Head Over Heels

Eight: Everything You Never Knew You Always Wanted

Two Weeks Later

"This is a great place," Rachel sighed, as she scanned the restaurant slowly. Her eyes fell on Joshua again, and she smiled sweetly.

"I'm happy you like it," Joshua grinned, and reached across the table. He took Rachel's hand, and caressed her fingers with his thumb.

Silence fell on the table, as the two smiled at each other lovingly. The darkened restaurant blurred around Rachel, and the soft music that was emanating from the piano in the far corner of the room seemed to fade away, as she looked into Joshua's eyes.

He had asked her out last week, and though she had been reluctant at first, she could not deny her attraction to him. He seemed to be the antithesis of Ross—laid back and cool, he never judged her, and never expected more than she could give.

Joshua lifted her hand to his lips, and placed a soft kiss on her knuckles.

Heat rushed through her, and she flushed, and wondered how much the wine was affecting her reaction.

"Ready to go?" Joshua whispered huskily.

Unable to form words, Rachel nodded shakily, and watched as Joshua signaled for the check.

Thirty minutes later, she found herself pressed against Joshua's apartment door, his lips on her neck, as his hands fumbled for the locks. Guilt coursed through her, and she had to remind herself that she and Ross were no longer together—she had nothing to feel guilty about. Joshua opened the door to his apartment, and the couple stumbled into the room, slamming the door behind them.

Joshua moved from Rachel's neck to her lips, as Rachel pushed images of Ross from her mind. She wanted Joshua, she knew she did, and she couldn't understand why Ross was invading her psyche now. Annoyed with her own conscience, she shoved Joshua onto the sofa, and fell on top of him. He grunted in surprise, as she tore at his shirt, and kissed him roughly.

She wanted this—she needed to move on.

She didn't love Ross anymore. He was too controlling, and too needy all at once. He had unrealistic expectations, he…he…

Kissed so much better than Joshua.

Frustration coursed through her, and she growled audibly, startling Joshua, who was busy fumbling with her bra. He paused, and looked up at her.

"Rachel, are you okay?"

"Fine," Rachel said breathlessly, and moved to kiss Joshua again. He pulled away, his brow furrowed.

"You seem…angry," he ventured.

"I'm not angry, I'm…I'm…" Rachel sighed, and pulled herself off of Joshua. He sat upright, and placed a supportive hand on her knee.

"I don't know what I am," Rachel finally sighed, and looked up at Joshua sadly, "I feel…all of these conflicting emotions, and I don't…I can't…I think I should go," she sighed deeply, and began gathering her clothes.

Joshua's eyes widened, and he took her hand quickly.

"Rach, wait. C'mon, let's talk about this! You don't have to leave," he begged.

Rachel pulled her dress over her head, and turned to Joshua, tears lining her eyes.

"I'm not ready for this," she whispered, and rushed out of the apartment before Joshua could protest.

She hurried out of the building, her heart racing, and her eyes stinging from unshed tears. She was angry, and sad, and disappointed and embarrassed all at once, and it was too much emotion for her to keep bottled up for the sake of dignity. She hailed a cab, and slid into the backseat, sobbing uncontrollably the entire ride.

She couldn't understand why it was so hard for her to move on with Joshua. She'd been just fine all evening, but as soon as they had gotten back to his apartment, her doubts had resurfaced. As the cab pulled up to the corner of Bedford and Grove, she tossed two bills at the cab driver, and climbed out of the car. Wiping her eyes, she made her way up the steps to her apartment, her body still trembling, but her sobs subsiding. She opened the door to find Monica, organizing her recipe box at the kitchen table.

"Mon," she whined loudly, as she slammed the door behind her.

"Rach? Are you okay? What happened?"

"Ross happened!" Rachel replied angrily.

"What?"

"I…I tried to move on…and everything was fine, until Joshua started kissing me, and all I could think about was your stupid brother, and how he kisses so much better, and I shouldn't be having these thoughts when I am with a really great guy, who I like a lot! I hate him! I hate Ross so much!" Rachel rambled angrily, as she paced the kitchen.

"Um, Rach—"

"I mean, why does he have to go and ruin what could have been the best night of my life? Joshua is so…he's just…oh!" Rachel shook her head angrily.

"He's what?" Ross' voice came from behind Rachel, and she froze.

Time stopped. Rachel closed her eyes, and had to remind herself to breathe. She could hear Ross behind her, breathing heavily, and without even turning, she knew the look he wore on his face.

Guilt coursed through her again, and time seemed to speed up again. She turned slowly, her eyes never leaving the floor. Faintly, she heard Monica leave the apartment, and she couldn't help but resent her friend for leaving her all alone at this moment.

"He's what?" Ross repeated, his voice softer, raspier—the voice of a man who had given up on everything.

She sighed, and looked up at him, her eyes glassy.

"He's…different," she sighed, and shrugged slightly.

Ross' face fell, and she realized that her words had come out different than she meant them. She'd meant to say that Joshua wasn't him—that she felt strange being with him, and that she had just come to that realization, standing in her kitchen, looking into his eyes.

"I see," Ross replied darkly, and was heading for the door before Rachel could respond.

"Ross, I meant—"

"It's okay, Rachel," Ross spat, as he grabbed his jacket from the coat rack and looked down at her sharply, "I understand now."

"No, Ross, you don't."

"I have to go," he muttered, and rushed out the door.

"Ross!" she cried, as the door slammed. The echo of the slam rung in her ears, as she silently debated over chasing Ross down the street. But she suddenly felt exhaustion overwhelm her, and rationalized that it was useless to try and reason with Ross when he was upset. Vowing to speak to him in the morning, she shuffled into her room and collapsed, fully clothed, onto her bed.

Monica knocked on the door tentatively, hoping that Chandler was still awake, but still not wanting to disturb him.

Their relationship over the past two weeks had improved, though it was becoming increasingly clear to Monica that Chandler really wanted nothing more than her friendship. Putting her own feelings aside, she vowed to make the friendship work, if for nothing else than to keep Chandler and Isabelle in her life.

Complicating matters was Pete Becker. He had already asked her out numerous times, and two nights ago, she had reluctantly agreed to a date, if for nothing else than to get Pete off her back. She had to admit that his persistence was charming, in a geeky kind of way, and though she wasn't really attracted to him, she felt like she needed to do something to get herself over Chandler.

Now all she had to do was tell Chandler about the date.

The door opened, and Chandler stood on the other side, looking disheveled and sleepy. Monica smiled apologetically, and stepped into the apartment.

"I'm sorry, Chandler, I hope you don't mind—Ross and Rachel are arguing again," she said quickly.

"No, it's fine," Chandler smiled, "I was just reading. Have a seat," Chandler gestured toward the sofa, then opened his refrigerator, "You want something to drink?"

"No, I'm fine," Monica smiled, as she sat down on the sofa. She suddenly felt very nervous, and began wringing her hands.

Chandler grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and returned to the sofa. He plopped down next to Monica, and twisted off the cap of his bottle.

"So, what are they fighting about now?" Chandler asked.

"Rachel went out with Joshua," Monica replied.

"Ouch."

"Yeah. I kind of feel bad for both of them, ya know? Ross is so miserable, and Rachel doesn't seem to know what the hell she wants anymore—" Monica shook her head, "I suppose it's easier to analyze a relationship I'm not a part of."

"Yeah," Chandler replied distantly.

"Speaking of dates," Monica started shakily, "I, um, sort of have one tomorrow night."

Chandler choked on his water, and began coughing roughly. Monica patted his back with a sly smile on her face.

"Are you okay?" she asked, as his coughing fit subsided.

"Fine," Chandler managed to gasp, "wrong throat."

"Uh huh," Monica nodded, and patted his back again.

"So…who…who is he?" Chandler asked, once he'd recovered.

"This guy who owns the restaurant I work at…his name is Pete Becker."

"Pete Becker, as in, Billionaire Becker?" Chandler's eyebrows shot up.

"I guess—he must be, if he owns the restaurant, and that office building downtown, and—"

"You're dating a billionaire?" Chandler repeated incredulously.

"What, I'm not good enough for a billionaire?" Monica asked with mock defensiveness.

"No! I mean, yes, of course you are, I just—"

"What?" Monica folded her arms in front of her.

"I just think maybe he's not good enough for you, is all," Chandler reddened slightly, and looked at his hands.

Monica smiled, but resisted the urge to take Chandler's hand—instead she stood up, and crossed the room.

"I think I heard the door across the hall slam," she said quickly, "I should check on Rachel."

"Yeah," Chandler stood quickly, and crossed the room, "I—I guess I'll see you, um, Sunday or something. Unless he er—flies you to Europe on his jet plane tomorrow," Chandler laughed.

"I'll let you know," Monica laughed and opened the front door. She turned and looked back at Chandler, who was looking at her with what could be perceived—if she let it—as a look of longing. "Goodnight, Chandler," she said softly.

"Goodnight, Monica," he whispered, and watched her walk out the door.

Sighing heavily, Chandler walked to the front door, and locked it, before shutting off the lights and walking toward Isabelle's room. He pushed opened the door, and leaned against the doorframe heavily.

Isabelle was sleeping soundly, her tiny, chubby hands curled into tiny fists, her hair spread messily across her bright pink pillowcase.

He noted that Isabelle looked exactly like her mother when she slept.

Shaking his head, he pulled Isabelle's door closed, and shuffled into his own room. He climbed into bed, and turned to his side, his eyes falling on the framed photo of Caitlin that sat on his nightstand.

Images of Monica and the billionaire flashed through his mind, and in a rush of emotion, he sat up, and pulled open the nightstand drawer. Carefully, he picked up the photo of Caitlin, and set it inside the drawer, before closing it and laying back down.

He clicked off his lamp, and closed his eyes tightly.

And for the first time since he'd left Boston—for the first time since Caitlin's death, he was very aware that his dreams were no longer haunting him—his dreams were no longer about Caitlin.

His mind began to work out all that had happened, and all that he had done to push Monica away.

And he realized, as he drifted into unconsciousness, that he would have to fight to win her back.

And he would.