Peyton walked slowly out of her room and, with Brooke following unsurely behind, walked to a door at the other end of the hallway.

"Use your key."

Brooke, after a questioning look, inserted the key in the door and turned the latch. The door opened, and as the contents inside came into view, the brunette's eye's widened. She walked slowly into the newly designed room – a bedroom, her bedroom. The walls were of various blending themes – on one, a scene of Paris, on another, her various fashion designs were sketched full-sized and bold on the wall. A third wall housed a dresser and mirror, similar to the one in her parent's house before they had to sell it. As she turned her head, she saw a round bed, pushed up against the back wall facing the door. Next to it, rested a table with a folded piece of paper which read "For your doll house." Above it, were the words "Home" with a framed picture of Brooke and Peyton taken at the beach party earlier in the year. What hung above the bed, however, caught her breath. The sentence, "You are the best company" was painted in white and on the purple background, hung sketches of various photographs she recognized – photos of her and Lucas, Haley, Mouth, Bevin, Rachel, and others. Brooke's heart began to ache.

Peyton put her hands in her back pocket, bit her bottom lip for a brief second, and explained, "I started working on this before . . . everything. That last wall sort of came together later on."

Then, Brooke remembered the reality of recent events, the tension between them. She stood silently, her eyes darting between the overwhelming display of friendship and love before them, and the ground, confusion filling her thoughts. "I don't know what to say."

"Its okay Brooke, I get it. I promise. I'll just . . ."

"Peyton," the brunette turned to the artist and uttered, wrought with emotion, "I have tried SO hard to hate you . . ."

Tears filled Peyton's eyes, as her head hung low. Brooke paused and let out a heavy breath. "But, the deal is . . .. I love you too damn much. And then you go and do stuff like this and remind me of that."

The blonde, surprised and touched, looked up at Brooke with renewed courage. Maybe there was hope after all. Peyton took a final risk and grabbed something out of the dresser drawer. "Here," she said, "one last present."

She handed Brooke a rectangular box, wrapped simply in red with a white bow marking the middle. Brooke took it, with tears rolling down her cheeks, and ripped open the paper. She opened the box and lifted out a black and white drawing of her and Peyton when they were kids, playing in the snow. On the bottom were the words, "A good day." Brooke smiled lovingly at the drawing, remembering.

Peyton spoke. "When I was stuck in the library, I was having trouble staying awake." She hesitated, then continued, "Luke asked me to tell him about a good day. The best day I could think of, the day that first came into my mind, was with you. YOU also made me feel better in that library. You, Brooke, my best friend." The last words came out like a plea – a plea for understanding.

Vulnerable, so wanting for the hurt she was feeling to be replaced by the security of her friendship with Peyton, Brooke begged, "Promise?" Her voice broke.

Peyton looked her in the eyes and firmly stated, "Promise."

With relief, Brooke wrapped and arm around Peyton's shoulder and pulled her into an emotional hug. Both girls let out a sigh of relief. After a few moments, Brooke uttered, "Missed you P. Sawyer." Peyton closed her yes, savoring the moment. "Missed you too, Brooke."

"I'm sorry about hitting you and about everything I said."

Peyton squeezed her tighter and replied, "Shhhhh. . . . we can talk about it all tomorrow."

Brooke released the hug and looked at Peyton, doubt returning to her face, "I don't know how were going to sort this one out."

"Me neither. But we will." Brooke nodded and smiled at the reassurance, and gathered Peyton back in a hug.

"Yeah . . . . we will."