Chloe Beale is a tornado.

A tornado can, in theory, pick up a person, an object, a thing, and carry it along on its destructive path, only to set it back down again, virtually unharmed. Virtually. But, that's the thing, isn't it? How do you measure the degree to which something is unharmed? Chloe Beale is a tornado. Destructive, unpredictable, and utterly devastating.

"Pizza or Thai food?"

"Chlo."

"Unless you want to order Chinese?"

"Chloe."

"I don't have take-out menus for anywhere else, Becs, it'll have to be one of those."

"Jesus, can you stop talking about the goddamn food for a second?" My voice came out harsher than intended, and she turned from where she stood at her window, looking almost hurt.

"Um, okay? Is everything alright?"

"I, um… we need to talk about what happened last week."

"Oh." That was the first and only time that Chloe lost her composure that day - ever the actress. Almost a week after that night, neither of us had so much as acknowledged what had happened. I'd like to think that Chloe was trying to lessen the awkwardness between us by not bringing it up, but part of me was convinced that she was so disgusted by the idea of sleeping with me, that she didn't want to remember.

"Yeah." Sitting opposite me on the bed that I loved for all of the wrong reasons, she looked at me with what I could only describe as determination, delicately infused with an eyeful of pity.

"What do you want to know?" What did I want to know? I wanted to know everything. I wanted to know why she felt the sudden compulsion to jump my bones just because she'd had a couple of glasses of wine. I wanted to know if she felt that same compulsion sober, though I highly doubted it. I wanted to know how the hell she was so okay with all of this. So, of course, I communicated this in the most articulate way possible: "I don't know."

"Well, did it mean anything to you?"

"That's not fair. You don't get to ask me that." I looked down at my hands, wishing that I hadn't brought it up. But I had, albeit stupidly, and I needed answers. "Did it mean anything to you?"

"No, but…" Her lips kept moving but I didn't hear what she said next. I couldn't. Okay, don't get me wrong here, I'm not some naïve, starry-eyed teenager who thinks that sex always means something. Sex happens, especially random drunken college sex, and it's not a big deal (apparently). I understand this. It's not even as if I felt some sort of fireworks, or whatever else you're supposed to feel the first time you sleep with someone. What bothered me was that, while yes, this was technically drunken college sex, it most certainly wasn't random, and it just should have meant something. It had to. "Bec, it's not that it didn't mean anything, but all it meant was that we were drunk and I'm really comfortable around you. Comfortable enough for that to happen and it not to effect what we have."

"Oh." I tried to cover the vague sense of loss in my voice, failing miserably. "Oh," I offered again, my voice marginally stronger.

"Beca, I didn't want to hurt y-"

"So, what are you?" I cut her off, the insensitivity in my voice surprising me, but I had every right to ask the question.

"What am I? I… um, I'm straight."

"Oh. I just thought, because of what you said a couple of weeks ago, about not knowing…" I trailed off, my voice uncertain again.

"I didn't for a while, but I know now. I'm straight; I guess I'm just a little over friendly when I'm drunk. I don't regret it, Bec, but I'm not gay."

"Okay."

"Beca, you're my best friend, and I love you. The last thing I want to do is hurt you, but I don't have feelings for you."

"You're not hurting me, Chloe; I don't have feelings for you either." Liar. "I guess I just wanted to stop avoiding the subject." Plastering a smile on my face, I forced myself to meet her eyes, determined to prove that I was okay with this. "It didn't mean anything to me, don't worry. It was just sex, right?"

Something in her eyes told me she didn't believe me, but she hid it well, laying her head against my shoulder in her usual fashion. "I'm sorry, Becs," she whispered, and after a second, "Are we okay?"

"Yeah," I said quietly, forcing my voice not to crack. It's all I had left to say.

"She shot you down, just like that?"

"Way to make me feel better, Jess. Yeah, she shot me down."

"Wow, I'm sorry, Becs, I know this must suck." Not long after what I like to call 'the night of the confessions', I'd broken down to Jesse and told him everything, needing someone besides Chloe to talk to, someone who could help me process what was going on in my head. Since starting Barden, Jesse and I had gotten a lot closer than I'd expected, and God was I thankful for him in that moment. "Are you sure she isn't just scared to mess things up between you?"

"Nope, I'm pretty sure she's just straight."

"But she had sex with a girl. And she said she wasn't sure."

"Yeah, but then she changed her mind. It's done, Jess, there isn't anything I can do."

"Well, it's her loss." I snorted. Yeah, right. "I'm serious, Beca. She's an idiot to let you go."

"She didn't 'have me' in the first place. I mean, she could have, she still could, but she doesn't know that. And even if she did, she's made it quite clear that she doesn't want me." I was done with this now; talking about it, over-thinking.

"Want to get pizza and kick my ass at Maria Kart?"

"Jesse Swanson, have I ever told you that you're my hero?"

Come to think of it, Chloe Beale is not a tornado. Because, in theory, you can escape a tornado. Even in theory, you can't escape Chloe Beale.

"Hello?"

"Beca, can you come over?"

"Um, Jesse's here, is it important?"

"I need you."

"I'll be there in 5 minutes." I looked at Jesse pleadingly, mouthing sorry as placed a kiss on my forehead and rose to leave.

"I love you, Beca."

"See you soon, Chloe."