Author's Note: This one is a little shorter, more introspective. Hope you like. And thank you so very much for the reviews. Now, am I the only one who can't believe we have to wait till September…?
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Once upon a time, when she lived in a pink-and-white bedroom and still held tea parties for imaginary friends – and sometimes, Ross – she would sneak upstairs into the attic and spend hours going through the dusty old boxes her parents had long ago packed away. They were scribbled on with black magic marker, and when she pried them open the sight of the tiny jumpers and onesies nearly took her breath away. Her best friend Rachel had a new little sister, and so did another playmate down the street; and although all three of them oohed and ahhed over the tiny fingers and toes, and demanded a turn at holding and feeding with the bottle, it was Monica alone who remained enchanted for hours on end.
Those natural maternal urges had carried over into her adulthood, and fueled a strong desire for a family of her own. But of all the ways she'd imagined it happening, during endless daydreaming and fantasies…
She had never imagined this.
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"Next week?" Chandler's voice filtered through the phone line. He sounded distracted, like he might be flipping through a calendar.
"Wednesday. 11am. Is that okay?"
"Yeah," he said. "I don't do anything around here anyway. Are you sure it shouldn't be sooner?"
"No, it's fine." She pressed her fingers against her eyes, trying to keep another headache at bay as she reclined on the couch in her apartment. She wasn't sure whether they were brought about by the pregnancy or stress or what, but they were sapping her energy away daily.
And so was Chandler.
He had started treating her like the baby would, without warning, fall out of her at any moment. He was constantly hovering, fluffing pillows and pulling out chairs, and generally driving her crazy. Last night she'd come home with a sore back, and he'd jumped up to escort her into a chair, frowning disapprovingly.
"Mon, I'm sorry if this makes me sound like a complete chauvinist pig, but there is no way the mother of my child is going to serve hamburgers and fries in a maternity waitress uniform and roller skates for eight hours a day! That can't be good for either of you, and I'm… I'm putting my foot down." Finished with his outburst, Chandler crossed his arms defiantly, but was unable to keep from cringing – for good reason.
"You're 'putting your foot down?'" she repeated, one eyebrow climbing to her hairline. "Sorry to burst your bubble, Chandler, but this isn't some 1950's sitcom and you aren't my overbearing husband. Besides, I have apartment payments to make, bills to pay. I need a job, Chandler. And I'm not asking my parents for help."
"I'll help," he countered. "That's what I'm here for."
"No, no," she said, shaking her head. "C'mon, you don't make that much, and you already might as well write Joey off as a dependant on your taxes. I can't ask you to do this, too."
"Oh, so what, exactly, is my role here?" he asked, placing his hands on his hips and staring down at her. "Giving birth? Oops, wait – missing a few anatomical necessities there. So basically for the next eight months I'm just going to be sitting on my ass while you're over there gestating – and guess what, I can write a few checks with all that free time, so let me. I want to help. I need to help. That's my… my baby in there. Please."
The way his voice caught when he said the word 'baby' was just about enough to melt her resolve into a puddle of goo. She'd relented, and put in her two week's notice that morning, much to the disappointment of one customer in particular: Pete Becker, who had become a regular within the last couple weeks and was always surprisingly solicitous around her.
"Do you need me to bring you anything?" Chandler asked over the phone now, his voice unsure. With only three days of allowing the news to sink in, things were still awkward between them – but with no other option, they were adapting as best they could. "Ice cream? You said yesterday you wanted ice cream."
"Ben and Jerry's," she said, wondering how long his 'anything you need, Mon, you got it' phase would last. "Surprise me."
"No problem," he said, sounding relieved. "See you tonight, Mon."
She hung up, then replaced the phone and stared thoughtfully into space. Finally her eyes came to rest on a framed photo on the end table beside her. Carefully, she reached out and picked it up, studying it with a strange sense of the passage of time. This photo had been taken only several years ago, but it felt like forever now.
Ross had snapped it, shortly after Rachel moved in and they were all hanging out in Central Park one sunny fall afternoon. They'd set up camp on the ground near a Little League baseball game, spreading out blankets and a picnic of sorts, and after they'd eaten Phoebe and Joey had wandered off to toss a Frisbee back and forth while Rachel and Chandler remained behind with her. The three of them were propped up against a tree trunk and leaning against each other, Monica in the middle and surrounded by two of her best friends in the world. They looked young and relaxed and happy, like college kids without a care in the world.
How things had changed, she thought ruefully. Just as she set the frame back down, she noticed something, and leaned forward for a closer look. What she saw made her pause, as the first surprising wave of longing rippled through her.
Within the picture, Chandler's hand had come to rest against her own, fingers entwined in gentle possessiveness.