The Message

Monica woke up with a throbbing headache and what felt like a blanket of dull fuzz wrapped around the edges of her mind, hampering her ability to recall most of the events from last night. She reached across the bed, hoping to wake Chandler and confirm that she was not still asleep and caught up in some dream, but when her hand reached his side of the bed, there was no one there. She sighed; disappointed to find herself alone after becoming so accustomed to having someone sleeping next to her. She slowly sat up and brought her knees to her chest as she tried to position herself up against the headboard. Her hand opened wide and covering her forehead to soothe it like a cold compress.

It was startling to realize she was not simply disturbed by the absence of a person sleeping next to her in some abstract way, but to find herself needing it to be a very specific person. Needing it to be Chandler. There was a sense of security and reliability with him. Knowing he would be exactly who he is, and what she always needed, drove her desire for his body to be where it belonged, in her bed with her.

It was a strange feeling, to lament his absence from her side. To miss him lying there next to her. Under normal circumstances, that revelation might have left her with a sense of unease as she tried to wrestle with what it meant. The idea that after only a few nights sharing the same bed, she had already grown accustomed to the warmth that radiated from his body and the soft, soothing sounds he made as he slept. She did not expect herself to crave everything that having Chandler in her bed yielded. Yet here she was, desperately wishing he was lying next to her right now.

She looked over at the vacant pillow beside her and stared at the place that should be his face with a disquieted glare. She then searched around the room. Her eyes began to adjust to the darkness as she willed the world into focus. She scanned the area until her gaze fell upon him sleeping in the other bed. Her brow wrinkled and a scorned eyebrow arched as she felt slighted that he abandoned her to sleep on her own and then she shook her head in an attempt to shake off that ridiculous feeling that rose within her whenever she felt as if she were being rebuffed.

She would have laughed at the preposterous and fleeting impulse of ownership she had over him if it weren't still resonating so powerfully within her. She knew he didn't owe her anything, and more importantly, she did not want him to feel indebted to her and somehow change who he was to her and how he would act around her.

Sure, they slept together, and while it was fantastic, and he made her laugh and feel better about herself and forget for a while that she sent her life into a tailspin just a short week ago when she broke it off with Richard, it was also scary. Sleeping with one of your best friends could ruin everything. It was probably for the best that he did not settle into bed with her on their last night in Las Vegas, to better prepare them for their return home. Their return to normalcy. Yet, as she looked over at him, she could not help but think, just as her vision adapted to the shadowy room, making things clearer for her to see, so too has her perception of who Chandler was over this past week. Her eyes have adjusted, and they will never be the same.

Nothing she did this week made any sense. She would have a hard time explaining her behavior even to herself. Breaking it off with Richard. Running away to Vegas. Blowing off work, shirking her responsibilities. Not speaking to Ross or Rachel all week. Sleeping with Chandler, it was as if she were living someone else's life.

Suddenly, she was stuck with a blazing sense of déjà vu. She had felt like this once before; willfully breaking the chains of everything she tied herself to which usually wrapped around her like some Gordian knot. How only a little over a year ago she fell into a haze of alcohol and terrible, impulsive decisions, just like she had done all this week. She was once again embodied by the "other" Monica. The fake Monica. The one that she lived vicariously through. The one who used her credit card like a key that unlocked a world of reckless abandon. Crashing parties, getting day-drunk, and tap dancing. When it was all over, she promised herself to make some small change, to embrace the impetuous passion that life can offer. Yet, old habits died hard, and soon enough, she stopped going to the dance studio, and never learned how to properly tap dance. Like a piece of elastic, she snapped back into shape, and resumed her safe, reliable, uninspired life.

She looked towards Chandler once more before settling back into bed. Maybe the lessons she learned from the fake Monica had stuck with her after all, even if she fell back into her routine shortly after meeting her. Maybe the other Monica was why she was so certain that she needed to break up with Richard, right then and there on that dance floor. The old Monica might have let it play out, hesitated, convinced herself to put aside her own wants and needs. She couldn't do that anymore. She couldn't be that person anymore. Not after the fake Monica. Thanks to her, she was being given a second chance to reconcile how she lived her life with what she wanted out of it. She made the mistake of letting the opportunity to actualize her dreams slip from her fingers once before; she would not let that happen again.

"Oh, you have got to be kidding me."

Monica twisted her face up, as if Chandler's protest was a personal affront, and then looked at the two tracksuits she was holding up in her hands. "What?"

"We are not wearing those. Matching jumpsuits? Are we a retired couple in Boca Raton? I can practically hear the mahjong tiles now."

Monica tried to suppress a smile and shook her head. "Chandler, we don't have any other clean clothes left. So, we either wear these on the plane ride home or we wear dirty clothes that smell like casinos, night clubs and tequila."

Chandler looked off to the side and mimed signaling for someone by raising his finger in the air. "Waiter? Yes, I'd like to have your finest fiber supplement, and for the lady, some denture cream."

"Chandler."

"Yes, we would like a side of arthritis medication."

"Chandler!' Monica tossed the clothes down on the bed and folded her arms defiantly.

Chandler looked down at the offending garments. "You could have at least gotten different colors? What is this? Blue? Black?"

"Uh, more like a dark plum."

"Plum? You mean purple!"

Monica winced and smiled sheepishly. "This was all they had left downstairs."

"Matching purple jumpsuits. We are going to look like the least intimidating gang ever."

Monica huffed and walked over to the other side of the room. "Just put it on."

"Fine."

Chandler stood up from the edge of the bed and began putting some of his clothes into one of the souvenir gym bags they had picked up at the casino gift shop. Monica shuddered as she watched him and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand up straight.

"What are you doing."

Chandler eyed her with sarcastic disbelief. "I'm building a spaceship. What does it look like I'm doing? I'm packing."

Monica scoffed and let out a few loud, incredulous and sarcastic chuckles. "Uh, okay, sure. I don't know what it is you are doing, but it is definitely not packing."

"I'm putting clothes in a bag that I will then bring with me to the airport and when I get home, I will take the clothes out of the bag. I mean, unless you have some newfangled dictionary where packing means something else."

"Well, mister, first of all, those are dirty clothes you are putting in there. You can't just put dirty clothes in a clean bag. You're going to get the bag smelly and that could create mildew."

"Mildew?"

"Or mold. It's just bad, whatever it is, okay. Second, you aren't even folding your clothes. You don't just ball them into a pile and shove them in. You'll stretch them out and get them all wrinkled." Monica stepped over and yanked the clothes out of the bag with a frustrated huff.

"What are you doing?"

'Okay, first, we have to find a plastic garment bag and put these dirty clothes in there. Go get some from the closet. Then we have to seal them up and put them in the bag. Neatly!" Monica lifted her hand to her mouth as it opened wide in shock. "Oh my god Chandler, what did you do to your suit jacket!"

Chandler brought his finger to his chin and looked up at the ceiling. "Why am I getting the feeling leaving Las Vegas is going to be a lot less fun than coming to Las Vegas?"

"Excuse me sir, where is the courtesy desk?"

Chandler turned over his shoulder and recoiled as a short, older man put his hand on his arm to get his attention.

"What?"

"The courtesy desk." The man pointed at the Caesar's Palace logo on his shirt and then motioned at Monica. "Don't you two work here?"

"No. We don't work here!"

"Oh." The man looked them over once more, eyeing their matching purple Caesar's Palace tracksuits. "You look like you work here."

"Well, we don't."

The man slowly nodded with a confused look on his face. "Oh, I see. You guys must be talent, for one of the shows. Husband/wife team. Are you two the lion people?"

"What?"

"You know, trained lions and stunts."

"Do I look like I do stunts?"

"Can the wife and I get a picture with you two? When do you go on?"

Chandler rolled his eyes and placed his hand on the small of Monica's back as he guided her quickly away. "I told you these clothes were a mistake. That was the third time someone asked me for help or thought I was a performer."

"Well, you didn't have to try and do a magic trick for the last guy."

"It was an illusion! Not a magic trick!"

"Whatever Copperfield."

"You're just upset because he called you my assistant."

Monica twisted her lips up mockingly and responded with sarcastic gibberish. "Come on Siegfried, let's go."

As she turned to continue through the casino towards the front desk, Chandler couldn't help but let his eyes admire her form as he followed her. He bathed her body in a wanting gaze and started to feel the pressure of a ticking clock in his head as they prepared to leave Caesar's Palace, and Las Vegas, behind them forever. He suddenly felt like he was face to face with the reality that they were going to leave this piece of themselves behind, stop being the people they have been while they were here. The friends who fell easily into bed together, who shared intimate truths and seemed to fit each other like a hand in glove. Instead, they would leave these two ghosts of lovers that would haunt the gaming floor of a Las Vegas casino forever in their wake as they refused to stuff it all into those cheap souvenir gym bags and take it back with them to New York.

He thought he could be okay with that. It had to end sometime. It was inevitable. Yet now, as they prepared to go back home, he could feel everything that this week has been, start to slip through his fingers like sand. And no matter how tightly he tried to hold onto it, it didn't seem to matter. They were going to leave this place. He was never going to see her naked again, taste her skin, or feel her lips on his. There were rules. She was his best friend, the sister of his oldest friend. Things were going to go back to normal. But a part of him knew that he could not simply hide this week in a lockbox in his mind and forget what it felt like to be with her. What this week meant to him.

This thing that was happening between them, it was more than the fleeting promise of what could have been with some girl he talked to on the computer. Someone who he created in his head to match the words that appeared on the screen. Someone he fantasized would be the perfect woman for him. What if he had ignored his instincts and went through with it? Ignored the fact that she was married and met with her in person. Would she have lived up to his high expectations? Would it have been a disaster? He was not quite sure anymore. He could not even see who he thought she would be anymore. All those fantasies he had dreamt up about this woman already faded memories.

The one thing he received from her that he could not forget was the gift that she had given him the first night they spoke.

"Cut it out. Get real."

He reached forward and clasped Monica's hand in his as she led the way out. This was real. This was someone who would see through the sarcasm and nervous jokes. Someone who was pretty, smart and kind. Monica was not simply some imaginary phantom he had concocted, she was real. She knew him, trusted him, enjoyed being with him. This gorgeous creature who deserved more than she thought she did, right here, holding his hand. And all he could think about right now was how he knew he would fail to deliver all her hopes and dreams, but desperately wanted to try anyway.

You don't just toss away something like this or forget what it meant to be with someone like her, simply because you shifted time zones.

He had to do something. He had to let her know how he felt.

Yet, still he hesitated.

If he was going to pull the rug from under their world and turn everything upside down. He needed to be certain it would work. He needed a sign. Something from her, or the universe, to tell him that this is what he should pursue. That she was the one he was supposed to be with. That this would still work when they returned to New York.

Chandler tugged on her hand, compelling her to stop. "Hey."

Monica looked over her shoulder; slightly bemused. "What?"

Chandler looked around with uncertain eyes. "Well, uh, you see…we have to play one more game."

"What?"

"Yeah, uh, we have to roll the dice one more time. It's a Vegas tradition."

"No, it isn't."

Chandler started to gesticulate and became flustered. "What? It totally is. You just have never been here before. You always have to play one more hand at whatever game you did well at while you were here. For, uh, luck. You want to go out a winner when you leave. On a high note."

Monica looked down at her watch. "Chandler, we don't have time for this. Our flight leaves in two hours."

"I know. We'll make it quick." Chandler motioned towards a vacant craps table. "Look, here, this table is empty."

Monica craned her neck. The front desk was in sight, just beyond that, the hotel doors. A few feet and a couple of panes of heavy glass was all that stood between them and a sea of cabs ready to take them back home.

"Maybe I can get us a cab while you do this."

"No, it has to be us. It has to be you, you know, like the other night. You were the one rolling the dice."

Monica shrugged her shoulders and shook her head in defeat. "Okay. Fine."

The croupier nodded as Chandler placed some money on the table. "Cash plays."

Chandler handed Monica the dice and smiled nervously. "Okay, so, uh, eight. You roll an eight and it is definitely a sign."

"A sign? What kind of sign?"

"You know, that, uh, we're…uh…winners?"

Monica rolled her eyes, assuming it was yet another joke of his that she would never understand. "Fine."

Monica coiled up her arm and then tossed the dice. As they tumbled across the table, Chandler watched with bated breath. This was the sign. An eight meant that when they got home, he should say something, do something, use all of his power of persuasion to convince Monica that they should bring Vegas back home to New York.

The dice hit the back wall of the table and bounced towards them, rolling until the stumbled to a stop and landed on a six and a two.

"Easy eight!"

Chandler nodded and smiled excitedly at the croupier as he collected their winnings.

"I can't believe you rolled an eight. That was so unlikely! Well, okay, let's go home now."

Monica looked down and pouted.

"What? It's an eight. Don't tell me you got the fever again and want to keep playing." Chandler wrapped his arm around her shoulder to lead her away from the table as his chest puffed up with bravado. "We have a plane to catch. Big things to do."

"Yeah, it's just too bad."

"What?"

"That was an easy eight. The other night I rolled a hard eight."

Chandler looked down, and his chest seemed to collapse upon itself as he deflated. "Yeah, you're right. That's the wrong kind of eight."

Monica let out a warm sigh once she entered her darkened apartment. She swung the door open and placed the keys on the counter as she stretched her arms.

"Rach? Ross?"

Chandler followed behind her and placed the two gym bags on top of the kitchen table. He looked down and snatched up a piece of paper that was lying there.

"I think she left a note."

Monica shook her head as she reached over to take the note from him and read it.

"Mon. Might not be here when you get back. Ross has some boring museum thing that he is really freaking out about. Joey and Phoebe tagged along. See you tonight. We may have thrown out your fat."

Monica turned to look at Chandler. "How did she know we were coming back tonight?"

Chandler started to fluster his words as he raised his hand, hoping to hold off any further questions.

"Chandler?"

"Well, the thing is, you see, when we were in Vegas, and you know, well…uh…is this over yet?"

Monica glared at Chandler, but her lips started to curl up into a smile as she could not hide her amusement at his discomfort.

"I might have been keeping her updated about how things were going."

"Oh no, you didn't…"

"No. No. None of that stuff. Just the basics. That you were alive, and eating food."

Monica let out an exaggerated sigh of relief. "Okay. All right."

"You're not mad, are you?"

"What? No. Really, that's sweet. I appreciate it. It's probably why no one decided to fly out there and join us."

"Yeah, well I knew not to tell her about, well, uh, the other stuff." Chandler looked around the apartment nervously as he walked over to the refrigerator. "Well, we certainly are alone now. Good thing we have that not New York rule."

Chandler laughed and reached inside the refrigerator for a bottle of water. Monica leaned up against the couch.

"Listen, while we are on that subject, I was really going through a hard time this week; the break-up, my job….just…well…spending the week with you in Vegas, it meant a lot to me. I guess I'm trying to say thanks."

"Yeah?" Chandler couldn't help but let a slight smile spread across his lips. He stepped towards her and juggled the bottle of water from hand to hand. "You know, this week meant a lot to me too, and it isn't because I was in a bad place or anything, just, well, you're really hot."

Monica laughed and the tension she had seemed to slip away with her laughter.

"Is that okay?"

"That's okay."

Monica turned and started to walk into the living room. Chandler bit his lip as he felt that it was now or never to say his piece. To make his move. He reached a hand out towards her.

"Actually, you know, I wanted to talk to you about that, well, this, uh, all of it."

Monica turned to face him with a confused smile. "What?"

Chandler took a deep breath. "Okay."

Monica looked down to see the red light on her answering machine. "Oh, wait, let me just check the messages."

Chandler shook his head but nodded as he watched her press the button on the machine.

"Monica, it's Richard. Call me."

She turned to look at Chandler, wide eyed and what seemed almost a fearfully shocked look on her face.

"Is…is that message old or new? Old or new!"