You learn quickly that your life can be separated into two easy sections:
Before Chloe and After Chloe.
Before Chloe was a darker time, where you'd hole yourself up in your room and guard from the world. You'd keep your heart locked away in a cage, never to be opened, and you'd never show any semblance of emotion. Before Chloe was a time when everything was dark, and there was nothing there to keep you afloat.
After Chloe is undiscovered territory.
After Chloe, you are brighter and there is no longer a weight resting on your shoulders, dragging you down into the mud. You're not necessarily happy, because you cannot remember the last time you truly were. You think maybe you were a little kid, before the divorce and before your father upped and left (you think maybe this time can be classed as Before Before Chloe, but maybe not).
Chloe is a carefree spirit. She floats through life as if it's something to be treasured, watches the way the stars illuminate the night sky as if they hold the secrets to the world in them and looks at you like you're her destiny (sometimes you think maybe she's yours, too). She finds beauty in everything she sees, and you're almost envious of how she allows herself to not care.
People have always accused you of not caring, but that's never been the case; you just care too much, is all.
You've never been big on physical contact, or smiling when not for a photograph or a social event, or interacting with other people, but Chloe is. She holds your hand and strokes your hair and makes you grin so big your cheeks hurt, and more importantly, she gives you friends. She gives you these other girls, all awkward and bumbling like yourself — if not slightly less so — and she gives you purpose.
"I love you," she tells you sometimes, curled up together on her bed. Never when Aubrey is around, always when she is in her own room or out, and always with the lights off.
"Yeah," you always reply, because you're too scared of what else you could end up saying to think of anything else.
Sometimes you think you could make it work with Jesse. He's nerdy like you and he's awkward as well, and he looks at you like you hung the fucking moon. Sometimes, when you're not asking yourself why you don't particularly want to be with him, you think you could do it. You think you could handle holding his hand and kissing him and watching those God awful movies he insists on showing you (Chloe never makes you watch movies with her, but that is irrelevant, you tell yourself).
You know what your dad thinks about girls who like girls. You know the way he turns up his nose at it. You remember the way your older brother Nick had been thrown out of the house, lips blue and teeth chattering because your dad had walked into his room and found him with his hand down the pants of his best friend. It's not like you seek your dad's approval, but you need him to stay at college, to stay as a Bella (to stay with Chloe).
Sometimes you don't think Aubrey is all that bad. You see the urgency behind her eyes and the way she has to bite back her tears all too often. Sometimes you feel really bad for her. You don't think you would have Before Chloe, but now you do. You think maybe that says something, but choose not to acknowledge it.
"Becs," she whispers one night, her head resting on your lap and your fingers laced through her hair, massaging her scalp. It's a terrifyingly intimate position, one you know you'd never enter into without it being Chloe.
"Hmm," you reply.
"I want you to know that I'm into girls as well as boys."
Your fingers still in her hair and you feel her tense up automatically. She waits a few seconds before moving her head out of your lap and sitting up to face you, and when she does you wish more than anything that she was back in her previous position.
"Bec?"
You try not to care, or let it get under your skin, but you suddenly can't stop thinking about what it means now that you know she's definitely attracted to girls as well. You'd always had suspicions, but now that it's confirmed, you don't know what to do with yourself.
Your mind runs free, images of Chloe pressing you up against a wall taking over. You can just imagine the way her breath tickles your ear, and how it must feel to have her hands on you. If she would smile into a kiss or keep deadly serious.
(These aren't the sort of thoughts girls have for their best friends, you think, but you pin it down to the revelation shocking you).
"Bec, this doesn't, like, change anything about us. You do know that, right?"
(You want to scream out that it changes everything between you, but you just can't).
"'Course. Just… Yeah, no, of course."
The ICCAs are a whirlwind. One minute, you're singing your heart out and dancing and trying your hardest to not look at Chloe, and the next you're being nudged in the shoulder by Stacie and you have to force yourself down the stairs.
You remember the discussion you had with Aubrey and Chloe when you told them you wanted to put Don't You Forget About Me into the mix; the way your hands shook and you couldn't quite meet their eyes. They'd been fine with it, but every part of you wishes they hadn't.
You know where Jesse's sitting — have memorised it, even — and you make your way over there with a heavy heart. He's sitting grinning — waiting, almost — and your heart is in your throat, thudding, and you have to make yourself smile back (you never had to force yourself to do anything with Chloe — it all came naturally).
"Told you: endings are the best part," he says.
"You're such a weirdo," you breathe out.
The words feel strange on your tongue; like they don't belong to you. They taste bitter in your mouth, a feeling you wonder if will ever go away around him.
You kiss him then, because you can feel him waiting. You can feel his uneasy breath, the way he's practically begging you to make the move, and you give in to all of the voices in your head telling you this is the proper thing to do.
Jesse's not a bad kisser, you don't think, but you're struggling to feel anything at all. He knows what to do with his mouth and he catches your lower lip between his teeth and you know that that's a good move, but it just feels weird. It's like kissing your best friend (which you're trying not to imagine doing, because thinking about kissing your best friend is your whole problem).
Your dad comes over, grinning and proud, and you silently wonder if he's more proud of you for winning or for ending up with Jesse.
Jesse is a really good boyfriend. He takes you on dates and buys you flowers and kisses you soft and slow like a proper gentleman, and he always treats you right. He's the kind of boy you bring home to meet your mom and the kind of boy you marry and have kids with.
You take him home with you to Portland at Thanksgiving break so he can actually spend time with your mom and brother, and he spends the whole plane ride watching movies and discussing them with you like you care about them. You make a mix with two songs Chloe had shown you before you left to go home, and tell yourself it's because they're really good songs.
Nick is at the airport waiting for your arrival. Jesse kisses you once you're off the plane and tells you that he's going to the bathroom and that he'll find you and Nick, and so you make your way through the crowd until you find your unnaturally tall brother, lanky and awkward as ever, standing next to a boy who is about as small as you. Your brother is grinning at you and is clearly trying to get you to run to him ("Becs! Come on, Becs! God, you're soo slow!") but you let yourself be weighed down by your bags and trudge towards him slowly.
When you do get to him, your bags are shoved into the arms of the unfamiliar boy and you're being lifted up by Nick, who is smiling and laughing like crazy into your hair (he reminds you a lot of Chloe when he's like this, you think).
"Who, uh, who's this?" you ask, nodding your head at the boy with an armful of your bags.
"Oh. This is my boyfriend, Jamie. Jamie, this is my little sister, Beca."
"Hi," he says, and he nods at you rather than shaking your hand because of the bags that are currently occupying his.
"Hi. Um, sorry about the bags, my —"
Just then your phone buzzes, the annoying message popping up saying that your storage is almost full. You swipe it away almost automatically and go to lock your phone, but before you do, Nick is grabbing hold of it and giving you that smug fucking smile that you hate.
"Is this your girlfriend?" he asks, and you're confused for a second before you realise he's looking at your lock screen — a picture of you and Chloe — and you can't breathe. "She's cute. For a girl."
"Um, no, no, she's my — we're — Nick, give my phone back."
"Don't be embarrassed, Bec. Does Dad know yet?"
"Nick, give me my phone back."
"Come on, I always had my suspicions. You were always really close with that girl in high school. What was her name? Uh… Madison? Madison, that was it."
"She's not my fucking girlfriend. Give me my phone back."
"Beca," he says, voice turning gentle. "Seriously. I'm your brother. You don't have to be ashamed of who you are."
"I'm not ashamed! She's my best friend. She's not — we're not …"
You snatch your phone back and take another look at the photo. You understand why he thinks you're dating Chloe from it, if you're honest. You're standing backstage at the ICCAs and her arms are wrapped around your neck, her lips planted on your cheek and her smile wide. You're standing a little awkwardly, but smiling all the same, and leaning into her. You look more at home with Chloe in this picture than you do in any of the ones you have with Jesse.
"I'm not into Chloe," you say quietly.
Before Nick can argue, you feel an all too familiar arm wrap around your waist. He leans his mouth into your head and kisses you, mumbling a greeting of some kind into your hair. You think this probably seems like an intimate gesture, and you're automatically uncomfortable.
"Uh, Nick, Jamie, this is Jesse. My boyfriend."
And that's that.
Portland isn't like you were expecting. You were expecting it to feel the way it did when you were a little kid coming home after the rare visit to your dad's house in Georgia: comforting. Now, it's boring. You don't know what to do (there is nothing to do) and Jesse just wants you to show him everything, but there is nothing to show him and he keeps getting annoyed.
It's like everything that happened Before Chloe is mediocre now that you've met her. Like nothing will ever live up to her and the way it feels when she accidentally brushes hands with you.
Your mom is the same as always: tired. Her smile is faded, worn around the edges, and her enthusiasm is dulled. She's happy to see Jesse, but you think maybe she sees the way you have to hold back with him. She gives you this look when Chloe FaceTimes you to tell you that she's thankful for you that suggests she knows something you don't (the funniest thing about this, you think, is that you do know what she thinks she knows. You're just trying your damnedest to ignore it).
"Jesse's a nice boy," she tells you when Nick and Jamie have taken Jesse out shopping for the turkey.
"Yeah. He's … Yeah."
"Are you happy?" she asks.
You can't bring yourself to say yes, but you don't say no, either (so that has to count for something, right?).
You wonder why Chloe makes you feel so safe, sometimes. You'll be on her lap, feet tucked under your knees and head resting on her shoulder — a position you know for a fact you'll never enter into with Jesse — and you will just feel comfortable. With Chloe comes the perpetual scent of cinnamon and Chanel No. 5, and you revel in it as she holds you close to her.
You live in these moments; the ones where you don't have to pretend to be something or someone you're not.
Chloe Beale is not the kind of person you want silently; she is the kind of person whose touch you crave for hours on end, whose smile lights a fire inside of you that cannot be extinguished.
You don't know how to stop this feeling. You don't know how to make it stop. The thoughts of Chloe, dancing through your mind when you're supposed to be thinking of your boyfriend, are incessant and always there and they're sitting, eating away at you minute by minute, second by second. You don't know how much more you can take.
She's a cuddler, and she likes to wrap you up in her arms and hold you as close to her as you can. Her heart beats against your ear and yours her ribcage, and the moments you share seem heartwrenchingly private.
"You're so beautiful, Beca," she tells you, lips pressed to the side of your cheek. She never does move away, and you're not sure if it's a kiss or just a comforting gesture. You're grateful either way. "You don't realise how beautiful you are."
Your breath hitches, and you don't know what to say because Chloe's eyes are glassy and her smile is so vulnerable and open, and this is the girl you want so very badly.
"You're pretty, too, Chloe."
"No, I mean — you don't get it. Like … I think you're the most beautiful person I've ever seen. You're a masterpiece, Beca."
And suddenly you're all too aware of Chloe's lips on your cheek, her breath hot, and the way her body is pressed up against yours. Every part of you is touching, and the intimacy of the moment is killing you. Chloe shifts then, pulling back from your cheek as if she knows you're unsure about this contact. But then she's looking at you — truly looking, like how Romeo would look for the stars in Juliet's eyes — and you want nothing more than to close the gap between you and kiss her — finally let your lips touch hers and let go.
You don't, of course. You don't, because you are Beca Mitchell. Because you have a boyfriend and a dad who hates girls like this (girls like you) and because Chloe Beale does not deserve to be an experiment, and because you are Beca Mitchell and you are utterly predictable.
"Um … I should go," you say, shifting your gaze from her lips, which are impossibly full and so, so pink.
"Bec," she starts, her tone changing as if she's done something wrong. "I'm sorry, I shouldn't have —"
"— No, Chlo, it's not — it's fine. We're fine. Seriously. I've just gotta … I have to go. But it's fine."
"Beca, wait, please," she pleads, but you're already scrambling for your jacket. "I didn't mean to — if I made you uncomfortable —"
"— That's not what … It's not that. I'm really sorry, Chloe. I have to go, because if I don't then I'm going to do something I shouldn't."
And Chloe doesn't push you to go further and watches you as you leave her room, jacket clutched to your chest and your heartbeat ringing in your ears.
You can barely breathe, and you're far too close to crying for comfort. You can still feel Chloe's breath on your cheek, steady and hot.
Your phone buzzes from inside of your pocket, vibrating against the side of your leg. Your eyes are welling up with tears, but you blink them away as best as you can and fumble around in your pocket for a few seconds before you finally get your phone out.
Warren Mitchell, the screen reads, and you let out a shaky sigh. You're still outside of Chloe and Aubrey's apartment — you don't think you could walk away even if you wanted to — and the last person you want to speak to right now (except from maybe Jesse) is your dad.
But still, you slide your thumb across the answer button and bring your phone up to your ear. You can hear Chloe pacing gently inside and it is fucking killing you.
"What?" you say as way of greeting, your voice scratchy. You outwardly wince at how you sound: broken.
"Hello to you, too, Beca," he says with a snort.
"What do you want?"
"Okay, okay. Fine. I just wanted to invite you and Jesse to dinner this Saturday."
You freeze. You've never told your dad about you and Jesse — not because of Chloe, you tell yourself, but because it's none of his business — and you wonder how he knows. Maybe he saw you together at school, but that's unlikely considering you never let Jesse kiss you in public. You never hold his hand or let him hug you. You look just like two friends most of the time — sometimes, even that's a stretch.
"How did you know?" you ask.
It couldn't have been Nick, because your dad hasn't so much as looked at him for five years. Your mom hasn't spoken to him since the divorce and the only one of your friends that he's ever met is Chloe, and Chloe wouldn't —
Chloe might. A mention in passing, maybe, without realising that you've not told him yet. You know she won't have done it to spite you or anything, but your chest is filled with rage at the thought.
"I ran into Chloe on the quad and she told me that —"
"— Jesus. She can't just … God."
"I just asked her where you were and she mentioned you were probably out with your boyfriend." Silence. "When were you planning on telling me?"
"I … I wasn't."
"Come on, Beca," he says, sighing. "I know that you and I don't have the best of relationships, but really?"
"What were you expecting?" you say, voice sharp. "It's not as if you've exactly got the best track records with your children being in relationships."
"Jesus, Bec. That isn't fair."
"No, what isn't fair is that you kicked your son out of your house because he had a boyfriend instead of a girlfriend. He was your son for seventeen years before that moment and then you just decided to kick him out? Who does that?"
"Beca, Nick is sick. That — what he is … he needs help."
"Oh, my God. You don't even get it."
"Come on, you can't seriously tell me that you support those … people."
"I can. I can and I am. Nick is my brother, gay or not, and he'll always be my brother. Some of my closest friends are — look, it doesn't even matter, Dad."
"Some of your closest friends are what?" he asks.
"Nothing. It's … it's nothing."
"Beca? What are you not telling me?" he growls.
The words come tumbling out of your mouth, a half-incoherent mess of words. "Some of my friends are gay, or like girls, and that's — that's okay, y'know? That's okay, Dad, even if … That's okay. It doesn't matter what you think because it's okay and it's okay that Nick likes boys instead of girls. It would be okay if I — It's okay."
You're able to stop yourself before you trip over the edge, but you can feel the tension from the other end of the line. You hope with every part of you that he won't question you on what you almost said, but realistically you know it's highly likely.
"Beca," he snaps, his voice low. "I don't care what ludicrous ideas you've got in your head. It is not okay, and that is a fact. God does not —"
"— God probably doesn't even exist!"
"Don't you dare!" he shouts, and you shake.
"This is bullshit," you say quietly, more to yourself than to him. "This is bullshit. It's normal."
"It is not normal, Rebeca," your dad tells you, his voice warning. "It's a sin — an abomination — and I did not raise your brother like that. I raised a good boy. I don't want you talking to your friends, whoever they are, that are like … that."
You snort without thinking about it because when you go over your list of friends in your mind, you're pretty sure like, ninety five percent of them are gay or are at least definitely not straight.
(But within your group of friends, you tell yourself, you are within the five percent of straight people).
"Whatever," you say, because your bones ache and you just want to go to bed and forget about tonight altogether.
He's hesitant for a minute before he says, "So I'll see you and Jesse for dinner on Friday at seven. Your sister will be excited to see you."
"Yeah. Fine."
You don't notice the way the door of Chloe's apartment is slightly ajar and the fact that the sound of footsteps had died out around the time you started talking about Nick.
Being best friends with Chloe Beale is exhausting.
You have to spend every waking minute trying not to look at her lips, or the way her eyelashes keep fluttering, or the scar on her forehead. You have to put all of your energy into not kissing her whenever she gets excited, or talks too much, or says something that makes you feel warm inside. You have to dedicate your time to making sure that your hands never stray from her hips when you dance and that they never want to.
It's simultaneously the best and most heartbreaking thing you've ever done.
Chloe Beale is summer days spent sunbathing in your backyard, sunscreen smeared across your cheeks and dripping off of your nose and you are winter evenings; chattering teeth and frozen fingers, your ears nipping with the cold. She is the sunrise and you are the sunset: so close yet so far apart. Chloe is the sun and you are the moon; natural companions, but you can't ever be together. She is everything in between: the silence when you don't need anything else; the smiles exchanged when you can't hold it back; the stolen kisses you never want to give back.
She is your best friend but she is so much more and your heart is breaking more each time she looks at you.
You're not sure what you were expecting when you introduced Jesse to your dad and Sheila, but you certainly weren't expecting … this.
This, of course, being the two of them huddled around a photo album and cooing at baby photos of you. You're surprised he even has any, considering how little he used to care, but shrug it off and guess he took them to spite your mom in the divorce.
Sheila is in the kitchen with your sister, doing the washing up and occasionally answering any questions the toddler has for her. You're lurking by the door, watching on in amusement as Erin babbles on and colours in a picture of two dogs and a cat.
"Beca!" she exclaims when she sees you, dropping her purple crayon and grinning up at you.
"Hey, kid."
"C'mere," she demands. "I make you a pi'ture."
"Really? Just for me?"
"Mm-hmm. But you's gotta c'mere."
You make your way over to the table where she sits, scooping her up into your arms and stealing her seat.
"Hey!" she exclaims, hitting you on the thighs with the palms of her hands. "Thass my seat!"
"You can sit on my lap."
Erin pouts up at you but relents.
"Fine."
You try and ignore the way Sheila is staring at you from her position at the sink and focus on your little sister, but, well, she's practically glaring and you can't really focus.
"Something you wanted?" you ask her, making sure to put your best irritated face on.
Sheila smiles softly at you and shakes her head. "No, it's just nice to see you again, is all."
"Yeah, well, the feeling isn't mutual," you say with a scoff.
And really, you're not sure why you even hate Sheila so much. Sure, when you were a kid it was all about how your dad had just left, just like that, and you'd found out a few weeks later it was to be with this stranger. You'd hated her on principle before even meeting her. But now, well, she's sort of nice, and you know that she's trying to form a relationship with you but part of you thinks maybe it's just too late now.
"Come on, Beca," she says with a light laugh. "Are we still pretending you're a thirteen year old who hates the world and everything in it just because I exist?"
You don't even look up as you take the crayon from Erin's hand and colour in the dog's ears. "Yup."
"Okay, well, I still love you, either way."
"That's nice."
"Beca?" Erin asks, prodding you in the shoulder with her index finger.
"What's up, nerd?"
"How comes you don' like Mommy?"
"It's complicated," you tell her, all too aware of Sheila's listening ears.
"Das' what Daddy says when he doesn't wanna tell me somethin'. Why?"
"It's just — when I was younger, Daddy used to be with my mom. Until one day … he wasn't, and he was with yours. And that sucked for me."
"But that was years ago?"
"Yeah, but nobody holds a grudge like Beca Mitchell," Sheila says.
Jesse comes through, then, grinning like an idiot at a picture of you in the bathtub. You grimace at the way he keeps laughing at it like he has the right to see these pictures. He's your boyfriend but he feels so detached from everything else in your life and you can't stand how you feel like he doesn't deserve to be here.
(Chloe had turned up looking for you once and sat and had coffee with Sheila and read to Erin. She'd told you about it in passing when you saw her next and you've never said anything but it never felt out of place).