A/N: Hellooooo. *Waves awkwardly* So...it's been a while, huh? Yikes. I really didn't mean to take so long to write this but time flies when I'm baking! I am so sorry. I'm the opposite of Batman. This started out as one massive chapter but I've decided to split it in two for easier reading. Huge thanks to Jess, Steph, Katya, Bethany...all of you who've offered support and advice. Seriously, you're all diamonds. Finally, if you're still following this, thank you so much for sticking with me. I heart you like Troy hearts Abed. Cookies and cwtches for all! :D
The room is gray now, sky dark with rain that trickles and taps against the glass as Annie curls around a pillow in bed, picking absentmindedly at the sharp end of a feather poking through the pillowcase. A double flash of lightning illuminates everything for just a second and Annie counts to five before she gives up, squeezing the pillow tight.
It smells like a musky mix of cologne and overpriced hair product.
Somewhere, in the distance, the thunder rumbles low followed by a roaring crack that makes her shiver, but Annie's not sure what the count would have been.
Blinking blearily, eyes glazed and puffy, she rolls onto her back and wipes at her cheeks, rubbing at the tears there, though they dried a while ago now. She inhales a deep shuddery breath but it stutters uncomfortably in the base of her throat and there's a momentary frisson of panic scuttling through her that she won't be able to breathe and she's going to die, naked and alone in a fancy Paris hotel room.
"Don't be jaded," she tells herself, out loud, as if the sound is more convincing.
Clutching at her heart she waits for the rapid thud to settle against her palm as she breathes in through her nose and out through her mouth, slow and steady, hopes the repetition of the action helps her to refocus again.
"Because it's time for a new plan," she says, trying to keep her voice lighter than she feels.
The clock on the bedside table blinks twelve continuously where the power must have gone out some time during the storm, and Annie grabs the phone instead, pressing 1 at the hum of the dialling tone and jolting "Oh!" when a man answers with a cheery "Réception" only a second later.
"Hi, I mean." She coughs into her fist, voice still croaky from lack of use. "Quelle heure, um, s'il vous plait?"
"Il est onze heures, Mademoiselle."
"What—eleven!" Annie yelps, and scrambles upright. "Um. Merci. Bye!"
The shrill ding of the phone against the cradle resonates in the silence for a moment, and Annie's gaze flicks timidly to the empty hangers in the closet still open from when Jeff left earlier that morning. She flinches at the dark space and looks away.
Her eyes settle on the vanity table but the top is bare now that it's not covered with Jeff's facial products, the amount she teased him for endlessly because seriously, how many bottles does one guy need, and her lips curl slightly remembering his response.
"Gotta look after the money-maker, Annie. I regret nothing," he'd said, catching her wrist and pressing her hand to his face with soft strokes and pats, murmuring, "Feels good, huh?" and "Just admit it, it's like a damn baby!" as she tried to wriggle away, laughing as they collapsed in a tangled heap on the floor while Jeff recounted the merits of a good skincare routine. Annie had kissed his words away somewhere between exfoliate and moisturize but one kiss melted into another until they were still making out by the foot of the bed thirty minutes later and Annie had to concede that yes, "Okay, it feels so good," as Jeff grinned his victory and pinned her wrists above her head, mouthing and nuzzling across her skin until she shook breathlessly with so much want and—
"Enough!" she snaps, the sound bouncing around the emptiness and ringing sharp in her ears.
Shuffling to sit on the edge of the bed, Annie watches the scrunch of her toes in the carpet as she decides what to do because she can't stay here, not when the sheets still smell like the musk of him and the awareness of him lingers in every corner, drawing out details and memories of things it's best she forgets now, and she just cannot waste another moment thinking about Jeff Winger. She's already wasted enough of those, in study groups and lonely weekends and once an entire summer, and look where that got her.
"Annie, I think you might be reading into some things," he'd said.
Another thread of lightning sparks white across the sky and for a moment the only sound is the tinny clang of raindrops against the table on the balcony outside. The memory of that rainy afternoon spent in bed with Jeff washes through her then, where they sat naked and sweaty against the headboard, passing a bottle of beer back and forth, taking little sips while they caught their breath and their skin cooled, sneaking glances at each other in the silence and smiling when their eyes met with excitement and awkwardness at the newness of whatever it was unfolding between them. All the while the rain persisted in a dim pitter-patter and the world moved on outside and, for once, Annie didn't mind being left behind.
She glances at the door for the fourth, fifth time, barely holding her breath for a count of three before she shakes her head and huffs a breath, so soft the sound barely scratches the air.
"Yeah right, Annie, as if he'd come back for you," she mutters, and wanders into the bathroom, squinting against the brightness as she lowers the height of the showerhead and turns on the tap. There's something so detached and mechanical about her movements while she tries not to think of him and it wasn't supposed to be like this, it wasn't part of the plan.
From the moment she even considered its possibility, she thought this trip would be the making of her somehow. In all of her daydreams, she envisioned a new and improved Annie returning to Greendale in the fall, cultured, changed in some deep intrinsic way. Shirley might tell her how great she looks and Abed would say "Something's different" but no one would know exactly what that was because it wasn't something that could be labelled. It was an air, a grace in the way she held herself, a feeling.
The bathroom slowly clouds with steam, a filmy heat that licks at her skin and settles thick in her throat, and Annie feels different but not in the way she imagined. She shakes away that thought with a weary sigh that unfolds itself from the pit of her stomach, but as she reaches for the toothpaste her hand halts mid-air at the sight of Jeff's toothbrush still sitting with hers in the glass next to the sink. She frowns at it for a long moment, wonders if he's okay and whether he made his flight and god, what if they can't be friends now, what if things can't be put back and does she even want them to? The pain of these thoughts whirl around her in a frenzy she's just not ready for and she snatches his toothbrush in a burst of frustration, a high-pitched shriek through gritted teeth as she shoves it impulsively into the bottom of her toiletry bag.
Out of sight, out of mind.
"It was a fling, Annie," she repeats, breathless. "Just a fling."
A wave of emotion strangles her throat suddenly and Annie squeezes her eyes shut, pressing her fingertips against the tight line of her mouth to prevent its escape, bouncing through it desperately as she waits for the feeling to pass. He's gone and it's over and that's, that's what she wanted, right? Deep down she knows it's for the best and maybe that's the difference she feels crawling inside, buzzing beneath her skin so much she almost itches with it.
Unclenching her fist and slowly opening her eyes, she blinks away the tears lining her eyelashes and watches the short decisive nod of her reflection before climbing into the shower.
Armed with her trusty umbrella and dressed for the rain in jeans and a hoodie, Annie makes her way out of the hotel. She's still on auto-pilot at this point, not sure what to do or where to go exactly, her head still stuffy and blocked, and only realizes she forgot to eat when her stomach growls at the drifting scent of cocoa as she passes by a fancy chocolatier.
It's probably lunchtime, now that she thinks about it, and she really needs to get it together already.
"This is not you, Annie. And neither is talking to yourself," she finishes, ducking her chin and mouthing "Oh my god" as she hurries on.
It takes a fifteen-minute walk but she ends up at a small bakery tucked away on a quiet residential street. She buys a freshly baked croissant because it's all she can stomach right now, and stands underneath the awning to shield herself from the drizzly patter of rain, the window behind her painted with different types of crusty bread and cakes. For a while she watches the endless drip drop of water from the scalloped edge of the canopy above with a strange kind of numbness, and eats straight from the paper bag, the pastry warm and greasy beneath her fingertips, and it's no surprise her mind fills with thoughts of carbs and calories and how many crunches Jeff would need to do before bed to work it off if he was still here.
The last couple of nights he'd been aiming for fifty but Annie always wandered out of the bathroom in nothing but panties and what she hoped was a flirty smile, and he never managed anything beyond twenty five.
And even though she could kick herself for thinking it, she can't help but wonder the number Jeff might have reached if it was someone else walking out of that bathroom, some other woman with amazing red hair and more worldly experience, maybe someone closer to his own age.
He always did have a problem with that — a problem that doesn't just go away.
It's reassuring, in a weird sort of way, because it was strange that her age didn't once seem to bother him on this trip, even though the only difference between now and home was a few thousand miles. If she'd let things continue, Jeff probably would've freaked out as soon as they got back to Greendale and reality and the prying judge-y eyes of everyone they knew, and then where would she be?
What would become of her heart?
The thought slices through her more bitterly than she was expecting and she nearly chokes as she swallows and tries not to think about how every mouthful now tastes like cardboard.
Halfway to the metro Annie remembers that she doesn't need a new plan, she has an old one that Abed scribbled over with the plot of some dumb eighties movie the day before she left.
She's been powered by a weary kind of aimlessness all morning, adrift in wallowing far too long for her liking — because she doesn't wallow, she soldiers on — but it's a different emotion that fires her direction now as she makes a quick detour back to the hotel.
Her purple notebook is still stuffed inside the bedside table from when they first arrived and Annie fists the air with a joyous "A-ha!" when she locates the list she compiled before her trip began, the one that started it all, the very reason why she's there, and she knows then what she needs to do.
It's gone two o'clock by the time Annie makes it across the city to the L'Open tour bus offices just along the street from the Palais Garnier Opera house; the mint green dome a pastel scoop of brightness against the muted sky.
She purchases a one-day bus pass from the ticket office and dashes into a nearby souvenir shop to keep dry and busy until the next bus arrives in thirty minutes.
The shop is mostly full of crap like 'I heart Paris' key rings and pens inscribed with mini Eiffel towers, and cheap t-shirts printed with sayings and phrases most likely lost in translation, but there are a couple of good things, here and there.
She already bought Troy and Abed those silly giant hats in London so she buys a black beret for Britta — very Che Guevara, she thinks — and a beautiful scarf for Shirley, the blue and lilac silk dotted with soft pink lilies in the style of Monet. The thought of her friends makes her smile, makes her chest ache a little less than before and she can do this, she'll be okay, yes Sir!
And though Jeff had talked about maybe redecorating his apartment just the other day — Annie had suggested a single wall of color like turquoise to offset the gray and much to her surprise he didn't hate it — she has to resist buying an Eiffel tower print that she knows would look great on the wall above his TV.
They've never been gift-buying friends anyway.
A couple of hours later Annie sits on the bottom deck of the tour bus, her finger pressed permanently on the volume dial of her audio guide as she struggles to hear the description of the city. She winces at the high-pitched peal and crackle as she fiddles with the headphone connection on the back of the seat in front, huffing a breath of annoyance when it loses sound, barely catching something about Marie Antoinette as they pass the huge Egyptian obelisk at the Place de la Concorde.
After three minutes of nothing but white noise Annie gives up, mumbling "Well, crap" as she tugs the headphones out of her ears and wraps the cheap green wire in a coil around her hand as she slumps back against her seat. She thought a three hour bus tour to check off some points on her travel list was a solid plan with focus and no time for wallowing, but the rain in the air and the body heat of everyone on-board misting the glass doesn't make for much sightseeing, not that Annie knows what she's looking at anyway. Originally she'd planned to read up on Paris while she was in London, maybe take a guidebook with her at dinner so she didn't look and feel so alone, but that was a well-practiced trick she hadn't once needed to employ because she wasn't ever alone.
Until now.
She sighs and wipes a circle in the condensation on the window, rubbing her wet palm against her jeans a couple times, and lets the scenery drift past in a watery glaze. The city is as beautiful as she always thought it would be, as magical as yesterday and the day before that, but right now she can't help but feel, well, bored of it all. The thought jabs her like some kind of electric shock, forcing her upright in her seat at the memory it disturbs, of her mother saying "Only boring people are bored, Annie!" one summer as a child when she wandered inside fed up of playing alone on the street.
Annie tightens her jaw at the reminder of her mother's tone and the loneliness she felt tunneling inside when she was too young to know what it meant but old enough to know that it wasn't nice and she didn't want to feel that way, not now, not ever, and the flit of her eyes to the empty seat beside her is involuntary at this point.
She shifts slightly, as if the action could displace the unsettled, off-balance feeling looming inside her, too aware of the space and the cold down her side, and she can't not think of him, however much she tries.
Oh my gosh, she's tried.
Jeff would be playing Candy Crush on his phone if he was here, muttering under his breath about the pointlessness of the outing because of the crappy weather and "Fuck this fucking level 65!" and things that made her eyes roll until they hurt from the strain. But none of it mattered, not really, because his thigh was pressed against hers in a warm solid reminder that he was there even though he didn't want to be, and she wasn't alone or bored and everything he did or said made her insides curl with a delicious sort of contentment she was sure she'd never feel with anyone, even when he was being annoying and she wanted to shove his phone into places the sun didn't shine.
She smiles remembering his look of surprise when she told him as much, the way his brow rose and his lips quirked to murmur "Kinky" all low and husky, how his laughter had followed her when she simply rolled her eyes and walked away, and she loved that she had the power to do that — surprise and delight him all at once. The way Jeff looked at her sometimes, all the time lately, thrilled her in a way nothing ever had and oh, she misses it, she really misses it.
Misses him.
The bus slows and jolts to another stop and Annie tears her gaze away from the empty seat, letting it flutter to her fingers throbbing bright pink and turning almost blue where she's unknowingly tightened the headphone wire with every thought, and maybe a bus ride was a bad idea.
The traffic circling the Arc de Triomphe is barely dulled by the thick stone walls of the monument as Annie pauses at the base of the spiral staircase winding up inside. She stares vacantly at the steps ahead and jerks at the rush of three young boys running past, one screaming, "Last one to the top is a LOOOOOSER!"
Her pulse has barely settled when a man shouts, "BOYS, stay where I can see you!" as he nudges past Annie with his backpack, throwing a "Kids, eh?" in her direction, and bounding up the steps with an eagerness she remembers so well.
The noise of their footsteps resonates all around them and Annie grasps the railing solidly as she finally musters the energy to move, steeling her focus on the metal-plated steps worn almost white beneath her. If she makes it to the top she can cross another achievement from her list and that's something.
That is something. It has to be.
Glancing upwards the higher she climbs, the perspective of the staircase above spins and curves like the shell of a snail, and only serves to remind her of the stupid artwork Jeff once moaned about in London and she just cannot catch a break.
"Anyone can cut out colored pieces of paper, stick them on a canvas and call it a snail," he'd said.
Her mind jumps to the dinner they'd had in a restaurant close to the Tate Modern, where they'd shared a bottle of cheap wine that made her shudder with every sip, and while they waited for the check Jeff had started to arrange little jagged squares torn unevenly from their unused napkins into a snail shape on the table. It was probably more out of boredom at first, or maybe just something to do with his hands instead of messing around on his phone like usual, but it soon became a joke about all the lame art they'd just seen and how he could do better because he's awesome at everything, and Annie had grinned at the ridiculousness of it all.
"I guess you could say you snailed it?" she'd giggled, but Jeff had paused to blink at her flatly, barely holding the expression before the smile swam roguish and wide across his face a second later and Annie felt a rush of affection through her veins, the kind that had her hands twisting into her sundress just to stop herself from reaching across the table and pulling him to her mouth, and it wasn't the first time she'd had to do that.
Instead she arched one eyebrow, all mischievous with intent, and sent his so-called 'art' fluttering across the table and into his lap with one harsh breath, gasping "Ooops!" into her fingertips and breaking into a cheeky grin. Jeff had chuckled and caught her wrist as she straightened to pull away, but there was something more than flirty teasing in his eyes that deeply startled her, made her insides feel like those very pieces of tissue, fluttering away, lost, in all directions.
The need she felt for him drew her smile away because she was trying hard not to think about that, about how much she really wanted him, and how right it all felt. She was trying so hard to be light and breezy and loosey goosey and in that one moment she felt the opposite of all those things.
Jeff seemed to notice the shift between them and they watched each other intently, both aware of her pulse thumping heavily against the press of his thumb, and by the time Jeff let go and they finally looked away, the table next to them had been cleared twice.
She reasoned it insignificant at the time, so low on their list of moments, but it would be their private thing now, something uniquely theirs that no one else would understand, and Annie's instantly annoyed at herself for the reminder and the smile it draws to her lips.
She wonders if it will always be that way now, no matter where she goes.
All day she's ran from him but even now she can feel him everywhere, the phantom tread of his hands from last night and the hot print of his lips up her spine, like he branded her, burned her in some way, and maybe he had. Maybe he branded her long ago.
Stumbling out onto the observation deck 300 steps later, Annie takes a deep shuddering breath against the freshness of the wind now that the rain has stopped, the chill cooling the beads of sweat lining her temples making her shiver slightly. Blinking through the struggle to find her equilibrium, the city lights swirl as she wanders to the edge and steps up onto the viewing platform that looks out across the city and beyond.
She's not sure if the earth is spinning or if it's her, not sure of anything, and the slow unravelling of everything from the minute she woke up to find Jeff's suitcase on his side of the bed — and maybe even before then, maybe from the moment he looked at her in that tiny dust-glazed bookshop across the Seine with something more than lust in his eyes — has Annie delving into her purse, feeling out the contents as she fumbles for her phone.
Her mouth twitches this way and that as she draws up the contacts on the screen and scrolls the list lighting her face and fingertips brightly in the darkness. She shakes her head briskly and cradles the phone to her chest for a moment, chewing her bottom lip as she looks out at the stream of traffic on the Champs-Élysées below, the rear-view car lights red and blurred out of focus.
It's the thought of him though, the relentless reminder of everything he said and did and how he made her feel, how he always makes her feel, that has Annie jabbing the call button before she can change her mind, her pulse quickening with each ring, the circling tone a background to the symphony of her thoughts in a frantic rush of please pick up, don't pick up, please pick up, don't—
"Hello?"
Annie clasps the phone tight. "B—Britta?"
"Annie! Is that you? Where are you? What time is it? Did you go to Amsterdam like I said?"
"Uh no, it's..." She glances at her watch and recoils slightly, blinking dazedly at the sky bleeding an inky darkness onto the rooftops around her. "I'm in Paris. I never. Amsterdam wasn't on my list."
"Oh, too bad. I just wondered if that one-legged trombone player was still busking by the canal. What was his name?" Britta clicks her tongue while she thinks. "Eh, I can't remember. That whole trip is kinda hazy now that I think about it. Aaaanyway," she hurries to add, "Paris is cool. Have you been to the Latin Quarter?"
"Um. Maybe? Where is it?"
"Damn. Bluff called," she mutters under her breath. "Uh, I'm not sure exactly. But I know it has some great bars and restaurants and don't eat Daniel's cat treats!" The line whirrs with muffled static until Britta continues hesitantly, her voice almost shy when she says, "Sorry, Troy says hi! He's, uh, here."
"Aww," Annie murmurs, though her heart sinks at the longing rushing through her at the sound and thought of home.
"No! No aww's. We're just. We're hanging out, very casual, no biggie. Troy's meeting Abed later to go—OW!" There's a thunk as if the phone has been dropped or snatched away, followed by some kind of commotion in the background where Annie catches Troy mumbling something about "Secrets" and then nothing but whispers until Britta says, "Sorry!" on a squeaky rush of breath.
"What was that about?"
"No idea," Britta says on a heavy exhale, the breath whistling through the speaker. "What were we talking about again?"
"It doesn't matter. You're busy. I actually don't know what I was thinking—I'm. I'm just gonna go."
"No, I've got time. Is everything okay?" Britta pauses for a second and when she speaks again her voice is verging on excited as she asks, "Is this a cry for help? Because I'm good with those. Did you run out of money? Been there, done that, got about 50 t-shirts. It's pretty much a rite of passage in your twenties. The only thing is, I kinda spent my last fifty dollars on cat medicine but I'm sure Pierce would wire you some money. Not that I'm advocating reliance on a man to save you or anything but—"
"No, it's nothing like that..." Annie trails off unsurely and frowns into the darkness, the bright lights on the Eiffel Tower a hazy flickering dance of gold in her peripheral vision.
"Annie," Britta starts slowly, tentative almost. "You can talk to me. You know that, right?"
There's an unexpected gentleness in Britta's voice, like she knows she could break at any moment and needs to be handled with the greatest care, and it tugs harder at the emotion Annie's felt simmering all day, wrenching it out from where she buried it in the pit of her stomach until it flows and swells and burns the back of her throat, and she gasps at the rawness of it all.
"I don't know," she whimpers, uncertain, and blinks against the sting of tears beading in the corners of her eyes.
"Come on," Britta sing-songs. "Unburden your burden, Annie. Just let it go, Jo. A problem shared is a problem shared."
"Halved, Britta. It's halved."
"I know!" she snaps, indignant and abashed if history is anything to go by.
One of the silver viewfinders catches the moonlight then, a shiny glimmer that draws Annie's gaze to a couple nearby, both laughing as they fight over who gets to use it first, and all she can think of is the weight of Jeff's warmth so solid behind her, the nudge of his chin against her hair as he encircled her in his arms and how she fit just so. It's nothing but a sense memory now but the realness of it is overwhelming and all Annie wants to do is curl into herself, fold the hurt over and inside and never come out again because the moment is gone now and she'll never get that back.
"I think. I think I've made a mistake," Annie admits, grabbing onto the solid spike of the railing in front of her, feeling her body sag now that she's finally acknowledged that tiny voice niggling in the back of her mind all day, growing louder by the second until the thought was all-encompassing.
"But I'm not sure if I want it to be a mistake so much that I'm ignoring the possibility that it's not actually a mistake and it was the right thing to do, at least, in the long run. And they say sometimes it's better to hurt a little now instead of a lot later, right? I've heard that before. And I mean, you're the last person I should be talking to about this but I don't have anyone else and I just." She pauses to take a shaky breath, voice wavering. "I really need a friend right now," she finishes quietly, closing her eyes for a moment, trying hard to ignore the tear sliding down the side of her face and dried just as quickly by the wind.
"Annie, what—"
"SomethinghappenedwithJeff," she says in a rush, and winces and hunches her shoulders in wait.
The line is quiet enough for all other sounds to spill through — traffic and laughter and a mix of accents lilting the air in a constant reminder of how far she is from home — and Annie pulls the phone away from her ear to check the connection, bringing it back and whispering "Britta?" hesitantly, her whole body tense with nervous anticipation.
"I can slash his tyres if you want me to," Britta says at last.
"Wait." Annie's shoulders drop slightly. "What?"
"Or maybe I could break into his apartment and replace all of his expensive toiletries with bargain brands and he'll know something's different but he'll never know what exactly and it'll really annoy him. You know, really get him where it hurts."
"No! Britta! He didn't— Nothing bad happened, at least not what you think. And I don't need you to defend me, although that is kind of...sweet that you would."
"Hey, just doing it for the sisterhood."
"This is so not the reaction I was expecting from you," Annie admits, more to herself than anything.
"Oh, come on Annie," Britta says then, her voice too sweet and condescending for Annie's liking, and it feels like the equivalent of a head-pat when she adds, "These things happen."
"Not to me they don't!"
"Yeah, well, you spend a lot of time alone with someone you're attracted to... It's not rocket science. Plus you tend to do crazy things when you're in a foreign country. BOB!" Britta shouts suddenly. "His name was Bob!"
"W—what...?"
"The guy, the musician from Amsterdam. His name was Bob. Trombone Bob! Man, that was really annoying me."
"You do a lot of crazy things in a foreign country, huh?"
"Hey! He played that trombone beautifully."
Despite herself Annie splutters a laugh for the first time that day, catching the sound against her fingertips, and to her surprise Britta joins in. It's pretty half-hearted on both ends at first but it's noise enough for Troy to wonder, "What's so funny?" in the background, and they both laugh harder. Soon enough the sound ebbs away, leaving behind the muted voices of the crowd and the strays of car horns rising up from the street and carried through the wind.
"It wasn't crazy," Annie says finally, sobering a little.
"So what's the problem? I thought you liked Jeff and wow. So not the conversation I thought I'd be having when I woke up this morning. Kinda wish I was still high."
"I, I do like Jeff. I've always..." She fingers the zip on her hoodie and huffs out a piteous breath. "That's obvious, right?"
"As the day is long."
"Don't make jokes, Britta."
"I know, I know," she mumbles childishly. "I'm bad at it."
"No," Annie says with sigh, gesturing weakly at nothing, her hand falling with a feeble slap against her thigh. "I just. I had this whole plan, you know? I knew where I was going and what I wanted to do and I thought everything was going to be perfect. And then Jeff showed up and everything got so messed up but in a good way, like he actually made it better and then I ruined it."
"You ruined it?" Britta repeats, surprised, making a noise halfway between a snort and a laugh. "Chyeah right. You don't have to lie to me, Annie. I know exactly what Jeff Winger's like."
"I'm not lying, Britta. He— I panicked, okay? He asked me out and I said no because this is Jeff we're talking about and as you said, we all know exactly what Jeff's like, and I just never expected any of it! The whole thing caught me by surprise."
"Hey, I get it, Annie. I followed Radiohead on tour for like a year. It's kind of the same thing."
Annie blinks blankly a few times before her face scrunches in confusion and she mouths a silent "What the hell" away from the mouthpiece. "How, how is that the same thing?" she asks, and she's pretty sure she can hear the sound of Britta rolling her eyes.
"What I'm saying is, it wasn't until I was listening to them sing High and Dry at the Pinkpop festival in the Netherlands, knee-deep in mud and soaking wet — How's that for irony, huh? — that I realized I'd followed Radiohead on tour for a year, Annie. I'd wasted a whole year. Sometimes these things hit you when you least expect."
"Strangely," Annie drawls. "That makes sense. I mean, it doesn't help me AT ALL but it makes sense. I guess...?"
"Yeah it does," Britta scoffs, like she's crazy to even doubt it. "So, you know, it's okay to not have figured it out. Jeff will just have to deal with it. You set the speed here, not him. You got that?"
Annie nods even though Britta can't see her. "That's not really what this is about," she admits, picking at the railing in front of her, the rust of the wrought iron flaking rough against her fingertips and still slightly wet from the earlier rain.
"Okay, so what is it about then?" Britta asks, serious now, all cut-the-crap-mode activated. "Why'd you really call me, Annie?"
"Because! Because I want you to tell me that I did the right thing!" Annie confesses, the words strangled inside tumbling from her finally. "That Jeff is a commitment-phobe and he doesn't do love or long term relationships. That he'll only hurt me in the long run and I was right to push him away. That none of this was real!"
"Whoa, okay. Uh. Is this one of those mind tricks where I'm supposed to tell you what you want to hear even if it's a lie?"
"Yes. No. I DON'T KNOW!" She stomps her foot through the bite of agitation. "You don't think Jeff is afraid of commitment?" she asks incredulously.
"Of course I do," Britta says. "It's basically his M.O. The guy is ridiculous."
"Oh," Annie murmurs, hating the way the disappointment swells inside her and her stomach actually sinks. "Well. Exactly. There you have it."
"But, and this is my opinion as a licensed Psych major—"
"Unlicensed, Britta. Unlicensed."
"Did Jeff tell you to say that? Whatever. I'm the most qualified to give you this advice. I'm basically a therapist. Just ask Abed."
"BRITTA!" she squawks, because she's losing patience now, feels the bristle of frustration just beneath her skin. "This phone call is costing me a lot of money and I'm as poor as you right now."
"Okay. Look. Yes, Jeff is all those things and probably a few more neuroses we haven't figured out yet, if only he'd let me. I could probably write a really good paper on everything that's wrong with him emotionally. He's a douchebag a lot of the time. He barely puts any effort into anything. His whole personality is based around guarding himself and he cuts and runs the minute things get complicated. BUT—"
"What?" Annie whispers, and holds her breath, her whole body tense again.
"But you love him anyway," Britta finishes, sounding like she'd drop a mic if she could, and Annie's not sure whether to laugh or cry.
"That's..." She swallows against the lump in her throat, her heart stuttering and the heat rushing to her cheeks because she's never let herself go that far, never put that ache into words for fear of, well, everything.
Because she's spent three years now letting her thoughts drift to fantasy where Jeff's concerned, imagining all the ways they could be great together even though she assumed the reality of it all could never possibly compare and that was okay, it was safe, fantasies never hurt anyone.
But somewhere along the way she'd collected a few knocks to her heart and mixed them with all of her doubts and fears and insecurities into some twisted form of logic, and pushed him away at the first sign of something real because "Relationships are complicated" and reality has never been good to her until now, and maybe she was guarding herself too.
Somehow, unknowingly, she'd turned herself into Jeff Winger and he didn't want that.
"Don't be like me," he'd said.
Annie gasps another shaky breath, clenches her eyes closed, as tight as she can, just for a moment.
"That's never been the issue," she admits finally, with a rueful little laugh, sniffling and blinking back the tears again. "I think. I mean, I tried to deny it but I've always known what's in my heart. I just don't know what's in his."
"Well, there's only one way to find out, right?" Britta suggests, and Annie doesn't really have the energy to disagree.
Instead, she takes a measured breath and finally looks out at the city around her, the lights flickering on in windows as far as the eye can see, the Eiffel Tower still lit with thousands of twinkling lights, and it's true that she doesn't really know how Jeff feels, beyond his attraction to her. She doesn't have that bone-deep certainty yet and maybe she never will. Maybe nothing will compare to the fantasy, maybe London and Paris is all they'll ever be.
But she owes it to herself to find out. And, after everything that's happened between them, she owes it to Jeff too.
"I should go," Annie says then, her voice a near-whisper, and Britta's silent for a long moment.
"Are you okay?"
"I will be," she says, and for the first time that day she feels like she really means it. "Britta?"
"Yeah?"
"Can we make a deal to never talk about Jeff ever again?"
"Oh my god, YES!" Britta shouts in breathy relief. "Pinky swearsies this is the first and last time. We can just pretend this conversation never happened."
"I'd like that," Annie says with a huffy laugh, wiping at her cheeks for mascara runs and straightening her spine. "I'm still glad I called though."
"You are?"
"Yes, really," she says, and the smile pressing at her cheeks feels like a relief, shifting some of the ache and weight inside because she really knows what she needs to do now and she's ready. "You helped a lot."
"I—I did?" Britta asks, her voice high with a disbelief that only lasts for a second. "YEAH I did. Woo! BRITTA FOR THE WIN!"