Hello children! Sorry for the delay, but a trip to Europe and subsequent exams upon my return prevented progress. But I am back, and here is chapter three! I hope that you like it, and do encourage any feedback (it might help me write a little faster, you never know). Chapter 4 should be quite soon in coming, I've already written the first part of it.

Standard Disclaimer: The show is not mine nor do I make any type of profit from this venture.

Happy reading!

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Falling Slowly: Chapter Three

I can't concentrate. I sit at my cubicle at the office, staring at the first rough draft of my latest article, and not liking what I'm seeing. In all actuality it's not too horrible; I've just been in the weirdest mood lately.

Not that it wasn't wonderful seeing Miley again. It was. It was just the last thing I expected, to run into her. It was probably naïve of me to assume that she never visited New York, but after all these years of absolutely no contact I didn't think she would actually be happy to see me.

And how lame am I? I gave her my business card. Like we had just met or something. Hell, I've known the girl (sorry, woman now), for what, 12 something years now? Lame.

I shake these thoughts from my head and try to focus once again on my article. Blah blah blah, new talent this, yada yada, fresh sound that. Lame. It just all sounds lame.

I heave a sigh and push my keyboard away from the edge of the desk, reach for my purse to take out my day planner. It's a mess, sticky notes peppering various pages, the boxes of the days of the month filled with appointment reminders in my untidy handwriting. Trapped between the back cover and the last pages of the planner are fliers, handouts, old business cards, notes on random pieces of paper. I flip open to today, look at what I've written. Just a short staff meeting in the afternoon, so I'll get to go home early today. That's good; I'm not really accomplishing much today anyway. As I flip the planner shut, a few pieces of paper fall out, flutter to the floor. I trash most of them, but the last one isn't paper, it's too stiff. And glossy. It's a photograph. As I turn it over, I'm hit with the most powerful sense of déjà vu.

What's this doing here?

It's a picture of Miley and I, the only non-digital copy I have of a picture of the two of us, the rest are hidden deep in a secret file on my laptop along with other pictures of high school. We're dressed in heels and formal gowns, its junior prom. She's wearing a scarlet red strapless dress, her long wavy chestnut hair flowing down her back. I'm in a spaghetti strapped royal blue gown; hair pulled back, just a few strands hanging down by my face. She's holding me by the waist, my arms is draped around her shoulders.

Miley had gone with Jake Ryan, of course, and they were quite the celebrity couple the whole night as was expected. I went with one of Oliver's friends named Kevin, a guy from the baseball team whose face I don't even remember now. He was nice enough, I suppose, but spent most of the night behind the hotel with several of his buddies passing around a bottle of vodka. Needless to say, he was pretty much absent for the majority of that evening.

I turn the photo over and over in my hands slowly, coming into the memories of that evening. I remember that night well.

--

Prom night. It's at a hotel downtown, and I would be more excited, usually, but for many reasons I feel a little bit numb. The school has catered some bland generic chicken dish and the student body president has given an unmemorable speech that lasts way too long. Finally there is a whine as the speakers turn on and the DJ adjusts his equipment.

"Okay dude and dudettes welcome to Seaview Junior Prom 2009!" the DJ thunders over the speakers. "We're only halfway through this Cinderella night so ladies kick off those heels, grab your princes and let's dance!" A cheer rises from the gathered crowd and the music starts to play.

I sit in my chair, sip fruit punch and try not to watch Jake Ryan and Miley as they move to the beat of the music, one song after another. I try not to cringe when I see him put his hands on Miley's body as he tries to move his hips along with hers. He's not very graceful, very unlike Miley. But like so many of my other classmates, my eyes are drawn to Seaveiw High's power couple. I shouldn't be staring, but I am.

Is it warm in here? I excuse myself to the bathroom.

I find some open sink space in the bathroom; take a paper towel from the holder. I splash a little water on it to dampen it and press it against my flushed cheeks, trying to rid them of their blush. Girls file in and out, going to bathroom, washing hands, fixing makeup and hair. It's noisy, and I had been hoping for some quiet. Finally I stop fiddling, put my hands on the counter and heave a huge sigh.

Almost two years I've kept silent. Two years. Neither of my best friends knows my secret, especially not the one that my secret concerns the most.

I like girls. More specifically, I like Miley. More than a best friend should.

But Miley's not gay. And more than anything, I don't want to lose her as a friend.

So I've kept my mouth shut. For two years. It's agonizing sometimes, at night especially, the loneliness creeps into me. But oddly enough, just being around Miley makes me feel better. She is, after all, my best friend. But Jake Ryan touching her is a little too much to handle.

Minutes pass, but I linger, not wanting to go back outside. But all of a sudden, she bursts through the bathroom door, runs to the side, taps on my shoulder.

"Lilly, are you okay?"

"Um, yeah, sure," I lie as convincingly as possible. "I was just a little warm in there, that's all. You having fun?"

She shrugs, studying my face closely. "Yeah, but I would be having more if someone would stop moping and come out here and dance with me."

I laugh. "Me dance? Crazy girl say what?"

"Just one," she pleads, grabbing my hand and tugging at it insistently. "Just one, I promise."

I barely have time to nod before she drags me out of the bathroom and onto the packed dance floor. It's a fast paced thumping techno song, safe, nice and jumpy. Okay, I can do this. But as soon as the thought passes through my mind the song ends, and slow, seductive, bass-rich hip hop song takes its place. Shit.

"I can let you and Jake take this one," I say quickly and try a desperate retreat, but Miley holds fast.

"No, I'm going to dance with my best friend right now."

And then we're quiet. She puts her hands on my hips, and all I can see is her face, all I can feel is her hands on my body, all I hear is the thumping of the music in the background. Everyone else fades away. I hesitantly put arms around her waist, and Miley pulls us together, our bodies touch and it's all I can to keep breathing. Our hips move to the beat of the music, she presses her forehead to mine. She smells like raspberries. I close my eyes, and dance. Her hands move to the small of my back, and mine go around her neck. I can't believe we're doing this. We've never danced like this before.

When the song ends, just for a moment, neither of us pull away. I enjoy the feeling of her skin against mine for just a little longer, keep my breathing slow and deep to calm the butterflies fluttering in my stomach. Finally, she steps back and looks at me, breaking our contact to my relief. There is something different in her eyes that I haven't seen before, but I'm too busy trying to hide what is behind mine.

"Woo!" A voice sounds from behind us, and I jump back, put more distance between Miley and I. I see Oliver, smiling a great big smile.

"Look at you two gorgeous ladies!" He holds up a digital camera. "Get together; I want to have a picture of you two."

Miley breaks our silence with a laugh, painting a smile on her face. "Okay, doofus." She hesitates a moment, but I sling an arm around her shoulders as nonchalantly as I can.

"Take it already," I say, trying to keep my voice from shaking. "I haven't got all night."

I feel Miley slip an arm around my waist. Oliver lifts the camera.

"Okay, one, two, three!"

--

I sigh. I'm still not getting any work done.

Second day in a row, too. I would be kidding myself I said I didn't know the reason, but that knowledge hasn't seemed to motivate me in any way.

"Bam!"

"Oh shit!" I yelp, flailing my arms and nearly knocking over my coffee cup in the process. I look up at my assailant and groan. "Eric, you're such a jerk."

Eric Chavez sits down next to me, face lit up in a mega-watt smile in satisfaction. Eric has been my friend since I moved to New York; we worked in the same indie-underground club for almost a year and then by a strange coincidence were both brought on to the Rolling Stone staff within months of each other. He works in the photography department. He reminds a lot of Oliver, same dorky personality and shaggy hair. Despite his true dork qualities, he's become a true confidant and friend since I left California behind.

"I am the King!" he raises him arms above his head. "Don't try to deny."

I quickly and quietly slip the picture of Miley and me underneath the keyboard. "And what exactly do you want, Chavez?"

He spins in the chair. "Ooh, touchy, touchy. What crawled up your ass and died? I just came by to chat."

I sigh. "I finally got a draft of this article, but I don't like where it is going. I think I might have to scrap the whole thing and start over."

Eric looks at me carefully, then wags one finger. "Bullshit, Truscott. That's not the reason you're so edgy today."

I shrug, and after a few moments I'm immersed back into my article, critiquing every aspect of it, frowning at what I see. Eric watches me. "Lilly should give Eric her music collection," he taunts in a faux-hypnotic voices and wiggles his fingers close to my face.

"Nice try," I mumble, eyes still fixed on the screen.

"Really, Truscott, what is up with you? You were spacey yesterday and you're even more distracted today. Come on, spill the beans!"

I sigh, tap my fingers against the edge of my keyboard. If I don't tell Eric, who would I tell?

"Well, the thing is," I begin slowly, sitting back in my chair, "I sort of ran into someone I know yesterday."

Eric leans forward, his interest piqued. "Ooh juicy. Someone? Someone you like? Or like an ex-someone?"

I shake my head. "No, no. Not an ex. It's very," I pause, "complicated."

"But there's history?"

I chuckle ironically. "Oh yes. There's most definitely history."

Eric's face is covered in a way too smug Cheshire cat grin, which I choose to ignore for now.

"I get it. Like an almost, then?"

I ponder the thought. "I don't know. We were best friends in high school, but we've been really distant since then." I can see that Eric sees the pain in my face, but he knows better than to mention it. He picks up a rubber band from my desk and stats snapping it into his palm. "How distant are we talking?"

I take a sip of the coffee that's sitting on my desk. "Almost 8 years. And she lives in Los Angeles."

He lets out a low whistle. "Whew. Damn. That is distant." He leans forward once again, his face once again covered by the Cheshire cat grin that I'm starting to get really annoyed by. "Who is she?"

"Oh, no, no, no, no, no. I am so not going there," I protest, but Eric insists.

"Oh, come on, Truscott. I've gone days without any interesting news. I've got to have something to take the edge off of my pathetic social life." He tries giving me a puppy dog face that is very reminiscent of Oliver. "Please."

I sigh deeply and reach for the photograph. "Promise not to freak out?"

Impatiently he snatches the picture from me. "Give me a break, why in the hell would I fre….HOLY SHIT!"

"Shut up!" I hiss, hitting his arm with all the force I can muster. "Keep your damn voice down, Chavez."

He opens and closes his mouth a few times, like a fishing gasping out of water, and points at the picture with a shaky finger. "Your best friend was Miley Stewart? The Hannah Montana Miley Stewart?"

"Yes."

"Holy hell! How could you have never told me this?"

I cross my arms. "Because I knew you would react this way."

He shifts his finger so now that it's pointing at me. "If she was Hannah that must mean that you were..."

"Lola Luftnagle, yes."

He laughs, slaps his knee. "Hot damn! I'm friends with a celebrity!"

"Former," I correct, "and you know, for never having liked Hannah Montana you sure do know a lot about her, Eric."

"What! I have a younger sister!"

"Sure. Whatever."

He laughs, and then there is another short silence. I stare at my hands. "I gave her my card. To see if she wanted to talk. She hasn't called."

Eric reaches out and puts a comforting hand on my shoulder. "She'll call, Lilly."

"What if she doesn't?" I whisper, almost afraid of the response.

"But she will. She will," he insists. He hands me back the photography of Miley and I.

Eric really is a good guy. A good friend. He gives my shoulder a quick squeeze and stands up. "I have to get back to photography department or Linda will chase me out with a broom." I nod. He looks at me.

"And hey, Lilly? She'll call, I know she will."

I manage a half smile. "Thanks, Eric."

I sigh; tuck the photo of Miley and I back into my wallet. I look at the jumble of words on my screen, try to read it again, but can't concentrate. Perhaps Eric is right, maybe I am distracted. After all these years seeing Miley brings up all these memories and all these questions that have remained unanswered for all this time. These questions run through my brain endlessly, like a broken record. But for now I have to play the wait game, and so, I've gotten no work done.

Lunch comes and goes with little incident. I eat with Eric and two other friends, Carly from accounting and Ben from the print room. Eric decides to be a gentleman and doesn't tell Carly or Ben about Miley, which I am grateful for. He almost slips one or two times, but it's fortunate that I am within kicking distance, and that I wore my black boots today. In the afternoon I have a staff meeting, it's time for article updates and I'm not ready at all. I lay the best word wizardry I can on my boss Tom, and only barely get away with it. Even my co-workers notice that I'm off. Thankfully, the meeting is relatively short, and as soon as Tom says "okay, that wraps it up" I'm out the door, grab my bag, and hop onto the subway. I need to be away from everyone for a little while. I don't want to answer any questions from anyone today.

The subway is not very crowded because I left work a little early, and get back to my apartment in record time. I've lived here nearly 4 years now, a former artist's loft that I used to share with 4 other roommates. As the roommates moved on, I slowly began making more and more money, so that by the time the last left I had become staff. It was one of the proudest days of my life, when I wrote my first check for the full rent knowing full well that I could afford it. I get off the elevator at the fourth floor and unlock the door.

And immediately collapse on the couch that was a parting gift from my last roommate. 'Take it,' he had said, 'it'll be hard to haul it all the way back to Cedar Rapids.' But after a moment I'm up again, pacing in front of my window, staring out onto the street. Not the best view, but it could be worse. I wish, just for one moment, that I'm back in Miley's house on her porch, smelling the cool Pacific air. I shake my head. I don't get homesick often.

Rebel, Rebel

You've torn your dress

Rebel, Rebel

Your face is a mess

Rebel, Rebel

My muffled cell phone ringer sounds from my bag, and I spring to retrieve it. I glance at the caller ID, it's a number I don't recognize. A California zip code. My breath hitches, but I flip open the phone.

"Hello?"

I hear a cough, a clearing of the throat. "Hey, ehem, hey Lilly. It's Miley."

I'm smiling from ear to ear. "Miley. Hey."

There is a pregnant pause on the other end of the line. I hold my breath.

"Well, Lilly, hey, it was good seeing you the other day."

I let my breath out in one word. "Yeah."

"I waswonderingifyoumaybewantedtogotodinnerwithmetomorrow."

"What?"

"Would you like to get dinner with me tomorrow?"

I can only smile. I cannot think, I can only smile. And then, finally, I can speak.

"I would love to."

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