A/N: A HUGE thank you to all of my wonderful reviewers. You guys are awesome. And because you're all so awesome, look what I've done! Another chapter! Now, I haven't proofread this one (something I've actually been trying to do lately). But I don't/won't have time before Thanksgiving break, and then I'll be home chillin' with my homies so I definitely won't be working on this. Therefore, it was either post the chapter with the typos, or wait two weeks until I have time to fix them and post it then. So I chose typos. Hope there aren't too too many.

Keep reviewing!! Much love to all of you and happy Thanksgiving!

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After our three-week-long relationship, here's what I know about Chase:

He's an only child. (Unfortunate, yes. I am of the opinion that only children are one of the major downfalls of modern society. However, Chase must obviously be an exception to this rule.)

He has some aunt who he's never met but apparently has control over his "fortune" and will cut him off if he doesn't marry a girl with "social status." (Spent considerable time discussing what exactly social status entails, finally decided he will have to shoot for either an Olson twin or a Bush Twin. Of course we both know he's really shooting for me.)

He eats his grilled cheese with ketchup.

He listens to crappy music. (Like Avril Lavigne. He listens to Avril Lavigne. Yuck.)

He hates Sophie Walker.

He likes me.

Maybe that's not a lot. To be honest, Chase really says very little about himself. He generally lets me do the talking. But there are some things that I—me, the ultimate extrovert—to feel completely comfortable discussing with him. For instance, Christian. I don't mention Christian. So I guess we're even in the not-sharing-too-much area, but that just keeps things interesting. That's what I say anyway.

- - - - - - - - - - -

Jen is still in love with Elton. All this Chase and Sophie business had obscured the issue for a time, but now things are coming around full circle. We've managed to avoid the boy pretty successfully since that night. Now, however, his new girlfriend is throwing him a half-birthday party, and for some odd reason Jen and I are invited.

(It was my idea, the half-birthday thing. I did this last year, feeling how unfair it was for Elton who's birthday is in the summer and never gets celebrated. This year, the girlfriend has changed, but the tradition apparently lives on.)

Jen can't go. She freaks out as soon as I mention Elton, let alone our party invite. There's no way she could keep it together for a whole evening. Unfortunate, as I would love some back-up on this occasion. Why did I ever talk her into liking this guy? Why, why, why?

West and Taylor will also not be attending the party, as they have "previous engagements," which seems suspect to me. And who knows about Christian.

"It doesn't matter that you've never met him," I assure Chase when I'm explaining the situation to him. "You can still come. you can be, like, my date or something."

"Ah, I see," Chase answers knowingly. "You just want to bring a guy to the ex-boyfriend's party. I can see right through you, Becka Hanson."

I roll my eyes. "No," I moan. "But if I've got to suffer through this someone had best suffer with me. Come on. Please, please, please?"

"Well, I would," he says. "But I'm actually going to be in New Hampshire this weekend."

New Hampshire? "What for?" I ask.

"The inheritance aunt is sick and it is apparently my duty to sit by her bed and earn brownie points."

"That's so irreverent," I scold.

"And yet such an accurate portrayal of what I'll be doing."

Hmmm. It's no fun either way. "How long will you be gone?" I ask.

Chase shrugs. "Hopefully less than a week."

That's not encouraging. "A week?!" I complain. "What exactly am I supposed to do with myself for a week?"

"Miss me horribly and languish in self pity," he answers, smiling roguishly. "Anyway, just don't go to the party," he adds.

"I have to," I answer solemnly. "Nobody else is going and someone has to represent the group. Thus the duty falls to me."

Chase shakes his head, laughing at me seriousness. "Well, then go and suffer." I scowl. "You'll be fine. You have Christian," he says.

Ha ha ha. Now there's a good one. As far as Christian is concerned, I've got nothing.

- - - - - - - - - -

I've never me the new girlfriend (Amelie? Amanda? America? What was her name?), but already I don't' like her. And no, this is not because of any latent Elton attachments, in case anyone is jumping to conclusions. It's that not only has the girl stolen my whole half-birthday idea, she stole my theme from last year too. And she's making like the whole thing is her brilliant plan. Damn her.

The natural theme for a half birthday party is haves. In other words, you come dressed half as one thing and half as another. That's what I cam up with last year. I've got a good outfit this time around. From head to toe I'm warring: tiara with elaborate hairstyle, soccer jersey, large prom-type skit, cleats. Prom Queen Soccer Girl. It's much more creative than the over used bikini-top-ski-pants gig. It's amazing how many girls just want to dress scantily.

But here's what I'm really wondering: how long do I have to stay?

When I step out of the car, holding the prom skit above my cleats, I've got a tentative game plan. Which a happy half-birthday to Elton, meet the new girlfriend (what is her name?), run. I haven't talked to Elton since leaving my finger indentions on his face and I'm wondering how awkward this is going to be.

I wish Chase was here. I wish I was talking to Christian.

He's here, by the way, dressed as a half-cowboy-half-Indian. (Outfit includes: boots, jeans, chaffs. He's shirtless, with what I'm guessing is war-paint smeared across his chest and face, and with a couple of feather tied around his head.) I want to cross the room and loop my arm around his waist and have him laugh with me about why was I invited?

I can't though. I spot Elton and instead I cross the room towards him.

"Hey, happy half-birthday!" I say cheerfully, giving him a somewhat-stiff side-hug.

"Becka," he says. "Good to see you."

Right. I'm sure that's what we're all thinking.

"So have you met Amy? My girlfriend?" he continues.

Amy. Of course. "No," I smile, turning to the girl next to him and shaking her hand. "Hi, I'm Becka."

"I know," she says proudly, as if she expects a trophy for that. Amy is wearing a bikini and ski pants. Gag me. Her hair is set into loose-Jessica-Simpson curse, and died a fakey-red color. I try to thing of something nice to say.

"So," I begin after a few moments of uncomfortable silence. "So Amy. I hear you're... musical," I finish lamely. It's about all I've heard about her. Amy, however, is apparently able to take up any conversation regarding herself with great alacrity.

"Well," she begins, feigning that kind of humility that is so obviously not humble. "I wouldn't say so myself. All I know is that my friends say I've got more than a little bit of talent."

You mean she has friends? I'm all in awe.

"In fact, I told my parents when they moved me down here into my apartment—which is considerable smaller than what I'm used to, off course. We have a six-bedroom house, you know—that I didn't mind living in such a smaller place because I'm blessed with so many internal resources, you know?"

No. I don't know. I don't have any idea what she's talking about. But I can't think of anything smart to say that might make stop the tide of her talking.

"But I said I could absolutely not live without music, and so they bought me a piano. You know—"

At this point even Elton looks a little pained. (Ha ha ha. Serves him right, going for the "rich girls" as Christian put it.) He breaks in, changing the subject to something that will hopefully exclude Amy from the conversation.

"Good poem you wrote in Creative Writing on Friday, Becka."

"Thanks," I answer and I'm about to say more, but he Amy girl starts up again.

"I write a little myself, you know. And I wouldn't call it good. All I know is my friends think it's really quite excellent."

God. Shoot me. Make her stop. I start looking desperately around the room for someone. Anyone. And there's Christian leaning against the way a little ways away. I think he's listening. I think he's laughing at me.

Christian. Well. You know what they say about desperate times.

"Well, it was good to meet you Amy," I say a bit abruptly. "And happy half-birthday again, Elton. I've got to go talk to Christian. I'll see you guys around." And I turn to make my escape.

"Oh Christian!" Amy says, and I'm forced to turn around again. I feel like crying. Or screaming. Or both. "Christian, the one you're sort of pseudo-dating," she keeps going.

I shoot a look a Elton who must have told her this. He won't really look at me, pretending to be distracted with something else. Obviously somebody's out of the loop. I've got me a new pseudo-boyfriend.

"I just me him," she continues, "Really very nice." She says that like she was surprised to find out he was nice. Probably thinks that anybody who would pseudo-date me is either deranged or at least seriously questionable.

"Yes. Well. He is nice," I say. "And like I said, I've really got to go talk to him, so I'll catch you guys later."

Before the insufferable woman can get another word out, I take off, shooting past Christian and right out the door.

- - - - - - - - - -

During the few days Chase is gone, I'm not sure what to do with myself. Sure, I have Jen and Taylor and West and at least seven guys I could call right now and get dates. But none of that seems to add up to something substantial. Like, it's not enough for me anymore. I don't know why. I've always gotten along without Chase just fine, and I don't know why I can't do it now.

I'm lonely. I realize it two days after Chase's been gone. Becka Hanson, social butterfly, is actually lonely.

It must be Chase's fault. I must miss him a lot.