I hate finals, and I hate papers and tests and, well, school in general. But I'm finally done for the summer, and since I've been rather slow on updating this I thought an extra long chapter might be in order. A slight warning before I begin; this chapter contains mentions of underage drinking, which I in no way encourage. So fair warning. Please keep the reviews coming, I love reading every single one of them! They make me feel loved 

So anyways, enough rambling. Onwards!

Disclaimer: I don't.

PS: If there any typos or misspellings, forgive. This was completed at a rather late hour.

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Falling Slowly: Chapter Four

--

I have nothing to wear.

That's not really true in the literal sense, of course. But still, I have nothing to wear that I like. Why didn't I pack more when I was in LA? I rifle through shirts, pants, blouses, shoes, look for the perfect outfit. Pink tube top. Slutty. Yellow shirt. Canary. White sweater. Grandma. Jeans are too casual, suit pants too business. Crap. Crap. Was I blind when I packed? Did I just throw random things from my closet into my suitcase? I sit down heavily on the bed, and everything bounces.

Today went by at a crawl. It was a long, tough day in the studio, working and reworking, recording and rerecording tracks. Even the usually unflappable Zoë became frazzled by the ballad we're trying to pin down, and by the end of the day everyone's nerves are worn raw, including mine. I finally make it back to the hotel, stomach churning from lack of a good meal today and nerves from thoughts of tonight, and promptly start panicking over my wardrobe. Calm down, baby, my mother would tell me, it takes more than a day for an egg to turn into a cute little chick.

I stand, push all the unacceptable clothes away from my suitcase, and take one more look.

Curled into a neat roll in the corner of my suitcase is my green dress. It was a gift from my father last Christmas, with a flowing skirt and a halter tie top. It's not really that formal, and it's more meant for LA weather obviously, not for chilly March New York weather, but I unroll it, lay it on the bed. Well, why not? I dig some non-descript white flats (not in my right mind would I attempt heels tonight), and set them by the dress. I stand back, look at the outfit. Hair worn down, and a pair of simple hoop earrings, and my long black coat to wear outside in the wind. That'll be fine. Right?

If I don't feel together on the inside, at least I can look that way on the outside.

I take a deep breath, let it out slowly. I can do this. She didn't seem that angry, or that unhappy to see me, and she did agree to come to dinner after all. She will probably have questions. She will have questions, and I can't really say that I blame her, after all that has happened between us.

My clothes, laid out on the bed so neatly, brings up a memory. One I haven't thought about for years.

--

It's my senior year of high school, and I'm performing yet another Hannah Montana concert. I'm finishing "Girl's Night Out" to end my set for the night, and the crowd is as enthusiastic and responsive as ever. With a loud appreciative roar and a few squeals trailing me, I make my way off stage smiling and waving. A successful night.

Dad congratulates me on a good show, gives me a kiss on the head. Tonight is going to be a good night, Lola and Mike are waiting backstage to go with me to one of Tracy's star-studded celebrity parties, and it's rumored that Kelly Clarkson might show up. As I wind through the catacombs of the backstage, I'm surprised at the absence of Lola. She's normally right there, waiting for me. My face squints in a slight frown. Where is she?

I reach my dressing room just moments later, reach for the doorknob to let myself in, but stop short. There are voices. Oliver, Lilly. I press my ear to the door.

Don't listen! That's rude. But my ear remains attached to the door, straining to hear the conversation.

"Oliver, leave it alone."

"But Lilly, how can you just keep that all inside?"

"What do you want me to do, Oliver?"

"Tell her!"

"Oh, perfect idea. Oliver. Hey best friend, I just wanted to tell you that I'm gay and in love with you. Want to go for smoothies?" My breath catches. I can't believe my ears. The blood pounds in my ears, my heart races.

"At least tell her you're gay! She'll understand, she can help you get through this. You guys are best friends."

"Lilly." A pause.

She's crying. Sobbing. I feel a twinge of pain in my chest.

"I can't do it, Oliver. I would lose her. I would lose my best friend. I can't lose her, Ollie. I can't."

Her sobs are muffled suddenly, Oliver must be hugging her.

"Shh. It's gonna be okay, Lils."

I feel like crying myself. After a few more moments of agony, I hear Lilly's voice.

"I'm such a mess." Footsteps.

"Hannah's got to be wrapping it up, I'll go look out while you get dressed."

I hide behind a rack of clothes meant for Hannah's backup dancers until I hear Oliver's footsteps receding down the hallway, my breath short and rushed. It takes a few minutes before I can will myself to walk to my dressing room, half wishing that she'll be there, half wishing she won't. Why is my heart pounding? Why can't my hands stay still? Why do I feel so afraid? I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself, open the door, heart pounding.

The room is empty.

And on the couch are Lola's clothes; skirt, shirt, wig, all neatly laid out, unworn. I take the wig in my hands, hold it reverently. There's a note pinned to it.

Don't feel well. Gone home.

Talk to you Monday,

Lilly.

I open my hands, and the wig falls on the floor in a soft heap, the note fluttering after it. There's a sharp, intense pain in my chest, followed by the most horrible sinking feeling.

--

For weeks, I wouldn't talk to her. We hung out at school, of course, but every time we were alone together all I could hear echoing in my head was "in love with you". Over and over again. I would panic, clam up. I was afraid of what I would say, how I would react. Why hadn't she told me? Did she not trust me enough?

Why did my senses begin to buzz whenever I was around her? Was it the awkwardness? Never before had I been so out of whack around anyone, not even Jake Ryan. It was wonderful, it was confusing, it was terrifying all at the same time. I didn't know what to do.

Things got better as the weeks went on, but nevertheless I was distant. It hurt her, I knew that, but I was too wrapped up in my own questions. It was selfish, I know that.

I wash my face quickly, dress, and do my makeup and hair. Maybe now, after all these years I can offer her some answers. Maybe I will stop being a coward and face up to my past. I know I should.

I take a deep breath, examine myself in the mirror. Showtime.

I make my way down to the lobby, down the shined brass and glass of the elevators and over the polished marble floors. Even by New York standards the hotel is nice; complete with a door dressed in white gloves and a top hat. I have him call a cab for me so I won't have to stand in the blustery wind. It's gray outside, and the wind whips down the streets, carrying newspapers and swaying signs, forcing even the toughest New Yorkers to turn up their collars and lean forward into it. So much for the nice day. I suddenly feel very glad I haven't worn my heels.

The doorman waves from outside, and the trademark New York Taxi screeches up to the curb. I gather my thoughts and head out to brave the weather.

It takes longer than I expected to get to the restaurant, but then again, I never really realized that the address Lilly gave me was a Brooklyn address. As we cross the bridge, I realize that I've never really seen this part of New York, never really bothered to step outside my Manhattan comfort zone. The architecture is different, it's like being in an entirely different city. Suddenly, the cab comes to a halt.

"We are here, miss. Thank you" the cabbie says in a thick accent that I can't identify. I pay the man and add a tip, climb out of the cab, looking for the sign of the restaurant.

And there it is. Mario's. I half expected some very fancy, expensive, exclusive place, but it's smaller, tucked in between a bakery and a small grocery store. I panic for a moment, wonder if I'm overdressed, but a little old couple emerges in their Sunday best and I am calmed. I take a deep breath, let it out slowly.

Inside, the lighting is low, candle-lit. Almost romantic. I feel a blush rise to my cheeks at that thought, but quickly push it down. And then I see her, sitting quietly at a corner table. Our eyes meet, and she smiles.

"Hey, Miles, I was beginning to worry" she says smoothly as she stands to greet me.

She looks so gorgeous that I have to stop for a moment and admire. She's wearing a short black dress that shows off her gorgeous athletic legs and shoulders, pale skin. She's wearing her hair down tonight, although I can now see that it is visibly shorter than the last time I saw her. Her hands twitch nervously as I stare like an idiot.

"Sorry," I say softly, then louder, "sorry. You know me, always fashionably late."

She continues to smile her wide Lilly smile, and I can't help but grin like a fool in return.

"Well, come on," she says as we sit at the table, "I ordered a bottle of Chianti if that's okay. Do you drink?"

I laugh instinctively. "Yeah. It seems I haven't learned my lessons after all those times in college and that one time in high school."

As soon as the words leave my mouth I feel panic rise in my throat.

That night.

The night that it all really began. The night that everything changed. I look at her face, expecting to see pain, or anger. But her expression is mysteriously blank, unreadable and mysterious. There are a few awkward moments, then Lilly clears her throat.

"Okay, that would be a yes, then" she pours a glass of the Chianti.

--

We chat after we order (she orders Chicken Parmesan, I order Spaghetti Bolognese) we sip our wine, delicately eat our Caesar salads and watch each other. Her eyes are unreadable, carefully guarded, trying to read mine. It's light talk, about the weather, I tell her about work, she tells me about hers.

"I like this place. Is this where you take all your ladies?" It's awful of me, to be flirting like this, but nonetheless I watch her cheeks intently, seeing if a blush adorns them. I don't see one, though, and feel disappointed…but ahh. There it is. It is slight, but it is there. Some things don't change. She recovers quickly and laughs jovially.

"No. But this is my favorite place, even if I'm eating alone. It's really quiet and comfortable, you can kind of disappear here for hours just watching New York walk by."

"You know, there was a time when both of us were only interested in going out, being seen," my tone is teasing but the words are true.

"Yes, well" Lilly pauses to take another sip of the Chianti, "things have certainly changed, haven't they?"

They certainly have. I can't get over how mature she is, how sophisticated. The last time I saw Lilly she was giggly Lilly, mischievous Lilly, carefree Lilly, unsure Lilly. Now, she's a success on her own terms. I can't get over it. She even looks different with her shorter hair. I'm staring at her unabashedly, and if it bothers her it doesn't show on her face at all.

"And what about you?" Her voice breaks my reverie. "Are you enjoying the quiet life?"

"Yes, for the most part. I miss the excitement of concerts sometimes, but being able to walk in the street without a wig on is a pretty good trade off. And I've found ways to fill my time."

She smiles. "Right, big time producer now. I never really took you for a business person, Miley. What gives?"

She's joking, and it feels good. Just like old days. Back when we could talk and laugh and make fun of each other and it was all okay.

"Like you said, Lils, things change. How is work for you?" I change the subject quickly; nervously try to keep the conversation going. As long as we're talking like this, things should be fine.

Damn it, Stewart. My brow furrows in disappointment at myself. Even now, after all these years, you still avoid the hard questions. Questions you know the answers to! What in the hell is wrong with you?

Lilly looks slightly perplexed at my facial expression, but says, "oh, it's fine. I've been stuck in the new acts section for awhile now, that's where we look for upcoming artists and write a short column exposing them to the limelight, so to speak. Eventually I want to move to featured; I'd be a full-fledged journalist then. I'd get to travel, see bands perform in London and things like that."

Her eyes sparkle. She's excited, she loves her work. And just now, I can see a little bit of the old Lilly peeking through. "Wouldn't it be awesome to interview Lightspeed Champion in London, or the Shout Out Louds in Stockholm, or Air in Paris?"

"I'm sure it would be." I don't really have the heart to tell her I have no idea who she's talking about. Lilly was always more Indie, more Alternative, more Electronica, more Punk and underground than I was when it came to music tastes.

She waves a hand. "But you know all about traveling. Do you still do a lot of traveling?"

I nod while I finish chewing my last bite of salad. "Mmhm. LA, Seattle, Nashville, Toronto, New York, wherever they send me."

When she next speaks, her eyes are serious. "Miley, all these years, all these times you came to New York. You never called, never wrote. Never answered any of my letters. Why?"

"Because I'm a coward." The words flow out of my mouth, despite the hang-ups, like a dam bursting. "Because I couldn't really deal with what happened between us and what it meant. I was scared of you, scared of me, scared of what everyone else would think of me. I was so scared of losing you, and ended up doing it anyway."

Her face is somber as she nods, almost understandingly. I spread my hands in front of me pleadingly.

"And I'm sorry, Lilly. I really am. And I know i was the worst best friend in the entire world and an overall horrible person for what I did, but I really am sorry." I feel like crying, my voice is strained to it's breaking point. I look for a sign, a glimmer, a glance, anything in her face that will tell me something about what she is thinking.

Seconds tick by. "Well," she finally says, "you're here now. It's good to have my friend back." And she smiles just a tiny little smile.

Even though the dinner is wonderful, the food turns to ashes in my mouth as we finish the dinner. We still talk, a little more restrained than before, but we talk. I feel half relieved, half disappointed. I pay the bill, and soon we find ourselves saying goodbye on the sidewalk.

"It was really good to see you," she says politely, giving me a delicate hug. But when she tries to pull away, I hold her close. i feel this might be the last time I will get to.

"Thank you for being patient with me," I whisper, "and I hope that we can be friends now."

I move forward to kiss her cheek, but her face moves slightly in confusion, and I catch the corner of her mouth by accident. The intimate contact sends unidentified shivers through my body. She pulls away.

"Right," she sounds a bit shaken up. "I'd love to have my friend back."

In the cab back to the hotel, I mull the evening's events over in my head. That could have gone better, but it certainly could have gone worse. I miss her already, I miss her laugh. I miss her touch. I've missed it all this time, but at the heart of it, I just want to make things right between us.

But why did I have to bring up that night?

The night after graduation, one of our classmates named Lauren threw an end of the year party at her house down the block from me. Her usually absent parents had gone out of town as soon as we walked off the stage, so Lauren wanted our senior year to go out with a big bang.

Originally, I didn't want to go. The only thought in my head was that Lilly might be there, and if there was alcohol I wasn't sure that I could keep my mouth shut. It was Jackson that eventually talked me into going with some long spiel about the glories of youth and missed opportunities and such. I agreed to go just to get him to shut up, but really I wanted to confront Lilly. The tension had become unbearable, so that now we were barely speaking to one another. No more movie nights, no more trips to the beach, no more Hannah parties. She would call, and I, like the coward I am, wouldn't answer. When I saw her at school, she would look at me with these pleading eyes that broke my heart. But every time I opened my mouth in front of her, nothing came out.

Jackson had only wanted to help, when he told me to go. But it set in motion something that I can never take back.

--

I arrive at the door an hour or so into the party, wearing a flowing white skirt and a sleeveless green top. Lauren's house is even bigger than mine, her father is a very important tax attorney and her mother an executive at a major fashion corporation. I approach the front door tentatively, stand trying to gather my nerves for a moment. Finally, I hear the din of the party drift through the thick wood of the door and reach out one hand to knock. The door moves under my touch, and I push it open and stealthily creep in.

It's loud, very loud, talking and shouting and toneless singing. The house is filled, many are people I know, some are people I don't. I ignore the glares from Amber and Ashley and take a look around.

"Miley?" Lauren emerges from the crowd. "Hey, Miley! You actually came."

"Yeah," I say, nervously fiddling with the strap of my purse. "I came."

She smiles brightly. "Good. Welcome then! All the drinks are in the kitchen," she points towards what is obviously the kitchen. "I've got to say hi to more people, now, but please get a drink and make yourself at home!"

"Okay," I respond as the hostess wanders over to another newcomer.

It's loud, conversations swirling all around, shouting and laughing and talking. I suddenly wish that it were Hannah Montana that had shown up to this party, confident and sexy and outgoing and spontaneous, unlike her meek and mild alter ego. This night, I remind myself, is about fun. It's about forgetting the past and looking towards the future. With that, I make my way into the kitchen, where boys are lounging around the island drinking beer, watching some show on the television in the kitchen.

"Happy graduation!" a boy thrusts a red plastic cup in front of me. "Welcome to the party!"

I take the cup, sniff it. "What is it?"

"Trashcan punch. Fruit punch and vodka." I sip it. It tastes like cough syrup, but I fake a yum face for my impromptu bartender. "Thanks".

He gives me the thumbs up and races over to a group of girls to fetch them their drinks. I retreat from the kitchen and make my way into the living room. It's loud, there are people everywhere. What the hell am I doing here? I don't know.

I take another sip of my drink. It's very fruity, with the kick of the alcohol hitting after a few seconds. I'm not used the sharpness of the vodka, and I fight back the urge to distort my face at the aftertaste. This is stronger than I imagined. I make a mental note to be careful how much I consume tonight.

I weave my way through the crowd nervously; try not to make eye contact as I make my way to the door. There are only a few people on the patio, and it looks much quieter than the roar inside the house. I ignore the few confused glances I get from my incredulous classmates. Is that Miley Stewart? What is she doing here? I didn't know that she partied.

Then, a familiar face. It's Oliver, talking to a few girls from school, standing next to a potted plant by the sliding glass door. I don't want him to see me. I alter my path quickly, point my feet towards the kitchen, but he spots me.

"Miley!" I pretend not to hear. "Miley!"

Shit. I walk over to my dark haired friend, take a deep breath and fake a smile. "Hi, Oliver. How's it going?"

"What are you doing here? I thought you didn't go to parties," I see Sarah, from our class, standing in very close proximity to Oliver. So, she does still like him. Oliver turns to her.

"I could say the same thing," he exclaims.

She raises her plastic cup. "I will be sure that all aluminum, plastic, and glass containers are properly recycled!" There's the Sarah we all know.

"I thought you didn't drink!" Oliver says to me, his features are covered with a look of surprise, bordering on shock.

I muster some fake enthusiasm in the presence of my audience. A little bit of Hannah. "Well, you know what they say. When in Rome!" I raise my plastic cup. The girls shout a few "yeahs" and "ow ows" in response and raise their glasses in a toast. I copy them in tilting my head back to drink, but I only let a bit actually pass my lips.

"Shit," one of the girls says. "I'm out." She elbows Sarah and the other girl. "Let's get some more." Sarah reluctantly peels herself away from Oliver's side and follows the other two girls into the kitchen. He watches her go.

I watch him, wait a moment. "So. You and Sarah?"

He blushes right on cue, and I can't help but smile a little. I nudge him, and he smiles. "I don't know. Maybe."

Oliver raises his beer can to his lips, gulping awkwardly. He makes a face.

"Dude, this is going to take some getting used to," he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

We stand silently for a few minutes, survey the crowds. Some people I know, some I don't. There is laughing, talking, people moving about, some steadily, some not. I see two people from my junior physics class making out by the staircase as people pass by oblivious. This is so unlike a Hannah party, none of the glamour or glitz, no paparazzi or fake smiles, just a normal high school party. The thought of this cheers me slightly, but nonetheless I am still dorky, awkward, uncomfortable Miley. I continue to down my drink, each sip becomes a little easier, and soon I don't have any left. That was fast. Too fast. My face feels a little flushed all of a sudden and the three girls return with new cups. Sarah holds one out for me, which I shouldn't take, but do anyway. Now it's just like drinking fruit punch. I take a big gulp, suddenly feeling very thirsty.

"Whoa, tiger," I hear Oliver say. "Take it easy, there."

"I'm good," I tell him. "I'm fine. No worries."

Sarah and Oliver chat some more, and the other two girls wander off. I find myself thinking of her. Would she be here? Why wouldn't she, if Oliver is here? They are best friends, after all. I'm supposed to be forgetting her tonight, that's what the alcohol is for, but all I can see in my mind's eye is her smiling face, bright eyes and golden blonde hair. I take another drink, slower this time. Shit.

Is she here, or not? I don't want to ask Oliver, but my mouth disobeys my head. "Is Lily here?"

He stares at me, curiously. "Yeah, my cousin drove us here. What's up with you two? I haven't seen you talking in weeks. Are you fighting and no one told me?"

I sigh. "No, I don't think we're fighting. Things are just," I search for the right word. It takes me a minute, my brain is a little bit fuzzy. "A little uncomfortable right now. I don't know exactly how to deal with it."

Oliver's eyes suddenly turn in the direction of the living room. I turn to look. People are moving couches and tables to create a space, and then I hear loud thumping music pour out of the stereo system by the television, a heavy danceable hip-hop beat. A cheer goes up from the partiers.

Sarah squeals, grabs Oliver's hand. "Ollie, come and dance with me!" She doesn't wait for a response and drags him in the direction of the other dancers.

I watch the dancing for a while, but the music is loud and begins to give me a headache after 5 or 6 songs. A few guys and even a girl or two try to get me out on the dance floor, but I resist. I'm not that far gone. To avoid any more attention, I walk towards what I think to be the back yard, weaving through grinding dancing couples and stumbling past the line squeezed into the hallway waiting for the bathroom. I finally make my way to a door, push my way outside into the cool Pacific night air. There are stairs leading down to the vast back yards stretched out in front of me.

And there, sitting at the bottom of them, is Lilly.

For a moment I'm not sure what I want to do. She's right there. I wanted to talk to her, right? All these things to say, right? Then why can't I seem to move my feet, or even breathe?

And just before I turn to go back inside, the door slams behind me, and I jump, and so does she. She starts, turns, and sees me. Shit. Her eyes are wide and unreadable.

"Hi," she finally says after a long moment.

"Hi," I reply, make my way down the stairs until I'm standing on the step above where she's sitting.

Now she's looking at the ground, cup held out in front of her. "I didn't expect you to be here." Look at me, Lily.

Look at me. Please, Lilly.

"Yeah," I reply, sitting down on the steps next to her, close, but not close enough to touch. Nonetheless I feel her presence wash over me. It's twice as bad now as before, enhanced by the alcohol. My entire body feels like its buzzing.

"Yeah, Jackson talked me into it. I didn't think you'd be here either." I study her profile. Still, she refuses to look at me. A moment passes, and Lilly takes another long pull of the trashcan punch. Look at me, I silently plead.

"So," she starts, voice unsteady. Or is that my imagination? "You want to tell me why things are so weird between us right now? I thought we were best friends."

I'm caught off guard by her forwardness, and it takes me a second to recover. "Um, um, I don't know." Smooth, Stewart. Very eloquent. Of course I know.

"Sure you do. You know what exactly I'm talking about. Ever since that night after the Hannah concert you've been avoiding me and I don't understand why. Friends are supposed to be there for each other, no matter what the circumstances are or how awkward things are. I'm going through this tough time and my own best friend isn't even around to help me through it."

She's crying now, big tears running down her smooth cheeks and I feel like crying too, only I'm too paralyzed by her words. "I'm sorry, Lilly" I say softly. "I'm sorry. I've been selfish lately because I've been wrapped up in my own issues. I didn't want to abandon you, I just didn't know what to do." Why am I saying this?

But she still won't look at me. "I'm sorry for freaking out, Miles. I've just missed you. And missing you bothers me because," her breath hitches. "I've been missing you more than a best friend should."

What?! My eyes widen, my heart pounds wildly within my chest. I scarcely know what I'm about. The glances and touches, the secret confession to Oliver. Now, she's telling me. The words make it real, tangible.

"Lilly" I breathe, throatily. "Look at me."

And finally, she lifts her beautiful blue eyes to meet mine, filled with tears and pain. I take her head in my hands.

"I'm sorry, Lilly. I'm so sorry. I love you so much, but I couldn't stand losing you." Now I'm crying, and I don't care to stop the tears.

And then, I place my lips on hers. Oh.

Oh, my God.

My head is swimming, thoughts are swirling but all I can focus on is the lightning flashing in my body and the sensation of our touching lips. Is this actually happening? My hands are still on her cheeks, wet from her tears.

Then, as soon as it started, the moment is broken by the slamming of the back door and a long, piercing wail.

"COPS!"

--

"Miss, we're here."

It's going to be a long, lonely night. I place one finger on the corner of my cheek.