2008
"What??" Chandler and Rachel demanded simultaneously.
"Yeah. It's over. Big-time." Joey reached for Rachel's toast, and she pushed the entire plate in front of him.
"Joey... what... when did this happen?"
Joey grabbed the ketchup and began dumping it over Rachel's eggs. "This morning... kinda... only the whole thing's been screwed up from the beginning. I shoulda known."
"You're... really calm," Rachel stammered.
"Believe me," Joey chuckled bitterly through a mouthful of eggs, "Nothin' I could do to her is as bad as what my grandma's probably doin' to her right now."
"Your... grandma?"
"Oh yeah! My grandma's the one that *caught* her. Remember what I told you, about her spittin' on Mussolini's body? Yeah, well, Mussolini didn't cheat on her only grandson, okay?"
"She cheated on you?"
"Has been for years, I guess. Actually called the guy from my parent's house. There's never *been* a conversation on that phone that my Grandma wasn't listening in on."
"Joey, I'm sorry," Rachel sighed, squeezing his hand.
Joey gazed unhappily at his plate. "I'm sorry for her *kids*. I really liked 'em, you know?"
They sat in silence for a moment, Joey's face falling farther and farther.
"Hey, Joe," Chandler began. "Y'know, my railing's getting pretty rotten... I was gonna replace it... we could see if we could knock it down with rocks first."
"Yeah?" Joey replied, a little light coming into his eyes.
"And I'm done with 'Lowdown' now. We could just hang out, y'know. Order pizza. Play Cups. Rent 'Baywatch' on DVD, watch 'em run in even slower motion..."
"He-ey," Joey nodded appreciatively.
"Tide's down now," Chandler continued, "I mean, the whole beach is just beggin' to have holes dug in it..."
"I wanna come," Rachel burst out.
"I thought you had a date with Calgon," Chandler said, eyebrows raising.
"Screw Calgon! I wanna throw rocks at stuff!"
"You do?"
"Yes! C'mon, please?"
"You don't have to ask, Rachel... I just didn't think you'd *want* to..."
"Oh, yeah, sure, okay," Rachel drawled. "Let's see. Weekend on the water with my best friends... or the Wives' Luncheon. How will I ever decide... how will I ever deci-i-i-de..."
"Pick the weekend!" Joey begged.
Rachel grinned over at him, and Chandler watched in awe as five years fell off her face. "Okay... I think I will."
***
"Ross, I'm not even in my third trimester yet! I'm *totally* allowed to fly." Rachel twisted the phone cord around her finger. "No, I haven't eaten anything 'gas-producing'!"
She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Ross wants to know if Monica's going."
"We could ask her..."
"Ross says it'd be good to get her mind off things."
"Chaperone," Joey coughed underneath his breath.
"What?"
"I said that's a great idea, I'll call her."
***
"They're fake," Rachel insisted.
"They're real!" Joey cried indignantly.
"They're totally fake, Joey, you can see the scars!"
"That's not where I'm lookin'," Joey laughed.
"Well, look! Right underneath. They're bouncing too much, hang on, I'll pause it. See? *Totally* fake."
Chandler looked up from the stove as the front door opened and Megan stepped through, her bag of cleaning supplies banging noisily against her hip.
"You're watching porn and you didn't invite me?" she laughed. "I'm hurt. I'm really and truly hurt."
"*I'm* innocently making spaghetti," Chandler protested. "It's the Perversons over there you need to blame."
"Megan, get over here," Rachel insisted. "Tell Joey those boobs are fake."
Megan crossed behind the couch and squinted. "Oh yeah. Totally fake. You can see the scars."
"You people ruin everything," Joey pouted.
Megan ruffled Joey's hair affectionately. "When did you guys get into town?"
"Thursday," Rachel said, muting the porn and gesturing to it with the remote. "You know, I thought I'd spend a weekend exposing my unborn child to all that was great about our culture."
"Since Thursday?" Megan repeated softly, eyes searching out Chandler's.
Chandler fought down guilt at the wounded look that flew across Megan's face. "We didn't want to bother you. Figured you'd be busy *packing*."
Her eyes flashed pain again, and he kicked himself inwardly. He hadn't meant to say it like that. Joey and Rachel's eyes darted between them.
"Keith said you... said you'd gone out for bubble wrap."
"*Did* he," Megan spat, hands curling tighter around a bottle of Pine-Sol.
"Hey, hey, Chandler, why don't you... why don't you let us handle dinner," Rachel said hurriedly, giving Joey a meaningful glance.
"Yeah, leave spaghetti to the Italians," Joey blurted, leaping up from the couch and taking Chandler's spoon. "We'll get this."
Chandler jerked his head to indicate the porch, and Megan followed him out, waiting until he'd shut the door behind them.
"I did not, I did not *fucking* 'go out for bubble wrap'," Megan hissed, crossing her arms.
"Okay... okay," Chandler held his hands up. "You didn't go out for bubble wrap! What's going on?"
"Keith! Keith is going on. Keith is going on, and on, and on, and on..."
"Talk to me."
"Well, I... I haven't wanted to. He's your illustrator, he's my husband, I didn't want to... I didn't want to be that kind of woman that goes around badmouthing their husband everywhere they go, you know? But I... I'm going crazy, Chandler... he is driving me up the *wall*."
She kicked the railing, and it sagged four inches.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't worry about it, we're knocking it down with rocks tomorrow... you were saying?"
"You are?"
"Yeah."
"So... could I kick it some more? That felt *really* good."
Chandler laughed. "Kick it into the lake, I wanna see it."
"Freaking... whiny... crybaby... blame-hurling... wimp-ass!" Megan cried, kicking the railing violently with the sole of her sneaker.
The railing sailed off the deck and landed on the rocks below.
Chandler turned to her with a grin. "'Wimp-ass'?"
"So I can't kick and think at the same time."
"I'll remember that."
"It's me," Megan muttered, pacing the deck. "I mean, I know that now. It's me. It's gotta be. Cause I'm not pretty enough, or sexy enough, or whatever, to get, like, normal guys. No-no. Instead I get these guys who are looking for a wet nurse, someone to kiss their boo-boos and tell them how tew-wibble it is that the whole world's in a conspiracy against them... and apparently I give off this surrogate mommy pheromone, and they're all attracted by the smell of my blood or something..."
Chandler lit a cigarette and passed it to her.
"Thank you. Thank you. See? That's you. You're awesome, you're so awesome. Guys like you... I'm just a friend, la la la, little asexual Megan, oh, she's like my little sister. But oh, the flaming *martyrs* of the world, the ones who come with their own crucifix *playset* that they can make bitter pronouncements from... oh those, those are like moths to flaaaame!"
She took an angry drag and regarded Chandler. "You're laughing at me. That's points off, you know."
"I'm not laughing at you."
"You're not."
"I'm laughing at the ludicrous, completely absurd notion of you not being pretty or sexy enough. You're the sexiest girl I've ever met."
"See?" she cried. "And you always know *exactly* what to say. Now I feel better, dammit, and I wasn't ready to."
"No-no, you have me confused with someone else. I'm Chandler Bing. I always say the *wrong* thing."
"Not to me," Megan said, wiping at her eyes. "Not to me, Chandler."
"Hey, hey," Chandler whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "Don't cry, Leia. Don't cry."
"I *didn't* go out for bubble wrap," she breathed into his chest.
"Hey, I know. I know."
"I don't want to move. I don't want to leave. Why would I want to go to California? It's sunny all the time! I'd hate it."
"It has to rain there sometimes."
"Sometimes isn't the same. And you wouldn't be there."
"Aw, you know you're sick of me."
"No, I'm not, Chandler. I could never be. You don't know, okay? You don't know how many times I've come over here, how many times I've been so dried-out, so drained, from listening to Keith and his endless, endless self-created problems, that he doesn't really want to fix, and all the people that piss him off, and all the things he thinks are wrong with the world, and blah blah blah... and you make me laugh, and you make me think, and you just... recharge my battery. If I didn't have you, I'd be that... dead battery in the back of the junk drawer, okay?"
He brushed a piece of hair off her forehead. "Is it that bad?"
"It's not that bad," Megan muttered, stepping back and leaning on the remaining railing. "I mean, he doesn't beat me, or cheat on me, or anything. He's nice to me, he loves me a lot. I shouldn't complain, I really shouldn't, I mean..."
"Megan, you've listened to me complain a million times. Start whining or I'll send you where the railing went."
"That's just it! I don't want to whine, I don't want to *do* that when I'm so mad at him about it..."
"So don't whine. *Explain*. That's different, right?"
"It's just... you know what he hates? Really hates? I mean, bitches about every time he sees one?"
"What?"
"Daylilies."
"How can you hate daylilies?"
"I don't know! He says they're 'common'. He hates *summer*. It's too *hot*. He hates *winter*. It's too *cold*. He hates *small children*. He hates people who drink flavored coffee, he hates people who listen to pop music, it's just... so much freaking *hate*, you know?"
Chandler passed her another cigarette.
"Thanks. And nothing, nothing, *nothing* is ever *his* fault... it's all part of some conspiracy thing *personally* directed at *him*. Everybody's in on it, you know? Waiters, sales clerks, every corporation known to man, the government... oh god, don't even get him started on the government..."
"Oh, don't worry, I've heard that one," Chandler smiled.
"So you know. And he's always mad at me, says I'm not 'romantic'. But his idea of romantic... is buying stuff, just endless amounts of stupid stuff. And I don't want *stuff*, you know? It's not my thing. My thing, I mean... my idea of romance, you know... it's just different, it's different. Like a month or two ago, I decided to surprise him, right? Lit all these candles, made this awesome dinner. And the minute he walked in, he got mad at me and turned all the lights on. Said he couldn't see his food properly. So there we are, having this non-candlelit dinner under bright florescent bulbs. Y'know, with gratuitous flames. Like the food was dangerous and hard to *navigate* or something. And while we were eating, he talked about his *hemorroids*."
Chandler coughed violently, leaning over, smoke streaming from his nose.
"I hear about his hemorroids a *lot*," Megan sighed.
"Yeah, I..." Chandler sputtered for breath, "Don't think they usually put that on the Hallmark cards..."
"About a year ago, I was writing this love scene," Megan continued, looking out at the water. "I needed the hero to cross a room and kiss the heroine... who wasn't expecting it... passionately. But I couldn't get the logistics down, right? Where she'd have to be, what he'd have to do, so that they wouldn't end up smacking noses or cracking heads. So I say, hey Keith, help me act this out, work this out."
She tapped ashes over the railing. "And he couldn't. He absolutely could *not* do it. He's just not the grab-and-kiss-passionately type, you know? He has to arrange and plan and adjust and discuss. And I realized... he's *never* kissed me passionately. And for that matter, I've never been kissed the way I want to be kissed."
Megan closed her eyes, her neck arching, lips curling around every word. "I want to be... I want to be *grabbed*, you know? Hurled against a wall. Kissed until my lips bruise. Drown in wanting someone. Knock things over. Scream someone's name while I rake my fingernails down their back..."
Chandler's fingers dug into the wood, his spine rigid, sheer willpower keeping him frozen in place.
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.
Megan exhaled, eyelids opening. "And I'm married, to someone I'll never have that with. And I'm getting *old*. And I just wonder... what if I never experience that? What if I just get older and older, pouring my dreams out into my keyboard, giving my characters what I want and can't have? And then I die?"
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.
Megan's face turned towards his, curiousity turning to shock... then hope. She took a tentative step towards him.
"Hey, Megan," Monica mumbled sleepily, sliding the glass door open. "When did you get here? I've been sleeping like the dead."
"Hey, Monica," Megan replied, her voice light. "How are you doing?"
"I've been better," Monica smiled, running her fingers through her hair. Megan couldn't help but notice with a pang how gorgeous she looked in Chandler's old flannel shirt and socks. "I guess you heard about Richard."
"Yes, I did. I'm sorry."
The air hung heavy between the three of them, and Megan let out a nervous little laugh. "Wow... if I'd known you were here, I wouldn't have bothered to bring my cleaning stuff."
"Yeah, I've been sort of... compulsively scrubbing," Monica chuckled. "You may not have to clean for a while, but you might want to refinish everything."
"Well, Chandler's going to have to handle that..."
"Oh, right... you're moving. Hey, if you need *any* help packing, let me know!"
"Well, I've... I've spent enough of Chandler's time whining," Megan said casually. "I should take off."
"It was nice to see you again!"
"Nice to see you, too."
Megan waved to Chandler and Monica and power-walked up the dock, launching herself into the safety of her Beetle and throwing her bag into the passenger seat.
"If you need any help *packing*, oh do let me *know*," she sing-songed aloud, turning the key and throwing it into first. The antique Volkswagen growled in annoyance.
"I know, baby. I'm sorry. But I have to get out of here," Megan muttered.
God. Was that some kind of *record* for self-ass-making? Not realizing Monica was there... dragging Chandler off to whine, whine, whine... had she actually told him about Keith's *hemorroids*, for God's sake? And then practically thrown herself at him with that horrible, stupid monologue?
And then she'd almost kissed him. God. Right in front of Monica! How could she have misread him so badly? Looking at his face, she could have sworn he...
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot," she cried, banging the steering wheel with her hand.
*Married* idiot. How many ways could one person suck?
The image of Monica in Chandler's shirt stuck in her mind, took it over, wiped out all other attempts at brain activity. She'd looked so casual... so comfortable... so right at home. Like she belonged.
"And I don't," Megan whispered. "I just don't."
The final notes of "Four Sticks" ended as Megan fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes.
"Made up my mind... to make a new start... goin' to California with an achin'... in my hea-art..." Robert Plant wailed, and Megan ejected the tape forcefully.
She'd had a crush on Chandler for what... three decades? Compared every guy she'd ever dated to him. Made her poor husband frantically jealous over him. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She wiped tears from her eyes roughly with her wrists. She had to go home. She had packing to do.
She pushed the cassette back into the player and began to sing along.
***
"Can't you sleep?" Rachel asked, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she stumbled down the stairs.
"Not really," Joey groaned, leaning back on the couch. "Was just killin' off the wine. I'd offer you some, but... can I get you some milk or somethin'?"
Rachel smiled. "How drunk are you?"
"Not nearly enough. Kristen called again." He peeled back the wine label miserably. "This time, she put the kids on the phone. Made them beg me to come home."
"Oh my god," Rachel said in horror.
"Yeah. So I've been basically just feelin' like the world's biggest asshole, you know."
"Joey... honey... you're not an asshole."
"You didn't hear 'em, Rach. It was awful." His voice broke, and he turned his face away from her.
"Joey, don't... Joey, come here," Rachel whispered, sitting down next to him and drawing his head down to her chest. "Honey... honey..."
She stroked his hair as Joey sobbed.
"I just wanted... I just wish... I wish I could have what you and Ross have."
"No, you don't, honey."
He met her eyes. "Sure I do. You've got the perfect kid, the perfect life..."
"You can't really think that."
"I *have* to think that, Rach. Any other kind of thinkin', and I'd just go nuts. You're a family." He laid a hand on her stomach. "Soon to be a bigger family."
Their eyes locked, and Rachel let her hand drift up to his cheek. Joey removed it and placed it back by her side.
"Um... whaddya doin?"
"Joey... I love you."
He sighed and pushed himself back from her on the couch. "I love you too, Rach. But would you still love me if I were the kind of guy who hit on his best friend's pregnant wife?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Joey smiled, taking her hand. "Look, we should go to bed. Tomorrow's rock-throwin' day."
"Can I sleep on the couch with you?"
"I think that's a really, really bad idea. Go to bed, Rach."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. So sorry for tonight, so sorry for everything..."
"Don't be sorry, Rach. You have nothin' to be sorry for. Just go to bed... cause if you keep sittin' there, lookin' like that, I'm gonna do bad things. So go."
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "My hair is hideous. I look like a whale. Don't."
"You're beautiful when you're pregnant, Rach. You're beautiful all the time. You're like this... dream that's always out of my reach. Go to bed before I reach for it and hate myself forever."
Rachel got up and climbed the stairs slowly. Joey watched her go before lying down and pulling the blanket over himself.
"Dammit," he whispered into his pillow. "Dammit."
"What??" Chandler and Rachel demanded simultaneously.
"Yeah. It's over. Big-time." Joey reached for Rachel's toast, and she pushed the entire plate in front of him.
"Joey... what... when did this happen?"
Joey grabbed the ketchup and began dumping it over Rachel's eggs. "This morning... kinda... only the whole thing's been screwed up from the beginning. I shoulda known."
"You're... really calm," Rachel stammered.
"Believe me," Joey chuckled bitterly through a mouthful of eggs, "Nothin' I could do to her is as bad as what my grandma's probably doin' to her right now."
"Your... grandma?"
"Oh yeah! My grandma's the one that *caught* her. Remember what I told you, about her spittin' on Mussolini's body? Yeah, well, Mussolini didn't cheat on her only grandson, okay?"
"She cheated on you?"
"Has been for years, I guess. Actually called the guy from my parent's house. There's never *been* a conversation on that phone that my Grandma wasn't listening in on."
"Joey, I'm sorry," Rachel sighed, squeezing his hand.
Joey gazed unhappily at his plate. "I'm sorry for her *kids*. I really liked 'em, you know?"
They sat in silence for a moment, Joey's face falling farther and farther.
"Hey, Joe," Chandler began. "Y'know, my railing's getting pretty rotten... I was gonna replace it... we could see if we could knock it down with rocks first."
"Yeah?" Joey replied, a little light coming into his eyes.
"And I'm done with 'Lowdown' now. We could just hang out, y'know. Order pizza. Play Cups. Rent 'Baywatch' on DVD, watch 'em run in even slower motion..."
"He-ey," Joey nodded appreciatively.
"Tide's down now," Chandler continued, "I mean, the whole beach is just beggin' to have holes dug in it..."
"I wanna come," Rachel burst out.
"I thought you had a date with Calgon," Chandler said, eyebrows raising.
"Screw Calgon! I wanna throw rocks at stuff!"
"You do?"
"Yes! C'mon, please?"
"You don't have to ask, Rachel... I just didn't think you'd *want* to..."
"Oh, yeah, sure, okay," Rachel drawled. "Let's see. Weekend on the water with my best friends... or the Wives' Luncheon. How will I ever decide... how will I ever deci-i-i-de..."
"Pick the weekend!" Joey begged.
Rachel grinned over at him, and Chandler watched in awe as five years fell off her face. "Okay... I think I will."
***
"Ross, I'm not even in my third trimester yet! I'm *totally* allowed to fly." Rachel twisted the phone cord around her finger. "No, I haven't eaten anything 'gas-producing'!"
She put her hand over the mouthpiece. "Ross wants to know if Monica's going."
"We could ask her..."
"Ross says it'd be good to get her mind off things."
"Chaperone," Joey coughed underneath his breath.
"What?"
"I said that's a great idea, I'll call her."
***
"They're fake," Rachel insisted.
"They're real!" Joey cried indignantly.
"They're totally fake, Joey, you can see the scars!"
"That's not where I'm lookin'," Joey laughed.
"Well, look! Right underneath. They're bouncing too much, hang on, I'll pause it. See? *Totally* fake."
Chandler looked up from the stove as the front door opened and Megan stepped through, her bag of cleaning supplies banging noisily against her hip.
"You're watching porn and you didn't invite me?" she laughed. "I'm hurt. I'm really and truly hurt."
"*I'm* innocently making spaghetti," Chandler protested. "It's the Perversons over there you need to blame."
"Megan, get over here," Rachel insisted. "Tell Joey those boobs are fake."
Megan crossed behind the couch and squinted. "Oh yeah. Totally fake. You can see the scars."
"You people ruin everything," Joey pouted.
Megan ruffled Joey's hair affectionately. "When did you guys get into town?"
"Thursday," Rachel said, muting the porn and gesturing to it with the remote. "You know, I thought I'd spend a weekend exposing my unborn child to all that was great about our culture."
"Since Thursday?" Megan repeated softly, eyes searching out Chandler's.
Chandler fought down guilt at the wounded look that flew across Megan's face. "We didn't want to bother you. Figured you'd be busy *packing*."
Her eyes flashed pain again, and he kicked himself inwardly. He hadn't meant to say it like that. Joey and Rachel's eyes darted between them.
"Keith said you... said you'd gone out for bubble wrap."
"*Did* he," Megan spat, hands curling tighter around a bottle of Pine-Sol.
"Hey, hey, Chandler, why don't you... why don't you let us handle dinner," Rachel said hurriedly, giving Joey a meaningful glance.
"Yeah, leave spaghetti to the Italians," Joey blurted, leaping up from the couch and taking Chandler's spoon. "We'll get this."
Chandler jerked his head to indicate the porch, and Megan followed him out, waiting until he'd shut the door behind them.
"I did not, I did not *fucking* 'go out for bubble wrap'," Megan hissed, crossing her arms.
"Okay... okay," Chandler held his hands up. "You didn't go out for bubble wrap! What's going on?"
"Keith! Keith is going on. Keith is going on, and on, and on, and on..."
"Talk to me."
"Well, I... I haven't wanted to. He's your illustrator, he's my husband, I didn't want to... I didn't want to be that kind of woman that goes around badmouthing their husband everywhere they go, you know? But I... I'm going crazy, Chandler... he is driving me up the *wall*."
She kicked the railing, and it sagged four inches.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry!"
"Don't worry about it, we're knocking it down with rocks tomorrow... you were saying?"
"You are?"
"Yeah."
"So... could I kick it some more? That felt *really* good."
Chandler laughed. "Kick it into the lake, I wanna see it."
"Freaking... whiny... crybaby... blame-hurling... wimp-ass!" Megan cried, kicking the railing violently with the sole of her sneaker.
The railing sailed off the deck and landed on the rocks below.
Chandler turned to her with a grin. "'Wimp-ass'?"
"So I can't kick and think at the same time."
"I'll remember that."
"It's me," Megan muttered, pacing the deck. "I mean, I know that now. It's me. It's gotta be. Cause I'm not pretty enough, or sexy enough, or whatever, to get, like, normal guys. No-no. Instead I get these guys who are looking for a wet nurse, someone to kiss their boo-boos and tell them how tew-wibble it is that the whole world's in a conspiracy against them... and apparently I give off this surrogate mommy pheromone, and they're all attracted by the smell of my blood or something..."
Chandler lit a cigarette and passed it to her.
"Thank you. Thank you. See? That's you. You're awesome, you're so awesome. Guys like you... I'm just a friend, la la la, little asexual Megan, oh, she's like my little sister. But oh, the flaming *martyrs* of the world, the ones who come with their own crucifix *playset* that they can make bitter pronouncements from... oh those, those are like moths to flaaaame!"
She took an angry drag and regarded Chandler. "You're laughing at me. That's points off, you know."
"I'm not laughing at you."
"You're not."
"I'm laughing at the ludicrous, completely absurd notion of you not being pretty or sexy enough. You're the sexiest girl I've ever met."
"See?" she cried. "And you always know *exactly* what to say. Now I feel better, dammit, and I wasn't ready to."
"No-no, you have me confused with someone else. I'm Chandler Bing. I always say the *wrong* thing."
"Not to me," Megan said, wiping at her eyes. "Not to me, Chandler."
"Hey, hey," Chandler whispered, wrapping his arms around her. "Don't cry, Leia. Don't cry."
"I *didn't* go out for bubble wrap," she breathed into his chest.
"Hey, I know. I know."
"I don't want to move. I don't want to leave. Why would I want to go to California? It's sunny all the time! I'd hate it."
"It has to rain there sometimes."
"Sometimes isn't the same. And you wouldn't be there."
"Aw, you know you're sick of me."
"No, I'm not, Chandler. I could never be. You don't know, okay? You don't know how many times I've come over here, how many times I've been so dried-out, so drained, from listening to Keith and his endless, endless self-created problems, that he doesn't really want to fix, and all the people that piss him off, and all the things he thinks are wrong with the world, and blah blah blah... and you make me laugh, and you make me think, and you just... recharge my battery. If I didn't have you, I'd be that... dead battery in the back of the junk drawer, okay?"
He brushed a piece of hair off her forehead. "Is it that bad?"
"It's not that bad," Megan muttered, stepping back and leaning on the remaining railing. "I mean, he doesn't beat me, or cheat on me, or anything. He's nice to me, he loves me a lot. I shouldn't complain, I really shouldn't, I mean..."
"Megan, you've listened to me complain a million times. Start whining or I'll send you where the railing went."
"That's just it! I don't want to whine, I don't want to *do* that when I'm so mad at him about it..."
"So don't whine. *Explain*. That's different, right?"
"It's just... you know what he hates? Really hates? I mean, bitches about every time he sees one?"
"What?"
"Daylilies."
"How can you hate daylilies?"
"I don't know! He says they're 'common'. He hates *summer*. It's too *hot*. He hates *winter*. It's too *cold*. He hates *small children*. He hates people who drink flavored coffee, he hates people who listen to pop music, it's just... so much freaking *hate*, you know?"
Chandler passed her another cigarette.
"Thanks. And nothing, nothing, *nothing* is ever *his* fault... it's all part of some conspiracy thing *personally* directed at *him*. Everybody's in on it, you know? Waiters, sales clerks, every corporation known to man, the government... oh god, don't even get him started on the government..."
"Oh, don't worry, I've heard that one," Chandler smiled.
"So you know. And he's always mad at me, says I'm not 'romantic'. But his idea of romantic... is buying stuff, just endless amounts of stupid stuff. And I don't want *stuff*, you know? It's not my thing. My thing, I mean... my idea of romance, you know... it's just different, it's different. Like a month or two ago, I decided to surprise him, right? Lit all these candles, made this awesome dinner. And the minute he walked in, he got mad at me and turned all the lights on. Said he couldn't see his food properly. So there we are, having this non-candlelit dinner under bright florescent bulbs. Y'know, with gratuitous flames. Like the food was dangerous and hard to *navigate* or something. And while we were eating, he talked about his *hemorroids*."
Chandler coughed violently, leaning over, smoke streaming from his nose.
"I hear about his hemorroids a *lot*," Megan sighed.
"Yeah, I..." Chandler sputtered for breath, "Don't think they usually put that on the Hallmark cards..."
"About a year ago, I was writing this love scene," Megan continued, looking out at the water. "I needed the hero to cross a room and kiss the heroine... who wasn't expecting it... passionately. But I couldn't get the logistics down, right? Where she'd have to be, what he'd have to do, so that they wouldn't end up smacking noses or cracking heads. So I say, hey Keith, help me act this out, work this out."
She tapped ashes over the railing. "And he couldn't. He absolutely could *not* do it. He's just not the grab-and-kiss-passionately type, you know? He has to arrange and plan and adjust and discuss. And I realized... he's *never* kissed me passionately. And for that matter, I've never been kissed the way I want to be kissed."
Megan closed her eyes, her neck arching, lips curling around every word. "I want to be... I want to be *grabbed*, you know? Hurled against a wall. Kissed until my lips bruise. Drown in wanting someone. Knock things over. Scream someone's name while I rake my fingernails down their back..."
Chandler's fingers dug into the wood, his spine rigid, sheer willpower keeping him frozen in place.
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.
Megan exhaled, eyelids opening. "And I'm married, to someone I'll never have that with. And I'm getting *old*. And I just wonder... what if I never experience that? What if I just get older and older, pouring my dreams out into my keyboard, giving my characters what I want and can't have? And then I die?"
Kiss her. Kiss her. Kiss her.
Megan's face turned towards his, curiousity turning to shock... then hope. She took a tentative step towards him.
"Hey, Megan," Monica mumbled sleepily, sliding the glass door open. "When did you get here? I've been sleeping like the dead."
"Hey, Monica," Megan replied, her voice light. "How are you doing?"
"I've been better," Monica smiled, running her fingers through her hair. Megan couldn't help but notice with a pang how gorgeous she looked in Chandler's old flannel shirt and socks. "I guess you heard about Richard."
"Yes, I did. I'm sorry."
The air hung heavy between the three of them, and Megan let out a nervous little laugh. "Wow... if I'd known you were here, I wouldn't have bothered to bring my cleaning stuff."
"Yeah, I've been sort of... compulsively scrubbing," Monica chuckled. "You may not have to clean for a while, but you might want to refinish everything."
"Well, Chandler's going to have to handle that..."
"Oh, right... you're moving. Hey, if you need *any* help packing, let me know!"
"Well, I've... I've spent enough of Chandler's time whining," Megan said casually. "I should take off."
"It was nice to see you again!"
"Nice to see you, too."
Megan waved to Chandler and Monica and power-walked up the dock, launching herself into the safety of her Beetle and throwing her bag into the passenger seat.
"If you need any help *packing*, oh do let me *know*," she sing-songed aloud, turning the key and throwing it into first. The antique Volkswagen growled in annoyance.
"I know, baby. I'm sorry. But I have to get out of here," Megan muttered.
God. Was that some kind of *record* for self-ass-making? Not realizing Monica was there... dragging Chandler off to whine, whine, whine... had she actually told him about Keith's *hemorroids*, for God's sake? And then practically thrown herself at him with that horrible, stupid monologue?
And then she'd almost kissed him. God. Right in front of Monica! How could she have misread him so badly? Looking at his face, she could have sworn he...
"Idiot. Idiot. Idiot," she cried, banging the steering wheel with her hand.
*Married* idiot. How many ways could one person suck?
The image of Monica in Chandler's shirt stuck in her mind, took it over, wiped out all other attempts at brain activity. She'd looked so casual... so comfortable... so right at home. Like she belonged.
"And I don't," Megan whispered. "I just don't."
The final notes of "Four Sticks" ended as Megan fumbled in her bag for her cigarettes.
"Made up my mind... to make a new start... goin' to California with an achin'... in my hea-art..." Robert Plant wailed, and Megan ejected the tape forcefully.
She'd had a crush on Chandler for what... three decades? Compared every guy she'd ever dated to him. Made her poor husband frantically jealous over him. And for what? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
She wiped tears from her eyes roughly with her wrists. She had to go home. She had packing to do.
She pushed the cassette back into the player and began to sing along.
***
"Can't you sleep?" Rachel asked, brushing her bangs out of her eyes as she stumbled down the stairs.
"Not really," Joey groaned, leaning back on the couch. "Was just killin' off the wine. I'd offer you some, but... can I get you some milk or somethin'?"
Rachel smiled. "How drunk are you?"
"Not nearly enough. Kristen called again." He peeled back the wine label miserably. "This time, she put the kids on the phone. Made them beg me to come home."
"Oh my god," Rachel said in horror.
"Yeah. So I've been basically just feelin' like the world's biggest asshole, you know."
"Joey... honey... you're not an asshole."
"You didn't hear 'em, Rach. It was awful." His voice broke, and he turned his face away from her.
"Joey, don't... Joey, come here," Rachel whispered, sitting down next to him and drawing his head down to her chest. "Honey... honey..."
She stroked his hair as Joey sobbed.
"I just wanted... I just wish... I wish I could have what you and Ross have."
"No, you don't, honey."
He met her eyes. "Sure I do. You've got the perfect kid, the perfect life..."
"You can't really think that."
"I *have* to think that, Rach. Any other kind of thinkin', and I'd just go nuts. You're a family." He laid a hand on her stomach. "Soon to be a bigger family."
Their eyes locked, and Rachel let her hand drift up to his cheek. Joey removed it and placed it back by her side.
"Um... whaddya doin?"
"Joey... I love you."
He sighed and pushed himself back from her on the couch. "I love you too, Rach. But would you still love me if I were the kind of guy who hit on his best friend's pregnant wife?"
"Yes," she whispered.
"Liar, liar, pants on fire," Joey smiled, taking her hand. "Look, we should go to bed. Tomorrow's rock-throwin' day."
"Can I sleep on the couch with you?"
"I think that's a really, really bad idea. Go to bed, Rach."
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "I'm so sorry. So sorry for tonight, so sorry for everything..."
"Don't be sorry, Rach. You have nothin' to be sorry for. Just go to bed... cause if you keep sittin' there, lookin' like that, I'm gonna do bad things. So go."
"Oh, please," she scoffed. "My hair is hideous. I look like a whale. Don't."
"You're beautiful when you're pregnant, Rach. You're beautiful all the time. You're like this... dream that's always out of my reach. Go to bed before I reach for it and hate myself forever."
Rachel got up and climbed the stairs slowly. Joey watched her go before lying down and pulling the blanket over himself.
"Dammit," he whispered into his pillow. "Dammit."