Monica's mouth drops open as we walk down the winding dirt path, my childhood home coming in to view. "This is your house?"

"Technically, it's my mother's." She looks at me with eyebrows raised. "It's a little excessive."

"Just one family lives here?"

I can't help but chuckle at her reaction. "Yes, it was just us."

"What do you do with all the extra space?"

"What do you mean?"

"Well, you said that it's only your parents and you—what happens in the rest of the house?"

I open my mouth to respond, then quickly close it when I realize that I have no idea how to answer that. "Actually, it's just me and my mother now."

"Oh."

"But…I never really thought about it. I don't know what we did with the rest of the house. Sometimes family would come to visit and stay for a while, but other than that I suppose it just collected dust. I think it's just another way to display money."

Her eyes grow wider as we get closer to the house, and I suddenly feel horribly embarrassed, though I'm not sure why. It was my parents who threw money around, not me.

That's not entirely true, though I never did it to the extent they did.

"What happened to your father?" she asks softly, her hand finding mine, and I give it a little squeeze.

"It's still early—want to walk around the grounds before heading inside?"

Monica looks at me with surprise, but nods. "Sure."

I steer her toward the stables, both of us quiet. I'm not sure how to approach this, or how much of my sordid past I should risk telling her.

I'm infinitely grateful that she was the only one who could come here with me today. I don't know if I could have handled Phoebe's incessant teasing and taunting right now.

It's been a while since I came back here.

"I don't know where to start, Monica."

"Start with what?"

"I don't know which part of my story to start with. Do I tell you about my father, or do I tell you why I haven't been here in almost a year? Does one lead into the other? Are they separate stories?"

"Chandler. You don't have to tell me anything."

I stop, turning to face her. "But I want to. I want you to know the sort of person I am and the people I come from so you can decide if you still want to spend time with me. I won't blame you if you don't."

"Hey." The hand that's not wrapped around mine comes up, cupping my cheek, and a gentle whiff of perfume hits my senses. "You're scaring me a little. I don't think there's anything you could do to make me not want to spend time with you, though."

"Really?" I ask doubtfully.

"Really. I think…you might be the best friend I've ever had."

My heart sinks just a little. "The best, huh?"

"Sure. I can talk to you about anything, and you let me actually say what I need to say. You don't treat me like I'm some dumb kid or a helpless woman. You're always there when I need you, even when I don't know that I need you. You're so kind and gentle and sweet…I just don't know that there's anything you could do to make me not want to be around you."

Her friend. That's okay. It's good to be reminded of that from time to time, especially on a day like this when it feels as if we're anything but.

I shrug and start walking again, giving her fingers a little tug. "Well, I suppose the story with my father isn't that different than most these days. He was a financial investor—a good one, from what I understand. Even with the Market turning south, he was able to keep a few things afloat for a while. I don't know all the details—I'm sorry. I just know that he was good at what he did until it wasn't possible for him to do it anymore. Life carried on like normal here; lots of parties and people and drinking and food. I mean, I know that's not normal for most people, but out here…

"Anyway, I guess when I was about fourteen my parents started fighting a lot. Not usually about anything worth fighting over, but I think just to pick fights with each other. Then it would inevitably lead to money, and it sounded like maybe they were spending too much and the income wasn't what it used to be, or maybe my father was taking money from other people's accounts. I don't really know, and I didn't want to know. I guess that's one of the good things about a big house—lots of places to hide."

I feel Monica's fingers squeeze my own, her head resting against my shoulder as we walk into the stables. "Chandler," she says softly.

"Long story short, I came outside one morning when I was fifteen and found my father floating face down in the pool."

She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth. "Oh, my God."

"There were a lot of empty bottles around, and it was eventually ruled accidental, but I've always been pretty sure he did it on purpose so we could have the insurance money from his death. He knew that if he killed himself we'd get nothing, so he did what he could to make it look like an accident."

Her arms go around my waist suddenly, stopping both of us in our tracks. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry. That must have been so horrible for you." She laughs mirthlessly as she buries her face in my chest. "What am I saying? Of course it was horrible for you. I can't even imagine."

"Monica, both of your parents are gone. I think if there's anyone who could imagine what it's like, it's you."

"But how awful for you. To have found your father like that…" her voice trails off as she shudders, pulling me closer.

That's one of the best things about this girl. Her life has been anything but easy, she was an orphan by twelve, she lives with a grandmother who sounds as if she can't stand her own granddaughter, she works in a bar that no matter how nice it may seem is still a bar, she's never had the money for anything extra or even anything basic, and all she can think about is how terrible that incident was for me. Me. The guy who doesn't know how to do anything but feel sorry for himself and his wealth and does nothing but mess up everything.

It shouldn't matter at all whether she wants me as a friend or something more—the fact that this wonderful creature wants to spend time with me at all is a miracle and I should just be grateful. I wrap my arms around her and rest my chin on top of her head. I honestly don't know why I picked today and now to bare my soul to her, though I suppose it has a lot to do with being here with all these memories, all of them bombarding me at one time.

I just want her to know me, the real me. I've never wanted anyone to know the real me before, but it matters to me that she knows me. She's special, and whether I like it or not, her opinion matters to me. It matters more than anyone else's.

"Do you feel up to telling me the rest?" she asks softly. "You don't have to if you don't want to."

"No, I do. Let's…just get out of the stables."

She gives me another squeeze before releasing me, keeping one arm around my waste.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course."

"Why do you have stables but no horses?"

I burst out laughing—I wasn't expecting that. "We used to have horses, I swear. They're expensive, so we sold them a long time ago. Can't do anything about the barn, though. Besides, it's my mother's dream to host a wedding here at some point."

"So, when you find the right girl, you already have the venue," Monica answers with a shrug.

"Only if the right girl wants to get married somewhere like this. Personally…I don't know. I'm not sure how I feel about getting married in the place where horses used to live." I feel her shoulders shake with laughter. "Besides, I've never really been able to picture myself getting married."

"Really? That seems awfully lonely."

"Well, maybe if I find the right girl, that'll change." I know for a fact it would change; I'm positive that if I were lucky enough to have Monica feel about me the way I think I feel about her, the way I know I'll feel about her the more I get to know her, marriage is something I'd consider in a heartbeat.

But that's neither here nor there.

She's my friend. Just my friend.

I lead her out of the stables and she gasps; I suppose the view can be pretty amazing if you're not expecting it. Open fields, gently rolling hills, a view of the town below us, and, what she'll discover later, the perfect spot for watching the sunset.

I steer her slowly back toward the house, my arm draped over her shoulders.

"After my father's death, I suppose I sort of…spiraled out of control. It didn't happen all at one time. I did stupid things like play hooky from school and throw rocks through windows. I started drinking, which led to stupider things. Somehow, I managed to graduate high school and get into college, though I think that had a lot more to do with who my father was than my competence as a student. I…became very friendly with a lot of women. I drank even more. I got thrown in jail a few times, usually for doing something stupid like starting a fight in the middle of the street or for passing out in the middle of Macy's. I crashed my car. Then I crashed my replacement car. More women, more fighting, more drinking. I never went to class, I spent all of my time at clubs and bars and parties. I spent too much money. It was after I wrecked my fifth car that I woke up in the hospital handcuffed to my bed that even I could figure out that something bad had happened, that I was just about at the point of no return. The judge told me I could go to jail or join the military; I was going to go to jail, but my mother finally had enough, though I don't know how she managed to last that long. She kicked me out and cut me off, and told me I had to join the military, that spending a few months in prison wasn't going to fix it. She thought it would teach me discipline. She told me if I didn't enlist, I was out of her life forever. I guess that did it—I didn't want to lose the only parent I have left."

Amazingly, it's an enormous relief to get all of that off my chest. I can't even bring myself to look at her, but I feel like an immense weight has been lifted off my shoulders; for better or for worse, now she knows.

She hasn't pulled away from me, so that's something.

"Maybe I missed something," she finally says, "but I don't understand why you haven't been here in almost a year."

Ah, Monica. I love that that's what she took away from my tale. "Shame, mostly. I've been trying to get myself together and clean up my act and be responsible. As you can tell from the sort of hours I keep, I've only been partly successful in that respect."

"You've always seemed like the responsible sort to me."

"I don't know that—"

"You make sure I get home safe at night, even on the nights you don't get to come to the Lounge, you still manage to walk me home. Maybe I'm naïve, but that seems pretty responsible to me"

I shrug, looking down at my feet. "I'm just trying to be a nice guy."

"Well, then I think all the hard work you're putting in has paid off," she says softly. I look at her out of the corner of my eye to see her smiling at me.

"You really think so?"

"Of course I do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it."

"No, I suppose you wouldn't."

"Chandler, you're great. I know it took me a little while to warm up to you, but I'm so happy that I did. You're just wonderful, but…well, I guess this does explain the way you used to treat women when we first met."

I cringe, averting my eyes once more. "You mean with all the pinching and the grabbing? Yeah; that was an old habit that was far too easy to fall into again. I'm sorry about that; truly, I am."

She gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow. "Don't worry about it. Water under the bridge."

"You know I wouldn't treat you that way, right?"

"Obviously, or you would have by now. You're a good man, Chandler. Please don't let yourself believe otherwise."

I open the gate to the backyard, the infamous pool—now dry—spread out in front of us. Her arm squeezes my waist, but she says nothing. We stand at the edge for a few minutes, the image of finding my father still sharp in my memory.

"I was trying to forget," I say softly.

"I know."

"I didn't want it to hurt anymore."

"I know that, too."

"It still hurts."

"I don't know if it ever stops."

I kiss the side of her head, closing my eyes for a moment, breathing in her soft, delicate scent. She understands; these are not hollow words of comfort. She truly knows what this feels like, how hard it is to live with, and that it's nearly impossible to get over.

I pull my cigarette case out of my pocket and light one up, looking at Monica in surprise when she takes it out of my hand. "I thought you only did this during our late-night, post-work diner sessions."

She takes a deep drag and hands it back to me. "Felt like the right moment."

We stand in silence for a while longer, passing the cigarette back and forth until it's burned out and I stub it under my shoe. "Can I confess something to you?" I feel her nod against my shoulder. "I'm terrified to go to war."

"When did you get here?"

I jump at the sound of my mother's voice and turn around, smiling broadly when I see her. The moment is broken, though I'm sure we'll pick it up again at some point. "A few minutes ago. Hi."

She holds her arms out to me and I give her a big hug, nearly pulling her off the ground. Until this moment, I didn't realize just how much I missed her.

"I've missed you," she whispers into my ear, her arms tightening around my neck, and I feel a smile spread across my face.

"Me, too."

I kiss her cheek and release her, and she smiles at Monica, extending her hand. "Hello. I'm Nora Bing."

Monica's hand shoots out and she nearly stumbles over her own feet to get to my mother. "Hi. I'm Monica Geller."

My mother lifts her eyebrows to me. "Is this your young lady?"

My eyes grow wide and I'm certain my cheeks turn pink. "Ah, no. This is Monica."

"Well, I think we've established that, dear."

"She's, um…she's…"

"Chandler and my brother are in the same unit," Monica jumps in, saving me from myself.

"How wonderful." She pauses, looking back and forth between us, waiting for more.

"Ross and I are good friends," I explain. "That's how I met Monica."

"Of course. That makes sense." She pauses again, and I can't believe I forgot how good she is at reading people, and putting just the right amount of pause at the end of a sentence so that you know that she knows something more than she's telling. "Is Ross here, too?"

"Oh, he couldn't make it," Monica answers. "Neither could Phoebe."

"Phoebe?" my mother asks, her eyebrows raised.

"Our friend," I answer the same time Monica says, "I work with her."

"I think you've lost me," she says.

"Ross and I are in the same unit," I say again, and my mother nods.

"I work at—" Monica's voice immediately drops off, her mouth clamping shut, and I realize that she's suddenly embarrassed by her job.

"Where do you work?"

"It's a place called the Moonlight Lounge," I answer for her. "Ross and I go in to visit Monica sometimes, and her friend Phoebe, and on our days off, we're all usually together."

"The Moonlight Lounge? A bar, Chandler?" My mother sounds disappointed and I feel my chest tighten just a little. "I hope you're behaving yourself."

"Oh, yes, ma'am, he is. He's always a perfect gentleman," Monica answers, rushing to my defense, causing my mother to chuckle lightly.

"I take it you told her about your past..shenanigans?" I nod and she pats my arm. "Good for you. Well, Monica, whatever the reason it is that you're here with my son, it's wonderful to meet you. Please; come in." She holds the door open for us, and I watch Monica's mouth drop open as we walk into the kitchen.

"This room is bigger than my entire apartment," she whispers, and I rub her shoulder blades consolingly. "Thank you so much for having me out here, Mrs. Bing," she says to my mother. "Your house is beautiful."

"You've only seen the one room," my mother answers with a smile, and poor Monica blushes. "But thank you."

"Want me to show her to the dining room?" I ask, my hand still on her back.

"I'm here by myself, Chandler—that dining room is a bit much for only me."

"Well, then where do you eat now?"

She spreads her arms out at the room around us. "Here, of course. It's much cozier and not nearly as much bother. Anita doesn't seem to mind the company, either."

Monica looks at me questioningly. "Anita's the cook," I tell her, and her eyes grow wide, but she keeps her lips pursed together. "She's been with the family since I was a baby."

"Dinner's almost ready," my mother tells us. "I hope you're hungry."

"Um…is there somewhere I can wash up first?" Monica asks, and all I want to do is hug her—she looks so nervous.

I point to the swinging kitchen door. "Through there and to the right. It's at the end of the hall."

"Thank you." With that, she disappears through the doorway, and I go to the kitchen sink to wash my own hands. My mother leans against the counter, watching me.

"Your friend, Monica," she finally says, disbelieving.

"Yes; my friend, Monica."

"Are you sure that's all?"

"Yes, Mother, I'm sure that's all. I think I'd know if there were something else, don't you?"

"No, I don't think you would."

I turn off the water and look at her, shocked. "What's that supposed to mean?"

She hands me a towel. "You look happy, honey."

I've also forgotten how swiftly she can change subjects and switch tactics. "I'm getting there."

"I'm very proud of you," she tells me. "You seem like you're working very hard to turn your life around."

"I want to be a better person," I answer simply.

"For Monica," she finishes, and I feel my eyes grow wide and my cheeks heat up.

"Mother! No! I just want to be a better person."

"But Monica's opinion matters to you."

"Of course it does. She's my friend."

She crosses her arms over her chest. "You keep saying that."

I cross my arms over my chest, too, mirroring her, feeling like a defiant child. "Because it's true."

"Is it?"

We stare each other down for a few moments before I give in with a sigh, looking away. "I'm her friend," I say weakly.

"Are you sure about that?"

I look back at my mother, startled, but she's already turned away from me, the subject closed as she pulls out another place setting. I take it from her quietly, my mind reeling as I try to figure out what she means.

I'm Monica's friend. Of course I am.

Did she mean that she thinks Monica might think of me as more than a friend?

No; my mother is just surprised to see me with a respectable looking girl for once, and I think it's throwing her for a loop. After the sort I used to chase, I'm sure it's just wishful thinking on her part. Not that I brought any of those girls home to meet my mother, but I know she can imagine the type.

But Monica is only my friend. That's as far as it goes. That's why I can talk to her about anything, including my sordid past. And because I'm her friend, she can forgive me my past sins. That's what friends do.

I won't let myself really question why I haven't told any of this to Ross.

I'm sure I will at some point.