Eek! I... er... may have forgotten about this – I'm sorry! Here's Part 3 to make up for it! Please read, review and all that good stuff.


They aren't twenty-somethings any more, and they're both tactfully pretending that they haven't noticed the grey hairs and laughter lines each seems to be cultivating – but they still know how to Have A Good Time. At least, they think they do – but, once every few months, they find it reassuring to make sure that they haven't lost the knack.

Both blanketed by a warm cloud of alcohol, they stumble along the sidewalk towards the car they left parked there three hours ago. His wife is always warning him to get a cab if he's had a couple, but at this point in the evening (lovingly christened 'Stage Three: The One Before You're Paralytic' by the two), he doesn't remember his wife's advice. He doesn't even remember that he has a wife.

They throw themselves into the leather front seats, midway through a slurred debate over the advantages of the male and female reproductive systems in practical situations, and he isn't paying attention as he presses all of the buttons on his dashboard in turn until the car starts making noises.

"Mom..." I drum my fingers on the desk absent-mindedly. "Do you ever... uh..." – I consider how to approach the question gently – "...hate me because I'm not your real son?" Okay. Screw 'gently'.

She looks up and smiles guardedly, but I can tell by her eyes that she's alarmed. (I can read her like a book – and she's way easier to understand than all that Shakespeare stuff.) "What do you mean, honey?" she asks, her voice too loud and her smile too fake. "You are my real son! You know that!"

Uh. Sure.

"Legally, yeah. But biologically?" I shrug. "Not so much. We're unrelated, mom. Different genes. DNA and stuff." I raise my wrist and she meets it unblinkingly. "See? Different blood."

My mouth is dry, but one look at Monica's face tells me that this probably isn't the best time to nip down to the nearest Seven Eleven and grab a Coke. So I continue. "It's just..." (my voice cracks slightly, and I'm tempted to make a quick run to the fridge) "... I just wanted to know whether you feel you could – you feel you could... love me... more. If you'd carried me for nine months and given birth to me and known... known that I was yours. If you could have held me in your arms and known that I didn't belong to anyone else."

"Shit—" (she stops herself, always unwilling to swear in front of me). "Come on, Jack! You are mine."


You're either dipping your toe, or you're drowning
You're either dipping your toe, or you're drowning
Is it better never to start, than to bear the pain of having to stop?

Her face is drained of all blood and, normally, I'd make a cross with my fingers and lock away all of the garlic. Only, somehow, I have this feeling that it's not the right moment.

"I'm not," I reply, calmer than I sound. "There are these, like, parts of me in other places... with other people... and however much I try to leave them behind, I can't. And it's pushing me away from you... from everyone."

My eyes prickle with tears. Way to be the man of the house, Mr Bing.

"Whoa, dude!" giggles his friend, crushed against the window as they take the more liberal approach to corners.

His eyes are starting to glaze over, and his head has doubled in weight over the last five minutes. "Stage Four," he informs his friend through cracked lips, allowing his eyelids to droop slightly. "Jus' five more minutes, man," he mumbles, gesturing emphatically. "Jus' five more minutes, then I swear I'll get t' work." The car swerves, narrowly missing a road sign.

"Just a couple more blocks, man," his friend says. "Only... a... a couple more. They're gon' be wondering where we are..." He giggles at an unspoken joke. "A couple more blocks and we c'n go to bed."

"Together?"

Halfway to the bottom;
Instantly forgotten

"I don't understand," she whispers, wiping away a tear which has found its way (don't ask me how) onto my cheek. "What do you mean, Jack? What's brought this on?"

"I mean..." I begin, not entirely certain of what I mean, but damn sure that I mean something. "I mean that... my birth parents. Erica and The Guy, you know? Part of me was left behind when you and..." I pause, unwilling to shape the unfamiliar sounds with my mouth – it's been a banned word for as long as I can remember. "When you and Chandler" – she flinches slightly – "took me home. And then he left! And he took another part of me with him, and it's like... these are pieces of me that I'm never going to get back, however much I want them." I pause. "You get me?"

I never thought it would come so easy;
I never thought it would go so quickly
Is it safer never to love than to risk your heart having to lose?

She sits down on the sofa, head in hands. And I'm scared. I've never seen her look so vulnerable before. I don't want my world to fall apart. I don't want everything I know to fall to pieces. I don't want things to go wrong for me. Me. Me. Christ. I'm so selfish. It's her. Her. It's always her.

"Look. Forget it, Mom. It was just..." For once in my life, I can't find the words. "... I was just..." I allow the sentence to trail off, wimping out of finding a likely excuse in the hope that Monica's imagination will do the job for me.

She doesn't look up.

Damn. I might have to actually say something.

"And... I... I'm sorry, okay? I'm sorry for mentioning it... y'know – his name. I'm an idiot." You said it, Jack.

"You're goin' too fast, man! I swear... I swear you're meant to, like," (a snigger) "slow down before you stop or something, right?"

"Sure," he replies, allowing his leaden foot to rest on the nearest peddle. The car screeches to a halt, the back wheels momentarily leaving the ground.

"How m'ny more blocks, dude?" he asks, resting his head on his arms and gingerly tapping the gas with his big toe.

"Uh... it's hard. Y'know, when I don't have a map to... like... get into." His friend peers into the distance as the car speeds up. "Hey, there's something ahead, man!" A small black figure is silhouetted by the headlights of an approaching car. "Shit! Stop, man! We're gonna hit it! Shit!"

Halfway to the bottom;
Instantly forgotten.
I don't know which way to go...



She swallows. "Look, honey. Maybe... maybe someday we can talk about this – about him, but not now, okay? It... still hurts. It hurts way too much for me to be able to handle this conversation. It's better this way. You know? No contact with him."

Sure, Mom. No contact with him. No contact at all. Except for that letter I just wrote, obviously. Oops.

She brushes the tears from her eyes (which are unattractively red and puffy – I decide not to inform her of this fact), and swallows. "Sweetie, I would love to stay here and... and talk..."

"But?" I interject.

She smiles weakly. "How'd you know that was coming?"

"Just a trick Phoebe told me," I shrug. "But what?"

"I need to pick Anthony up from the airport..." She pauses, watching my face for a reaction.

Anthony. The Boyfriend. Oh, joy.

"Um. Okay," I mutter, reservedly neutral. I'm always trying to be neutral. I'm Switzerland. "Whatever."


He sees it a fraction too late, his alcohol-torn instincts making him sluggish as his foot fumbles for the brake and misses, hitting the accelerator with all his force. The car hurtles forwards – faster and faster and faster –

– and faster and faster – and a sickening scream and a thud – and a thud – and a crash – and then it's gone and they're blanketed in darkness.

Is it wiser never to speak
than to raise your voice, and never be heard?

I'm sorry that this is a bit short (it should be novel length considering the amount of time it took me to write), but the quicker you review, the quicker I'll get the next part up! (;