It's been quite a few years since I've drawn on the back of a placemat with a crayon. I'd be willing to bet that the last time I did it, I drew a horse or a kitty or a house with smoke curling up from the chimney - all in two dimensions, of course, and proportionally challenged. I for damn sure wasn't drawing roof trusses and explaining how to build one that will maintain its structural integrity under a given load.

"So it's all about the triangles?" Aubrey asks.

"Basically," I say. "There are other ways to do it, but this is one of the simplest and easiest."

Then it hits me. I'm sitting in a restaurant with a beautiful woman, and I'm drawing pictures on the back of my placemat. Dorky math pictures. On a placemat. With a crayon, for fuck's sake.

I flip it back over immediately. "Sorry, that's boring, I -"

"It's not," she says, and I find that I'm staring at the green crayon I just put down and I can't lift my eyes to look at her, which is fucking ridiculous. "What about domes?" she asks.

"What about them?"

"Well, how do they stay up?"

I lift my head enough to peek at her from under my eyebrows, and I hate myself a little right now because I feel all shy and hopeful and Stacie fucking Conrad does not do shy and hopeful. Stacie fucking Conrad does confident and certain. Just not today, apparently.

"I'm not boring you with this?" I ask quietly.

"No, not at all," she says. "You're cute when you talk about building things."

I can feel a blush creeping across my face and I can't help but grin. It's utterly ridiculous and slightly unsettling, because I'm not normally a blusher. It's weird, too, that even as I release a cautious breath of a giggle, I can feel my backbone returning. "So what you're telling me," I say, sliding my hand across the table to rest the pad of my index finger atop her pinky, "is that you like huge nerds?"

She turns her hand over, slips it beneath mine, and answers while she watches her thumb stroke across the back of my hand.

I manage to suppress a shiver, but only just.

"Not really," she says, "but I like the fact that you're a huge nerd." She shrugs. "Intelligence is sexy."

Well, that's refreshing. People are typically far more interested in my body than anything else and while I do enjoy that kind of attention, I'm finding it pretty fucking awesome that this super smart and successful woman seems content to stare at crudely drawn architectural diagrams instead of my cleavage.

Instead of just my cleavage, I mean, because she's definitely looked at that a few times. As well she should. I'd be offended if she didn't - I have excellent tits, let's be honest.

"Looks like our food's coming," she says, looking past me. Sure enough, our waitress arrives moments later and sets our plates before us, effectively interrupting our little moment. If I were a lesser person, I'd halve her tip just for that.

I won't, though, because it's not like she's trying to fuck up my mojo and besides, being a shitty tipper is a super efficient way to drop yourself six levels in your date's estimation. Instead, I take a deep breath and thank her for bringing our food.

Once the waitress is gone, I say, "I'll tell you about domes after we eat."

"Deal," she says as she spreads her napkin across her lap. "This is a bit ridiculous, isn't it?" She waves a hand at her plates. "Eating like a child, I mean."

"Maybe," I say with a shrug. "But who gives a shit, am I right? We're adults. We can do what we want."

For the record, what I want is to kiss the hell out of her on her doorstep tonight.

Since that level ten geek out I just committed didn't scare her off, I like my chances, really.

Apparently, I come here enough that Luke feels confident in my ability to answer any questions his new bartender might have, and he disappears to his office to avoid his least favorite part of bar ownership - customer interaction - with the words, "If you have any trouble, Beca there can sort it out for you."

Her name is Faith, poor thing, and she seems terrifically stunned that her new boss is leaving her to man the bar on her own after a mere two hours of training. Her eyes are kind of wide as she watches him walk away, and she's genuinely wringing her hands.

"Don't worry," Chloe says gently. "You're gonna do great."

Faith does not appear to believe this statement. "This is my first bartending job," she confides. "I don't even know how to make a Cosmo or a Mai Tai or a Long Island Iced Tea."

"That's easy," I say. "If someone orders some shit like that, you tell them we don't go in for that sort of bollocks 'round here and they can fuck off two blocks South to The Merry Widow."

Faith looks completely appalled at this idea, and Chloe looks genuinely confused. I am not amused by the full on knitted brow, pursed lips, and narow eyed expression she points my way. It's unreasonably cute.

"That's what Luke said last time someone asked him to make an Appletini," I explain. "He's against mixed drinks with more than two ingredients. He has no fucking idea how to make anything more complicated than a gin and tonic." Faith relaxes, but only slightly. "Besides, there's a cocktail book under the register," I add.

"Oh, thank god," she says, spinning on her heel to verify my statement. She turns back to us, clutching the paperback in both hands and smiling. "Thank you."

I shrug. It's not like I actually did anything, and anyway there are only seven people here and we're all drinking beer. It's not like she won't be able to keep up.

The O's are crushing Texas at this point, but I'm still half-assedly watching the game while I listen to Chloe ask Faith all the questions in the world. The girl is twenty-one years old, she's majoring in Photography at MICA, and she's from Essex originally but she's sharing what is probably a shitty apartment with two other students in Mt. Vernon because that's the only kind of apartment three college students can afford in that part of town. She has a boyfriend named Josh and apparently there's a certain amount of drama with her roommates right now concerning how many nights he spends there and how many of their Pop-Tarts he eats, and Chloe either genuinely gives a shit about all this information or she's an excellent faker.

I think she honestly gives a shit, or maybe even three, which is a little unnerving. I mean, all I really care about is that my bartender doesn't leave my glass empty for long, and while I do learn their names it's mostly because that makes it easier to get their attention when I need something. Although I don't do that unless I have to, because drawing attention to myself - ugh, yikes.

Chloe's managed to relate the story of how she grew up in Florida and then went to school in Georgia and then moved here when her best friend did because "it sounded fun and you can find a job teaching pretty much anywhere" before Faith has to move down the bar to do her actual job.

"She seems nice," Chloe says.

"Sure," I say.

"You don't think so?"

"I don't know. We've known her for like an hour. She could still turn out to be a kitten drowner or a Republican or something."

"You're tough to win over, aren't you?" she asks.

I shrug and wait for whatever cheerfully smug observation she decides to make concerning how easily I seem to have accepted her, because I feel like she thinks we're BFFs already.

Instead, though, she just hums and informs me she's going to head upstairs to the ladies' room.

I think too much. More accurately, according to most of my friends, I overthink things. I obsess over details, I suck at letting things go, and I roll things over and over in my head until they're unrecognizable - much like when you stare at a picture in the newspaper until all you can see are thousands of dots that don't make any fucking sense.

This is actually pretty useful when I'm working on music, whether I'm polishing up a track CR recorded or fiddling with around a remix until it's just right. In just about every other way, though, it's a bitch.

Case in point: I'm sitting at the bar on a Tuesday night, staring into my beer while I try to determine whether I have somehow managed to fall deeply into a fast friendship or if I am just developing a pathetic, heartbreaking crush.

Or both, because that's definitely on the table.

The thing is that my default stance on just about everything and everyone is resistance. It's not easy to befriend me, because I largely just refuse. Most people encounter this and instinctively remain at least at arm's length until such time as, if ever, I invite them to step closer. Here and there I'll meet someone oblivious enough they don't catch the hints and rush headlong into a force field of rejection, but they tend to figure it out after bouncing off and landing on their ass.

Then there's Chloe fucking Beale, who as far as I can tell is very well aware of my desire for pretty much everyone to just back the fuck off but who proceeds to saunter carelessly through the aforementioned force field like it isn't there. Like it just doesn't work on her.

What's possibly even more vexing is that I don't mind it half as much as I think I should. Like I'm more bothered by how not bothered I am about it than I am bothered about it and - OK, nevermind. That right there is a sure sign I'm staring at dots at this point.

Also, I should definitely have made 'Swan Dive' my song of the day instead of 'The World Is Full of Bastards.' As if that matters. I'm starting the feel like the song of the day matters, which is just stupid.

The thing is, though, if I weren't thoroughly wrapped up in my own stupid head and were paying the least bit of attention to my surroundings then I might have been able to escape. I could at least have possibly registered the quietly raging disaster heading my way maybe not early enough to make a run for it, but at least to swallow my surprise and set my jaw firmly.

As it is, of course, I'm deaf and blind to the world around me until the familiar body slides onto Chloe's stool and the familiar voice says, "Fancy meeting you here," resulting in my head snapping around so fast I nearly lose my balance and my jaw dropping in what I have absolutely no doubt is an undignified manner.

"You've gotta be fucking kidding me," is all I can think of to say. At least they're actual words.

The moment I step out of the stairwell, I can see that someone has taken my stool on Beca's right; I can also see that Beca is looking straight ahead with her elbows on the bar, a whole lot like she did the night we met when I pissed her off by pestering her about her smoking.

Faith is washing glasses and glancing at the pair nervously, which might be a sign of trouble or might just be Faith being Faith. She's too new to be a reliable indicator.

The interloper is a pretty brunette with straight, shoulder length hair. She's leaning toward Beca a little, her mouth moving around words Beca doesn't seem to want to listen to.

She's wearing too many necklaces and she's cut the arms off her T-shirt rather sloppily and her mouth has a cruel shape to it and I don't like the fucking look of her at all. I Sure as hell don't like her over there all nonchalantly crowding into Beca's personal space like she doesn't even know how much Beca hates that.

Beca snatches her arm away sharply when the stranger tries to lay a hand on it, and the sight of her so obviously uncomfortable and in need of help sets my blood boiling, so I pick up the pace. I wish I hadn't worn sneakers; I could really do with some nice hard heels clicking against the wooden floor to herald my approach. It would really help set a tone.

I don't know who that bitch sitting beside my friend is, but I do know that she needs to leave. Like right away.

I'm staring at myself in the mirror so hard that I don't even see Chloe walk up behind me until I hear her say, in a voice dripping with sugary syrup, "You're in my seat."

It occurs to me that this situation is better suited to a sitcom than real life. My sorry little ass immobile in horror on a barstool as my cheating ex-girlfriend's pleas for a second chance are interrupted by the apparent attempt at a save by someone who couldn't hurt a fly - that's comic gold, that is, if it's happening to someone else.

"There's an empty one right there," Sarah says. I can see her out of the corner of my eye, waving her hand in the general direction of the stool to my left.

"That one isn't mine. I sit on Beca's right, because she's left handed," Chloe explains helpfully.

Sarah just stares at her for a moment before turning back to look at me, but I just watch myself take a sip of beer in the mirror. I'm sure as shit not going to help her out. Finally she turns back to Chloe and says, "Look, we're having a serious conversation here, so if you don't mind-"

"This isn't a conversation," Chloe chirps. She giggles just a tiny bit before adding, "This is you saying words and her pointedly ignoring you because she wants you to go away. And I do mind that, actually. Kind of a lot."

"Yeah, you don't know her like I do, so just-"

"Don't be silly. You can tell by her posture and facial expression that she's uncomfortable."

"Look, Pippi, I don't know who the hell you think you are-"

That pisses me off enough to turn and engage, but Chloe casually grabs me by the shoulder to hold me in place before leaning close to Sarah and saying, her voice still bright and sweet as a bag of Skittles on a sunny day, "I'm the bitch who will cheerfully feed you a sack of nails and then drag you into an MRI machine if you don't get off my fucking stool and walk out that goddamn door post fucking haste. OK, sweetheart?"

I don't know, man. I mean on one hand, I can see Sarah's slack-jawed expression and Chloe's dazzling smile and it's kind of hilarious. On the other hand, I've never heard such a violent threat so sweetly uttered in my entire fucking life, and it's kind of scary as shit.

Chloe never even raised her voice. If I didn't speak English, her tone would have led me to believe she was happy to see Sarah or was complimenting her haircut or something. I can't figure out if I'm amused or afraid or just in shock.

I think Sarah's having the same problem, but when Chloe straightens back up and holds out her arm in an 'after you' kind of gesture, Sarah slides off the stool and slinks away.

"Well, she was awful," Chloe says as she snatches a napkin off the bar and uses to to brush off her stool before reclaiming it.

I can't really do anything but stare at her.

"I told you - I can be rude, I just prefer not to," she says. "Unless it's necessary."

"All of your beers are on me," I say. "Possibly for the rest of our lives."

"Aw, thanks!" she says, squeezing my forearm warmly. "Who the hell was that, anyway?"

"That," I say with a heavy sigh, "was my ex-girlfriend Sarah, who seems to think that a year should be enough time for me to get over the fact that she cheated on me and also that she deserves another chance."

"Ew, gross."

"Yeah," I say. "Thanks, by the way. She blindsided me and I - I kinda froze up."

Chloe flashes me the big smile, tosses a dismissive wave my way, and says, "That's what friends are for, Becs." Then she reaches for her beer, pauses, and asks, "She didn't touch this, did she?"

"Not that I noticed," I say.

I buy her a new one anyway, just in case. It's the least I can do, really.

A/N: I don't know, man. Those of you still with me on this are real troopers.

Also, I don't mind if some of you keep leaving comments lamenting the lack of Bechloe becoming a thing yet, but don't think that means I'll get around to it any sooner. I may be flailing here, but I have sort of a plan and I'm going to keep rolling with it.