Rachel is fine. No, really. She's absolutely a-okay. Except for the fact that she feels like scratching the wool of her sweater 'til it scrapes her skin, life is super at the moment. Work is challenging yet rewarding, she thrives in the frenetic office energy bouncing between French and English chatter and the incessant beep of phone calls about shipments and soirees. She likes her walking commute a lot, how it toned her thighs and improved her breathing and if that game-that-must-not-be-named had been any indication, she's definitely fit despite all the pastries they've been treating themselves to almost every day. It's not like she's been actively trying to be in good shape, but it's nice to note when you're surrounded by models for work. Either way, her clothes hug her like they haven't in months and she feels motivated and ready to take on each day to its full potential. So overall, everything is fine. Except...except.
When Dr. Phalange had given them the ultimatum last week, she didn't expect Ross to completely swerve and follow through the assignment - or at least, evade the teasing 'competition' altogether. The sudden halt of their intimate dance has left her wanting, simply put. To her, it's more torturous than a high intensity workout and diet rolled into one, and the worst part is, she has no right to be mad because the choice had been verbally mutual.
Sneakily - Rachel finds loopholes, getting him to burrow his face in her clavicle while trying out new scents at the department store, asking him to lift her up to fix their curtains and keening at the way his large hands burn her hip. So yeah, if there's an opportunity for her to get away with being closer to him than necessary while remaining true to their no more toying with tension pact, she draws those chances in spades.
Like last night in French class when Amelie was lugging her camera around asking to take everyone's pictures for her portfolio and eventually told her and Ross to pose for a photo and she had pretty much leapfrogged into his chest without pause. She went all in, clasping Ross tight, one arm slipping around his shoulder and leaning in, the other stroking where his heart is. He had caught her move on instinct, turning completely towards her and pulling her even closer against him, one hand on her ribcage, nearly brushing the underside of her breast, the other one spanning the small of her back. Their faces had brushed and she had felt every breath he took as if they'd been her own. She must be smiling like a lunatic by the time Amelie pressed the button.
"C'est parfait," Amelie had remarked and then left them to pester another classmate and if she found their over-the-top posting odd, she didn't bring it up.
A damn day later and Rachel's still reeling from taking that picture.
"Someone's a snuggly baby today. What's going on, Green?" Ross had asked her earlier in the metro, gingerly prying her iron grip off his arm so they could squeeze out of the train.
"You just smell real nice," she'd answered with a shrug, keeping contact with his shoulder. His chuckled response had been so loud, it turned a few heads. "What are you laughing at, Geller?"
"You bought this scent for me," he pinches her nose with an amused smile. "It's like a self-compliment."
But I wasn't thinking about Gucci Pour Homme, Rachel wanted to say. To me you smell like chocolate chips from the pancakes you made Emma this morning, like crisp vintage parchment from those alarmingly large books you like to read, like the coconut from my hair when you held me close last night. You smell like home and I want to bottle you up.
"Well - I have great taste!" Rachel saves with a sheepish grin, and joins their hands once more after passing through the crowd.
I'll devour you in the middle of the street, she thought to herself.
Rachel does not say any of that however when Dr. Phalange begins their session by asking them how they are.
"We're fine," Rachel gives their therapist her best work smile.
"How is your...new ceasefire coming about?" Dr. Phalange asks with a raised eyebrow, pen on her clipboard at the ready.
"I think we're in control," Ross says earnestly, and he thinks that, for sure.
"That's good to hear," their therapist replies, and immediately jumps to their actual topic. "So for today, I thought we could discuss behaviour. Because it's clear from these past couple of weeks that perhaps your biggest crutch is that you don't talk to each other about underlying issues and instead try to decipher each other like, once again, a game. And until we're at a point where you can communicate effectively with words about your choices, in the relationship or otherwise, we're going to talk about why people in general act the way they do, to avoid getting lost in translation so easily."
"Okay," Ross answers, moleskin already out as Rachel scrambles for what's left of her personal stationery from work (My name! On the masthead! Hi me!).
"The short answer is - it's another matter of head and heart. When making choices, we go through multiple scenarios before acting a certain way. The brain has the power to run your previous choices while juggling the current situation's external factors - even mundanities like the weather, or a stomachache, can play into your choice. So while you think you're being spontaneous, science says not really. Your emotions and physical form have factored in experiences you've gone through, drawing from the past while calibrating your future, even if you think you're reacting within seconds. Keep that in mind when you want to figure out the other, because there is no way to completely be able to understand every behaviour just by assuming and trying to analyze. Talking - with words - is imperative for that. But, like I've observed, we're still working towards open communication and that's okay. I just want to bring up a method you can practice in dealing with each other when discussion is a tall order."
"This session, I want you to think of those times when you've received unexpected news or heard a remark you had a visceral reaction to. The immediate reaction your face shows when you receive information is called a micro expression. They are fleeting and last a second, at most. But it's enough of a blatant giveaway, and if you can read those on the other, you have a better chance of understanding the person right." Dr. Phalange pauses to replace her clipboard with a pile of index cards. "The general consensus is that there are seven emotions that comprise these expressions, namely anger, contempt, disgust, fear, sadness, surprise, and happiness. I'm gonna read out some situations to each of you, while the other looks on and tells me what's their first reaction, capiche?"
Rachel shrugs, shifts gingerly on the couch and notices that Ross has moved closer to her side with an encouraging look, his leg brushing her own. At this proximity, she'll drown in the deep brown hue of his eyes before she even gets a glimpse of a micro expression.
"All the better to see you with," he sneers jokingly, his hand patting her bare knee, and her breath hitches before clicking her teeth as cover. All the better to eat you with, she thinks helplessly.
"Rachel, let's begin with you," their therapist decides, and merde is on the tip of her tongue. "I'll say a sentence, you react naturally, then I want you, Ross, to tell me what you see. Okay, first one. You're asked to work at Paris Fashion Week."
"Happiness," Ross chimes immediately. "Or excitement, to be specific."
"Your hair is stuck on a swing," is the second sentence from the opposite couch.
"Fear," Ross says. "Is this the easy round?"
"Yes, actually," their therapist answers, and Rachel zones in on the way she shuffles past a couple of index cards.
"You didn't get off the plane," Dr. Phalange reads.
"Huh," Ross's confident grin falters and Rachel thinks about the hypothetical situation more than she looks at Ross watching her. "I can't...I don't - there's a bunch, I think. Sadness. Both contempt and fear? Definitely...heavy, then she shrugs it off."
"Okay, the 'shrugging off' is Rachel realizing that it's no longer a threat," their therapist explains while a chill sweeps through Rachel's insides in one fell swoop. Her feet had been off that plane as soon as she had stormed his apartment. "That's the brain power at play I was talking about. But moving on...Rachel, Ross is interested in a student."
"Anger AND contempt," says Ross, before shaking his head. "I would never, Rach."
"Not anymore?" Rachel jokes, feeling her face return to normal. But the thought still stings just the same as it had when he did. That he said all that about not pursuing Jill only for him to seek a connection, a same interest, with someone else - even temporarily.
"Rachel, how's Ross doing?" Dr. Phalange checks.
"A plus, just how he likes," she says with a playful eyeroll, and the smug look on his face proves her right.
"I know you, Rach," he softens, making her heart flutter, "just like you know me."
"Rachel, Ross is about to propose," their therapist says all of a sudden, into their moment, and Rachel swiftly throws the game out the window, micro-expressions included and goes straight into sheer panic.
Her head snaps around to Dr. Phalange to ask her how she can make her day and snatch it away like that, her heart beating frantically as if she's powerwalked through every arrondissement, and she opens her mouth to speak but her jaw is slacked so she turns to Ross to see if he's on one knee, velvet box in hand. But Ross just stares at her - eye-level, in wide-eyed wonder, and then bursts out in laughter.
"Oh, Rach..." he trails off, looking up at the ceiling, his empty palms, the scuzzy carpet, before returning back to her. "That looked like fear and surprise and happiness all at the same time."
It looked like hope, Rachel's brain processes about the same second she realizes that she's been read a statement, and her heart's desire remains unsaid. She shakes her head in unease as her eyes begin to well up, wishing the couch could swallow her for inadvertently laying out what she's guarded for so long. Ross wraps his arms around her, sensing her distress and her head leans on his shoulder instinctively.
"Hey, you," his voice is gentle, almost dropped to a whisper and only for her. "You don't ever have to worry, if there's any stalling it's on completely my part. It's always been you, Rach, and I just want to give you the very best and get it right for once - and forever."
"Is it his turn now?" she asks quietly, slightly breaking away from his grip and looks at their therapist for help.
At this rate, her heart might beat out of her chest.
Dr. Phalange nods curtly, shuffling her evil cards once more and Rachel swears there's a grin threatening to split from the edge of her mouth. It's not funny! It's petrifying. It reminds her of taking Emma's pregnancy test with her best girls, how she froze in place upon hearing Pheebs say negative. How she waited for relief to wash over her in between stutters about not being ready and the financial aspects and the way it's supposed to be - and instead felt her body collapse against the bathroom stall as hot tears free fall like rain in the spring. God this is so stupid! How could I be upset over something I never had?
But this time you can have it, though.
Could it truly be this damn simple?
"She does have to observe my face through this though, doesn't she?" Ross asks, cutting through her reverie. His inquiring eyes look exactly like their baby daughter's, and it converges with the unfiltered joy settling to shore as she remembers what happened next, feeling like she's in two places at once, experiencing the same revelation. She stalls for a bit more, stilling herself and taking a deep breath or two before finally ready to turn to him.
It's not negative, it's positive. Now you know how you really feel about it.
When she meets his stare, there's neither smugness nor satisfaction, just a calmness that soothes her own wilding heart too. He looks at her with the same openness he did tucking stray wisps of hair behind her ear outside their therapist's doorway, many moons ago.
"If it's any consolation, I'm easier to read than you are," Ross sheepishly says while tilting his head and somehow, his one arm remains draped around her shoulder, didn't leave her.
You're with a guy who's not gonna stop planning his future with you because he knows that we're gonna end up together.
I'm not scared anymore, I'm tough. Let's deal with this together.
Dr. Phalange clears her throat. "Okay then, first for you, Ross. They built Jurassic Park."
Rachel giggles as Ross's face breaks into childlike wonder, eyes darting across the room to probably imagine a brachiosaurus walking around to John Williams' score (See? She does pay attention! Thank you, Laura Dern.).
"Happiness," Rachel answers easily. "Or glee. Then reality."
"It could happen," Ross mutters earnestly. "Doesn't mean it should," he adds after a beat.
"Ben breaks his arm in Little League," their therapist follows and Ross stands up with eyes wide open before sitting back down just as quickly with a frown on his face.
"Don't say that, I'm in a different country," he admonishes while knocking his two fists together.
"Fear," states Rachel, "and that was him flipping you off, by the way."
"Sorry," Dr. Phalange apologizes. "Next one: You stayed married to Emily and never made contact with Rachel again." And Rachel does try but aside from Ross biting the inside of his mouth, his features give nothing away.
"I can't..." she admits, and is she glad she didn't get this sentence. "Sadness? Disgust? Anger?" The worst, is what she really wants to say. She would've looked like she'd been walloped too.
"Ross, you're out for dinner and someone else buys Rachel a drink," their therapist says, moving on. Ross glares at her with mouth agape.
"Contempt," Rachel answers without missing a beat.
"For the drink buyer," Ross clarifies, and she knows that.
"This last one's the nicest, I promise," declares Dr. Phalange, and puts her index cards on the side table. "Ross, it's fifty years from now and you're still by Rachel's side."
And Ross smiles, her favourite smile of his where his dimples are drilled deep in his flushed cheeks, sanguine yearning plain in his features and Rachel knows she's smiling back just as much because she sees them together in her mind's eye, weathered and old and happy in cozy armchairs by a fireplace. Wearing the same warm smiles, surrounded by family and friends, still only eyes for the other.
"Rachel?" asks their therapist from her side of the room and she reluctantly pries away from Ross's gaze. Oh yeah, there's an exercise.
"Happiness," she says. And it's not just about Ross's micro-expression.
"So, did she get everything correct?" Dr. Phalange asks, and Ross nods.
"She got it all covered," he notes. "But we are already good at reading each other - it's the speaking, like you said."
"Exactly, so what I want you to get from this exercise is that between these micro-expressions and generally being in tune with each other day to day, you're already having constant conversations. And most of the time you're on the same page, but there are times when you're not. If I asked you how many times you've misinterpreted the other or gathered your own conclusions without consulting the other to less than stellar results, the number would probably still be high, no matter how long you've functioned like this. Accurate?"
Of course it is. Rachel can't count the times on two hands. They constantly misread each other, with those wrong assumptions leading to more silence and unspoken longing.
She thinks of Ross, retreating to his own room after revealing to her the most romantic proposal she'd ever heard in her life and he'd looked devastatingly overwhelmed but she never asked why. And the next morning when he'd brushed it off as 'being in character' and 'drinking for two', she didn't prod him further. She'd just sat by him at the dining table and munched on the omelet he made for breakfast (spinach, cheese, and mushrooms - same way he did it when they were dating). She thinks of herself the night they slept together again less than twenty four hours before her flight to France. Of how he'd gently brushed coconut strands of hair from her damp forehead and had asked: "What's going on in that gorgeous head of yours?" And she hadn't even attempted the truth. She thinks of so many instances, mirrors of each other, the most recent one a couple of minutes old; how the way she wants to officially define the relationship can still leave her as vulnerable as an open wire. And how she doesn't know how to discuss that fact.
"Duh?" Ross retorts and Rachel holds in a chuckle by covering her mouth.
"I know it sounds like dumb advice but let it serve as a reminder," their therapist says with a sigh. "Be mindful of those micro-expressions, do this exercise at home if you want. But bottom line, ask each other if you don't understand, if something doesn't add up. That's quite literally the only way to be sure."
Why is it so hard for me to ask for this? If getting off the plane was it, how come you haven't asked yet? Were you scarred from before? Are you ready? Am I rushing us? Can we spend five minutes in those fifty years from now and see what's been worth the wait?
"Rach?" Ross asks, hesitance in his approach. "So to clarify..."
Every single hair on Rachel's body stands up in warning, her brain firing to flee from all cylinders, and she finds herself chipping at her recently done French tips. Wait - is he asking what she thinks he's asking?
"What is it with you and proposals in doctor's offices?" She beats him to the punch. To clarify. (Because that's your answer to everything?)
"What - no!" he exclaims, brows furrowed. "I'm asking if you being touchy these past few days, which is both lovely and adorable, has something to do with..." he waves between them, "being on a bre - pause."
Rachel shoots up and paces a few steps away from the couch because she cannot believe he's putting her on the spot in front of their therapist, no less! Isn't this doctor-on-doctor crime?!
"That's not...I've been doing fine this past week, if that's what you're worried about," she pushes through without braking. "I have two functioning hands and our shower works great, so I'm good, Ross. I got it covered."
Maybe that wasn't particularly helpful, seeing as Ross skids backwards into the couch, goggling at her as if she has their showerhead in her hand, in front of him, right in Dr. Phalange's office. And it's not fair. It's not fair how his cheeks flush red and then hollow out on a deep inhale that has him swallowing hard, the curve of his Adam's apple bobbing on that staggeringly thick neck of his that she just wants to nip and suck and kiss until he pleads her to go down on him and do all of that there.
"I'm fine," he rasps, before coughing out, "I have - an office - too, you know."
Isn't that a pretty picture for her wanton self. And that's it, this is crazy. She needs to leave.
"I'm picking up Emma from la creche. You do the groceries," she announces, with five minutes to spare before the actual ending of the session, clutches her purse from where she's placed it on her side of the carpet, and storms out of there before she can do anything stupid like jump the father of her child in a couch that isn't theirs, thereby traumatizing their therapist in the process. Her ears ring from the force she slams the door behind her and her new pumps are put to the test with every stomp out of that office, not looking back once.
She'll text them later, both of them. Dr. Phalange to apologize for her freakout and Ross to ask him to bring orange juice. She gets the same reply from both: No problem, Rachel. By next week, their therapist will not bring it up and thankfully, for a while, neither will Ross. What sticks for her from this session isn't the micro-expressions, not the advice bordering on redundancy, but that root statement - how every decision, every choice they make is influenced by memories that have come before.
Oh-oh, that's a risky little game!
Are you really gonna do this?
Yeah, Mon. I'm gonna have a baby. As she watches said baby fall asleep as Ross sways her to the closing credits of Sesame Street, their eyes lingering on each other as she nurses a cup of hot chocolate he made after dinner, she can't help but ponder: And I'm gonna marry your bighearted dinosaur dork of a brother.
aiming to post another chapter before the year ends (whaaaaaat), thank you for the reads and reviews!