Too Simple a Word

Chapter 1: Let There Be Snow

November, 2006. On the eve of Joey's return for Thanksgiving, Rachel finds herself on the edge of the forbidden. She must decide whether to lengthen their stolen moment, or return to their half-lives.

Note: Please be aware of dates attached to chapters; the prologue takes place much later than the rest of the chapters.

November 2007.

The sky is a pearly, impassive grey, the kind that makes the promise of snow and then delivers spectacularly. It is late November, just days before Thanksgiving, but the weather is more like mid-January, when a thin sheet of ice freezes puddles into place and New Yorkers wear fabulously long coats, half running to destinations whose awnings and doorways glint with tiny icicles. The only visible signs it is still fall are the sparse leaves that cling to the trees along Fifth Avenue tremble in the wind as if shamelessly frightened. At the curb, Rachel hovers inside the warmth of her cab for a moment before the driver, giving her a meaningful glare, says in Brooklyn parlance, " 59th and 5th. You gettin' out, lady, or you want me to keep the meter runnin'?"

Rachel shakes her head and reaches into her purse for a some bills, handing them to the cabbie. "Thanks," she says, stuffing her hands unceremoniously into gloves and reaching for the door handle.

"Hey," he says, his voice softening as he looks at the two crisp bills in his hand, "bundle up today; there's snow in those clouds."

Rachel throws him a smile and, steeling herself for the blast of cold about to reach her from the street, pushes the cab door open. It is just as cold as she imagined; the wind, in its pursuit of those last trembling leaves, stings her cheeks and nose a bright, rosy pink. Her breath rises like a frozen song in front of her before evaporating into the air, and the world seems to burst open around her, the cold getting inside crevices of her coat and scarf until she feels completely, even divinely alive. Head bowed against the winter air, she plunges through midtown's crowd, nearly jogging the last half-block to tug the vestibule door of the Ralph Lauren building open.

It was here that nearly a week ago she somewhat randomly ran into Chandler while coming home from work. It had been over a month since she'd seen him last, and over a year since she'd bumped into him on 5th Avenue, something that used to occur so often that they'd taken to calling each other if they were running late and couldn't share a cab downtown. They'd ride together, bumping along streets and being hurled backward and forward as the cab lurched in traffic. There they would ride together, sharing cab fare and office stories until they arrived in their little neighborhood in lower Manhattan.

This was before what Rachel now referred to as That Year, the year that she and Ross got back together, the year Phoebe got married, the year the twins came, the year that Chandler and Monica moved out of the city and the term "Apartment 20" lost all of its charm, and the year Joey moved away and the term "Apartment 19" likewise lost all of its charm. He hadn't come back to New York since his departure nearly three years ago. But even this far from California, there are reminders, flickers of memory bright and blinding as a camera's flash. She sees his remnants everywhere—he is in the coffee shop, he is in line at the grocery store, he is buying gum at a magazine stand she passes on the way to pick up Emma at school. Every time she spots someone with dark hair and olive Italian skin, a wrinkle stealing across his forehead, there he is. And every time she feels for a half second as if That Year never happened, as if the relative simplicity and joy of the years before That Year was still within reach. And then he would turn, and the moment would pass, fading away to the present, sticky and muddy with the everydayness of things.

That Year was years ago, but whenever it was mentioned by one of the six, That Year always came out as a soft growl, as if no one could quite get over the fact that everything had happened all at once.

But last week, on a bright, cloudless Tuesday, Chandler had been there, waiting to cross 59th street, shielding his eyes with a newspaper from the golden yellow glare bouncing off the hoods of passing taxi cabs. She'd been so happy to see him that she'd actually run up to him on the street, surprising him into dropping his newspaper when she'd wrapped her arm around him from the side.

"Jesus Christ!" he'd muttered, his blue eyes popping in surprise and immediately returning her hug in his brisk, on-armed fashion, his fingers molding into her back. "Rachel, Rachel, great to see you," he had said, stepping back and bending to recover his newspaper. He waggled it at her. "Don't you ever do that again," he'd said, mock-threateningly, and tipped her a shadow of a wink. She'd thrown her head back and laughed, what she now recalled, with a jolt of surprise, was her first real laugh in months.

They'd immediately set a lunch date, agreeing that one random meeting in more than a year was insane, since they worked only blocks from each other. They'd agreed that yes, they were idiots for not realizing their error sooner, and yes, they'd missed each other. And so the date was set.

Now, impatiently waiting for the elevator door to open onto the 24th floor and breezing past her always slightly disheveled yet flawlessly organized assistant, Rachel finds the sanctuary of her office.

"Good morning, Mrs. Gellar," chirps her assistant, Sybil, coming through the door after her, and Rachel fights a cringe. Despite her heartbreaking and meticulous eagerness, Sybil's ponytail has already come undone on one side; her frizzy red-brown hair is flopping restlessly into her eyes. "There are new swatches on your desk for the Spring Collection, and your meeting with Mr. Zelner isn't until 3:30."

Rachel tries to smile naturally as Sybil pushes her permanently crooked glasses further up the bridge of her nose, which is somehow the most eager-looking of all her features. "Thanks, Sybil," she says, plucking some files from her briefcase. "And take these folders up to Natasha, will you?" She pauses, and Sybil takes an enthusiastic step forward. "Not the Natasha in human resources, the Natasha who always wears white. Oh, and no bothering me until after my meeting. For anything." Sybil nods fervently and, taking the folders from Rachel, leaves her in peace.

Rachel goes straight to the phone, dialing a number by heart.

Three rings and a click, and then a husky, early morning voice answers. "Campaign Management. This is Chandler Bing," he says. The familiar sarcastic undulation in his voice makes Rachel grin into the phone's receiver. His office must love him, she thinks; he has just enough tempered sarcasm to fit into the advertising world.

"Chandler, it's me." Rachel pauses, wondering if, after months of painfully little phone conversation, he would know who "me" was. She is sure that in the Bing household, Monica had the sole right to the name, just as she is equally sure that in Monica's head, it was capitalized, just as a proper name should be. Me. So she adds, "It's Rachel. Are we still on for lunch today?"

"Rachel, hi!" Some of his voice's early morning grogginess disappears, though his voice still cracks slightly and Rachel can hear him settle back into his chair.

"Wow, someone's tired this morning."

"Well, someone has to take the train all the way from the 'burbs every morning, you unbelievably lucky Manhattanite" he says, a distinct drollness in his voice.

"So, we're on for lunch, right?"

Chandler laughs. "Of course we're on for lunch. Jesus, I've been looking forward to this all week. Any excuse to not have to walk the walk of shame into the office."

Rachel scratches her nose. "The uh—the 'walk of shame,' Chandler? What did you do, sleep with your lunch?"

"No," comes the reply. "The 'walk of shame' would be me carrying my tupperware lunch past my boss' office … looks like the kind of lunch a mother packs for the kid picked last in dodge ball. Come to think of it, I was the kid picked last in dodge ball." The lowers his voice conspiratorially. "Don't tell Mon, though. My geek-tupperware is my safety guard against anyone stealing the stuff—no one knows it's Waldorf salad and spinach-proscuitto quiche I've got in there."

Rachel laughs. "Ok, so we're on. And we won't go anywhere with Waldorf salad and quiche." Chandler loyally does not laugh at this, but Rachel detects an inhale of air that tells her she has struck a cord of approval. "Want to meet at my office and decide from there? Let's see, what time's good for you?" She glances down at her desk and lets out a mute scream; the thing is buried in swatches, and her calendar was nowhere to be seen.

"Yeah, yeah, sounds great. Let's say 12:15. That good for you?"

"Ummm …" She seizes a handful of swatches and piles them on the floor next to her desk, silently cursing Sybil.

"And Rach, tell your boss this'll be a long lunch. I've got some … some stuff I want to talk to you about." His voice, a moment ago laced with relaxed composure, has now turned too calm, too restrained, too soft for its casualness to be entirely plausible. She stops in her frantic search for the calendar, her hands overflowing with more swatches.

"Stuff, Chandler?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah, but what stuff? Good stuff? It'd better be good stuff."

There is a short pause, then, "Of course. Stop thinking anyone's dying, Rach. I'll tell you at lunch."

"Oh, no, no." Rachel let the swatches fall back onto the desk. "You'll tell me now, Bing, or you're buying me lunch." Looking down with a glare, she spots the edge of her desk calendar and tugs.

"You sound a bit busy over there, Rach," says Chandler, seizing his opportunity to not divulge the information. "Do you want to call me back once you find your desk calendar?" He says it with perfect innocence. Rachel narrows her eyes and wheels around, half expecting to find Chandler stepping out from a corner, phone in hand, a knowing smile lighting up his eyes. She looks back down at the calendar in her hands. No meetings until 3:30. 12:15 would be perfect.

"No!" she says, hoping she sounds sufficiently indignant, and adds calmly, "Ok, Chandler, I'll see you at 12:15. And you'll tell me this 'stuff' then, right?"

"With pleasure," he says. "See you. And don't bring your wallet; lunch is on me."

Rachel raises an eyebrow. "My, my, Chandler Bing, you're quite the gentleman. You better not be taking me to Pizza Hut."

"No, no, I prefer the décor of Dominoes. More florescent lighting, better plastic on the chairs, and the checkered floors are endearing."

Shaking her head, Rachel chuckles. "12:15, Chandler. I'll be downstairs." She places the phone down, relishing for a moment in the silence of the office. Glancing to see that her door is closed, she kicks off her shoes under the desk and goes to the window, her stockinged feet making sandpaper sounds on the carpet.

Outside, it has begun to snow, and she looks out the window, a smile spreading onto her face. It falls softly sideways, muting the sounds of traffic below, lending a peace to the air that is rare for Manhattan. She presses her forehead against the glass, hoping that Ross has remembered to bring Emma's hat to school for her. She lets out a soft snort. Of course he's remembered; he no doubt read the weather report days ago.

Snow still has the effect on her that it did when she was a little girl, when she would wake up to find her neighborhood street cloaked in generous heaps of glittering whiteness and she would venture out with Jill in tow, still in their nightgowns, to indulge for a moment in the bright silence of the winter scene, the coldness reaching into her in an almost personal way, her feet leaving perfect footprints behind her. Now, she feels foolish, almost scandalous, to be watching the flakes descend past her window, as if she is involved in some sort of affair. She blushes in spite of herself. Here she is, a successful thirty-five year-old woman with a husband and a beautiful little girl, musing over some simple snowflakes.

From her desk, the phone rings, and Rachel rushes to answer it, and stuffs her feet into the shoes she abandoned under her desk.

"Rachel?" comes her assistant's nervous voice.

"Sybil, I didn't really want to be disturbed. If Natasha's not there, just …"

"It's not about Natasha. It's Dr. Gellar; he's left a … he's left a message."

"A message?" she asks, frowning. "Couldn't you have patched him through?" She eyes her cell phone sitting on and fully charged on the desk. There are no missed calls, no messages received.

There is an uncomfortable pause, and then, "Well, he said to just give you the message. He didn't want to—"

"Let me guess, bother me?" Rachel interjects dryly. She leans back in her chair and looks at her nails absentmindedly, somehow getting a grim enjoyment out of grilling Sybil.

"Well," squeaks her assistant, "that's what he said …" Her voice trails indelicately away.

"Sybil?"

"Yes …?" comes another squeak.

"Well?" says Rachel impatiently. "What's the message?"

Sybil takes a too-big gulp of breath and says hurriedly, as if it would be less painful to say everything all at once, "He said to apologize that he can't make dinner tonight. He has an evening meeting with the paleontology department, says it will probably run late. He wants to reschedule for tomorrow night, same time, same place. Blue Hill, 8:00. He's already changed the reservation and the cancelled the sitter for Emma." She stops abruptly and takes a recovering breath.

"And who will be taking Emma tomorrow night?"

There is a brief pause, and Rachel imagines Sybil frantically rereading her notes. "Someone named Phoebe."

"Well," sighs Rachel, now checking the nail polish on her left hand, "he's certainly taken care of everything. Can you call him back; tell him that'll be fine. And Sybil," she says airily, "please inform my husband that I have a cell phone for a reason. There's no reason why you have to be subjected to a husband and wife go-between."

"Yes, Rachel," says Sybil, and Rachel clicks the line dead, her grim enjoyment evaporated. As she pulls the fresh batch of swatches towards her, she gazes once again outside. Her window is white-washed with the falling snow, now swirling determinedly against the pane. Tearing her gaze away, she settles herself more comfortably into her chair and flips slowly through the swatches, making notations in the file, her mind still dwelling bitterly on Ross.

Her cell phone still sits mockingly on the corner of her desk, defiantly devoid of messages until she reaches for it, staring for a moment at its grey-white screen, and hurls it at the potted plant across the room. It lands with a satisfying thud and a rustle of leaves, leaving the room is silent once again and Rachel breathing heavily at her desk.

It is nearly 12:15 when Rachel rises from her chair, slipping on her coat and checking her purse for her gloves and scarf before finally giving in and shuffling towards the potted plant. She peers into the leafy foliage, its greenness bright and its leaves wetly pungent up close, and spots her phone nestled among clumps of rich potting soil. She reaches for it, feeling its weight cool against her palm, and brushes the dirt from its crevices. Then, quite suddenly, it rings. The name "Ross" appears in block letters on the tiny screen. Puffing air out of her mouth she flips the phone open, answering it with a hollow, "Yes, Ross?"

"Hi, Rach," he answers, completely non-plussed. "I was wondering since we're missing dinner if you'd like to have a late lunch today. I think I've just got enough room in my schedule. Think you can make it downtown?" His voice is breezy, light, and it takes her a moment to realize that he doesn't know she's upset with him. She wonders briefly if Sybil had the guts this morning to call him back. She cracks open her office door, spotting Sybil at her desk. Her assistant is already eating her lunch, flipping through a fashion magazine with almost indecent enthusiasm.

"Ross," says Rachel, putting on her best brisk voice and watching as Sybil whipped around unnecessarily fast in her chair, her back straightening in opposition to her even more disheveled ponytail. "You did happen to get Sybil's message this morning, didn't you? Dinner tomorrow is just fine."

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah. But I though that, you know, if you're free and well, hungry, we could grab something now." Ross says as Rachel watches Sybil nod fervently, one cheek bulging with a bite of sandwich.

"Ross, what's up," she says, closing the door again and leaning against it. "You never ask me to lunch. You have class during lunch."

"Not every day. Not today. I thought—I thought it'd be nice."

"I'm sorry, I can't, Ross. I have a lunch date with Chandler in about … huh, about two minutes ago," she says, and she can feel the anger that welled up insider her all morning start to evaporate.

"Oh, with Chandler?" comes the soft, almost pained reply. He pauses, and Rachel could feel her cheeks growing hot. It'd be so easy to invite him along; the words are on the tip of her tongue, and he is clearly expecting them. Slightly surprised at herself, she bites them back.

"Well," says Ross, "that'll be nice. I guess, um, I'll see you late tonight, then. Have … have a good lunch, and say hello to Chandler for me. I guess I'll see him at Thanksgiving, anyway."

"Right," is all she can manage to say, her cheeks growing hotter still. "See you, Ross."

"Yeah, bye, Rach. Love you." The line goes dead, leaving guilt to bubble unexplained in Rachel's stomach.

She turns, opening the door and passing Sybil, rushing to the elevator. Once inside, she punches the first floor button repeatedly, and the sleek, stainless steel doors close in front of her, leaving her to stare at her blurred reflection divided cleanly in two. Tears start to wind their way down her cheeks despite her best efforts at composure. Only Ross, she thinks. Only Ross can make me go from frustrated to bitter to guilty in the space of one morning. The doors open, revealing an expectant Chandler clad in a long winter coat waiting by the vestibule door. Snow dusts his shoulders and his hair glints in the white light pouring in the window behind him.

He spots her and smiles broadly. Rachel's heels click unsteadily as she walks towards him, his arms open for a greeting and she lets herself be enveloped, breathing in the cold radiating off his jacket. "Rach! Good to see you! You didn't bring your wallet, did ya?" He laughs and steps back, for the first time looking straight into her face. His expression changes instantly, faint lines spreading themselves across his forehead and around the corners of his eyes. "Rach? What's wrong?"

"I'm fine. It's just … just Ross stuff," she says, wiping her eyes on her sleeve and letting Chandler lead the way out the vestibule door and into the swirling snow. "It's silly. Nothing I'm not used to, or for that matter anything I can put my finger on. I can't even explain why I'm upset; it'd just sound stupid." she says, chuckling to herself.

"I'm sure it wouldn't sound stupid," says Chandler, something uncharacteristically soft in his voice, as if he were remembering something personal. Rachel turns to him, undisguised curiosity stealing over her features. She suddenly realizes she's cold, and digs into her purse for her scarf and gloves.

"Where are you taking me?" she asks.

Chandler winks and tugs on her coat sleeve, leading her east along 60th Street so that the snow is now blowing directly into their eyes. "Ask me no questions and I'll tell you no lies," he says, his voice oddly muffled from having tucked his chin down into his scarf. Rachel laughs in spite of herself, slipping slightly on a patch of trodden, already-compact snow.

Ten minutes later they are ducking into a brownstone with a painted black storefront, the letters "Serendipity 3" painted in thin, neat letters above the doorway. Glancing up, Rachel gasps softly. "Oh, Chandler, I've always wanted to come here …" She smiles brightly as he tugs the door open, a faint blush tingeing the patches of his cheeks that are visible above the rim of his scarf.

"Well, it's no Domino's," he says, his voice still comically dampened by the scarf. Rachel laughs, punching him lightly in the chest before stepping inside.

"I think this'll do," she says.

Warmth rushes at them from the comfortably quaint room before them. Rosy reds and rich browns seem to usher them through the door, the smell of cinnamon reaching their noses, the door swinging shut behind them, leaving the snow to fly frustratedly at the windows, unable to get inside. The restaurant is nearly full, couples and groups of friends and the odd tourist grouped haphazardly around tables, mugs of coffee between them.

Shedding their coats, they sink gratefully into squashy chintz chairs at the back of the room, Rachel running her hands over the dark mahogany of the table between them. From a distance, they are everything old friends should be, an easy comfort settling itself between them as they peruse the menu, ordering warm winter soups, crusty bread, and steaming mugs of whipped cream-topped hot chocolate.

Chandler, chewing thoughtfully on a piece of bread, watches Rachel stir her hot chocolate idly with a cinnamon stick, her face more contentedly relaxed than he can remember seeing it in months. He thinks back to her tears in the lobby of the Ralph Lauren building, wondering what had been too silly for her to tell him.

"So Chandler," she says, catching some whipped cream on the tip of her finger and sticking it into her mouth. "I'm here and I'm ready. What was this stuff you had to tell me?" She eyes him across the table, watching as he makes a show of setting his spoon down and wiping his mouth with his napkin.

"Well," he said slowly, never taking his eyes off her face, "Joey will be joining us for Thanksgiving this year. He comes in tonight, on the redeye from LAX."

Rachel stops dead, another whipped creamed finger halfway to her mouth, her gold-flecked eyes wide, and whispers one word: "Joey?"

End of Chapter One. Please be so kind as to leave a review.