This Moment in September
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.
Okay, so I haven't updated this story for a good six months, and a lot can happen in six months. Scratch that, a lot DID happen in six months. (You may want to read, or re-read chapter one before you read this chapter - it'll make more sense.) Please understand that I started this story pre- season 10, so the present season ten does not exist in this semi-alternate universe, and I have provided flashbacks that serve to fill in some holes. Thanks, and enjoy! And review!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. And I *still* wouldn't be Bright, Kauffman or Crane if you paid me.
Chapter 2: Little Miss Soriano
It is not quite 5:30, and already the streetlights are blinking on, pale and useless in September's most brilliant evening, the trees that line the street erupting in oranges and plumb reds, spilling their leaves as freely as children do secrets, carelessly and with little regard to where they may fall. Joey waits patiently for a string of taxi cabs to pass before crossing the street, the sunlight bouncing off their hoods and producing an even more sparkling shade of yellow in defiance of the dull gray of the pavement below. The Village is awash with long pink shadows, the summer reluctant to leave its warmth behind, and let the sky sink into the duskier hues of autumn.
Only an hour and a half before the first pitch is thrown, thinks Joey. Only an hour and a half before we're at Yankee Stadium.
We.
Rachel and I.
Despite himself, Joey allows a tiny grin tweak the corners of his mouth; he hasn't been alone with her for a long time. Because of this, tonight seems like a special privilege, and he suddenly feels like a child who is allowed to stay up an extra hour before bedtime and doesn't have to drink his milk with dinner.
At last Christopher Street is free of taxis, and Joey crosses almost reluctantly onto Bedford Avenue, a white plastic bag swinging at his side. If there's anything he's learned these past two years, it is to walk home slowly, and let himself be swept in by the continuous crowd pulsing its way through the streets. Somehow it provides a sort of comfort, a sense of reassurance and belonging, the lone constant in his life. In the crooked streets of Greenwich Village, alive with street musicians, coffeehouses, vendors, and jazz clubs, it is hard to feel alone. It is hard to remember that he has no one to hurry home to.
He waived that right two years ago, thinks Joey as he passes a small French café, Billie Holliday's gently quavering voice drifting out of the doorway. A man with graying hair is buying daisies at a flower stand, handing the vendor some bills. "They're my wife's favorite," he says, smiling. The vendor gives a knowing nod, and tips his cap, the image of a 1940s black and white film, as the man moves along ahead of Joey, carrying the flowers at his side.
He waived that right, too. He can no longer rush home, stopping briefly to buy flowers, Chinese take-out for two, and a double tall nonfat to-go latte with from Central Perk, Rachel's signature drink. There would be no one home to receive such things. And bringing them next door has never felt quite the same.
Two years this October, thinks Joey. Early October, when you finally have to give in and turn the heat on in the apartment. That's when Rachel moved out. The week he had to turn on the furnace.
Flashback: Roughly two years ago, the day Rachel moved out.
"Joey!"
For the third time now, he can hear Monica's voice, high-pitched and exasperated, coming through the door of apartment 20. He has been hiding here out all day, now-warm beer in hand, pacing short circuits on the balcony, unable to face the festivities of moving day: the suitcases, people delivering Rachel's new furniture (all from Pottery Barn with the exception of one end table from Anthropologie), Monica's scale model of apartment 17, accurate down to the placement of lamps and vases, and his friends' faces, completely oblivious to the pain of it all. Chandler would perhaps shoot him concerned glances, checking to make sure he is alright, but Ross would barely be able to contain his glee at the move, Monica would be annoyed that he wasn't helping enough, Phoebe would probably be writing a song about it all, and Rachel would look everywhere but at him.
The sooner this day is over, the better.
"Joey! Rachel wants to see you in her apartment."
Monica's voice is nearer and more exasperated, and Joey can hear her stomping her way across the hall, but makes no move to climb through the window and open the door, and continues pacing. The door opens, and Monica enters looking annoyed, her hair swept up in a messy ponytail, blue eyes blazing, scale model in hand.
He is nowhere in sight. She pauses, looking around, confused by his absence.
"Joey?" she says in a rather small voice.
Cautiously, as if exploring a stranger's apartment, she tiptoes to the bathroom. The door is open, nobody inside.
Guest bedroom: empty.
"Joey, are you here?"
No answer.
"Who are you looking for?" comes Chandler's voice as he enters the apartment, hands in his pockets and a unsettled expression on his face, evidently looking for any excuse to get away from all the moving.
"I can't find Joey. Can you check the coffeehouse?"
Relief washes over him. "Oh dear God yes!" he says, grabbing his coat. "Thank you! Just please don't send me back to Rachel's place. Ross is so giddy she's moving that it's only a matter of time before he explodes with sheer glee." He bites his lip. "I just don't want to be there when it happens."
Monica gives a half-laugh. "Okay, just check the coffeehouse for me then, will you?"
"Consider it done," replies Chandler and hurries out the door, whistling, as Monica heads toward the balcony to check.
She sticks her head out the window. Joey stops pacing, and slowly turns to face Monica. Standing there, he looks drained, as if someone has siphoned all his energy away and all that is left are his eyes, shining as if on the brink of spilling tears. Monica immediately softens, and setting down the scale model, she makes her way over to Joey, enveloping him in a hug. He even smells like sadness.
"Oh my god, Joey, are you going to be alright?"
*No,* thinks Joey. * I'm not going to be okay. Everything is going to suck.*
He gives a shrug. Monica nods, understanding.
"Um, Rachel wants to see you in her apartment." She pulls back, looking him in the eye. "Joey, honey, you have to talk to her sometime. She hates leaving, she really does."
"Is it over? The move, I mean. Is it over?" he asks, not sure what answer, yes or no, would be the better one.
"Yeah, it's over." And the, Monica breaks into a smile, excitement lighting up her eyes. She holds up the scale model. "Everything's in place. Her apartment looks *exactly* like this," she says, her voice rising an octave, gleeful little giggle just waiting to erupt from her mouth. Joey can see her fight to contain it. "See?" she says, pointing. "This is the kitchen and living room area."
Joey squints at the miniature couches, chairs, counters, and coffee tables superglued in place.
"A-and this?" She says, turning the model. "This is Rachel's bedroom. Yeah, see this is her dresser, and that's her closet, and her bed. Look! I even drew her *exac* sheets! And pillows! And um, well I know this isn't furniture, but her hamper is in that corner by the closet . . ."
Joey sighs, images of all of Rachel's things all perfectly in place in another apartment. Her closet, her dresser, her bed, even her *hamper,* for crying out loud, settling themselves in a place that he cannot call home, in a place that he is not meant to be in, in a place where *she* went to get away from *him.* He closes his eyes, attempting to shut out Monica's rambling, frustration welling up inside him.
"You-you know what, Mon? I'll go talk to her." He interrupts, and gives her a weak smile, brushing past her and through the window. "I'll catch you later."
"But I haven't even told you about her shoe rack! I made it out of toothpicks!" Monica calls after him. Sighing, she turns back to her scale model, smiling at it. "Ahhhh, so perfect," she breathes.
Joey makes his way across the hall to apartment 17, his feet literally dragging.
Monica was right, though, he had to talk to her sometime.
And "sometime" was now.
He reaches for the door handle, and pauses, thinking better of it. He raises his hand, and knocks, the five taps reverberating in his ears. Within seconds, the door swings open, a worn out Rachel in track pants and a sweatshirt on the other side, Joey's personal favorite picture of her. She smiles nervously, all too aware that he has been absent all day.
"Hey there, Joe. You know, you don't have to knock. It's just me." She shoos him in, grabbing his wrist and tugging him through the door.
Joey nods. "Yep," he says, surprised at himself. He is barely able to contain his general and pervasive dislike of the situation as a whole. "It's just you. And I'm just *me.* I get it." He brushes past her. "Nice place, I like all the new furniture," he says, and Rachel winces as his sudden joviality.
*Fake,* she thinks. *He's being fake, fake, fake.*
"Joey, that's not what I meant - I just meant that you're welcome here anytime, and you don't have to knock. I mean, we didn't knock when we were both living next door, right?"
"Right," he says, some of Chandler's sarcasm seeping into his voice.
"Joey, come on," she says, and he looks at her, her eyes pleading, sad. He hadn't noticed that before. "Nothing has to change."
Joey shakes his head, and gestures at the apartment, all of its furniture in its place, lamps turned on and casting shadows of a glowing yellow, framed pictures hanging on the walls. "Rach, *everything* has changed. You even said it yourself. We *don't* live next door anymore, together. You moved. You-you bought all this stuff. You have your own place, your own life, and I have mine."
Rachel's eyes popped, and her breath caught in her throat in surprise. *Was he really saying this?*
"Is - is that really what you want? *Separate* lives?"
Joey turns. "Do you?" It came out more accusatory than he had intended.
"What? No, Joey, that's not why I moved!" Exasperated, she takes his elbow and leads him over to the couch, pulling him down to sit beside her.
Joey follows her, the contact of her fingers touching his skin sending his head spinning. He suppresses the urge to pull her to him, and for the millionth time, his mind starts to replay their kiss in Barbados.
"Joey, I didn't move to get away from you. I moved -" she pauses, looking down at her fidgeting fingers twisting a ring around one of her fingers. "I moved because - well, you've seen the way people stare at us when we head back to our apartment, like a thousand questions are just *waiting* to tumble out of their mouths. It's like they're wondering, 'Are they doing it? Are they doing it? Are they together? What about Ross?' And-and I just felt like it was too much." Again, she pauses, this time searching Joey's face for recognition. "I - I didn't move for us, Joey, I moved for *them.* I know it's not a very good reason. But, well, and Emma's getting bigger . . . I don't know . . ." she trails off at last, her cheeks growing pale, a frustrated calm taking over.
Joey looks at her, taking her in. Her frame, petite, hesitant, and on the verge of trembling, table lamp throwing golden light onto golden hair, the careful placement of candles, vases, pictures of the gang and of Emma, fashion magazines and a few novels lining a small bookcase, a play corner for Emma complete with a child-sized table with drawers for toys, crayons, and stuffed animals. And then it hits him. This place is quintessentially Rachel. It radiated her. And she had never had this before, a whole apartment that she could call her own. He found himself smiling.
"Rach," he said. "I understand."
And that's all it took. In a split second she had hugged him.
End of Flashback.
That had to have been one of the worst days of his adult life, thinks Joey as he reaches his apartment building, and shakes his head, determined to focus instead on baseball, Yankee Stadium, and the thought of Rachel leaning in to ask the name of the players.
~*~*~*~
The Village, drenched in the golden light of early evening, rings with relaxed contentment as Rachel steps out of the taxi cab, handing the driver some bills. She had given up around 43rd Street and hailed a cab. Although she would have loved to give into the freshness of the autumn air and the almost irresistible pull of Manhattan's streets, that palpable force of the city that allows you to sink into your thoughts and run away with your memory amid the pulse of the crowd, the pain from her Prada shoes became all too real around 44th, and a glance at her watch at the intersection told her it was time to grab a quick ride home. Joey would be ready, and Phoebe would be waiting for her to unlock her apartment to grab Emma's pajamas, toothbrush, and a change of clothes. It had been decided that Emma would stay the night with Phoebe and Mike and return the next day. Emma wanted to bake Phoebe's special chocolate chip cookies, and far be it from Rachel to keep flour, sugar and eggs in abundance in the pantry, although the chocolate chips themselves wouldn't be a problem.
Now, tugging the vestibule door to her apartment door open and dashing up the stairs, silently cursing Prada, she is ten minutes late, and can almost see Joey's mock-stern face reprimanding her before it gives way to a silly grin and forgives her shyly, slightly embarrassed at it's own game of pretending to be mad. Breathless, she rounds the corner to find the door to apartment 19 open, Emma's voice drifting out of it, jabbering excitedly about something.
"Hey, Ems," says Rachel as she enters the apartment. Emma is in her usual spot, on Joey's lap in the barcalounger, and Ross is perched on a barstool with his jacket over his knee, watching his daughter's enthusiasm with a bemused smile.
After all these years, Joey's apartment looks the same. He says it is because he likes it the way it is, and doesn't see any reason to change it, but Rachel has always sensed that there is some deeper reason why he has kept everything so stubbornly the same. It is as if he is holding on to something, a memory that is fading not only with time, but with every seemingly small and insignificant modification to his home, like changing where he puts the mail, or making space for the laptop that he has finally given into buying. Rachel, after finding a perfume of hers not yet discarded from Joey's medicine cabinet, has only sometimes dared to think that she is the reason, the memory he cannot let go of. After all, it was her that he had fallen in love with, and perhaps it was her that had been the only one to love him back. And it has become all too clear that she will never live with him again, now that she and Emma have their own place and Ross is thrilled that there is distance between her and Joey, however short the walk between their doors. Rachel, too, is content with the distance. It keeps Ross at bay, and those lingering questions that rest in her friends' eyes from ever being voiced. There are nights, though, when Rachel has slipped on her bathrobe and has one hand on the doorknob, ready to knock on Joey's door and sleep in her old room in his apartment, his breathing floating heavy and comforting through the wall. She pauses, usually, and turns reluctantly around, settling instead for her dreams, and her bed in apartment 17, wide and always half-empty.
"Look mommy!" cries Emma, proudly holding up a navy blue t-shirt that says 'Yankee's' on the front and 'Soriano 12' on the back. "Joey got it for me." She slides off his lap and runs to show Rachel, who is giving Joey a you-shouldn't-have look.
"That's great, Emma." She looks at the back. "Soriano, huh?" she says, then laughs. "Who the heck is he?" Emma and Joey both shoot her quizzical looks. "Okay, evidently I should know who he is . . ."
Behind her, Ross clears his throat. "Uh, Rach? Alfonso Soriano, one of the best second basemen *ever*?" Rachel gives him glare and Joey bits his lip while Ross continues, "Yeah, Soriano has one of the best records in baseball, a .314 average, 38 homeruns, only *seven* errors this season. He's on fire!"
Finally cracking, Joey turns to Rachel, whispering, "Yeah, and so are his pants. I just told him all that stuff like two seconds ago."
Rachel laughs, and picks up Emma.
"Alright, Little Miss Soriano, let's get you packed up for a night at Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Mike's. Sound good, sweetie?" She plants a kiss on her cheek, and Ross comes over to do the same on her other cheek. Emma giggles, delighted.
Her eyes glowing at her new nickname, Emma nods vigorously. "Aunt Phoebe!" she exclaims, and pushes her self out of Rachel's grasp. In a flash she is out the door, down the hall, and tugging vigorously on the door handle of apartment 17, her glossy dark waves bouncing along after her.
"What do you say to Joey, Ems?" Ross says, calling to his daughter out the open door.
There is a pause, Emma evidently pondering what to say to Joey. Rachel can picture her, one hand reaching up to grasp the door handle, the other coming to rest on her chin, her eyes cast to the ceiling, brow knitted, thinking.
And then it comes.
"Thanks for the Yankee shirt, Uncle Joey!" she yells, and Rachel can almost see her lips parting in a proud grin for remembering. She smiles, and joins Emma out in the hall, unlocking the door to the apartment, anticipation now in every action leading up to tonight and the scattering of the couples. Within minutes, Ross will join Charlie at a paleontology lecture, Phoebe will show up, waiting to pick up Emma, a grocery bag of cookie ingredients dangling at her side, and Joey and herself will be stepping into a cab, gripping the seat beneath them as it jolts into traffic, headed for Yankee Stadium.
"Come on, Ems, let's get you ready."
~*~*~*~
Author's note:
Thanks for reading and please leave a review.
I know this chapter is a bit slow, and not a ton happens between Joey and Rachel. Give it time. My writing style is really different than most here at ff.net, but this is the only way the story is coming out. I hope all of you aren't bored off your socks. :0) Let me know if you are.
Oh, and excuse my highly romantic view of New York, but I adore that place.
Kristine
Premise: Rachel and Joey. With a little baseball and Barbados thrown in for good measure. Two years and three months into the future. Other characters included.
Okay, so I haven't updated this story for a good six months, and a lot can happen in six months. Scratch that, a lot DID happen in six months. (You may want to read, or re-read chapter one before you read this chapter - it'll make more sense.) Please understand that I started this story pre- season 10, so the present season ten does not exist in this semi-alternate universe, and I have provided flashbacks that serve to fill in some holes. Thanks, and enjoy! And review!
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. And I *still* wouldn't be Bright, Kauffman or Crane if you paid me.
Chapter 2: Little Miss Soriano
It is not quite 5:30, and already the streetlights are blinking on, pale and useless in September's most brilliant evening, the trees that line the street erupting in oranges and plumb reds, spilling their leaves as freely as children do secrets, carelessly and with little regard to where they may fall. Joey waits patiently for a string of taxi cabs to pass before crossing the street, the sunlight bouncing off their hoods and producing an even more sparkling shade of yellow in defiance of the dull gray of the pavement below. The Village is awash with long pink shadows, the summer reluctant to leave its warmth behind, and let the sky sink into the duskier hues of autumn.
Only an hour and a half before the first pitch is thrown, thinks Joey. Only an hour and a half before we're at Yankee Stadium.
We.
Rachel and I.
Despite himself, Joey allows a tiny grin tweak the corners of his mouth; he hasn't been alone with her for a long time. Because of this, tonight seems like a special privilege, and he suddenly feels like a child who is allowed to stay up an extra hour before bedtime and doesn't have to drink his milk with dinner.
At last Christopher Street is free of taxis, and Joey crosses almost reluctantly onto Bedford Avenue, a white plastic bag swinging at his side. If there's anything he's learned these past two years, it is to walk home slowly, and let himself be swept in by the continuous crowd pulsing its way through the streets. Somehow it provides a sort of comfort, a sense of reassurance and belonging, the lone constant in his life. In the crooked streets of Greenwich Village, alive with street musicians, coffeehouses, vendors, and jazz clubs, it is hard to feel alone. It is hard to remember that he has no one to hurry home to.
He waived that right two years ago, thinks Joey as he passes a small French café, Billie Holliday's gently quavering voice drifting out of the doorway. A man with graying hair is buying daisies at a flower stand, handing the vendor some bills. "They're my wife's favorite," he says, smiling. The vendor gives a knowing nod, and tips his cap, the image of a 1940s black and white film, as the man moves along ahead of Joey, carrying the flowers at his side.
He waived that right, too. He can no longer rush home, stopping briefly to buy flowers, Chinese take-out for two, and a double tall nonfat to-go latte with from Central Perk, Rachel's signature drink. There would be no one home to receive such things. And bringing them next door has never felt quite the same.
Two years this October, thinks Joey. Early October, when you finally have to give in and turn the heat on in the apartment. That's when Rachel moved out. The week he had to turn on the furnace.
Flashback: Roughly two years ago, the day Rachel moved out.
"Joey!"
For the third time now, he can hear Monica's voice, high-pitched and exasperated, coming through the door of apartment 20. He has been hiding here out all day, now-warm beer in hand, pacing short circuits on the balcony, unable to face the festivities of moving day: the suitcases, people delivering Rachel's new furniture (all from Pottery Barn with the exception of one end table from Anthropologie), Monica's scale model of apartment 17, accurate down to the placement of lamps and vases, and his friends' faces, completely oblivious to the pain of it all. Chandler would perhaps shoot him concerned glances, checking to make sure he is alright, but Ross would barely be able to contain his glee at the move, Monica would be annoyed that he wasn't helping enough, Phoebe would probably be writing a song about it all, and Rachel would look everywhere but at him.
The sooner this day is over, the better.
"Joey! Rachel wants to see you in her apartment."
Monica's voice is nearer and more exasperated, and Joey can hear her stomping her way across the hall, but makes no move to climb through the window and open the door, and continues pacing. The door opens, and Monica enters looking annoyed, her hair swept up in a messy ponytail, blue eyes blazing, scale model in hand.
He is nowhere in sight. She pauses, looking around, confused by his absence.
"Joey?" she says in a rather small voice.
Cautiously, as if exploring a stranger's apartment, she tiptoes to the bathroom. The door is open, nobody inside.
Guest bedroom: empty.
"Joey, are you here?"
No answer.
"Who are you looking for?" comes Chandler's voice as he enters the apartment, hands in his pockets and a unsettled expression on his face, evidently looking for any excuse to get away from all the moving.
"I can't find Joey. Can you check the coffeehouse?"
Relief washes over him. "Oh dear God yes!" he says, grabbing his coat. "Thank you! Just please don't send me back to Rachel's place. Ross is so giddy she's moving that it's only a matter of time before he explodes with sheer glee." He bites his lip. "I just don't want to be there when it happens."
Monica gives a half-laugh. "Okay, just check the coffeehouse for me then, will you?"
"Consider it done," replies Chandler and hurries out the door, whistling, as Monica heads toward the balcony to check.
She sticks her head out the window. Joey stops pacing, and slowly turns to face Monica. Standing there, he looks drained, as if someone has siphoned all his energy away and all that is left are his eyes, shining as if on the brink of spilling tears. Monica immediately softens, and setting down the scale model, she makes her way over to Joey, enveloping him in a hug. He even smells like sadness.
"Oh my god, Joey, are you going to be alright?"
*No,* thinks Joey. * I'm not going to be okay. Everything is going to suck.*
He gives a shrug. Monica nods, understanding.
"Um, Rachel wants to see you in her apartment." She pulls back, looking him in the eye. "Joey, honey, you have to talk to her sometime. She hates leaving, she really does."
"Is it over? The move, I mean. Is it over?" he asks, not sure what answer, yes or no, would be the better one.
"Yeah, it's over." And the, Monica breaks into a smile, excitement lighting up her eyes. She holds up the scale model. "Everything's in place. Her apartment looks *exactly* like this," she says, her voice rising an octave, gleeful little giggle just waiting to erupt from her mouth. Joey can see her fight to contain it. "See?" she says, pointing. "This is the kitchen and living room area."
Joey squints at the miniature couches, chairs, counters, and coffee tables superglued in place.
"A-and this?" She says, turning the model. "This is Rachel's bedroom. Yeah, see this is her dresser, and that's her closet, and her bed. Look! I even drew her *exac* sheets! And pillows! And um, well I know this isn't furniture, but her hamper is in that corner by the closet . . ."
Joey sighs, images of all of Rachel's things all perfectly in place in another apartment. Her closet, her dresser, her bed, even her *hamper,* for crying out loud, settling themselves in a place that he cannot call home, in a place that he is not meant to be in, in a place where *she* went to get away from *him.* He closes his eyes, attempting to shut out Monica's rambling, frustration welling up inside him.
"You-you know what, Mon? I'll go talk to her." He interrupts, and gives her a weak smile, brushing past her and through the window. "I'll catch you later."
"But I haven't even told you about her shoe rack! I made it out of toothpicks!" Monica calls after him. Sighing, she turns back to her scale model, smiling at it. "Ahhhh, so perfect," she breathes.
Joey makes his way across the hall to apartment 17, his feet literally dragging.
Monica was right, though, he had to talk to her sometime.
And "sometime" was now.
He reaches for the door handle, and pauses, thinking better of it. He raises his hand, and knocks, the five taps reverberating in his ears. Within seconds, the door swings open, a worn out Rachel in track pants and a sweatshirt on the other side, Joey's personal favorite picture of her. She smiles nervously, all too aware that he has been absent all day.
"Hey there, Joe. You know, you don't have to knock. It's just me." She shoos him in, grabbing his wrist and tugging him through the door.
Joey nods. "Yep," he says, surprised at himself. He is barely able to contain his general and pervasive dislike of the situation as a whole. "It's just you. And I'm just *me.* I get it." He brushes past her. "Nice place, I like all the new furniture," he says, and Rachel winces as his sudden joviality.
*Fake,* she thinks. *He's being fake, fake, fake.*
"Joey, that's not what I meant - I just meant that you're welcome here anytime, and you don't have to knock. I mean, we didn't knock when we were both living next door, right?"
"Right," he says, some of Chandler's sarcasm seeping into his voice.
"Joey, come on," she says, and he looks at her, her eyes pleading, sad. He hadn't noticed that before. "Nothing has to change."
Joey shakes his head, and gestures at the apartment, all of its furniture in its place, lamps turned on and casting shadows of a glowing yellow, framed pictures hanging on the walls. "Rach, *everything* has changed. You even said it yourself. We *don't* live next door anymore, together. You moved. You-you bought all this stuff. You have your own place, your own life, and I have mine."
Rachel's eyes popped, and her breath caught in her throat in surprise. *Was he really saying this?*
"Is - is that really what you want? *Separate* lives?"
Joey turns. "Do you?" It came out more accusatory than he had intended.
"What? No, Joey, that's not why I moved!" Exasperated, she takes his elbow and leads him over to the couch, pulling him down to sit beside her.
Joey follows her, the contact of her fingers touching his skin sending his head spinning. He suppresses the urge to pull her to him, and for the millionth time, his mind starts to replay their kiss in Barbados.
"Joey, I didn't move to get away from you. I moved -" she pauses, looking down at her fidgeting fingers twisting a ring around one of her fingers. "I moved because - well, you've seen the way people stare at us when we head back to our apartment, like a thousand questions are just *waiting* to tumble out of their mouths. It's like they're wondering, 'Are they doing it? Are they doing it? Are they together? What about Ross?' And-and I just felt like it was too much." Again, she pauses, this time searching Joey's face for recognition. "I - I didn't move for us, Joey, I moved for *them.* I know it's not a very good reason. But, well, and Emma's getting bigger . . . I don't know . . ." she trails off at last, her cheeks growing pale, a frustrated calm taking over.
Joey looks at her, taking her in. Her frame, petite, hesitant, and on the verge of trembling, table lamp throwing golden light onto golden hair, the careful placement of candles, vases, pictures of the gang and of Emma, fashion magazines and a few novels lining a small bookcase, a play corner for Emma complete with a child-sized table with drawers for toys, crayons, and stuffed animals. And then it hits him. This place is quintessentially Rachel. It radiated her. And she had never had this before, a whole apartment that she could call her own. He found himself smiling.
"Rach," he said. "I understand."
And that's all it took. In a split second she had hugged him.
End of Flashback.
That had to have been one of the worst days of his adult life, thinks Joey as he reaches his apartment building, and shakes his head, determined to focus instead on baseball, Yankee Stadium, and the thought of Rachel leaning in to ask the name of the players.
~*~*~*~
The Village, drenched in the golden light of early evening, rings with relaxed contentment as Rachel steps out of the taxi cab, handing the driver some bills. She had given up around 43rd Street and hailed a cab. Although she would have loved to give into the freshness of the autumn air and the almost irresistible pull of Manhattan's streets, that palpable force of the city that allows you to sink into your thoughts and run away with your memory amid the pulse of the crowd, the pain from her Prada shoes became all too real around 44th, and a glance at her watch at the intersection told her it was time to grab a quick ride home. Joey would be ready, and Phoebe would be waiting for her to unlock her apartment to grab Emma's pajamas, toothbrush, and a change of clothes. It had been decided that Emma would stay the night with Phoebe and Mike and return the next day. Emma wanted to bake Phoebe's special chocolate chip cookies, and far be it from Rachel to keep flour, sugar and eggs in abundance in the pantry, although the chocolate chips themselves wouldn't be a problem.
Now, tugging the vestibule door to her apartment door open and dashing up the stairs, silently cursing Prada, she is ten minutes late, and can almost see Joey's mock-stern face reprimanding her before it gives way to a silly grin and forgives her shyly, slightly embarrassed at it's own game of pretending to be mad. Breathless, she rounds the corner to find the door to apartment 19 open, Emma's voice drifting out of it, jabbering excitedly about something.
"Hey, Ems," says Rachel as she enters the apartment. Emma is in her usual spot, on Joey's lap in the barcalounger, and Ross is perched on a barstool with his jacket over his knee, watching his daughter's enthusiasm with a bemused smile.
After all these years, Joey's apartment looks the same. He says it is because he likes it the way it is, and doesn't see any reason to change it, but Rachel has always sensed that there is some deeper reason why he has kept everything so stubbornly the same. It is as if he is holding on to something, a memory that is fading not only with time, but with every seemingly small and insignificant modification to his home, like changing where he puts the mail, or making space for the laptop that he has finally given into buying. Rachel, after finding a perfume of hers not yet discarded from Joey's medicine cabinet, has only sometimes dared to think that she is the reason, the memory he cannot let go of. After all, it was her that he had fallen in love with, and perhaps it was her that had been the only one to love him back. And it has become all too clear that she will never live with him again, now that she and Emma have their own place and Ross is thrilled that there is distance between her and Joey, however short the walk between their doors. Rachel, too, is content with the distance. It keeps Ross at bay, and those lingering questions that rest in her friends' eyes from ever being voiced. There are nights, though, when Rachel has slipped on her bathrobe and has one hand on the doorknob, ready to knock on Joey's door and sleep in her old room in his apartment, his breathing floating heavy and comforting through the wall. She pauses, usually, and turns reluctantly around, settling instead for her dreams, and her bed in apartment 17, wide and always half-empty.
"Look mommy!" cries Emma, proudly holding up a navy blue t-shirt that says 'Yankee's' on the front and 'Soriano 12' on the back. "Joey got it for me." She slides off his lap and runs to show Rachel, who is giving Joey a you-shouldn't-have look.
"That's great, Emma." She looks at the back. "Soriano, huh?" she says, then laughs. "Who the heck is he?" Emma and Joey both shoot her quizzical looks. "Okay, evidently I should know who he is . . ."
Behind her, Ross clears his throat. "Uh, Rach? Alfonso Soriano, one of the best second basemen *ever*?" Rachel gives him glare and Joey bits his lip while Ross continues, "Yeah, Soriano has one of the best records in baseball, a .314 average, 38 homeruns, only *seven* errors this season. He's on fire!"
Finally cracking, Joey turns to Rachel, whispering, "Yeah, and so are his pants. I just told him all that stuff like two seconds ago."
Rachel laughs, and picks up Emma.
"Alright, Little Miss Soriano, let's get you packed up for a night at Aunt Phoebe and Uncle Mike's. Sound good, sweetie?" She plants a kiss on her cheek, and Ross comes over to do the same on her other cheek. Emma giggles, delighted.
Her eyes glowing at her new nickname, Emma nods vigorously. "Aunt Phoebe!" she exclaims, and pushes her self out of Rachel's grasp. In a flash she is out the door, down the hall, and tugging vigorously on the door handle of apartment 17, her glossy dark waves bouncing along after her.
"What do you say to Joey, Ems?" Ross says, calling to his daughter out the open door.
There is a pause, Emma evidently pondering what to say to Joey. Rachel can picture her, one hand reaching up to grasp the door handle, the other coming to rest on her chin, her eyes cast to the ceiling, brow knitted, thinking.
And then it comes.
"Thanks for the Yankee shirt, Uncle Joey!" she yells, and Rachel can almost see her lips parting in a proud grin for remembering. She smiles, and joins Emma out in the hall, unlocking the door to the apartment, anticipation now in every action leading up to tonight and the scattering of the couples. Within minutes, Ross will join Charlie at a paleontology lecture, Phoebe will show up, waiting to pick up Emma, a grocery bag of cookie ingredients dangling at her side, and Joey and herself will be stepping into a cab, gripping the seat beneath them as it jolts into traffic, headed for Yankee Stadium.
"Come on, Ems, let's get you ready."
~*~*~*~
Author's note:
Thanks for reading and please leave a review.
I know this chapter is a bit slow, and not a ton happens between Joey and Rachel. Give it time. My writing style is really different than most here at ff.net, but this is the only way the story is coming out. I hope all of you aren't bored off your socks. :0) Let me know if you are.
Oh, and excuse my highly romantic view of New York, but I adore that place.
Kristine