On Dr. Phalange's couch, Ross and Rachel sit down for their second relationship session. There are ice cold bottles of water waiting on the table, the condensation dripping onto the marble coaster reflecting the sheen of sweat Ross wiped off his forehead - and the chill seeping through his gut from the clinical walls of the office, which could seriously use a Pottery Barn upgrade.
The water is a relief after the grueling work day he's just had. On the contrary, Rachel still smells like their morning shower, her golden hair slightly damp and sticking to her thin white blouse. It's very distracting, the way a single drop drips onto her sternum and runs down the side of it, all the way down to her dangerously low neckline. It's achingly sexual somehow, and Ross flexes his palms into the couch and pinches the leather hard to focus and get his head out of the gutter. He's here to show Rachel his one hundred percent, not rip the buttons from her shirt and have a romp on the coffee table.
This past week had been so easy, and lovingly simple, going through the days knowing that it wasn't Friday. But now it is...and now their therapist is fired up like a car that's raring to deal with all the complicated stuff they would rather put in the back burner. And Ross knows it's a part of the whole process and an important one at that but he would really rather not.
Things with Rachel are in a good place (the place being Paris, or whatever blissful limbo their relationship is in) and picking it apart in therapy reminds him of that one time they made a quiz game out of Nana's apartment - except this time, he's no longer holding the questions. One word in the session can chip their repairing foundation and it's what scares him most. But he had been the one to suggest this, and being committed to getting off the plane means they have to deal with baggage as well. He just hopes that it'll work wonders, that it can help them on this new chapter instead of fumbling this, whatever this is. Because if he screws this up again, he may as well be extinct too.
"So, before we start," Dr. Phalange says, unaware of Ross's inner thoughts, and seems eager to start their engine, which to Ross, is completely understandable since she's the one who gets to ask the questions, not the one who has to answer them and have...well, whatever he and Rachel are doing these days picked apart for analysis. "I was wondering how defining the relationship is going." She waves her pen as if it's a wand and she's cast a summoning spell.
Could be better, is what Ross wants to say. "Quite well," is what he actually answers with and sees Rachel nodding and smiling beside him. And maybe it really is going 'quite well' for her, but the part of his brain hardwired for facts continues to seek out that clarity he's actually terrified to approach.
Frankly, he has no idea if he's spinning tall tales in his mind, a potent mix of heightened sensitivity and wishful thinking, but he could swear that since Dr. Phalange has encouraged them to pursue defining the relationship, he thinks they've steered back into their old habit of being oddly territorial of the other through passive aggressive action and little to no discussion - so the opposite direction.
One time he got home late from a work dinner and she greeted him wearing just a towel and a sly grin ("I guess I'm not sleepy anymore," he'd mused before giving her a peck that quickly becomes something less chaste, her delicate fingers toying with his blazer, a soft giggle escaping her lips as he set her against the closing door.). One time while out shopping for groceries, an admittedly good-looking local eyed her in the produce section while she's sifting through apples, and he found himself enveloping her waist and planting a kiss on top of her coconut-scented head, staring back at the intruder in as if it's his own personal standoff ("Hmm," she'd hummed in satisfaction, whether from his touch or from tying her bag of fruit with a flourish, he doesn't know, but they did walk all the way home with their hands clasped.).
For most of the week, their chase has usually played out from visiting each other's offices, which already places him in cautious waters, if memory serves truth. Monday - he'd rushed up the fashionable halls of Louis Vuitton clad in a hooded sweater still with Emma's spit on it to hand her a coat during sudden rainfall, even though she works at Louis Vuitton, where coats must come dime a dozen. Tuesday - she'd surprised him with lunch from his new favourite bistro; he used his thumb to wipe away a little mustard from just under her bottom lip and her tongue slipped out in reflex, causing him to pull his hand away like a burn lest they embarrass themselves in a crowded university quad. Wednesday - they met up at Emma's crèche and all he could focus on was what could be a phone number on her paper cup, which had nothing to do with his tightened grip on her waist, no sir. Thursday - she sat in the back of the classroom beside his teaching assistant for the last half of his afternoon class, crossing and uncrossing her tanned legs, looking ready to taunt. And just today - he'd blushed profusely as a student pointed out a lipstick stain on his collar.
But really - he thinks all this had been ignited last Saturday night, when they went out to a club with some people from French class, and that was how he found himself in the middle of the dance floor smack dab behind her, nose burrowed in her neck and hips tight against her butt as she leaned into the loud music playing around them, rolling her body into his, his hands gripping the bare skin of her waist riding up from her blouse, her own arms slithered around his neck, sometimes tugging on his dark locks. He couldn't help but whisper just under her ear how beautiful she looks, how lucky he is, how it's so nice to have a night to themselves, and the deep inhale she takes in response is enough for him to turn her around and press her margarita-stained lips against his, tasting the salt on her cupid's bow - completely wrapped up in this neon dark space, with little care for anyone else but each other.
"I hope we're like them when we're married!" Aaaaand record scratch.
And okay, neither of them had the heart to inform Amelie and her date that a) they're not married, and b) to be 'like them' is not for the faintest of hearts, but a bubble had definitely burst, and the short walk home to their apartment building had only sobered them further. A heavy silence had befallen their nighttime routine, and there'd been a shell of armour he couldn't rub off his skin to reach out to Rachel's sleepy form, already back to the wall. She sounded far away when she wished him good night, but he could've sworn she was watching him as he pretended to fall asleep.
But using that incident to follow Dr. Phalange's advice, to instead start testing the utter edges of the other's dwindling self-control without a single word, is just the unhinged back-and-forth they would do to each other in the safe space of Apartment 20. But they're no longer there.
"That's good to hear," Dr. Phalange chirps, pleased with Ross's white lie and Rachel's textbook, picture-perfect eye contact and goes back to her clipboard. Which is probably for the best.
For if they were to start with last week's situation, they would maybe have to halt on today's actual objective - and there's a sick, youthful, reckless part of his brain that's relished in pushing her buttons the past several days. Ocean eyes dilating, breath hitching ever so slightly, her balled fist punching him in the arm... It compels him further into the spell he's been hopelessly under for the better part of a decade (and even before).
"If you're ready, today I would like to begin looking at your past," Dr. Phalange starts. "I was thinking about theming these sessions a bit so that we have a path to follow through this. Is that okay with you?"
"Sure!" Rachel pipes up, and Ross just nods along between blinks.
"Fantastique," their therapist sports a sly grin as she taps on her clipboard. "So the topic today is Childhood. You've mentioned a brief period that goes past the ten years we're supposed to focus on, but I would actually like to hear about growing up in general, let's say from when Rachel was seven until Ross turned eighteen. First impressions, what changed, the eventual drift before 1994. Both in the friendship and...other feelings."
Ross looks at Rachel, trying to gauge if she wants to take the wheel or if she wants him to go first and she wobbles her head into an "it's up to you" and he shrugs back, a nudge for her to go ahead then because he's provided the recap on their relationship the week before and so he believes it's her turn now. Her shoulders straighten, takes a deep inhale and a sip from her bottle of water. Like clockwork, he shifts his focus solely to her, a skill developed in the period they're about to dive into.
"Well, when I was seven - and I'll say it was like that until middle school - we were, like, buddies," Rachel says, looking at Dr. Phalange and Ross in turn. "I first met Monica, his sister, at school since we're the same age and the other kids weren't talking to her, and I thought everyone else was just jealous because her easy bake oven smelled the best. Mon was so eager and sweet from the get-go, almost grateful. Eventually she invited me over to her house and met her older brother, who I first saw planting sunflowers in their garden. He'd said that he was playing with rocks, but then I asked for the flowers, and he handed a beautiful bunch to me with a sheepish grin." There's a lilt in her tone at the end, as if she'd been transported back to that moment, and that bushel of flowers might as well be Ross's heart, immediately surrendered to the prettiest girl he'd ever seen.
"Then puberty happened and we both grew into types of kids that made it harder to be friendly to the other. We started fighting occasionally, or maybe not really fighting but butting heads, which now that I think about it is totally normal. I mean, we were kids and getting hormonal and cheerleaders weren't supposed to talk, let alone acknowledge, geeks from science club. But there'd been this developing sincerity in his eyes since he was a boy - a gentle fire that sometimes made me see past the afro and skinny arms. The thing is, I was always in everyone's spotlight, to the point of mastery. That sounds like a brag, sorry. But - his attention must have meant more than others', because I never really knew how to respond to it."
"Let me skip a couple of years for a sec. There was this one time - one of the last times, actually, that I slept over at Monica's. I went down to get a glass of water, and found Ross in the garden again, like the first time. We'd been on vastly different paths at this point - he's already in college, just returned home for Thanksgiving, I was about to graduate high school on top of the pyramid. One could I say I went full mean girl - hanging out with a vapid crowd, gossiping about Mon and saying hi to her with the same breath - and found it easy to admit remorse in the dark, to Monica's older brother who'd be gone by morning. But he didn't get mad - just tapped my knee and reminded me that I have a 'good heart'. He still looked at me like I was perfect, which clearly I was not. And unlike girls who just thought I was pretty, or boys who wanted to get into my pants, or my parents who used gifts as leverage, Ross singling out an abstract, like my heart, felt more genuine - far too much in high regard."
Of the many things that need to be discussed in their relationship, this ranks up pretty high on the list of what has to be unpacked the most. The metaphorical pedestal that he hadn't realized he'd placed her in since day one.
"I'm sorry," Ross's rasps out. "I'm sorry for making you feel that way."
"I know honey," Rachel responds quickly with an exhale. "It wasn't just you, you know - clean slates are handed out to popular girls in a silver platter, and being spoiled like that is what landed me in Mon's apartment, equipped for nothing in the first place. But your point of view presented another kinder option, and it was just too much."
"Too much to live up to," he murmurs, looking down at his twiddling thumbs.
"You were a boy infatuated," she replies and threads one of his hands with her own.
"And you were a girl idealized," he says, rubbing one, two, ten circles into the smooth skin of her hand, finally looking up to stare back at her.
Across them, Dr. Phalange is writing furiously on her clipboard but her clients don't notice that at all. It takes for her to clear her throat until they break out of their bubble and Rachel adjusts her skirt and continues to speak.
"So, circling back. It used to be the three of us - me, Mon, and Ross - one day we'd have tea parties, the next, we'd look at the moon in his telescope. But he skipped a bunch of grades, focused on school, I befriended new types of girls...It all shifted gradually, until one day, he was just Monica's geeky older brother."
"And she's Rachel," Ross can't help but interject with a clap, signifying a boom, which probably still can't encapsulate the cosmic shift in his young life when he'd realized that his heart started beating for Rachel Green, best friend to his little sister. "It wasn't the 'Wow, she wears a bra now, suddenly I'm into her' usual deal but more like...she was a completely different person. Which was kind of true but not really, since she was still in the kitchen watching my sister bake most weekends. But there were...significant changes that messed with my head. Like, I wanted her. And I was sixteen and she was fourteen and I actually tried to kiss her? I was mortified. I couldn't...be around her, because I was afraid to touch her or to..." He pauses, thinking of a less crass term. "...embarrass us both and I generally had a tough time with that."
"And then you completely lost contact," Dr. Phalange says.
"Yeah," Ross affirms because Rachel's busy staring at her nail polish (it's highlighter yellow and he thinks the colour is shocking compared to the rest of her wardrobe but Emma chose it due to a developing Big-Bird-Sesame-Street fixation and Rach is such a good mother). "It was more inevitable than gradual, by that time. When we reconnected, she was a socialite running out of her own wedding."
"And coming back into your life," Rachel says with a slight edge, almost defensive.
"Yes, we will get into that chapter next session," Dr. Phalange notes. "Today is about you two growing up together and all the differences that arose from it."
"Hey, can I clarify something, before moving forward?" Ross asks, the question more for Rach than their therapist. She nods, and that's really all the assurance he needs. "First, me being in love with you in the ninth grade and you dealing with that perception are two truths that can coexist - I know we're gonna be dealing with it later, just had to say it now while it's in my head." Dr. Phalange purses her lips, but shrugs, knowing progress is progress. "Second, I'm so, so happy that you asked Mon for her sugar cookies that day." He turns straight to Rachel, finding her eyes and pierces them with his, wanting to get his message across completely, so she knows it and won't ever forget it - though he knows there's a lot of work to be done, still. "And I wouldn't trade any of the days that followed after. No matter how awkward or strange or overwhelming it got, they were all just background noise to how you've changed our lives with one heartwarming act. It could have been anyone else, but it's you, and it's always going to be a part of us."
"On that note," Dr. Phalange cuts him off, "That is precisely what I want to tackle right now."
"It's always going to be a part of us?" Rachel asks, a twinkle in her eyes as she turns to Ross - a true romantic underneath it all.
"Exactly!" their therapist exclaims. "It's got to do with your actual biology, intrinsic to the core."
At this, Ross perks up like a wind-up toy, his palms flat on his lap and back straight against the leather. When he looks at Rachel, her eyebrows are raised in amusement, as if saying, 'You're up, Science Boy.'
"You always hear about how the brain doesn't fully mature until you're physically grown adults, and that's absolutely right," Dr. Phalange starts. "But to be more specific, the brain is pretty much done developing around puberty, except for one integral part - the frontal cortex -" she points around her temple - " - which is the part of your brain that decides how to act on what your amygdala's been receiving through bodily senses - see, hear, taste, etcetera. So the frontal cortex, like your younger selves, was still learning to make decisions up there. That's the bottom line on why teenagers act like teenagers. We start to deliberately control ourselves, but we also identify which synapses we need in our lives and which ones will fade because we don't. This is also when pressure of all kinds come to a boiling point as we feel emotions most intensely during this time. Teens are also pumped up with adrenaline because their brains want to learn, excited to discover what's new, and figure stuff out. So, why am I telling you this?"
The therapist has to stifle a guffaw upon seeing Ross's raised hand. "Just a rhetorical question, but I appreciate the interest." Rachel takes Ross's hand down with a playful scoff. "It's because I want you to understand that as you were growing up together, your brains were literally growing along with you and shaped themselves in parts according to what you learned from and with each other and apart. Monica is also a member of this symbiotic link, but what goes deeper for the two of you is, of course, matters of the heart. Do you get what I'm saying?"
"We've been looking at ten years ago as the catalyst to our history when its foundations actually started from shared and separate emotions and experiences our brains processed from childhood," Ross tries, almost squeaky.
"Correct," Dr. Phalange says. "Everyone has experiences from when they were younger that affects their perception of relationships; what makes you different is that together aspect, even if it can peter out sometimes. Not everyone meets their romantic partner at aged seven, but you aren't childhood sweethearts either. To put it in an image, it's like you've developed synapses that are attuned to the mere thought of the other, but due to the intense emotions attached to the particular person, everything else fades away. Which would make sense with how you're saying you have extreme difficulty defining your relationship while simultaneously calling it so special. Ross, you'd mentioned asking Rachel out that first night in the city, and Rachel, after several years of no communication, you gave him a maybe. Why do you think? I'd reckon those synapses were blinking like homing devices, but unable to translate into words."
"Yeah..." Rachel trails off, a phantom oreo suddenly occupying the palm of her other hand. "I remember being so at ease in that living room, only the two of us. But nothing happened, so I just...thought it was a fleeting idea."
"Meanwhile, I was an idiot who spent the decade bumbling and stuttering," Ross adds.
"On the other hand, once I did start having Ross-related epiphanies, found myself going full throttle, no breaks, leading to some...crashes, to put it mildly," Rachel admits.
"And burns," Ross agrees, thinking of his own missteps. "What I'm getting is: because we met when we were so young, we utilize a lot of id, to borrow from psychology as well. Speaking for myself, there's a...magnitude, to the way I feel that I thought it best to treat it delicately and not touch on it at all. But when I do manage to get over that...hurdle, and effectively communicate,"
"It's wonderful. We're like stars colliding to create the most beautiful thing," Rachel sighs, her heartbeat rising at the thought of a shining planetarium sky, and ultimately finding the comparison to such unpredictable yet sparkling elements that can burst - breathtakingly accurate.
"So," Ross asks Rachel as much as he asks their therapist, "Is that it?"
"It's an it," Dr. Phalange says solidly but not unkind. "I fully understand your...carefulness, in defining the relationship. Consider those ten years of adolescence on top of another ten years of being romantically involved. It's not unheard of, but it is a lot. So what I'm hoping you'll take today is that be gentle to each other when you try to make sense of this relationship and why it's so complicated. And you can't expect a label to come that easily, which I know you're not, because you told me you've been struggling with this for the longest time. You've mentioned a term of endearment the last time you were here: lobsters, per your friend. Which may sound strange to some, but they're not the ones in this relationship - you are. And an approximate like that is definitely a step towards clarity."
"What you're saying then," Rachel says, crossing her legs and lightly hitting the couch, "is that we should define the relationship while being aware of the fact that it kinda defies definition anyway?"
Dr. Phalange doesn't respond and Ross slowly nods to himself. Rachel slinks into the couch.
Because if that's it, that their literal brains have been designed for them to be tied forever, then what are they tiptoeing around for? Because there is a definition hanging over their heads for the taking, isn't there? In true Ross-and-Rachel fashion, there hadn't been a verbal discussion but rather an understood silence on that subject. But not going there is just as complicated for so many other reasons, and she's been trying to ignore the implications of last week, and ow, her head hurts.
"What are you thinking about, Rach?" Ross asks, concern evident in his tone.
"Everything and nothing," Rachel replies with a wry laugh. "This could mean so many things, Ross."
"I think it means we're on the right path," he beams, seeming to have found a rationale in this biology brain concept and of course he'd find that enough when for her it only adds to a pile of questions hidden in their 'good place.'
"And it's also the right statement to close today's session," Dr. Phalange declares as Rachel studies her...Ross, and the sudden relief that's taken over his features. "For this week, just remind yourselves to be gentle and be present with each other and apart, and try not feel guilty or weird between action and reaction. In the end, love is your shared root."
Easier said than done, for sure. Rachel knows that seeing Dr. Phalange is for their own good, but this one hour has her seeking out another kind of therapy - one that calls for powerwalks and swiping cards and doesn't ask her to unpack her rapid impulses.
"What are you up to?" she asks the second the office door closes behind them, craning up to see the lipstick mark she'd placed on his collar earlier this morning, several questions ago.
"A jumble of thoughts, but all good, I swear," he answers while putting on her coat for her, giving her shoulders a little squeeze. "I'll tell you when it's actually fully formed to avoid confusion, but basically I - I'm thankful you're letting us do this."
He tucks stray wisps of her hair behind her ear, and the soft smile that splays her lips is the sweetest 'you're welcome.' To her, he may look like a madman now, but in his mind, what he hears is her voice echoing through the dimmed closed doors of Central Perk, a sentiment doubling as hypothesis all along:
I mean - didn't you think you were just gonna meet someone, fall in love, and that'd be it?
It rings a couple of bells.
and so it begins. thank you for taking the time to read, hope you'll enjoy the ride!