Author's Note: Yay! And on to Round 2 of the characters' stories! I'm trying to be more prompt about this update stuff, but procrastination is a powerful force, ya know? And for that matter, so is writer's block. On another note (well, not another note, since this IS the author's note—haha—ahem), if you have any suggestions for further plot ideas for each of the characters' storylines, please feel free to throw 'em out there—e-mail or IM them!! I'm not guaranteeing anything, but I sure could use the ideas!
Disclaimer: Well, I heard they were up for auction on E-bay, but unfortunately I don't get a paycheck until Friday, so I guess I'm out of luck. This time, anyway.
Copyright 2003 MusicCityDiva
Monica: Ain't Life Grand?
The interview really couldn't have gone any better. Even her mother would have had difficulty finding something to criticize. Monica restrained herself from literally skipping out the front door of the upscale restaurant, but she couldn't hold back the gleeful giggle that escaped her lips once she stepped outside.
The manager had hired her on the spot, without a moment's hesitation. Monica smiled as she recalled the compliments he had showered over her amiable demeanor, her high ranking in culinary school, even her professional attire!
'Take that, Mom,' Monica found herself thinking smugly. 'Ross isn't the only successful Geller, after all.'
Deliberating about her mother quickly dampened her high spirits, and Monica quickly banished any further negative thoughts, searching for a more constructive expression of the day's accomplishment.
As if fated, Monica's eye caught the weathered sign of an international marketplace and without a second thought, she veered directly for the entrance. What better way to celebrate her new position as a professional chef than to practice by preparing a feast of her own? Double-checking her wallet for her credit card, Monica smiled broadly at the sleepy-eyed cashier behind the counter and practically skipped toward the fresh pasta.
***
Just over an hour later, Monica bounded up the stairs to her apartment, one heavy paper bag balanced precariously in each arm. As she pondered the feat of removing her keys from her jeans' pocket, Monica remembered the last time she had struggled to unlock her door with her hands full. Glancing warily at the bulging bags, Monica couldn't help but send up a prayer that Chandler would come to her rescue this time, too.
'The gods must be feeling friendly today,' was Monica's first thought as she rounded the corner and encountered Chandler about to enter his own apartment. Monica silently offered her gratitude to the greater powers and quickly called Chandler's name before he closed his door behind him.
She really couldn't blame him for looking vaguely surprised as he turned to her with questioning eyes. Monica felt her knees weaken as his crystal-blue gaze settled on her.
"Monica?"
Blinking furiously, Monica struggled to reconcile the memories of Chandler-the-Former Crush with the reality of Chandler-the-Neighbor. Fortunately, reality prevailed and Monica hurried to explain her reasons for calling his name in the first place.
"I…I was h-hoping you could help me out," Monica stammered, cursing herself for her inability of stating the request normally.
Chandler nodded in immediate understanding and reached to unburden one of the bags from Monica's arms.
She held tight, though, realizing that it was impossible to surrender one bad without jostling the other. She spoke quickly, hoping to avoid a repeat performance of their previous hallway catastrophe.
"Actually, do you think you could just grab my keys and unlock the door for me?"
"Oh! Yeah, sure," Chandler responded, releasing his grip on the bag balanced in Monica's left arm. His hands lingered in their mid-air pose as he assessed Monica. She watched as his eyes briefly scanned her petite form, wondering why he was staring at her but reveling in the fact at the same time. That is, until his confused tone interrupted her thoughts.
"Um, it would probably be easier to unlock your door if I knew where to find your keys."
Monica felt her face flush in hot embarrassment, as she realized he hadn't been admiring her at all. Fervently hoping Chandler couldn't guess her thoughts, Monica averted her eyes before answering him.
"They're, um…"
That's when she remembered her keys' location, and she turned an even deeper shade of red as she continued.
"They're in the left pocket of my jeans."
He hesitated only slightly, although it was noticeable to Monica, before sliding his hand halfway into her pocket, his fingers searching for the key ring. Monica held her breath, berating herself for her giddiness over the feeling of his faint touch against her thigh, however nonsexual. All too soon, he pulled his hand and her keys from the pocket and opened the door before Monica was able to exhale.
"There you go," Chandler announced, holding the door open and ushering Monica inside.
Forgetting her embarrassment, Monica plunked the heavy load onto the kitchen table and rubbed her aching arms, not caring as one bag landed sideways and several items spilled out. She hadn't realized Chandler had followed her inside until he deftly caught a Roma tomato as it rolled off the tabletop's edge.
"Big meal, huh?" he asked, taking in the contents of the overflowing bags.
Monica nodded. "Yeah. I'm kind of celebrating something," she replied, knowing that, naturally, he would next ask what she was celebrating.
Sure enough, the question came, and Monica considered whether or not she wanted to share the information, remembering that she had deliberately maintained her solitude since moving to the city almost a month ago. Almost immediately, though, she realized that her desire for total independence had eclipsed her need for normal human contact. Her hunger for friendship prompted her to answer Chandler's curious inquiry.
"Do you remember how I wanted to be a chef?" Monica waited for Chandler's nod before continuing, wondering if he remembered the role he had played in her career aspiration. "Well, I got my first official job today."
Whether or not he remembered his casual comment all those Thanksgivings ago, the smile that spread across Chandler's face was genuine. Before either of them knew what was happening, he had pulled Monica into a congratulatory embrace.
A flood of emotions washed over Monica as she returned the hug. Without warning, tears sprang to her eyes, and Monica realized just how much she had been craving genuine acceptance. Ever since moving to the city, she had subconsciously been searching for the approval that would counteract the feelings of inadequacy imposed upon her by her mother.
As Monica moved to rest her cheek on Chandler's shoulder, she realized that she had been clinging to him for just one moment too long. The same thought must have occurred to Chandler, because they pulled apart almost simultaneously, shuffling their feet and clearing their throats awkwardly, each wondering what to say next. Still battling her sudden onslaught of tears, Monica was relieved when Chandler broke the silence.
"So which restaurant was lucky enough to snap you up?"
Monica smiled, acknowledging the compliment within his inquiry.
"Iridium," she told him, watching as he nodded knowingly. "You've been there?"
Abruptly, Chandler stopped nodding. "Well, no. Not exactly, no," he sputtered, and Monica felt her excitement fade. She hadn't even considered the fact that she might have locked herself into some dive that no one had ever heard of. The expression of her face must have given away her thoughts, because Chandler suddenly scrambled to amend his confession.
"It's not that I don't like it or anything. I mean, I don't know if I don't like it. I'm sure I do. I mean, I'm sure it'll be great. If I go there. That is, when I go there. Because I'm going to go. You wanna go?"
Monica couldn't help but laugh at his bumbling attempt at clarification. Hearing her giggle, Chandler halted his inept rambling and met Monica's eyes with his own, offering her a half-smile.
Monica returned the smile, suddenly feeling at home for the first time since she'd arrived in the city. Wondering why she had avoided making friends for so long, Monica realized that she wanted many more moments like this. She wanted to be friends with Chandler Bing.
Well, if she was going to be honest with herself, she wanted so much more. But she was content with the "friends" part. For now, anyway.
Glancing around her kitchen, which was now cluttered with enough food to feed the entire building, Monica decided to extend the invitation she had been debating since she had first encountered Chandler in the hallway.
"Hey, Chandler?" Her voice sounded hesitant, even to her own ears, and Monica fervently hoped he could not sense her nervousness.
"Would you want to come over for dinner later tonight? I mean, I bought all this food and it's just me, so you'd really be helping me out, you know?"
Chandler's nod put Monica's doubts to rest, and she stopped babbling.
"So I guess this meal will be a little more elaborate than macaroni and cheese?" he quipped.
Monica recalled her previous impromptu invitation and laughed companionably. "Well, it's still pasta," she told him, gesturing to one of the bags. "Just not of the elbow variety."
He grinned. "That's fine by me," he returned. "As long as there's cheese involved somewhere. What time should I come over?" he asked, meandering toward the door.
Monica glanced over her shoulder at the clock on the microwave and quickly figured preparation times in her head, for both the food and herself.
"Is 7:30 too late?" she finally asked.
Chandler shook his head, whistling cheerfully as he let himself out. Monica vaguely heard him call a muffled "see ya later" as the door swung shut. She beamed idiotically at the closed door for a few seconds, unable to explain why she suddenly felt so self-satisfied. Maybe it was the launch of her chosen career. Maybe it was the fact that she had actually made social plans on her own, like a real city-living twenty-something, just like on TV.
Whatever it was, Monica couldn't hold back a small giggle as she twirled impulsively on one heel, almost losing her balance. Just in time, she reached out and caught the back of one of her kitchen chairs, wincing as it scraped nosily on the hardwood floor. But her mood was too good to be altered by a tiny scratch on the kitchen floor. Promising herself to polish the floor tomorrow, Monica did a gleeful dance around the table and turned to unload the groceries.
That's when she saw Chandler standing in the doorway. Monica flushed as she realized he must have re-entered during her collision with the chair, and therefore had probably seen her goofy jig around the table.
"Sorry," he offered, holding out one hand and revealing the Roma tomato he held. "I just wanted to return this. I never put it down after I caught it."
Monica accepted it with eyes averted, still embarrassed that Chandler had caught her in such a ridiculous situation. Wondering if he thought her little dance was due to his acceptance of her invitation, she hoped that he would just pretend he hadn't seen anything and spare her the humiliation.
Thankfully, all he said "see you in a few hours" before letting himself out once again. But not before Monica saw the expression that flitted across his face.
He was smiling.
***
Nearly two hours later, Monica knelt before the buffet chest that she used for a TV stand and linen storage. Sliding open a bottom drawer, she rummaged through her tablecloths and fancy napkins until she found was she was looking for—two silver candlesticks. She hesitated briefly before adding two taper candles, caught between wondering if Chandler would read into the implication the candles offered and half-hoping that he would.
'Just friends, Mon,' she reminded herself, placing the candles artfully in the center of her immaculate table. Reaching into a nearby drawer, she retrieved a box of matches and lit the tapers experimentally, then stepped back to admire the overall effect.
'Perfect.' Monica smiled as she surveyed her handiwork. Her new dishes and wine goblets were arranged in perfect angles around the table, the candles bounced cozy shadows around the gradually dimming room, and best of all, the food smelled…well, good enough to eat.
All that was left to do was change into the outfit she had laid out on her bed earlier. "I'm not changing for him," she muttered as she entered her bedroom and eyed the clothing skeptically. "I just want to wear something clean."
Yet she couldn't deny the fact that the chosen V-neck fuzzy black sweater accentuated her figure in just the way she intended. And she had to agree with her mother's disapproving admonitions when she pulled on clean jeans that were just a smidge too tight. But as she glanced into the full-length mirror to fasten simple silver hoop earrings, she grinned at her reflection, pleased with the results.
A knock at the door jolted Monica from her somewhat egotistical self-evaluation, and she hurried to answer it, her heart fluttering expectantly despite her quickly wavering resolve. She flung open the door just slightly too eagerly to be blasé, realizing too late that she should have first inspected her visitor through the peephole. This was New York City, after all.
Fortunately, the man she revealed in the open doorway was indeed Chandler. Monica scrutinized his appearance with what she hoped was subtle interest, curious to see if he had changed clothes as well. She was pleased to note that his shirt was different from the one he had sported earlier and that he apparently had decided to leave his sweater vests in the closet.
'All the better,' Monica mused. 'Less to take off later.'
She blushed furiously as the thought floated through her mind and extended Chandler a stammering invitation to enter, hoping that he wouldn't notice her reddening face.
But Chandler was all ready complimenting the Italian aroma that saturated the apartment before Monica had even closed the door behind them. The flushed color in her face returned to a normal hue as a grateful smile spread from one ear to another.
Monica was just opening her mouth to inform him of the entrée when Chandler whirled suddenly to face her.
"I'm such an idiot!" he proclaimed with a vehemence that startled Monica. "I forgot to bring a bottle of wine!"
Monica smiled in relief. "Oh! That's okay. I all ready have…"
But her consolation was cut off as Chandler interrupted. "Wait. I think I might have something. I'll be right back." He exited through the door he'd entered, leaving Monica staring after him in amused bewilderment.
He returned moments later, his right arm behind his back.
"Well, I didn't have wine exactly," he told Monica with a sheepish grin. "But I did have…" he paused dramatically before presenting the bottle with a flourish, "…grape juice!"
Monica's infectious laugh rang through the apartment, prompting Chandler's grin to grow even wider.
"I can take it back," he offered, still smiling.
A barely-concealed giggle could be detected in Monica's reply. "No!" she protested. "It's great. Really. I mean, after all, who needs Pinot Grigio…" She rolled the Italian consonants off her tongue with an effortless flair "…when you've got Welch's?"
He responded with a noise somewhere between a huff and a chuckle even as he reached for the fragile wine goblets that rested on the table. "Fine," he announced in a mock-offended tone. "See if I let you share my juice now." He poured the purple liquid into one goblet and took a sip, raising his eyebrows at her over the rim. "You'll be sorry later when you're tipsy and I'm perfectly sober."
Monica matched his raised eyebrows expression with one of her own. "And why is that? What happens when you get around tipsy women?"
Still sipping pretentiously, Chandler sputtered on his mouthful of juice. "Um…"
So she had stumped him. Monica watched in delight as Chandler mentally scrambled for his next witty remark.
He finally settled on a smug look combined with, "That's for me to know and you to find out."
"In that case," Monica strode to the refrigerator and pulled out the chilled bottle of wine she had stored there previously, "maybe I'll just take my chances."
And with Chandler watching intently, she filled the goblet nearly to the rim and lifted it to her lips, leaving him to interpret the action and just what it implied.
TO BE CONTINUED…
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