His mouth felt dry, heavy; like it was stuffed with cotton and his tongue had gone numb. There was a dull ache in his head, throbbing at his temples and a sharp pain across the bridge of his nose. Reaching up, he ran his fingers beneath his nostrils and drew them back, wincing at the sight of blood. What had happened last night?

Rolling over, he let out a groan as a flash of pain ran through his body. God, seriously, he had had way too much to drink with his buddies the night before. That was the absolute last time he could be convinced to take a shot every time a word with a vowel was spoken. Stretching his aching muscles, he moved slowly, turning over in the small, crammed bed. That was one of the biggest problems about staying at his parents' house: his bed was about two sizes too small for him now and definitely left no room for female occupants. He had always tried to argue this as time went on, but his parents seemed in no hurry to remove the bedroom of it's teenage innocence by allowing there to be enough space for it to be christened into adulthood.

Which was ridiculous, because, yes, while it was a tight squeeze, but he and a certain female occupant had managed many times. His parents? They would never know.

Damn, his eyes felt heavy too, as if his eyelids were made out of concrete. Someone must have slipped something in one of his many drinks. Alcohol couldn't be this crippling on it's own, could it?

He yawned, feeling an ache in his jaw, possibly even his teeth, settling on his side. His room, he decided, would always be a shrine to his former teenage self, and for some reason it seemed even more prominent than ever. He furrowed his brow and rolled his eyes. Had his mom seriously put those old high school basketball photos up on his bulletin board again? Had she seriously taken down every single photo he had tacked up their throughout college, the ones that depicted his life with her, just cause she thought it would be an easier healing period by smothering him with the past? While he had greatly enjoyed playing varsity basketball throughout his high school career, it wasn't something he particularly missed, nor did he feel the need to be reminded of it. His mother didn't need to coddle him, and he definitely would have a word with her about it.

Possibly. Maybe. Later, though. Moving seemed too difficult.

Rolling onto his back, (with great difficulty, might he add) he stared at the ceiling. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He felt like shit, and the worst part was he couldn't even remember if last night had been fun. If he had had a good enough time to completely forget about her and everything that had happened and how much things hurt and how everything sucked. The whole point of going out and getting wasted was to try to forget, and he couldn't if remember if that had happened.

Now, here he was, hungover in his teenage bedroom with no recollection of the night before.

At least he managed to forget something.

Sitting up on his bed, he let out a groan, swiping his hand under his nose and over his upper lip, wiping away the drying blood. Why was he bleeding, anyway? That was certainly a different side affect to drinking your weight in tequila. Closing his eyes, he leaned down and rested his head in his hands. How had everything gone so wrong? How did he end up here, at his parents house, at the age of twenty-four? Wasn't he supposed to be successful by now? Wasn't he supposed to be married, or engaged, or at least still in a serious relationship? Were these no the prime years of his life? It felt like he was wasting them away; like everything wasn't going as planned.

He should at least get himself up and out of bed, he decided. Should at least shower, have some coffee, and throw on some clothes. Then he could vege out for a while; he doubted his mother would mind (all that much). That way he'd feel like he accomplished something, even if it was just moving for a few minutes. Heaving himself off the bed, he paddled across his room and into the en suite bathroom.

Flickering on the lights in the bathroom, Troy headed straight for the shower, avoiding his reflection in the mirror as he yanked his shirt over his head. He certainly didn't want to see what state he was in; the last time he had gotten his drunk he had a lipstick print on his neck, a phone number written in forehead on his neck, and his hair was the dirtiest it had ever looked. He didn't know why, but the circles under his eyes were so dark he looked like he was either a drug dealer, or had gotten in a fist fight. He would rather not deal with that this morning.

Turning on the faucet, he turned on the radio as the steam filled the room. The Fray's 'How to Save a Life' picked up mid-chorus as he stepped into the shower, closing the curtain behind him and letting the warm stream hit his face. God, he hadn't heard this song in ages.

Mentally, he went through his 'plans' for the rest of the day. After this he was most certainly getting that coffee he considered earlier, and then he wasn't moving for the rest of the day. Maybe he'd think about what to do about living arrangements tomorrow. On Tuesday, he'd think about what he'd do about getting his belongings from their shared apartment. He considered, briefly, groveling. Perhaps she'd give him one more chance to explain things; perhaps there was still a chance to work things out.

A slim one, but at a chance nevertheless.

"Where did I go wrong? I lost a friend somewhere along in the bitterness. And I would have stayed up with you all night, had I know how to save a life."

The song finished as he washed his hair (how did he get so much? he definitely needed a haircut), and he vaguely registered the radio jockey came over the air over the sounds of the water. "I'm Fearless Fred and that was How to Save the Life by The Fray, which is number two on today's countdown. It's just after three on on Friday, September 22, 2006, and I'm hoping you didn't just wake up. Get a job," the DJ quipped.

Rinsing the suds out of his hair, he rolled his eyes in response. Who was he to tell him what to...wait. What?

With a start, he turned off the water and practically fell out of the shower in his haste to get to his room. He threw a towel around his waist, and this time, succeeded in falling on the floor as he slipped on the hardwood. Picking himself up, he scurried over to his desk, throwing himself onto the desk-chair and moving the mouse by his computer; pulling it out of sleep mod. He glanced at the date.

September 22nd, 2006.

His heart was pounding. How was this even possible? He jumped up and ran over to his night-table, grabbing his cell phone, only it was different than he remembered. It was not the sleek iPhone he had the night before, but rather a small, red Motorola Razr. He frowned, and flipped it open, reading the date on the top of the screen.

It was the same; September 22nd, 2006.

There was a knock at his door a moment later, and it opened slowly. His mother stood there, a hand on her hip and concern written on her face. "What are you doing?" she asked, her mouth in a straight line. "I heard a bang and now there's all of this running around the room. Is everything okay?"

"Mom!" he said suddenly, running towards her, "Quick, what's the date!"

Perplexed, his mother raised an eyebrow. "It's Saturday." She frowned. "Is this like that time in high school when you thought it was Saturday when really it was Monday and you missed your final exam for AP biology? Or did you go out last night and can't even remember your name."

Leave it to his mother to give an insufficient answer. "Something like that," he mumbled, waving his hands rather frantically. "What's the full date mom?

"It's the twenty-second."

"No!" he closed his eyes, agitated, "what's the year?"

His mother let out a heavy sigh. "It's 2006. Now please, come downstairs and eat something. Your father is livid."

His stomach dropped to his feet at her words. His father? 2006? How was this even possible? As his mother walked out of his room, closing the door behind her, he found himself staring at the stop she had just occupied, a small smiling on his face slowly growing into a large one.

It had worked.

"Hi, there! My name's Candice and I'll be your server today," a sweet, chipper voice said. He found himself glancing up from the menu he was focused on, and his gaze fell upon a young woman. She was extremely petite in every sense of the word, with long, glossy light brown hair, wide brown eyes, and a bright smile. Her dimples and braces made her seem younger and very charming, and he felt himself instantly endeared to her, the familiarity she brought with her more than slightly comforting.

She flipped open her small notebook, pencil poised and ready to go. "Would you like to hear today's specials? We have an excellent soup of the day and I highly recommend the pastrami sandwich on rye," she said, her voice all pep and no vinegar, "can I get you a coffee to start?"

Nodding, he smiled back at her. "Sure, coffee would be great. Black, two sugars on the side, please," he said, keeping his voice even and calm. He didn't want to scare her off; his position was precarious and strange, and he didn't want the first person he came in contact with to figure it out instantly. "As for the menu, I'm thinking I'll need a little bit more time."

Candice nodded, scribbling down his request on her notepad (though he imagined—or rather knew—that she could have remembered it without the reminder) before flashing him another smile. "Alright! I'll be right back with your coffee, sir."

With that, she flounced away, her hair swinging behind her. Grinning to himself, he took a moment to survey the diner, the same one he had frequented so many times in the past. Red vinyl booths and seats, a long bar with stools lined up alongside it, doughnuts and pie trapped behind glass containers on the counter. The smell of coffee was rich in the air along with the scent of salt and oil. The floors were still black and white checked, the lighting still industrial, and the music still ten years too old. At the current moment, Donna Lewis was singing about loving someone always and forever. He sighed and leaned back in the small booth he occupied, right by the window and three tables away from the door.

Everything was exactly as it was supposed to be. Everything was exactly as he remembered.

Running a hand through his messy, long hair (seriously, how did it gets so long?), he suddenly felt awkward, just as he had the first time he sat down at this very table all of those years ago. Did people think he'd come here alone? Well, he had. But did they think that made him some sort of weird loner because of it? If he was lucky, they just thought he was waiting for someone...though as more time went by and no one showed up, they'd eventually realize this wasn't the case. It didn't matter, though, people ate alone all of the time. Didn't they?

Reaching across the table, on impulse he grabbed the salt and pepper shakers. Digging in his wallet for some change, he chuckled to himself. The difference a few years makes; before, he had been entirely confident stepping into the diner, completely sure of himself and totally unaware that anyone would even be looking at him. Now he was more than just aware of it. It consumed him.

Candice arrived then with his coffee and set it down. "Are you meeting someone?" she asked, confirming his fears. He knew partially it was because she was curious as to whether or not he'd need more time with the menu, but also because people his age (who looked like he did) didn't usually dine alone. He'd been told enough times. "Should we wait for them?"

He opened his mouth to reply that he wasn't, and that he'd go ahead and have the pastrami sandwich she'd suggested when he stopped. There was a reason he had come to this particular diner, there was a reason he was here. To change things.

"Yeah, I am," he said, smiling.

It was true. This time, he was waiting for someone. Last time he had, too. He just didn't know it.

He glanced over at the Cat clock on the wall. If he remembered correctly (which he really hoped he did), then she should be arriving any minute. He looked back over at Candice. "Would you mind waiting another five or so minutes?"

"Sure thing!" Candice said with a nod, "Take all of the time you need! I'll be over when your guest arrives."

As she departed, he set up the salt and pepper shakers, setting them a few inches apart from each other before flicking the penny he had pulled from his pocket in between them with his thumb and forefinger. Goal! he shouted in his head. He and his dad had played this game so many times in his youth. He felt a warm tingle run through him at the realization that maybe they could play again. That with all of this, he could change so many things, including what happened to his father.

Everything would be different, but in a positive way. The bad would be eliminated and what would be left would only be good.

The bell on the door jingled, signaling that someone had entered, but by now he was too immersed in his thoughts of what could happen, of what would happen; to take note of the lithe, dark haired woman who had just entered. She even managed to walk past him without him noticing (just like last time...he had probably been too involved in this very game then, too) and it wasn't until she was seated in the booth behind him and she spoke that he realized she was there.

Candice had already been summoned and was standing next to the woman's table, smiling brightly and rattling off the day's specials (again, she stressed the pastrami), before inquiring what she could get for her. The woman cleared her throat and 'hmm-ed' to herself, before answering.

"I think I'll start with an iced tea," she said, her voice soft, high, and airy, "I'd like a little more time if you wouldn't mind."

His heart stopped at the sound of her voice. It was like time stopped. (And given the circumstances, it probably did.) Slowly, he turned around, and he felt the breath get knocked out of him at the sight before him.

She was there. She was every bit as perfect as he remembered, every bit as perfect as she was the last time he saw her. Her eyes were cast down on the menu in front of her, her black eye lashes fluttering against her cheek. The unseasonal cold from outside had painted them a soft pink, and her lips seemed like they were slightly chapped, though he knew that they would still be ridiculously soft all the same. Her black pea coat sat in a pile on the seat beside her, a stack of books resting on the table next to her elbow. She was wearing an olive green cardigan and a soft cream tank top underneath, her wrist weighed down with gold bangles; a scarf with burnt orange flowers wrapped around her neck. Her hair was long—longer than he remembered, certainly—and pulled up in a ponytail, showing off the length of her neck and the curves of her jaw. Candice arrived with the woman's drink a moment later and she looked up to thank her, smiling.

He had to look away momentarily at the sight of her eyes, so expressive, so bright and felt his heart clench at the memory of the way they had looked the last time he had seen them. Shaking the feeling off, he cleared his throat loudly, hoping she hear and look over at him. It was now or never, and who knew how long he really had here anyway? Best to seize the moment while he had it.

Only she didn't notice, her eyes still tracing over the menu. He frowned and cleared his throat again, this time louder, but she still did not notice. By the third time, he was fairly sure that a flicker of annoyance had jumped across her features, but he could not be sure. She didn't get annoyed easily for one, and it was such a brief moment that he might have imagined it. Regardless, by the fourth time—sounding like he was hacking up a lung at this point—she looked up and her eyes met with his. Instantly, a shock ran through him and he noticed with much delight that her eyes grew ever so slightly wider. He smiled easily, though his heart was pounding rapidly and the pace only increased when he saw her smile shyly back.

"Hi," he said with a smile, "how's it going?"

She paused, glancing around awkwardly before responding. "Fine," she said softly, her voice like honey. He was thrilled at the sound of it. "Thank you."

He grinned as she immediately looked back down at her menu. Some things never change. "Nice day out, isn't it?" he asked, gesturing to the window beside him, not entirely sure if it was in fact a nice day. He had been in a daze on the way over.

She glanced out the window and furrowed her brow. "It's raining."

Flushing slightly, he grinned sheepishly. "I know," he chuckled, "it was a joke." Feeling like he had played it off well enough, especially when she smiled back at him, a little more confidently this time, he continued, "some people like it when it rains, though."

"True," she agreed, "though I am not one of them."

"Oh?" he knew she wasn't. "Me neither. Too dark and that makes me depressed."

Her eyes lit up. "Yes! Me too! That's it, exactly!"

"Well," he said with a grin, "glad to see someone else agrees. You come here often?" It was a line and he meant it as one, but he hoped she didn't notice. He had used it last time and she had, but maybe it would be different.

It wasn't. She raised an eyebrow. "Yes," she said slowly, her amusement apparent. God this was mortifying. He had been so much more smooth the first time around. "It's my favourite place to eat." She paused, as if contemplating whether or not to continue the conversation. "What about you?"

He nodded, pleased that she had gone on. "No, this is my first time here. What do you recommend?"

She brought a finger to her chin in thought, a movement he was very used to. "The pastrami sandwich is fantastic," she said, and he held back a laugh, "but I also really like the French onion soup. But I don't know if either of those are your tastes, so I can't really recommend much based on my lack of knowledge."

"Both sound great," he answered honestly. "I'm Troy, by the way, Troy Bolton. I would shake your hand, but you're much too far away." He gestured to the distance between them and she rolled her eyes, smiling. She stood up from her booth, and walked over to his, taking the seat adjacent to his.

"I'm Gabriella," she extended her hand, "Gabriella Montez. It's very nice to meet you, Troy."

Slipping his hand into hers and shaking it gently, but firmly, he smiled to himself. This could really be the beginning of something.

Maybe then the end wouldn't be so bad.

Thank you to Julina for her wonderful beta-reading and cheerleading. Where are my Sour Patch Kids?