Despite being the middle of summer, the weather in San Francisco today is a perfectly mild sixty-nine degrees with a few clouds rolling in from the Pacific Ocean and a light sea breeze lifting the few wispy hairs that haven’t yet been plastered to my face by the high humidity. Frank appears to be in good spirits today, cracking jokes about death and cancer on the drive here. I wouldn’t dare say it aloud, but he’s trying too hard to seem relaxed. I know he wants to appear brave and resolute in front of Ben, but I really wish he would just drop the act for a minute and say, “You know what? I’m scared.”

But if joking about death is what will help Frank get through his last days, I’ll listen and laugh at every single tasteless joke. That’s the least you can do when someone you love is dying.

Ponti pulls the black SUV in front of the curb at Zen Hospice on Page Street. It looks like the typical multi-million-dollar gorgeous white row-house you’d find in San Francisco, with large bay windows and ornate Victorian woodwork. But inside, the house has been converted to a six-bed twenty-four-hour residential care facility for the terminally ill. This is where people go to die in zen comfort.

At least, the staff at Zen Hospice appear to take privacy seriously. Not a single photographer awaits us outside.

Ponti carries Frank’s oxygen tank while Ben helps his father up the steps toward the green double doors with the stained-glass inlay. If not for the carefully manicured bonsai tree growing in front of the downstairs bay window, this place would feel more creepy Gothic than peaceful zen.

We ring the doorbell and we are immediately greeted by Dr. BJ Miller, a friendly doctor who appears to be in his mid- to late-forties. He’s not wearing a white doctor’s coat — thank God — just slacks and a brown cardigan over a blue and white striped button-up. There is no denying the man is handsome, but the kindness in his eyes makes him gorgeous.

The prosthetics he wears on both legs from the knees down and the fact that his left arm appears to have been amputated below the elbow only make him more interesting. I’m not normally into older men, but with his rugged good looks, perfect teeth, and salt-and-pepper hair, he looks like he should be standing on the deck of a gleaming yacht, modeling Rolex watches, not putting on prosthetic limbs and helping people make a peaceful ascension to the great beyond.

“I would love to photograph you,” are the first words out of my mouth as I shake his hand. “I’m so sorry. That just kind of came out. I’m a photographer. I’m…so embarrassed.”

Ben narrows his eyes at me while Ponti, Frank, and Dr. Miller laugh.

Dr. Miller places a gentle hand on my arm. “I’d be happy to do it. I’ll get you a business card with my personal number before you leave.”

My stomach bubbles with giddiness as I realize this is how I’m going to become a great photographer, by taking risks. “Thank you so much.”

Ben glares at me as Dr. Miller and an Asian nurse help Frank into a wheelchair so they can take him up to the second floor in the elevator.

“What? Why are you looking at me like that?” I whisper as Ben, Ponti, and I follow another nurse up the staircase.

He shakes his head. “I can’t believe how jealous that little exchange with the doctor made me. Like, I could rip his one remaining limb off.”

I roll my eyes. “Get used to it. If you get to kiss beautiful women in movies and music videos, you can’t complain when I take pictures of gorgeous men who are missing three limbs.”

“Gorgeous men? You’re into him, aren’t you? I could see it in your face.”

I sigh as I grab his hand and lace my fingers through his. “Relax. You’re the only gorgeous man I’m into. Besides, you can’t really be jealous when you have three more legs than Dr. Miller does.”

It takes him about one second to pick up on the innuendo. “My third leg has a name, you know?”

“Oh, really?” I remark as we reach the second floor and follow the nurse down a corridor.

“I call it The South.”

“The South?”

Ben flashes me a wickedly sexy grin. “Yeah, I call it The South, because it will rise again. And when it does, I will beat it again.”

“Aw. That’s cute,” I reply, following the nurse through a door into a bedroom. “Guess you can call me Yankee Doodle.”

He leans in and whispers in my ear, “I can’t wait until tonight, when you’ll be riding my pony and I’ll be sticking my feather in your hat.”

Every cell in my body wants to reach out and grab him, but I have to wait at least another few hours while we get Frank settled in and all the paperwork signed. Not that I’m complaining. I want to spend as much time with Frank as I possibly can for the next few weeks, but being forty minutes away in Bodega Bay is going to present an obstacle. Especially since all my equipment is in my office. That includes my video editing software, which is on the iMac in my office, because my ancient MacBook Pro laptop doesn’t have the memory or graphics capabilities to handle Adobe Premier without crashing every ten minutes.

I don’t want to wish away my time with Frank, but as I watch Ben chatting with Dr. Miller, I just want to fold him into my arms for the kind of hug that turns into smoking hot, emotional sex. Oh, God. I haven’t fucked Ben in three years and I’m still to his Yankee Doodle.

Once the paperwork is complete and Frank’s intravenous painkillers have him drifting off on a cloud of morphine, it’s almost four p.m. and we’re all starving, having skipped lunch to stay with Frank. Ponti, Ben, and I head to our favorite burrito place in the Castro District. By the time we place our orders at the counter and find an empty table to wait for our food, Ben looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. He leans forward, resting his elbows on the table and his head in his hands.

I scoot my chair closer to his and nudge his shoulder. “Hey, you did good today.”

He lowers his hands and looks at me sideways before breaking into a slow smile. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

I shrug. “Eh, I could have done more if I’d had breakfast at Alberto’s.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think it’s very zen for my dad to die in a haze of Alberto farts.”

“I don’t know. I’m told my Alberto farts have a certain…aged quality to them. Like a fine wine.”

Ponti shakes his head. “You guys are the grossest couple I know.”

“Isn’t she gorgeous?” Ben says, grabbing my face and planting a loud kiss on my forehead.

A girl who looks to be about thirteen suddenly materializes next to us, wearing a “Hayes-Z” T-shirt and an expression of complete shock on her pale, freckled face. “Oh, my God. Is it really you?” she says, trembling as she stares at Ben.

Hayes-Zs are one of Ben’s many fan clubs, a name they came up with because of a collab Ben did with Jay-Z on his first album.

Ben chuckles as he stands up and rounds the table to give the girl a hug, which only makes her tremble even more. “Good to meet you. What’s your name, girl?”

She covers her mouth and glances at me like she’s hoping I’ll magically tell Ben her name. Turning back to Ben, her eyes widen even more as they fill with tears. “Oh, my God. I’m so embarrassed,” she says, wiping away tears. “I’m… I’m Melissa. Oh, my God.”

Ben grabs some napkins out of a dispenser on our table and hands them to her. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Do you live here, Melissa?”

She looks to me again, like she wants me to confirm that Ben is really talking to her.

I can’t help but chuckle. “It’s okay, honey. He’s really not as cool as you think he is.”

Melissa laughs then immediately covers her mouth and looks up at Ben apologetically. “Oh, my God. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to laugh at that.”

Ben laughs and shakes his head. “No worries. Don’t pay attention to that mean old lady. You want something signed?”

She finally smiles as she nods her head and turns around for Ben to sign the back of her T-shirt.

Without a moment of hesitation, Ben pulls two Sharpies out of his back pocket, a black one and a silver one. He chooses the silver one, since her T-shirt is black. Melissa looks like she’s about to faint as Ben stretches the fabric of the T-shirt taut over her shoulder and signs his name.

She turns around and clasps her hands in front of her chest. “Thank you so much. You don’t know what this means to me. Your music means so much to me.”

“Come here,” Ben says, beckoning her into his arms for another hug.

Her shoulders bounce as she devolves into actual sobs and I’m stunned into silence. As I watch her leave with a woman who looks like her mother, I shake my head in amazement.

Ben takes a seat next to me again and grabs a napkin. “Here,” he says, handing me the napkin.

Only when he does this do I realize I’m actually crying, too. “Ouch. My heart. That was way too adorable,” I say, dabbing the corners of my eyes.

Ponti laughs as a restaurant employee arrives with our burritos. “I want to see your skinny ass try and eat that entire thing,” he says to me, grabbing a napkin and tucking it into the collar of his T-shirt as a bib.

Ben shakes his head. “You don’t know Charley’s love for Mexican food. It far surpasses her love for me. She’ll eat that whole thing, and I’ll pay the price later on.”

“Dutch oven?” Ponti asks, lifting his foot-long burrito in one of his enormous hands.

I smile as I double-fist mine. “I’m going in,” I say, my eyes rolling back in my head as I take a huge bite of meaty, cheesy deliciousness.

“That’s obscene,” Ben says, picking up his burrito. “And so damn sexy. Do it again?”

I tear off another giant chunk of burrito without swallowing the first bite, and I try not to laugh as I realize I’ve bitten off far more than I can chew.

Ben sets his burrito down and grabs my face, leaning in like he’s about to kiss me. “I’ll help you. Give me some of your burrito,” he says, his lips brushing against mine.

Now, I really can’t hold it in. Partially-chewed food comes spewing out with my laughter and, like a baby bird, Ben manages to catch some of it in his mouth.

Ponti stares at us slack-jawed with his burrito poised in front of his open mouth. “You guys are sick.”

Ben grins like a fool as he happily chews the food I spit out. This may not be Ben’s hardcore fans’ idea of #relationshipgoals, but I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more.