You blame it on your alarm clock. If it would've gone off thirty minutes earlier, like it was set for, you wouldn't have been running late. After all, it wasn't like you hit snooze in your still sleeping state. No, it wasn't your fault. It was your alarm clock's. It also wasn't your fault your phone's a piece of crap and you missed that call from the job agency about your interview being moved up an hour earlier. It's not your fault your roommate Stacie took your car on a joyride last night, and left the keys (and the car) at the club she went to before leaving the place in the passenger seat of a one night stand. You don't have the money or the time to take a cab all the way downtown- remember, this is a job interview you're going to and you woke up late- so you're left riding your neighbor's daughter's rusty pink bike the ten miles or so there. You pray to whatever deity's might exist that you make it on time and aren't sweaty.
No time for coffee. Once your alarm clock goes off and you notice the time, your heart starts racing in anxiety. You are not a morning person. Still, it's only a half hour. You'll just have to cut out your second cup of coffee. Not a problem… until you hit play on the answering machine as you strut into the kitchen wearing a tank top and your boy shorts to start making said coffee, and instead find you have no time to "strut" at all. No coffee, and only a perfume shower to maybe hide the scent of your shame as you race around your apartment trying to get ready. You shove one leg into the tights you were going to wear to your interview today and hear a loud riipppp as your foot tears a hole from the crotch of the tights down to the knee. Muttering expletives under your breath, you tear apart your entire room in your search for something suitable to wear as that was the only pair of tights you had. Instead you slip into a pair of black jeans and a form fitting violet flannel with a black tank top underneath. You loosely apply your usual eyeliner and mascara, throw on the nearest pair of shoes (grey Converse), grab the portfolio you created in the form of a flash drive, and run to the counter to grab your keys out of the key basket. Once you get there, you see the note Stacie left you.
"Borrowed your car! I'll have it back by ten tomorrow morning- Love ya, Stacie"
By now, you're really starting to freak out. It's nine o'clock and your interview's at ten thirty. The traffic's heavy, you don't have money, you don't have a car, and the interview the job agency set up for you takes place at a radio station ten miles away. You recall your neighbor's addiction to biking and hope your own minute experience with the two wheeled vehicle is enough to get you there. After bartering with your neighbor for a bike to borrow (one week's worth of free babysitting), you sit your ass on the seat, grip the handlebars, and you start the ten mile bike ride to the radio station.
People stare at you: a petite, scowling, disgruntled twenty-something year old furiously peddling a rusty pink bike and occasionally ringing the little bell it came with while swearing vicariously at people to move out of your way. Not like you blame them. Your cell phone goes off, and you steer one handed as you answer.
"Hello?" you grunt into the phone, eyes fluttering up to the street signs at the crosswalk. Lincoln and Parkway. You're halfway there.
"Where the hell are you?" It's Cynthia-Rose, your sponsor and contact at the job agency. You went to high school together. She's the one that got you your interview.
"I'm on the way," you say with a slight breathlessness in your voice. "Try and stall them-"
"I am stalling them!" Cynthia says, full of frustration. "I don't know how much longer I can stall them!"
You give a groan of vexation, wishing you would've had time for your morning coffee. "There's not much I can do! Stacie stole my car this morning so I had to find an alternative mode of transportation!" You can hear CR trying to say something, but you cut her off with, "I'll be there as soon as I-"
A blaring horn and the squealing of tires halts your words, and you pivot your head in time to see the wide blue eyes of a driver just before their car crashes into you.
Vaguely, you're aware of your phone flying out of your hands and a concerned Cynthia-Rose calling out for you as it shatters into a billion pieces. You slam hard into the pavement, your neighbor's bike falling on top of you. Your head slams hard against the asphalt. The peddle of the bike drives into your left ankle until there's a distinct crack and pain shoots up your leg. Groaning, you try and sit up despite the world spinning around you. You hear the sound of a car door shutting, and then there's a worried face in front of you. You can't really focus on it, can't discern the gender or what the person looks like, but there are two blue spots on that face that utterly captivate you for some reason.
"Oh my God! I'm so sorry!" her voice is light and distinctly feminine. "Are you okay?"
Your hand inadvertently reaches up to touch her face (the one you still can't really focus on) to make sure she's real. She doesn't move or say anything as your fingers stroke the soft skin of her cheek. "Your eyes are like fire," you say, though you don't recognize the slur in your voice.
The other woman blinks, confused. "Are you sure you don't mean my hair?"
You gasp, completely and utterly surprised, "You have hair?! What?!" Your hand then reaches up to grab at the red curls bunched up on top of her head and you lightly tug at a stray strand. "No effing way!"
The other grimaces (maybe your tug wasn't so light) and pulls away, "Alright, so you're not okay. Can you stand up?"
You nod vigorously, quite proud of the fact that you can, in fact, stand. You start to move but instead stop and stare down at your legs. You've found that you can't actually stand. There's some strange weight there, holding your legs down. The other woman sees your glance and bam! Like magic, that weight on your legs disappear. Oh. It was the bicycle.
"What's wrong?" there was quite a crowd now, gathering around them.
A passerby asked, "Should I call an ambulance?"
"In this traffic?" someone answered. "It'll take another hour and a half. Better to just drive her to the hospital."
The woman helps you to stand when you cry out in pain from trying to move your ankle. With one arm around her shoulders, you both hobble to her car and she helps you lay down in the back seat. Once she makes sure you're comfortable, and apologizes every time you wince or cry out in pain, she climbs into the front seat and starts up the car. It's only then that you remember. "My job!" you yell out, immediately reaching up and reaching for the fiery-woman up front. "You have to drive me to the WBUJ radio station downtown!"
She startles at your touch, the car swerving and for a moment you think she might crash it again. You don't notice the two spots of pink burning her cheeks. "What?"
"I have a job interview there at ten! You have to get me there!"
She eyes you in the rear-view mirror, "Are you insane? I just hit you with my car!"
You suddenly feel extremely nauseous and your hand flies to your mouth. Having been watching you, still, the woman pulls over the car in time for you to lurch over to the door, violently open it and puke your brains out. With a hand, she pulls your hair out of the way. With the other, she starts rubbing circles on your back. You moan once you finish. She hands you a napkin that must've come from a fast food bag, and you wipe your mouth with it before plopping back down. There's a ringing ache in your ankle you hadn't exactly noticed through the fog in your mind.
The other woman sits back in the driver's seat again and restarts up the car. "Yeah," she says. "There's no way I'm driving you to the radio station in this condition."
"But… my interview…" it's important to you, so important to you. This could be what you've been waiting for, even if it's not exactly what you want. At least you'd be getting your music aired. Maybe. It's a start. You begin giving into the dizziness in your mind that's swirling.
"I'll get you another one," the woman promises, tone non-negotiating. You find you can't argue.
"Fine…" you mumble absentmindedly. "Alright."
You see her fiery blues glance at you again in the mirror through your half-lidded eyes before looking back at the road. You stay watching her in that way all the way to the hospital.
The doctor shifts the light to your right eye and clucks his tongue. "Well, you have a concussion," he states assuredly. You try to blink away the spots in your vision as he picks up the folder behind him. He flips through it for a moment before nodding again. "And your ankle's broken. It's not serious, the bone hasn't shifted. I'm going to prescribe you some medication for the pain. I'll wrap it and set it in an air cast, then you'll be free to go."
It's another half an hour later, with crutches under your armpits, that you work your way down to the lobby tailed by your doctor. Your scowl is back on your face as you consider the day you've had so far. Late, no car, no coffee, you missed your job interview, your cell phone's ruined, you don't know how you're going to explain the broken bike to your neighbor, and you're on crutches.
"Now, I have to recommend you ice your wounds at least three times a day for ten to twenty minutes at a time. Also, I can't allow you to drive in your state. Do you have a ride home?" he asks, ripping her prescription and handing her page to her.
"I'll take her," a familiar voice jumped in. You turn to see the redhead from before, now being able to see her clearly. "After all," she says guiltily. "It's my fault she's here in the first place."
You blush once her gaze turned to you, remembering how you touched her face. God, did you do that? How embarrassing. "You don't have to-"
"It's no problem, really," her eyes are burning into you. "I owe you. Let me drive you home."
"Okay," you say somewhat uncertainly as you reset the crutches under your arms. She smiles at you again and you follow her out of the hospital and to her car, leaving your doctor back at the reception desk. He shares a knowing glance with the receptionist.
The drive to your apartment is uncomfortable and silent. The only time either of you say anything is when you give the other woman directions. For a moment you wonder if Stacy is back at the apartment. Once you get back, you'll have to ask her to pick up your prescription from the drug store down the street. Your ankle feels stiff and hot, and you still feel mildly dizzy. Still, you're happy to be able to see clearly now and to focus on things despite the headache. You discretely glance over to the stranger sitting next to you, taking a moment to observe the woman that's both the cause of your pain and your salvation from it.
The first thing you notice is that her hair is no longer in the messy bun it was in earlier. The red curls now dangle about to a point just below the woman's shoulders. Your eyes follows a stray strand of her red hair that hangs in her face to a barely noticeable scar that sits lightly on her brow. Simultaneously, you find yourself strangely wanting to tuck her hair behind her ears and trace the scar with the tip of your finger. Next, you follow the flow of her features to her nose. Tiny freckles adorn her features there, and distantly you remember how soft her cheek was to the touch. Her plump lips, though worried at the moment by her teeth, had the ghost of a pearly-white smile upon them. You wonder what it would be like if it were directed at you. The other woman sat confidently in her seat a few inches taller than you, tapping her fingers against the steering wheel in a beat you found yourself bobbing your head to. And yet, her eyes are exactly as you described them earlier. They burn a fiery blue when she looks at you with an intensity almost like a heavenly dare. You feel like you're melting into a puddle at her gaze, your insides becoming soup. It takes you a moment to realize that the reason you feel this way is because the woman is actually looking at you. As in, she sees you staring at her like a total creep.
Lightly blushing, you look to the window. In its reflection of the woman, you see her smile as she turns to look back at the road. Somewhere in the back of your mind you come to the realization that this woman who's driving you home is beautiful.
"I'm Chloe, by the way," she says in a cheery tone. Her voice is strangely musical.
"Beca," you say shortly. You internally kick yourself at your rudeness, and also for not introducing yourself sooner. "Beca Mitchell." You point to an obscure side street, "Turn left here." The other woman, Chloe, does as you ask and turns down the road.
It's silent in the car again, though somehow not as uncomfortable as before. Chloe is drumming her fingers on the steering wheel, thoughtfully. You try to think of something to say, but she beats you to it. "Sorry I hit you with my car."
You shrug your shoulders, and smirk, "I'm sure you weren't aiming to hit me. Now, the guy behind me on the other hand…"
She laughs lightly as she agrees, "You're completely right. It was him I was after. You just got in the way."
You threw your hands up, "I can't help it you drive like a maniac!"
"I do not!" Chloe argued with a smile, "You rode out into the street without looking where you were going!"
"Sorry, mom, I'll try to look both ways before I cross the street next time. Meanwhile, where's my pacifier?"
Chloe gives you that look again, the one that makes your insides melt, her eyes darker this time. "Aren't you a little old to suck on a pacifier, Beca?" She looks at you, eyes slowly moving down over you body and back up. You gulp at whatever her insinuation is, because whatever it is it's not innocent. Suddenly, the moment's gone as she laughs again. "Never mind. You're small enough. Maybe you do need one."
You roll your eyes, "Oh, ha ha. No one's ever joked about my height before."
The redhead grins and says, "It's because you're so adorable. We tall people can't help it."
"I'm not adorable, I'm bad-ass," you correct her sternly.
"Okay, bad-ass… and short."
"Fun sized-"
"I'll say," her eyes are on you again.
Blushing, you look out the window. You suddenly realize where you are and scream out, "Shit!"
Startled, Chloe slams hard on the breaks and pulls over to the side of the road amidst an immediate sea of car horns as the drivers behind her slam on their breaks as well. As cars pass them on the side, she hurriedly asks, "What?! What is it? Are you alright?"
A little embarrassed and sort of sheepish, you scratch the back of your neck, "Yeah, I'm fine. Sorry, I just noticed we're not anywhere near my apartment. We must've passed it a while back."
Chloe stares at you stunned. "You screamed and almost caused another accident because we passed your apartment," it's more a statement than a question, yet you nod nervously anyway. She laughs at this and in a moment you're laughing right along with her. She pulls the car back into the road and continues to drive straight rather than to turn around. "It's alright," she states in merriment. "We're close to my house, anyway. We can stop in and have lunch and hang out for a while, if you want." She glances at you.
"Yeah, sure," you say. For some reason, the prospect of spending more time with this near stranger seems like a fantastic idea. "Sounds like fun."
The other woman grins in response and looks back at the road.
A week has passed since you met the other woman. You haven't seen her since the "hit and hang out" incident and yet, true to her word, Chloe had gotten you another interview at WBUJ. You're not entirely sure how but you decide not to question it. You're just thankful to get a second chance. Luke is the station manager there. He's the one that handled your interview. Not much happened in terms of actual questioning about the job. You showed up, he gave you and your crutches a glance over, and handed you an application to fill out. Even that application was simple. Name, number, address, education, hours capable of working, and a reference. All in all, it took about ten minutes to complete. Luke took the paper once you were done and put it in a drawer on his desk. He explains the ins and outs of the radio station ("No sex on the desk, I've been burned before" is a warning that'll be easy for you to follow) and sets a heavy looking box on the table.
"You'll be stacking CD's with Jesse," Luke explains, motioning towards the box. "When you're done, there's more. Your shift starts tomorrow at one. Don't be late." He starts to leave but pauses in the doorway of the room, "Oh, and welcome to WBUJ."
You feel a sense of disbelief at the fact that you landed this job. Sure, the pays not fantastic. You're also not going to be doing what you'd been hoping for. Still, you're on crutches. You didn't think he'd hire someone with an injury. There's relief too in there. At least you have a job. At least it's a start.
Slowly you make your way down an elevator and out of the station to Stacie. She deemed it her fault that you were crippled and has been your chauffeur since (you vaguely remember feeling disappointed when you called Stacie and accepted her offer to drive you home from Chloe's). Your car is a beat up, God-awful reddish orange Prius. Stacie gives you an encouraging smile as you sit in the passenger's seat. On the drive back to your shared apartment, you fill her in on your success at the job interview. Almost instantly she cheers and starts making plans for a celebration at a bar later that night. You can't actually drink because of the pain and anti-bacterial medication. Not to mention that Stacie would need to be sober in order to drive the both of you home. "Although," you say. "Crashing into a tree might be fun." Stacie changes the plan to a dinner instead. By the time you come up with a good enough reason to go, Stacie has already parked the car and texted everyone the details.
It takes time to make it up all six flights of stairs. Stacie lingers with you as you impatiently try to work your way up. The damn elevator's broken. Again. She could've easily ditched you on those stairs. Instead she stuck around to talk about her nail appointment the next day. Once you get to your apartment you have roundabout seven hours to kill before you have to do anything. The plans were made to have dinner at six tonight, and you'd finished your interview hours earlier than you were expecting it to take (so you haven't worked at a radio station before! you had no idea what to expect). Plopping down onto the couch, you rested your foot up on the coffee table and booted up your laptop. You played around with a mix for about five minutes before you gave up. You weren't really in the mood to do anything or be productive. It's around then that Stacie leaves you to the apartement for one of her college classes.
Sneaking a peek at your phone, you see that it's only a quarter past eleven. You're usually never up this early. Sighing heavily at the boredom, you play around on your phone for a few minutes instead. It was almost something you could consider productive, albeit almost useless. You bought Taylor Swift's newest album as well as a couple songs by Bastille. You changed your screensaver to an excitable, completely crazy-happy-adorable dog picture. You also took some time to delete people you didn't know (but were somehow friends with) on Facebook. You had the same idea to delete some of your more useless contacts as well when you scrolled across Chloe's name.
It was almost a shock to see her name there. You'd forgotten that she'd given you her number. Though you'd thought about her here and there in a parting thought (usually when you were thinking about your injuries), the redheaded woman hadn't been at the forefront of your mind. Thinking about her now, though, you recall how easy it was to banter with her. To talk with her. You spent a few hours with a complete stranger that had hit you with their car and felt completely at ease. You weren't usually like that unless you were with Stacie or Cynthia-Rose of Amy.
You can't say exactly what it was about Chloe that made her so easy to get along with. You consider the idea that she literally broke down your walls when she hit you with her car. All you know for sure is that for those few hours you almost felt at home. Idly, you think about texting her. It might be weird since you haven't spoken to her in a week. Still, if she doesn't remember you or doesn't want to talk to you or something then at least you can get it out of the way. It'll be simple. You don't want to make it awkward. Before you can second-guess your decision, you send a her a text.
Hey, Red. Is your road-rage under control yet or should I be concerned?
Your father's an English lit professor at Barden College and some of his old habits stuck. You weren't big into texting abbreviations. Barden's the same college Stacie goes to, incidentally.
You stare at your phone for almost a full minute as you wait for Chloe to text you back. You could've sworn that the Jeopardy game show song was playing in the background, or a big clock ticking the seconds away. Finally, you give up and decide to take a nap. If she doesn't text you back, then at least you'll know where you stand and can delete her number. You turn on the TV to National Geographic and start to doze off to frogs in South America. You're very near to the realm of sleep when the loudest noise wakes you up. Startled, you jump up and, having forgotten about your foot, hit it hard against the floor. "Mother fu-" the ringing from your phone cuts you off. It wasn't what woke you up (that was National Geographic's frog's fault) but it's still there causing a nuisance to your sleeping habits. You click the off button on the remote before you look at your phone. Those frogs could actually croak out their last for all you care at the moment.
It's Chloe's name on the screen. She sent back a text.
Who are you and why are you texting this number?
Disappointment eats away at your insides. So maybe you were right and Chloe doesn't want to talk to you. Maybe she doesn't remember you. Maybe she gave you the wrong number. You're not sure how to reply, so you send back:
Sorry, wrong number
Afterwards, you shut off your phone and jump in the shower. You still have five hours until you need to leave, but you want to conserve some of the hot water for Stacie when she get's back from class. Beyond that, even, you find the cascading warm water relaxing. You change into some loose clothes, brush out your hair without drying it, then decide to go to sleep. You'll probably be up a little late tonight, and you're still a little groggy from almost falling asleep earlier. You fall asleep easily to thoughts about Chloe. That sourness in your stomach hasn't quite left you yet. You don't dream.
You all showed up, the lot of you, to an almost fancy restaurant called "Elizabeth's". You wait for the hostess to return from seating a woman named Gale and her colleague (they were working on a script of some sort, from what you could hear). Stacie grins flirtatiously and leans forward a bit to show off her cleavage, "Table for four?"
"Name?" the hostess asks. The name on her tag says Barbara.
"Oh, we don't have a reservation," Stacie explains with a confident, seductive air to her tone. "But if you show us to our seats, I'll make sure to leave a good... tip."
The woman looks disgusted and immediately steps away from your friend. "No reservation, no seats," she says maliciously, glaring at the group of you. "Which means you aren't here to buy and are wasting my time and money." You recognize the look on her face as more than slightly homophobic. It pisses you off. You have half a mind to take your crutches and shove them up her- "Feel free to go." It looks almost as if Fat Amy was going to throw a punch at the bitch for taking away their prospect of food.
"Actually," it's her voice again. "They're with us."
Sure enough you look over to see the woman you spent your day regretting. Standing beside her is a tall, uptight looking blonde. There's a joyful little lilt to Chloe's lips that makes you want to return it. Her eyes are just the same as they ever were, alive and searing. You wonder how, in the past week, you could've forgotten them. You open your mouth to disagree with Chloe's statement, but keep it shut at the sound of your stomach growling loudly. You hadn't realized how hungry you were.
"Reservation for Beale," Chloe bubbly states.
The rather "pleasant" hostess states, "You made it for two."
Chloe's blonde friend growls at the hostess despite her clear disdain at the idea of eating with the four of you, "Then make it for six."
Barb the hostess looks ready to argue but doesn't say what's clearly on her mind. "Fine," she says, marking something in her register on the tables. "Right this way." With an armful of menus, the hostess leads you to a large circular booth in the far back corner of the restaurant. She places the menus and silverware down as all of you take your seats. You avoid looking anywhere at Chloe across the table. Cynthia's sitting on your left, ordering her drink for the evening. Stacie's on her other side, sitting next to the blonde rather closely. Fat Amy's on your right, thumbing through her menu. You can't resist avoiding Chloe for long and look up to see her staring at you too.
You don't know how you'll make it through the night.
AN
Gonna try to make this three chapter's long. No guarantee. I might end up writing everything I need to in the next chapter. I was planning on writing the whole thing tonight in one long one-shot, but it's late and I don't have my glasses. I can't see exactly what I'm writing, so I'm splitting up what else I've had written with what I still need to get done. Gimme some reviews if you like it. Feel free to fav or follow. Hope I didn't do too bad with everything. Hope you liked it. Thanks for reading.