A/N:  This is my first fan fic and I have pretty much no clue what I'm doing. J  I'm a bit on the wordy side, so my chapters (I'm hoping to develop this story over several chapters if enough people are interested) will be a little long.  Please R&R and hopefully keep me from writing myself into a corner.  Anyway, I hope y'all like it.  If you do, I'll try to put up a new chapter each week.

Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Joan of Arcadia.  However, I am endlessly fascinated by how many people want to own Chris Marquette.  He is adorable, isn't he?

            "Come with me." 

            Joan glanced at Adam as he plopped onto the sofa next to her.  He smiled that bright, boyish smile of his.  She couldn't help but smile back.  "Where are we going?" she asked, putting her book aside.

            Adam playfully bumped her shoulder with his.  "To New York, yo.  Come with me to New York."

            "What?"  Joan laughed.  Move to New York.  Yeah, right. She couldn't move to New York.  She almost said so, but the look on Adam's face stopped her.  It was such an earnest look.  "Are you . . . are you serious?"

            "Yeah."  He clasped her hands in his as if he wanted to transfer his excitement through touch.  "We could get an apartment together and everything.  We wouldn't have to be apart, Jane."  He paused and stared at her, willing her to say, "Yes, that's a wonderful idea." 

Instead she just sat there—mouth open, mind racing, heart pounding. She was twenty-two years and, while Adam had always known that art was his future, Joan was still trying to figure out which path to take.  She didn't want to be the girl who followed the guy and then lost any sense of direction she'd ever had.  Besides, she and Adam had finally gotten to a good, stable place in their relationship.  Moving in together, moving to New York—they weren't ready, were they?  She wasn't ready.  Why risk what they had with a potentially disastrous move to a whole, other region? 

            As she tried to overcome her rampant fears, Adam's face fell.  He lowered her hands into her lap and put his in his pockets.  She felt cold as if the sun had died.  "Adam," she said, her voice pleading with him to understand.

            He just shook his head.  "You won't come."

            She tried to tell him—tried to explain her concerns.  But the words wouldn't come.  Joan wrapped her arms around her waist and lowered her head to hide the tears shimmering in her eyes.  "I'm sorry."

            *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *          *

"Ugh!"  Joan threw her pen down, disgusted with her inability to focus on the papers in front of her.  "This is ridiculous."

            "Problem?" Grace asked as she came into the living room.  She sat on the sofa, nestled her popcorn bowl in her lap and observed her roommate. 

            Joan dropped her face in her hands before thrusting them into her hair.  "Something is most definitely wrong," she groaned. 

            Grace stuffed a handful of popcorn in her mouth and watched Joan fold her arms on the table and bury her face in them.  "This problem of yours wouldn't concern a certain prodigal son, would it?"

            "How did you know?" Joan asked.  She winced at the pathetic moan otherwise known as her voice, but thinking about Adam had that effect on her. 

            Grace scoffed. 

"Wait a minute."  Joan stared up at her friend in disbelief.  "You knew he was back in town?  I had to find out reading the paper.  Why didn't you tell me?"

            "One, I'm not the one who stopped talking to him.   Two, I knew you'd get all worked up about it if I did."  Grace held out her bowl to Joan.   "Popcorn?"

            Joan glared at Grace.  "No, thank you."

            "Suit yourself."  Grace picked up the remote and turned on her movie. 

            "That's it?" Joan demanded.  "'Suit yourself?'  Some friend you are."

            "What do you want from me, Girardi?" Grace asked without taking her eyes off the car chase on the screen.

            "Help me," Joan pleaded. "Tell me what to do."

            Grace snorted.  "Like you'd listen."

            "Just tell me," Joan said, resisting the urge to throw something at her.

            "All right."  Grace focused all of her attention on her distraught friend.  "Here goes.  Don't do anything."

            Joan was certain she hadn't heard correctly.  "You're kidding, right?"

            "No."  Reluctantly, Grace paused her movie and turned back to Joan.  "Right now, you're upset.  If you go over there now, there's no telling what will happen.  So wait a couple of days and then go see him.  If he hasn't come to you first, that is."

            It was Joan's turn to snort.  "As if he would."

            Grace pushed the play button and decided not to answer.  She was sure that Joan would be gone within the hour.

            Fifty-five minutes later, Joan pulled up in front of the Rove house.