybel was the girl who, upon jumping off the stage at the end of a gig in a particularly grungy dive, landed on a nail that had worked its way out of uneven wooden flooring, piercing through her bootsole and impaling her foot. Sybel hadn't cried then.
"I was just, uh, wondering if maybe one of you could come pick my car up tomorrow? I mean, assuming I can switch my flight date, and everything. I'll call back and let you know where I'm parked.. oh, and Brynn. I'll leave the spare key to my Camaro in an envelope on my kitchen counter with the number for my dad's place-- Okay, well, thanks guys I really apprec..." Beep! Cut off by the machine.
You have no messages on your machine, the machine informed them.
Brynn exhaled in a rush, leaning back against the kitchen counter. Dave leaned close, knocking a quick kiss to her forehead and reaching behind her to snag a beer. She stared at him with worried blue eyes when he pulled back.
He sighed, glancing down to her. "Yeah, yeah," he grumbled. "I'll stick your half of the pizza in the fridge. Don't like all those damn vegetables anyway. Go check on her, I know you want to."
Brynn was smiling like the noon day sun, throwing her arms around him and kissing him again before reaching for her scarf. And her sweater. And, and, and.
"I'll be back in an hour," she promised.
"Sybel?" Brynn knocked, tried the door. When it was unlocked, she stepped inside the dark kitchen, calling again over the thrum of music turned loud enough to make the windows vibrate with each thud of the bass.
"Sybel," she repeated louder, cutting on the light and moving through the apartment. A small square of blackened tinfoil, a lighter, and a slim glass tube lay on the short bar that divided the kitchen from the living area. They were nearly lost among the empty beer bottles that lined the counter like forlorn soldiers. Brynn noted them with a silent press of her lips and worried blue eyes.
She found Sybel in the chaos of her room. It looked like a tornado had ripped through the joint. The mattress was half on and half off the box spring frame. Sheets, blankets, and pillows heaped in a corner, clothing strewn ankle deep. Her luggage was on the floor, clothing stuffed in with no apparent rhyme or reason. Sybel was sprawled like the crucified Christ on the slouching mattress.
"Christ, Syb," Brynn muttered, wading through the wreckage to sit on the edge of the boxspring. Digging under a pair of underwear, she found the remote control to the sound system blaring whatever flavor of the week metal band Sybel favored, and turned it down to a murmur, studying the drummer in the relative quiet that followed.
"Jonny?" Finally asked.
Sybel's eyes were unreadable, the pupil nearly indistinguishable from the dark, liquid brown of the iris. They looked black in the half light from a single lamp left on, its shade cockeyed. Glassy eyed, she twisted slightly to look at the pixyish musician perched on the ruin of her bed. She swallowed, before speaking.
"It's just.. everything at once, yanno?" She coughed, miserably wiped a hand under her nose and fell back against the bare mattress, hands falling limp above her head.
"It's Dad being in the fucking hospital. It's the god damn holidays-- I hate them, you know. Suicide rates are always highest this time of year? It's not a fucking coincidence." She was quiet a moment, but Brynn didn't press. Instead, she was quietly taking off her gloves, her toboggan, and her scarf, letting Sybel talk at her own pace.
"And it's like.. I find this guy, that says he's crazy-wild about me, yanno? And it's kinda overwhelming, and then, like that ain't enough in itself, all this fucked up shit keeps happening, and for every step forward there's three back. There was.." She paused again. Sybel wasn't much for sharing personal information, even with a friend of seven years: the devil was in the details.
"There was this fucked up situation, right? And at first, I'll admit, I freaked. Like, hardcore. Clammed up and couldn't talk about it or figure out in my head how I felt about the whole thing. Then, just as I fucking wrap my mind around it, come to terms with it, it's like, 'Oh just kidding, nevermind'. You know how much of a mind-job that is? Yeah, well, of course you don't. You've got Diamond Dave." She sunk in on herself with a sigh that was like giving up. Narrow shoulders caved in towards her chest like the weight of the world was just too much to bear.
"So I figured, why the hell not get out of town early? My Dad needs me. The only thing keeping me here was him, I wanted to make sure he and this friend of his were okay before I left, but that's shot to shit now, huh?" She sniffed, dragged a hand under her nose again. And suddenly twisted around, gesturing to the black glass ashtray and mostly emptied pack of Marlboros on her bedside table. Brynn complied, watching as Sybel shook a cigarette out of the pack, lit it sluggishly.
"I like Jonny," Brynn murmured after a minute. "I like that he seems to really like you." She paused with a slow smile, reaching to tenderly brush tangled dark hair back from Sybel's face.
" 'Cause sweetie, you're a handful. And you don't make it easy for people to love you." Her mouth twitched, but just briefly.
"In fact, you're a royal pain in the ass. And if this boy is trying to be with you-- to really be with you Sybel, not just get in your pants, not just a casual friend you occasionally bang or get fucked-up with.. He's gonna need all the help he can get."
Sybel closed her eyes tight, tawny features pinched as she listened to Brynn.
"Brynn, aren't you listening? It's past tense. Over, done, finis." Sybel rested the ashtray on the slope of her belly, and tapped ash into it with a sigh.
"It was gonna be an extra two hundred and fifty fucking dollars to switch my flight sooner, even if I took the god damned red eye. I mean, Christ. The ticket itself didn't cost much more than that." Sybel groaned, lifting her free hand and rubbing red rimmed eyes. "But I can't be here. I can't. Everything fucking smells like him, Brynn. I washed the sheets and I can still smell his god damned cologne."
"Shh, Sybel. It's cool, okay? Look. Let's get you packed up. I'm taking you home with me. Shh--" She cut the drummer off before she could protest. "Dave will be fine with it. You know he thinks you're hot." Brynn was smiling, leaning to pull tangled and crammed clothing out of Sybel's suitcase, going about carefully refolding everything.
"Oh, honey. Ten pair of socks and no undies? Look, hand me that shirt, and..."
Brynn was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back braced against the couch. Three white and red cartons of Chinese food from Mr. Wok's sat on the coffee table in front of her amid a few flickering, mildly scented candles. Dun.. dun. Dun... dun. Duunn.. dundundundun. She and Dave had rented the entire Jaws trilogy, and Dave was watching as the goliath shark sped unbeknownst towards a pair of shapely, kicking legs under the frothy blue water.
Without glancing down to the carton he was eating out of, he wound lo mein around his fork and shoveled a bite into his mouth, watching the TV with wide eyes. Brynn glanced down to the carton she held, delicately fishing out two snow peas with her chopsticks. Shoulders slumping inwards, she sighed. Loudly.
"Baby, can you pass me the General Tso's Chicken?"
Without comment, she leaned forward, peeking into first one container, then another, before handing it over.
She waited thirty seconds and sighed again. Louder. And pointedly glanced back over her shoulder at Dave.
He was a smart boy. Spearing a piece of chicken and a wicked looking hot pepper, he took a bite before leaning to scoop the remote from the table, pausing the movie.
"Okay, what's up?"
She loved him.
"Well," Brynn began, glancing down and deftly picking up a baby corn, eating it before continuing. "I kinda-sorta told a little white lie."
For a split second, Dave looked shit scared. "About wanting me to move in?"
Brynn scoffed at the notion, dismissing it as if the notion was too absurd to even consider. Because to her, it was.
"Of course not, Davey." She hesitated, poking the vegetables with a vengeance, using her chopsticks like blades.
"I might have exaggerated, just a little bit, about Jonathan."
Dave stuck his fork in the carton, and returned it to the coffee table, one gingery-blond eyebrow lifting.
"Jon-- as in, the artsy stalker guy you're hooking Jax up with?"
Brynn nodded miserably. "Yeah."
He was silent a moment, considering.
"You told her he was hot, and while I'm not.. well, you know.. he isn't a bad looking guy, I guess. You told her he had a kid, and I met the kid. You told her he was all about her, and--" Abruptly he shut up.
"...Oh."
"Oh," Brynn echoed, sighing.
"He really did think she was pretty, and he really does have our picture hung up in his store. I just... kinda maybe sorta let her believe he was maybe more into her than he is. I just felt so bad for her with the whole Kip fiasco, yanno?" Brynn slouched, giving the vegetables a final stab before Dave was taking the carton from her hands, sitting it beside his on the coffee table.
"Well," he began, one hand sliding over the back of Brynn's shoulder, rubbing lightly. "Maybe it's a good thing, right? I mean, if he was a complete stalker and drooling all over her and flashing puppy eyes, Jax would lose interest in about thirty seconds flat."
"You're right," Brynn began slowly, straightening up a little. "And besides, Jax is totally hot. If he wasn't jonesing for her already, I'm sure he will be. ...Right?"
For Brynn's benefit, Dave smiled and rubbed her shoulder again.
"Absolutely." It wasn't that he had any doubts about Jax's ability to charm Jon's pants off. He just didn't want to see her get hurt. Not again.
"Just, yanno. Go and invite him to the party. Casually mention that Jax is gonna be there, and see how he reacts?"
Brynn exhaled slowly, nodding.
"Of course you're right, Davey," Brynn murmured, scooting a little closer and curling her arm around his calf, blond head drooping to his knee.
"I just feel bad for stretching the truth." Dave, wisely, was silent, fingercombing blond curls back. Before he had time to, Brynn reached for the remote and thumbed the play button.
With a half dozen or so of her friends already confirmed for the little soiree she was throwing, Brynn navigated the sidewalk, deftly juggling a white paper bag in the crook of one arm, her threadbare camouflage purse slung bandolier style around narrow shoulders, and a tray bearing three recycled paper coffee cups. Her first stop was Gravity, the little indie music store on Water Street. She shouldered the door open, greeted by a blast of gritty sounding garage rock.
Sybel was lounging behind the counter with two guys that could have been twins: one in ratty jeans, some obscure band T-shirt and a black beanie, the other in ratty corduroys, some obscure band T-shirt and a gray beanie.
"Heya Sybel--" Brynn paused, struggling to remember the two guys' names. "Jason, and.."
"Philly," the second guy volunteered without looking up from the issue of Rue Morgue he was thumbing through.
"Morning," Brynn chirped, "I was in the neighborhood and thought you'd like breakfast". It being the crack of dawn at half past noon and whatnot. There was a chorus of hellos, and Brynn smiled gamely. It was a weekend and the store was as bustling as it ever got, a dozen or so customers milling around, thumbing through CDs and vinyl and posters.
Brynn left a tall nonfat vanilla cappuccino on the counter for Sybel before digging through the bag for a fried egg and cheese bagel, passing it over. She rolled the top of the bag down again, grinning to the lanky drummer and winking cheekily.
"Have a good day. I'm heading up a few blocks to see Jon."
Sybel unwrapped her breakfast bagel and took a huge bite, one hand halfheartedly covering her mouth as spoke around the food.
"Jon as in.. Half Baked Jon? What a fucking hippie."
"He is not a hippie!" Brynn snorted indignantly before grinning again.
"Hasta, Sybel."
"Peachy fuckin' keen, jellybean. Oh, and thanks for bringing the grub!" Sybel waved the bagel, a piece of egg flung onto the spread magazine Philly was thumbing through. He flicked it away without so much as batting an eyelash.
Eight blocks later, Brynn was slipping into Half Baked, the earthy smell of raw, unshaped clay and the tart smell of baking glaze greeting her. The slim Japanese woman in a clay smudged apron glanced up from the class she was teaching, half a dozen customers seating on low stools around cheerfully painted tables learning the craft of shaping clay. On the far side of the shop, other customers painted glaze on already finished products, ready to be put into the kiln.
"Micah," Brynn warmly greeted the woman. "Is Jon in?"
Carefully, the woman hugged the pixyish bassist, leaning forward from the hips as to not upset the coffee tray or bag Brynn carried.
"Hello Brynn, it's always so good to see you. Jon? Oh, yeah, he's in the back. Dylan's here, too. You can go on back if you want. Or I can call him up..?"
Brynn shook her head, blond curls bouncing enthusiastically before settling.
"No, no, go on with class. I know my way around," she said with a grin, ushering Micah back to her class before ducking around behind the blue wood and glass counter.
Brynn slipped through the brightly painted swinging barn-style doors, sighing with relief at the deep warmth radiating from the two huge kilns lining one wall.
"Brynnie-penny-bo binney-fee fi fo finney-Brynnie!" Dylan sang out from where he was sitting infront of a pottery wheel, wearing almost as much mud as he was shaping, clumsily stretching half out of his chair to be able to work the pedal.
"Hey there kiddo," she said with a grin. "Where's your dad?"
"Hiya sunshine." The voice was deep, but warm with a smile as he stepped around a long free standing shelf stacked three rows deep with plain ceramic figurines, vases, dishes and sculptures. Pre-made artwork to be customized with colored glazes by his customers. Broad about the shoulders, with faint dimples creasing his near habitual five o'clock shadow. Heading for a long, low table, he deposited the two huge blocks of muddy colored clay he'd been carrying, before wrapping Brynn up in a hug that nearly made her drop the goodies she'd brought. Laughing, she untangled herself, put both the bag and the drink tray on the table, before hugging him back just as warmly.
"I'm sorry it's been so long since I've dropped by," she said breathlessly when he finally let her go, already going about unwapping her scarf and shrugging off her coat.
"Dylan and I have missed you, haven't we bud?" The mop-headed five year old stuck his tongue out and made a rude noise before laughing.
"Yes!" He agreed decisively, tumbling out of his chair and joining his dad at the table, clay streaked hands reaching for the bag. "Brynnie what'd you bring me? Something to eat? Dad made me eat the healthy cereal this morning. Puffed wheat. I only get Lucky Charms on Sundays. Don't you think I should get Lucky Charms every day?"
Brynn blinked owlishly at the barrage of questions, quickly snaring the paper bag with a laugh.
"I think," she began, grinning, "That if you wash your hands, I've got a bagel for you." When Dylan looked disappointed, she arched an eyebrow. "With strawberry cream-cheese." She'd only gotten the strawberry part out, and Dylan was running for the bathroom in the back to wash up.
"You're too good to us." Jon leaned in and knocked a quick kiss to Brynn's temple before looking into the bag hopefully.
"Don't worry, I got you an everything bagel with vegetable cream cheese, and a large black coffee with sugar in the raw," she said, laughing and distributing breakfast before slouching down into one of the chairs at the work space, picking up her own cup and taking a long swallow.
In due time, the three of them were settled, the boys tucking into breakfast as Brynn chattered about having Dave move in, the upcoming photo shoot with Lax, Jill Lockhart's reappearance into the music scene, her opinion of the scene snobs at Gravity, and volunteering at the soup kitchen on Ann St. on Sundays.
"So," Jon said, demolishing the last bite of his bagel and sitting back contentedly, sipping on his coffee after letting Dylan run up front to "help" Micah with her class.
"To what do we owe the pleasure? Or were you just in the neighborhood?"
Hazel eyes studied her with an easy smile as Brynn took a sip of her chai tea.
"Actually, Dave and I are having a few people over next Saturday, I was hoping you'd like to swing by for a few," she said earnestly, guileless blue eyes too bright.
"Nothing fancy," she said with a shrug that she hoped looked casual. "A couple of Dave's friends, couple of mine. Little food, little music. Ought to be fun."
One long fingered hand lifted, and he scrubbed it back through tousled dark hair.
"I dunno, Brynn. I mean, I'd have to find someone to watch Dylan, and--"
It was just the break she'd been looking for. Brynn had practiced this line in her head half a dozen times. Conspiratorially, she leaned in close, pale blue eyes widening with feigned hurt.
"Jon! Oh c'mon. If Jax can find a sitter for Izzy so that she can come, I know you can manage to find one for Dyl."
"Jax?" He leaned forward, lacing his hands between his knees with steepled fingers. "You say that like I should know her."
Brynn's expression promptly fell, and she slumped back abashedly into her chair. Regaining her composure quickly, she grinned and uncrossed her legs, playfully kicking the foot of his chair.
"Yes, Jax. Jackson, the pretty blond guitarist in my band. Jax." Maybe surreptitiously, she was crossing her fingers.
"Oh, Christ. Jackson, right, right. Sorry about that," he said with a grin, dimples appearing again.
"She got hitched, yeah?"
Brynn brightened. Was it just her, or did he sound the slightest bit dejected about that.
"Divorced," she corrected instantly, with a cheeky smile.
Jonathan's smile faltered, briefly.
"Now, Brynnie.. I love you to death, and you know that.. but you don't have to go pawning me off on your unsuspecting female friends just because you feel sorry for me," he said, gruffly but not unkindly, glancing out towards one of the kilns when the timer went off, the batch of ceramics done.
Slowly, he stood. Brynn was quicker, laying a hand to his arm with earnest, apologetic eyes.
"Jon, I didn't mean.. I wouldn't.." She sighed, lifting a hand and raking it back through her mop of blond curls. Finally, she just shrugged.
"Just think about it, please? There are going to be a bunch of people there, and it'll be good for you to get out for a night and just relax."
"If you get too relaxed, we'll make up the guest room futon for you," she promised with a teasing lift of gingery pale eyebrows eyebrows.
Jon tried his best to look pissed, but couldn't manage it. Instead, he laughed and swept her up into a parting hug, briefly burying his face into her shoulder. It was there where he spoke, slow and halting.
"It's been a long time, since I've had a night out to... relax," he said slowly. "I think you're right, I think it's just what the doctor ordered."
He finally let her go, and tweaked a blond curl out of her eyes. "When and where and what time?"
"Ooohhhh, I'mma tell Brynnie's boooyfriiieeeend." There was a brown eye, and a clay smudged cheek peeking through the swinging doors.
"Next Saturday," she said, laughing and throwing her hands up to her face in mock horror.
"No, Dylan, anything but that!"
Dylan burst into boyish giggles before turning and running back to tell Micah, as Brynn quickly scribbled down her address.
(circa summer 2005)
"Dave, I'm worried about Sybel," Brynn muttered, watching the girl behind the register disinterestedly scan grocery items, one by one.
Dave grunted, thumbing through a supermarket tabloid, looking by turns interested and disgusted.
"Brynnie, when are you not worried about Sybel?" Tilting his hip into the buggy, it rolled and took him with it a few sloppy inches. Grimacing, he glanced apologetically to the cashier, one thumb marking his place in the rag as he straightened up toppled groceries with his free hand.
"I'm sure she's off doing whatever it is that Sybel does. Jacking cars, doing enough coke to keep Columbia's economy flourishing, inciting bar fights, screwing half the city." He waved one hand dismissively, and flipped the tabloid open again, scanning the celebrity scandal pages.
"To my knowledge, Sybel's only done one of those things," Brynn huffed, swatting his arm and trying desperately to defend the lanky drummer, knowing damn well any of those things weren't too far outside the sphere of possibility. Groaning, she buried her face in her hands, glancing through the jumbled splay of slim fingers to eye Dave.
"I told you she and Jill got into it, right?"
"Jill as in... Lax's manager, Jill? Jill Edwards?" Dave's eyes widened considerably. "That girl's got brass balls to be arguing with the woman that cuts her paycheck."
"They didn't argue. They started a bar fight. I saw them both the next day. Jill was sporting this ugly looking black eye, and Sybel had a split in her lip." Sighing, Brynn raked her hand back through the riot of blond curls, impossibly frizzed from the onset of summer's humidity.
"Both of them said the other started it. Sybel said Jill was being a--" Brynn paused, lowering her voice significantly. "Sybel said Jill was being a cunt, talking trash to a mutual friend of theirs, and then laid into her about, yanno, not looking glam enough for photo ops and whatnot. Jill said Sybel was being a rude bitch and saying things she shouldn't, and that it would have been the pot calling the kettle black, anyway. Or something." Dave mumbled something vaguely coherent, just to prove he was still listening as he read about the TomKat scandal. Brynn didn't bother asking him if he was paying attention-- Dave was infinitely annoying in his brilliance, able to multitask like a seasoned air traffic controller.
"I just don't know what her deal is. Lately she's rushing into the studio late, and is the first one to leave. Which is not like her, not at all. I've swung by Gravity three times now, and she hasn't been there once. She isn't returning my calls, she's never at her apartment." Throwing her hands in the air, Brynn wilted against the counter, digging through the messenger bag slung bandolier style around narrow shoulders to locate her wallet a moment later.
"I don't suppose she's shacking up with Kip?" She glanced at Dave, who shrugged absently, then gaped outright.
"Uh... Brynn. You should take a look at this." He passed over the slim magazine he'd been thumbing through. For a moment, she didn't get it, overwhelmed by the screaming headline "LINDSEY LOHAN -- EATING DISORDER OR STARVATION PROTEST AGAIN IRAQ WAR??" And then she saw what Dave was gaping at. It was a sidebar on Zen Wilting, and one of the pictures was of him and Sybel, heads turned intimately towards eachother in conversation. The picture was blurred by rain, and Brynn squinted, pulling the tabloid closer.
"Isn't that John's Store? The um.. um.." Snapping her fingers with a pretty, blue-eyed scowl. "The Music Barn? The Music Loft? Something like that. It's downtown, I think, not too far from Gravity. What the hell is she doing with--" Abruptly Brynn quieted, blinking.
"You know, Jax said she thought she saw Zen Wilting at our show last Saturday at the 'Nail. I told her that mothers of children shouldn't smoke crack." Abashed, one hand flew up, fingers half-curled over the pale petal pink of her mouth.
"Oh. Oh god. I bet it was him. It must have been." Hastily, she added the magazine to the goods being slowly scanned by the cashier. "I can't believe Sybel. She didn't even introduce him. Midnight's last album was really, really great. The bassline on track three was phenomenal, really," Brynn mused, gathering up a pair of bags after having paid, waiting for Dave to scoop up the remaining three.
"After we get these put away, I think I'm going to run by Sybel's. You want to come?" Dave watched her a moment, looking at Brynn like maybe she'd lost her mind.
"...no," He finally said, rushing to continue, "I mean, she might remember I've still got her old drums and decide she wants them back." That was a perfectly feasible excuse, right? Right.
"Huh." Brynn's mind was already spinning off into the abstract, mouth set in a tense, worried line.
It was late before she had time to swing by Sybel's apartment, the winding metal staircase groaning even under her bantam weight. No light from the kitchen illuminated the crack at the bottom door, and when she knocked, there was no answer. Not entirely surprising, and she'd come prepared. The sidebar featuring the infamous Zen Wilting and Sybel delRio was slipped under the door, stapled to a ripped out notebook page.
[i]<small>
"Dear Sybel, While you are off cavorting with rockstars, please don't forget we humble musicians in Lax. We miss you. Return my calls or I will hire thugs to break your kneecaps, and then you'll have to hire a trained monkey to use the pedals, and while that might draw a crowd at first, the novelty will go fast.
Love, Brynn
PS. Was Zen Wilting at our show the other night?
PPS. Professional curiosity--- what did he think? If he was there, I mean. Oh, and if you see Jax before I do, tell her I'm sorry for thinking she was smoking crack.
Love more, Brynn