2004
Megan paused awkwardly over the casserole pan, shooting a look over her shoulder at a pacing Chandler. "Um... are you even still hungry?"
"Nope, nope," he cried, "Shockingly, I have lost my appetite..."
"Well, uh... how about I just finish making this and put it in the fridge? You could eat it tomorrow. And then, uh, I could go... if you wanted me to. Or you could talk about it. If you wanted."
Chandler dropped into a kitchen chair and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Megan wordlessly pulled an ashtray out of the cabinet and set it in front of him.
"Thanks," he sighed. "I'm sorry I'm... I just met you, and I'm all..."
"You know," she grinned, "I only know about thirty seconds worth of the circumstances, and already I'm not judging you."
She went back to the counter and sprinkled parsley over the top of the casserole. "Talk if you wanna, I'm listening."
It was oddly easier with her back turned. Chandler took another drag and stared at his fingers. "Well, my wife and I... we haven't been getting along so well, lately, which is sort of like..." He sighed. "You know what? Just insert an amusing simile of your choice there. I don't think I've ever felt less funny in my whole life."
"Duly amused, go ahead..."
"I mean, we used to be happy. We were friends first, y'know, for a long time. And when we first got married, we were fine. Great, even. But now... god. I guess it started with the baby... we've been trying for like, two years, and it's really hard on my wife. And then when I started writing..."
Chandler leaned his head back and sighed heavily. "God. It just all went to hell."
Megan slid the casserole into the oven and set her mitts aside. "C'mon," she said, reaching in the refrigerator and grabbing two bottles. "This is a beer-on-the-porch-in-a-storm conversation if I've ever heard one."
***
"So then I tried to think of somewhere I could go," Chandler finished, tapping ashes into the cup Megan had brought out with them. "And I remembered that Mom left me this place."
"That, absolutely, sucks ass," Megan declared, inhaling deeply from her own cigarette.
Chandler raised his beer to his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, it does. So I... I have no friggin' clue what to do now. My book is trashed, my marriage is trashed..."
"And you're *sure* it's not a misunderstanding? I mean, from everything you've told me, your wife was pretty cool. I know I don't know her, but... for her to do something like *that*... isn't that a little unbelievable?"
"It is unbelievable. But so is her kissing some guy at her restaurant! And she *told* Pheebs she did that!"
"Yeah," Megan admitted quietly. She stood up, knees popping, and adjusted the wick on the gas lantern.
"It's great out here," Chandler sighed.
Megan grinned fondly around the porch. "I guess this is my favorite room in the house. Or the kitchen. I'm torn. But I love being out here when it's raining. I think it's the way the air smells. Crackly, y'know. Alive."
"The river is great," Chandler replied, gesturing with his beer. "That sound is awesome. There's nothing like that in New York."
"Wait until you go to sleep tonight," Megan smiled. "You are gonna sleep like a baby to that sound."
Chandler's expression darkened. "Yeah... I don't think I'll be sleeping so much."
"You think that now," Megan said confidently. "But you wait until you're in that bed... with the river breeze blowin' in... and that sound... you'll be off before you know it."
Megan's face turned serious. "Chandler, if you need anything... I mean anything, from groceries, to someone to talk to, a liver transplant... just let me know, okay?"
Chandler laughed nervously. "Um... liver's doing fine, thanks... are you always this hospitable?"
Megan didn't answer. She turned, pressing her face and hand against the screen, looking out at the churning water.
"Do you remember the time that I fell in?" she said softly.
"Sorry, no. I don't even remember this place... or you, no offense. It's like... a tickle in the back of my mind."
"I almost died."
"And yet you seem to like it a lot..."
"Well, I didn't die. I came close, but... a friend of mine saved me."
"How old were you?"
"I was seven," Megan replied, still looking out at the darkness. "He didn't even really know how to swim, but... he jumped in and pulled me out anyway. He almost died, too. He was so, so brave."
She sipped her beer. "And I swore, that if he ever needed me, I'd be there for him."
"Me?" Chandler said in wonder.
"Yeah, you," Megan laughed, turning around. "How much would that story suck if it wasn't you?"
"Well, I didn't know! Daring white-water rescues aren't something I associate with myself... I'm your basic big fruity pansy, when it comes right down to it."
"You are *not*," Megan cried passionately, and just for a moment, the child she had been flickered on the edges of Chandler's memory.
Cold. Very cold. Megan in pigtails rolled to the side of her head and a cut-up white pillowcase underneath her parka...
"We... we used to play out here?" Chandler said, grasping out for the faded pictures. "We used to play... 'Star Wars'...?"
"I was always Leia," Megan smiled at the memory. "And you were always Han, 'cause you were the biggest wiseass..."
"And there... there was another kid, wasn't there? Leia, Han, and Luke..." Chandler said, squinting to remember. "A smaller kid... I can almost see him, but..."
He looked up and smiled. "Okay, can't do it. Who was the other kid we used to play with?"
One look at Megan's pale, startled face made his smile evaporate. "Aw, c'mon, why... why are you looking at me like that? Who was the other kid? What was his name?"
"It was Faulkner," Megan whispered. "You don't... you don't remember him?"
"Gimme a break, it was almost thirty years ago. So who was he?"
"He was..." Megan swallowed hard. "Well, he was your little brother, Chandler."
***
Chop chop chop chop chop.
Monica's blade was a blur, guided expertly at breakneck speed, producing a sound like machine gun fire. The minced onion was shoved aside roughly, and a piece of celery took its place on the block.
Chop chop chop chop chop.
Twenty-four hours had passed since he'd left, and no word from Chandler.
She had cleaned every square inch of the apartment. Twice. She had worked out until she pulled a thigh muscle. She had reorganized everything, she had put all Chandler's CD's back in the proper cases...
Basically, she'd exhausted every way to work off nervous energy.
That could be done while still staring at the phone.
And now, she was chopping, not making anything in particular, just... making everything in the refrigerator into very small bits. When she was done with that, she'd... well, she wasn't thinking that far ahead.
Monica was working very hard on not thinking at all.
It wasn't that the phone wasn't ringing. It was definitely doing that: with all the reporters and acquaintances and random idiots, the machine had run out of tape five times.
It was just that it was never Chandler.
Chop chop chop chop chop.
The answering machine clicked on again. Monica'd eventually turned the ringer volume off... at least some of the people who called got a clue when they got the machine and hung up.
Beep. "Hey, sweetie, it's your dad..."
Monica threw down the knife and ran for the phone, snatching it off the cradle just before Jack ended his message.
"Dad, I'm here... Dad... Dad?"
"Hey, honey, how you holding up?"
Monica collapsed on the couch. "Oh, Daddy..."
"Look, sweetie, I talked to my lawyer. We can sue those TV shows, sue their sleazy butts right off..."
"Dad, I... I don't care about suing anyone right now. I just want Chandler to come home. How's Mom taking it?"
"Oh, don't worry about your mother, dear. She's handing it just fine."
A loud crash and an angry feminine screech in the background proved Jack to be a very bad liar.
"Judy... Judy, put that down, put that down, the Goldmans gave us that for our anniversary! Hang on, honey, your mom... needs help in the kitchen."
Muffled sounds. Then, a familiar, "Well, okay, Jack."
"Hey, Mon," Richard said awkwardly. "Your dad handed me the phone. I hope that's okay."
"Hey, Richard," Monica sighed.
"You really could sue their butts off, you know," Richard added.
"I'm... not in a su-ey place right now," Monica replied.
"Yeah, yeah, I can imagine." A long, awkward pause. "Have you heard from him?"
"Nothing." Monica's voice cracked. "Not a word. He called Phoebe, he's okay, but... I don't know what's going on..."
"Well, look. Your mom and dad are... kinda occupied. Why don't you take a deep breath and tell me what happened, okay? Maybe we can figure it out."
Richard's voice soothed her, as it always did. She found herself pouring her heart out.
"Huh," Richard said when she'd finished. "Look at it this way. From everything you've said, Chandler probably wanted a place to hide and think. This Megan person is probably an old friend, or hey... maybe the *wife* of an old friend... whose house he's staying at. Or hell, maybe she sat next to him on the plane and let him borrow her phone. Any one of those things are more likely than your worst-case scenario. I just can't see Chandler cheating on you. Can you? Really?"
"I didn't really think about it like that," Monica sighed, wiping the last of her tears from her cheek.
"Totally understandable. You're upset." Richard paused. "Look. The Chandler I remember wouldn't be this angry with you for an honest mistake. So the basic problem is, he doesn't *know* it was an honest mistake. *That's* what you have to fix first. And this Megan person is your link. Even if she did just let Chandler borrow her phone... she'll know where she was when she did it, right? So call her, and leave a message this time. Explain the situation."
"I guess that makes sense."
"And if that doesn't work... then maybe you ought to hold a press conference. Or at least tell some of the reporters that have been calling your side of the story. Get the word out to Chandler any way that you can."
"Richard... I... thank you so much. If there is ever anything, *anything* I can do for you, please, please let me know."
"Tell you what," Richard said pleasantly. "When all this has blown over and you and Chandler are okay again, you can make me a pie."
"That won't begin to make up for..."
"A really *big* pie. Here's your dad back. Feel better."
"Hey, honey," Jack said, sounding very out of breath, "Did you have a nice talk with Richard?"
"Very nice," Monica replied, picking at her jeans, deep in thought.
Megan paused awkwardly over the casserole pan, shooting a look over her shoulder at a pacing Chandler. "Um... are you even still hungry?"
"Nope, nope," he cried, "Shockingly, I have lost my appetite..."
"Well, uh... how about I just finish making this and put it in the fridge? You could eat it tomorrow. And then, uh, I could go... if you wanted me to. Or you could talk about it. If you wanted."
Chandler dropped into a kitchen chair and lit a cigarette with trembling hands. Megan wordlessly pulled an ashtray out of the cabinet and set it in front of him.
"Thanks," he sighed. "I'm sorry I'm... I just met you, and I'm all..."
"You know," she grinned, "I only know about thirty seconds worth of the circumstances, and already I'm not judging you."
She went back to the counter and sprinkled parsley over the top of the casserole. "Talk if you wanna, I'm listening."
It was oddly easier with her back turned. Chandler took another drag and stared at his fingers. "Well, my wife and I... we haven't been getting along so well, lately, which is sort of like..." He sighed. "You know what? Just insert an amusing simile of your choice there. I don't think I've ever felt less funny in my whole life."
"Duly amused, go ahead..."
"I mean, we used to be happy. We were friends first, y'know, for a long time. And when we first got married, we were fine. Great, even. But now... god. I guess it started with the baby... we've been trying for like, two years, and it's really hard on my wife. And then when I started writing..."
Chandler leaned his head back and sighed heavily. "God. It just all went to hell."
Megan slid the casserole into the oven and set her mitts aside. "C'mon," she said, reaching in the refrigerator and grabbing two bottles. "This is a beer-on-the-porch-in-a-storm conversation if I've ever heard one."
***
"So then I tried to think of somewhere I could go," Chandler finished, tapping ashes into the cup Megan had brought out with them. "And I remembered that Mom left me this place."
"That, absolutely, sucks ass," Megan declared, inhaling deeply from her own cigarette.
Chandler raised his beer to his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, it does. So I... I have no friggin' clue what to do now. My book is trashed, my marriage is trashed..."
"And you're *sure* it's not a misunderstanding? I mean, from everything you've told me, your wife was pretty cool. I know I don't know her, but... for her to do something like *that*... isn't that a little unbelievable?"
"It is unbelievable. But so is her kissing some guy at her restaurant! And she *told* Pheebs she did that!"
"Yeah," Megan admitted quietly. She stood up, knees popping, and adjusted the wick on the gas lantern.
"It's great out here," Chandler sighed.
Megan grinned fondly around the porch. "I guess this is my favorite room in the house. Or the kitchen. I'm torn. But I love being out here when it's raining. I think it's the way the air smells. Crackly, y'know. Alive."
"The river is great," Chandler replied, gesturing with his beer. "That sound is awesome. There's nothing like that in New York."
"Wait until you go to sleep tonight," Megan smiled. "You are gonna sleep like a baby to that sound."
Chandler's expression darkened. "Yeah... I don't think I'll be sleeping so much."
"You think that now," Megan said confidently. "But you wait until you're in that bed... with the river breeze blowin' in... and that sound... you'll be off before you know it."
Megan's face turned serious. "Chandler, if you need anything... I mean anything, from groceries, to someone to talk to, a liver transplant... just let me know, okay?"
Chandler laughed nervously. "Um... liver's doing fine, thanks... are you always this hospitable?"
Megan didn't answer. She turned, pressing her face and hand against the screen, looking out at the churning water.
"Do you remember the time that I fell in?" she said softly.
"Sorry, no. I don't even remember this place... or you, no offense. It's like... a tickle in the back of my mind."
"I almost died."
"And yet you seem to like it a lot..."
"Well, I didn't die. I came close, but... a friend of mine saved me."
"How old were you?"
"I was seven," Megan replied, still looking out at the darkness. "He didn't even really know how to swim, but... he jumped in and pulled me out anyway. He almost died, too. He was so, so brave."
She sipped her beer. "And I swore, that if he ever needed me, I'd be there for him."
"Me?" Chandler said in wonder.
"Yeah, you," Megan laughed, turning around. "How much would that story suck if it wasn't you?"
"Well, I didn't know! Daring white-water rescues aren't something I associate with myself... I'm your basic big fruity pansy, when it comes right down to it."
"You are *not*," Megan cried passionately, and just for a moment, the child she had been flickered on the edges of Chandler's memory.
Cold. Very cold. Megan in pigtails rolled to the side of her head and a cut-up white pillowcase underneath her parka...
"We... we used to play out here?" Chandler said, grasping out for the faded pictures. "We used to play... 'Star Wars'...?"
"I was always Leia," Megan smiled at the memory. "And you were always Han, 'cause you were the biggest wiseass..."
"And there... there was another kid, wasn't there? Leia, Han, and Luke..." Chandler said, squinting to remember. "A smaller kid... I can almost see him, but..."
He looked up and smiled. "Okay, can't do it. Who was the other kid we used to play with?"
One look at Megan's pale, startled face made his smile evaporate. "Aw, c'mon, why... why are you looking at me like that? Who was the other kid? What was his name?"
"It was Faulkner," Megan whispered. "You don't... you don't remember him?"
"Gimme a break, it was almost thirty years ago. So who was he?"
"He was..." Megan swallowed hard. "Well, he was your little brother, Chandler."
***
Chop chop chop chop chop.
Monica's blade was a blur, guided expertly at breakneck speed, producing a sound like machine gun fire. The minced onion was shoved aside roughly, and a piece of celery took its place on the block.
Chop chop chop chop chop.
Twenty-four hours had passed since he'd left, and no word from Chandler.
She had cleaned every square inch of the apartment. Twice. She had worked out until she pulled a thigh muscle. She had reorganized everything, she had put all Chandler's CD's back in the proper cases...
Basically, she'd exhausted every way to work off nervous energy.
That could be done while still staring at the phone.
And now, she was chopping, not making anything in particular, just... making everything in the refrigerator into very small bits. When she was done with that, she'd... well, she wasn't thinking that far ahead.
Monica was working very hard on not thinking at all.
It wasn't that the phone wasn't ringing. It was definitely doing that: with all the reporters and acquaintances and random idiots, the machine had run out of tape five times.
It was just that it was never Chandler.
Chop chop chop chop chop.
The answering machine clicked on again. Monica'd eventually turned the ringer volume off... at least some of the people who called got a clue when they got the machine and hung up.
Beep. "Hey, sweetie, it's your dad..."
Monica threw down the knife and ran for the phone, snatching it off the cradle just before Jack ended his message.
"Dad, I'm here... Dad... Dad?"
"Hey, honey, how you holding up?"
Monica collapsed on the couch. "Oh, Daddy..."
"Look, sweetie, I talked to my lawyer. We can sue those TV shows, sue their sleazy butts right off..."
"Dad, I... I don't care about suing anyone right now. I just want Chandler to come home. How's Mom taking it?"
"Oh, don't worry about your mother, dear. She's handing it just fine."
A loud crash and an angry feminine screech in the background proved Jack to be a very bad liar.
"Judy... Judy, put that down, put that down, the Goldmans gave us that for our anniversary! Hang on, honey, your mom... needs help in the kitchen."
Muffled sounds. Then, a familiar, "Well, okay, Jack."
"Hey, Mon," Richard said awkwardly. "Your dad handed me the phone. I hope that's okay."
"Hey, Richard," Monica sighed.
"You really could sue their butts off, you know," Richard added.
"I'm... not in a su-ey place right now," Monica replied.
"Yeah, yeah, I can imagine." A long, awkward pause. "Have you heard from him?"
"Nothing." Monica's voice cracked. "Not a word. He called Phoebe, he's okay, but... I don't know what's going on..."
"Well, look. Your mom and dad are... kinda occupied. Why don't you take a deep breath and tell me what happened, okay? Maybe we can figure it out."
Richard's voice soothed her, as it always did. She found herself pouring her heart out.
"Huh," Richard said when she'd finished. "Look at it this way. From everything you've said, Chandler probably wanted a place to hide and think. This Megan person is probably an old friend, or hey... maybe the *wife* of an old friend... whose house he's staying at. Or hell, maybe she sat next to him on the plane and let him borrow her phone. Any one of those things are more likely than your worst-case scenario. I just can't see Chandler cheating on you. Can you? Really?"
"I didn't really think about it like that," Monica sighed, wiping the last of her tears from her cheek.
"Totally understandable. You're upset." Richard paused. "Look. The Chandler I remember wouldn't be this angry with you for an honest mistake. So the basic problem is, he doesn't *know* it was an honest mistake. *That's* what you have to fix first. And this Megan person is your link. Even if she did just let Chandler borrow her phone... she'll know where she was when she did it, right? So call her, and leave a message this time. Explain the situation."
"I guess that makes sense."
"And if that doesn't work... then maybe you ought to hold a press conference. Or at least tell some of the reporters that have been calling your side of the story. Get the word out to Chandler any way that you can."
"Richard... I... thank you so much. If there is ever anything, *anything* I can do for you, please, please let me know."
"Tell you what," Richard said pleasantly. "When all this has blown over and you and Chandler are okay again, you can make me a pie."
"That won't begin to make up for..."
"A really *big* pie. Here's your dad back. Feel better."
"Hey, honey," Jack said, sounding very out of breath, "Did you have a nice talk with Richard?"
"Very nice," Monica replied, picking at her jeans, deep in thought.