Something Like Love

A/N: First, let me say that I am so sorry that this took so long. I hadn't written anything for this chapter the week before I left (I did, however, finish off half of what will probably be chapter 5), and then when I got back from vacation, I promptly had my wisdom teeth removed. Which I must say left me very uncomfortable and in pain for a few days. I just haven't been in a writting mood but luckily, I hit one the other night and finished it up a few hours ago. Im not completely satisfied with what I have done, but Im so happy to have something finished that I'll take what I can get lol.

I hope my next chapter won't take as long, and I really hope I didnt lose too many of you guys, and that this chapter is up to standard. Thanks for being patient with me :-)

He laid on top of his bed at night, and did what he'd done the past few nights before succumbing to sleep. Stare at the phone.

Her number was right next to it, the piece of paper she'd wrote it on free of creases or damage. It looked like he'd framed the thing, it was so untouched. Almost as if her were afraid to taint it. Certainly, it was too late to call her, anyway . . .

And once again, he became tired of his excuses. He knew the reason he hadn't called. He would be taking a risk . . . he had no idea who this woman was. He had no idea what, if anything, could come of this. Sure, his past failures numbed him a bit, but somehow, this chance felt a lot heavier. He wasn't sure why, but it seemed to scare the hell out of him.

Was it potential? Or simply the looming possibility of disappointment?

And why in God's name was this such a big, fucking deal? It didn't have to be.

. . . It didn't have to be a big deal.

He glanced at his digital alarm clock. It was barely after nine o'clock, and he was feeling a change in the wind.

-----

She got home Friday night, a particularly late night at the restaurant, as usual. God, she hated her job. She hated the envelope of the week's tips that she noticed was even thinner than usual as she tossed it onto the kitchen counter. She hated her paycheck, she hated her uniform. She hated everything.

And, above all, she'd hated what she'd become. When the hell did she take such a cynical turn?

She shook her head, mulling through the bills and taxes that she'd need to take care of in the next few days. It was too late for this. She nonchalantly dropped them into a messy pile next to her tips, and began undoing the messy bun her hair had become on the way to the bathroom. Brushing it smooth with her fingers, she looked herself over in the mirror. Her roots had grown out a bit, her golden color somewhat faded. She tilted her head, trying to decide if she liked the warm brown shade that was taking place.

Until she realized that she just didn't give a shit anymore.

She left the room to go grab some source of contentment out of the fridge, which was surely at the bottom of at least one of those beer bottles, when she heard a knock at the door. She furrowed her brow; no one had buzzed up from downstairs. A little unsure, she went to answer it.

"Who is it?", she asked, having undone the dead bolt but leaving the chain lock in place.

"Ross Geller."

Her eyebrows raised.

"Oh," she answered, a bit surprised. "Um, sure, hold on a second."

Quickly, she stepped back to smooth out her . . . work uniform she hadn't changed out of, unfortunately. She made a face of disgust but tried to disregard it, opting to undo the lock and open the door instead.

"Hi," she said, smiling before she could stop herself.

"Hey," he answered just as warmly. Gesturing into her front room, he asked, "Mind if I . . .?"

"Oh, no, not at all, come on in."

He nodded, taking a few steps into the room so she could shut the door behind him. She wasn't quite sure how to act, since she still wasn't exactly sure why he was here.

"Did you just get off work?", he asked, noticing her crisp, white, collared shirt underneath a black vest, paired with black slacks. He assumed it must be what she wore at her job.

"Uh, yeah, actually."

"I was gonna ask," and he took a deep breath, "if you, maybe, wanted to get those drinks now?" He wasn't exactly looking her in the eye, but he could feel her somewhat hesitate at the request. "I mean, you know, its a Friday night and all, but if you don't want to, we could always-"

"Sure," she interrupted him, both stopping his nervous banter and catching him off guard. "Um, mind if I go change?"

"No, uh, go ahead."

She smiled, nodding her head towards the couch to let him know he could sit. And once he had, she allowed herself to retreat to the bathroom, closing the door behind her. She stared at her reflection again, playing around with her hair before getting a change of clothes out of her bedroom. Maybe she still did give a shit about it.

Maybe it just took the right situation.

-----

Before either of them knew it, they were seated in a corner booth at a local bar. The room was a bit hazy with smoke, but it was a relatively calm place for a Friday night, and they were in an empty corner of the room. They sat across the table from each other, a somewhat tense silence growing, since they'd both consciously abandoned the idea of small talk.

She looked around the room, her gaze lingering on gruff old men playing poker and forlorn looking women in their mid fourties drowning their sorrows in cosmopolitians alike. He, however, was watching her.

He couldn't figure her out. While her appearence seemed careless- from her hair hanging loose and wavy on her shoulders, to the simple white tank top and flowy red skirt that hang down to her knees- she seemed like she came from someplace that wouldn't accept that way of living. He wasn't even sure why, but she almost gave the illusion that it was a relief to not worry about impressing anyone.

While he was still looking her over, she turned her attention back to him and caught him in the act. She threw him a half-smile, however, and gave in to the need for some kind of conversation.

"How long have you lived here?", she asked.

"I didn't move in much before you did, I don't think. But I lived on the other side of the Village, a few years ago, after my first marriage."

Damn, he'd let that slip. He hadn't planned on talking about the divorce . . . and it hadn't helped that he'd added the first.

"First marriage?", she asked, both curious and surprised.

"Ah, you caught that, I see," he joked. She chuckled a little but looked at him in interest, beckoning him to continue. "I got married like right out of college. One of those 'first love' deals, you know?"

"Oh, sure," she nodded along, however big of a lie that agreement was.

"Well, we had dated for like four years. And were married for around three more. But it ended up not working out."

"Why not?"

"Um, conflict of interests?", he tried phrasing it.

"Such as . . .?"

"She likes women now," he put bluntly. He noticed Rachel's draw drop a bit. "Yeah, but we're still friends now. At least, I'd consider it that much." He wasn't even sure why he was telling her this. It wasn't too deep into his past, but it still wasn't information he gave to just anyone. But, somehow, he felt that her presense alone was sympathizing with him. Just her being there.

"Wow." She looked down at her hands, subconsiously twirling two rings around her finger.

"You're married?", he asked, just now noticing what the rings were. It was a gold wedding band, paired with what looked like a very expensive engagement ring. He felt like he was stuck in a stare-down with the diamond, as he wasn't quite sure how to react to it. Disappointment? Sure. But what had he, himself still being a married man, been looking for with her tonight?

"Oh," she exclaimed, as if she had only now noticed the rings. "I didn't even realize I had these on. I guess that's why my tips were so small today," she weakly chuckled in an attempt to lighten the mood.

"So, you are?" He was trying hard as he could to sound casual about it.

"I haven't seen him in half a year, but sure," she vaguely answered. "I guess you'd call it that."

"What? You haven't seen him? What's that mean?"

She took a deep breath. She hadn't made many friends since Barry walked out on her, and she'd only told one of the few anything about the failed marriage. She only even had the rings on be accident, it was just a habit. But this man, he'd been divorced. Maybe he'd understand.

"God, I don't really tell many people this," she admitted, but looked up and met his eye anyway. Her gaze fervently held his attention. "We'd been married for, like, seven years. It was . . . a bad excuse for a marriage, to say the least. We lived on Park, he had his own orthodontist practice. He went bankrupt about eight months ago. That's how we ended up here. And the day we moved in, he went out to get a beer."

She took a sip of the drink she'd ordered, and didn't add to that last sentence at all. He wondered if that was it.

"You haven't seen him since?", he wondered.

"Not once." She merely sat back in her seat, crossing her arms. "I've heard about him through other people, they say he just needs to clear his head. As if there were anything there to clear up," she sardonically joked.

"You seem . . . oddly alright with it," he observed.

"I've been pretty much numb towards it," she replied honestly, shrugging a bit. "We didn't really have much to begin with, anyway. Marriage was just expected. Trust me, I'm not missing out on anything with him gone."

"You haven't tried to file for divorce?"

"Wouldn't know how to get ahold of him if I did," she admitted. "Besides, its not even worth it. I gave up on the 'right person' theory years ago."

In that instant, Ross felt like any small connection to her had been multiplied. He felt like he was listening to himself talk. He glanced down at the table, noticing that one of her hands now rested flat against it. He reached out, and ever-so-faintly touched it.

"I'm sorry he did that to you."

He'd been looking directly into her eyes when he said it. She felt a shiver go down her spine, even though it was warm in the bar. He sounded so . . . geniune. She'd almost forgotten what it sounded like when someone wasn't lying. And . . . he's been hurt before, just like she had. Nervously, she clearned her throat and shook her head to snap out of it.

"So, um, you said your divorce was your first marriage. You were married again?"

"Oh, yeah." He took a deep breath; he really didn't tell anyone about his marriage, particularly since he was still in it. But if anyone could understand, he guessed it'd be the woman sitting right in front of him, who'd gone through nearly the same thing. "It was really, really rushed in to. And I guess we didn't realize the consequences until later, until it was too late."

He paused a second, looking down at his hand. He didn't wear his wedding ring anymore. It was back at home, in its box, always foolishly waiting for everything to work itself out. Even though he knew that day would never come.

"She left me last year, we seperated. But I guess she didn't even see me as being worth the time to put through a divorce." He smiled in spite of himself.

"Would it even change anything?" she asked. "If you had the divorce, I mean. I don't feel like a divorce from Barry would change anything for me. I'd still be here, by myself, earning minimum wage in a dead end job in my shitty little apartment."

"Oh come on, it can't be that bad," he assured her. She smiled back at him.

"Trust me, it is." And by the look in her eyes, he could tell she wasn't exaggerating. He widened his smile a bit more, his eyes sympathetic.

"I know the feeling."

He didn't even think twice about it. It almost seemed an instict for him to do it. But before he could even process the action, he'd fully taken a hold of her hand. And before he could blink, she'd snapped in back towards herself.

"Ross . . .", she started. "Look, I mean . . ."

She looked embarrassed, and a bit taken aback. He knew it. He'd gone a bit too far, a bit too soon. A little invisible line had been drawn. And it even made himself wonder what he'd been looking to find in this woman that night.

They were both married. It might not be perfect, and certainly not ideal, and other than on legal paper, neither of them should hold any loyalty to their spouses. But both of them felt a little too old to focus on that. It wasn't worth it anymore.

"No, I know. I'm sorry."

They silently nursed their drinks for a few minutes, both now lost at what to decipher the evening as.