Chloe
Truth
Beca Mitchell is dangerous. Dangerous with that unreadable expression, that hunched posture, those sarcastic and biting comments. She's dangerous like a ticking bomb, a sharp knife, a blazing inferno. It's no wonder you find yourself inexplicably drawn to her, like a crowd to a tragedy.
When she gives that punch in the air with her triumphant smirk, you know she'll be the end of you. And it doesn't bother you at all. In fact you find yourself eager for the finale, if only for the fireworks and gasps of awe.
Then she kisses him.
The applause dies down.
Lie
"Aren't you happy we won?"
Aubrey's voice punctuates your thoughts. Her face is glowing as she basks in the victory, and you smile for her.
"I'm happy."
Truth
She's small, one of the shortest adults you've ever met, and you have to look hard to see the figure shrouded by shadows. Dare you think of her as delicate? Her fingers, long and thin, look like twigs, easily snapped, and her posture is slightly hunched as if one step away from stumbling to the ground. But her gaze is steely, full of ice, hiding away from the world.
The honest truth is that you don't know what to think about her.
The honest truth is that your heart knows already.
Lie
You enjoy playing with her hair, the soft chestnut brown locks slipping through your fingers. When she leans on your shoulder, you can't help but nuzzle your face into the back of her neck, inhaling her scent, the fruity shampoo in contrast with her familiar light perfume. Her voice is low as she breathily asks you a question and you hum in response.
Yes, you think she and Jesse make a great couple.
You bleed from your mouth, a black liquid as thick and dark as your lie.
Truth
Perfect? No, she's far from that. But she's beautiful in a way that words can't describe. Her eyes are an enigma; they're a light shade of grey that nuances into blues and greens depending on her mood and the lighting. It's the most interesting and invoking part of her. Her skin is surprisingly covered with a smatter of scars and your eyes, inquisitive, trace over them. She tells you the story behind each fading wound in a hushed voice, quiet as a secret, deadly like a heartbeat.
You know that every word brings you closer to the edge; if you take one more step, you'll fall. But the truth is…
You don't mind falling.
Not at all.
Lie
It's a dark day when you accidentally kiss her (you're not sure it counts). The two of you huddle on her bed, side by side, in front of her laptop as you watch a movie (the title is one that you can't remember now). When she asks about something that's going on in the film, you turn your head to answer her and your lips graze by her cheek, a shock running down your jaw. Something about that causes a hitch in your breath.
But she's as calm as ever, a gentle brook carrying you downstream.
"Something wrong?" Her eyes are a murky grey.
You shake your head; no.
A deception that you can't rescind.
Truth
There's something about the reluctant enthusiasm that she displays around you that makes you want to bring it back over and over again. If she's the flame, then you're the one kindling the fire, coaxing her to life.
Or maybe that's only your fantasy.
In actuality, you're just her friend, aren't you?
Your nails are jagged, bitten down all the way, and the reality is probably reflected there.
Lie
"Want to come watch the game with us?"
Her eyes are a hopeful blue today, a sharp color that will no doubt lacerate you.
"I'm busy."
But you're a counterfeit. How can you tell her that every time you see her with him it demolishes (perhaps obliterates) you? She's noxious, contaminating everything you thought you knew; who are you anymore?
"Sorry."
But you're not.
Truth
She shares pieces of herself with you, fragments that are dappled with pure moonlight, and you become greedy for more. She shares her music with you, an intimate gesture, isn't it? But no, she shares it with others too. What does she save for you then?
Perhaps nothing.
You want her to tell you something, something true, that will be for your ears only.
Lie
When the opportunity for a great internship arises, you jump at it. (The truth is: the internship isn't that great.) It's up in Michigan and far away from everything you've ever known. Beca, oblivious, congratulates you, warmly and genuinely. Aubrey, perceptive, glares at you accusatorily over Skype.
Her voice is abrasive, coarse, confronting.
Your voice, timorous, shakes.
"I really want this."
Truth
The night before your departure to Detroit the Bellas throw you a farewell party. The colored streamers draping everywhere are particularly poignant in your mind. As each of the Bellas comes to say a little goodbye to you personally, you smile, your chest heated with affection. Last is Beca, who only approaches you long after the festivities have died down.
"Let me take you to the airport tomorrow," she says seriously. The way she says it makes you feel a debility you've never experienced before.
"I'd like that."
You stay overnight in her room, taking Kimmy Jin's vacant bed (she's away on a three week vacation in South Korea). Beca discusses the possibility of maybe visiting you in Michigan or for you to come back to Georgia once in awhile.
"I'd like that." Well, that's what you mean to say.
But it comes out wrong.
"I love you."
Lie
What follows is the most heart wrenching and terrible silence you've ever encountered. If there were some way to nullify your words, a retraction, a joke, an apology, you would.
"I have to think about it," she whispers finally, laconic as always.
You know quite a few words, many are beautifully descriptive and vivid, but only one seems appropriate for this instance.
"Okay."
And you tell yourself it will be.
Truth
The ride to the airport the next day is tense and quiet. You look out the window, watching everything pass you by. Half of you wants to beg for absolution for your infraction. The other half is relieved that you've said your piece. When you reach the outside of your terminal, her hand lands on your wrist, pulling you back.
You see it in her eyes before she says it.
"I'm not in love with you."
Her eyes are a remorseful green. It reminds you of a forest, the smell of pine, the sound of birds in early morning.
"I'll miss you," you reply instead and exit the vehicle.
Lie
On the plane, just as it's about to go into taxi, you check your phone. There are two messages, one from Aubrey and another from Beca. Aubrey's can wait until you land in Michigan. Maybe Beca's can too, but your fingers, stiff, decide otherwise.
"I am in love with you" is the far worse lie, Chloe. I hope you understand.
It's perfectly typed and punctuated; she must have thought this over, turning it in her head, nitpicking until it was flawless.
But you're leaving Georgia.
You can forget her now.
A fabrication so blatant it's laughable.
Truth
It takes a few months to get settled into the new city, but you'd like to think you're doing quite well. The internship has been progressing nicely and you've made some new friends (not as great as your old ones, but not as demanding as them either). You keep in regular contact with Aubrey, even planning a visit to New York in the near future, but you don't have the heart to text Beca (and vice versa apparently).
After being separated from Aubrey from so long, you're worried that maybe your dynamic with her will have changed. And you're right. But it's not a bad change. It's simply different.
You might even like it.
Lie
Aubrey is clearly at home in the city, navigating the crowded streets with ease, her arm looped through yours. She becomes alive with the surrounding pandemonium, her eyes are lively and dancing, and her hair is streaked with darker shades of blonde, creating an illusion of fullness. Even with all the noise and busyness, you feel at home, maybe not in New York, no, but with Aubrey, yes.
Aubrey asks if you're seeing anyone, in a tone so casual it can only be her feigning interest.
You say no and that you're glad to be alone for now.
Truth
With too much tequila and too much adrenaline running through your body at the night club, you make an interesting mistake.
It's not entirely innocent, she's grinding against your leg in the most elegant way you've ever seen possible, but you don't mean anything by it. She spins and you bring her back towards you with a little too much momentum. Her lips bump into yours and the two of you pause, hot and heaving breaths fogging the air. There's a split second where you imagine it's Beca you're dancing with, but that shatters quickly; Aubrey is taller, looking down at you, and stronger, holding you steady.
She leans down to kiss you and you meet her halfway. For such a dominant personality, Aubrey's rather passive, letting you control the kiss, your hand gripping the side of her face.
"This isn't fair to you," you whisper, the bass of the music drowning out your words.
Aubrey rests her forehead against yours, a sturdy constant.
Lie
During the day she likes brushing your hair, a random number of strokes on each side. It's a new development, but not an unpleasant one. Along with the new is the old: the reminiscence of past times in college, the Scrabble competitions, the jokes. Perhaps your favorite part is late in the night when the city is illuminated with pinpricks of light and Aubrey decides to read to you.
It's her voice, familiar and expressive, and it lulls you into a sense of safety. The outside cacophony dies away as she spins tales out of nowhere. In the middle of one such night, she sets the book down and looks at you hard.
"Are you still hung up over Beca?"
The subject that the two of you have painfully danced around for the better part of a week has finally been brought up.
"I'm getting over it."
Truth
She doesn't push it, which is so uncharacteristic of her that you're filled with trepidation as your trip nears to a close. And on the last night she finally speaks her mind.
"Stay with me." It's a terse statement, one that your brain can't fully process.
"What?"
She doesn't look so sure anymore, but looking down at you she repeats, "Stay here in New York with me."
"I can't, Aubrey," but surely she must know this.
You can see a sort of desperation in her expression, but she lowers her head, breaking eye contact.
Lie
Interestingly you find your phone buried under piles and piles of clothes as you're packing. When you turn it on, you find two missed calls from Beca and one voicemail. Intrigued, you hold your phone up to your ear.
"Hey Chloe, it's Beca. I'm outside your place and I know what you said, but hear me out, okay? Call me back."
A growing suspicion takes residence in your head and you confront Aubrey about it. She looks at you, forlorn.
"She called me the other day," she finally admits. "Asked if I knew where you were."
"What did you say?"
Aubrey's blonde hair cascades down one side, shielding her from your anger. "I said I didn't know."
"Is that it?" You're ready to deflate if it's something so trivial.
Maybe your willingness to give up so easily sparks something in her, "You were in the shower when she texted you. I texted back saying you didn't want to talk to her."
"Why would you meddle like that?"
"You're the only good thing that's ever happened to me," she draws herself tall, as if she hasn't done something reprehensible. "Can you blame me?"
"I'm not an angel either, Bree," you say. "But at least I'm not a liar."
Amusingly, you realize that's a lie.
Truth
You text Beca back on your way to the airport.
Look under the plant pot on the window sill. My key is there. I'm in NY, flying back, will meet you in a few hours.
Your heart is pounding for the duration of the flight home. You think of her huddling outside your condo, cold and alone. Mostly you wonder what she has to say to you – if she'll lie to you and if she ever has – and what you'll say to her – if you'll lie to her and if you ever have. Yes to all, you think. And now, reflecting, you don't blame Aubrey. Not at all.
You love Aubrey, yes, but at the same time you don't. There isn't a single person in the world who knows you better than she does, but at the same time she still doesn't always understand you. Certainly she's your best friend and what you've felt for her has never changed. But to you love is so consuming that it renders everything else obsolete; to you love is so demanding that you struggle to express it in words. Is this what Beca meant?
That I love you is the worse lie?
You think it's also the worse truth.
But maybe the two aren't that far apart.
A/N: Thanks for reading, you're a rock star. Leave a review if it so suits you. Part 2 will be up in a few days hopefully. Cheers.