A/N: Because you are awesome nerds, I am posting another chapter. Two in one day!
She feels insane, like she might burst into tears at any moment. The worst thing about it is, there is absolutely no reason to feel this way. She has an adoring husband and beautiful daughter. She has a successful career and money in the bank. She has friends and family who love her. So what the hell is her problem?
She paces around the house, unable to focus on fourteen-month-old Melody who is playing quietly on the living room floor. She's on the verge of tears, and all because she read some stupid tabloid news story about how some actor is dating some blonde actress, and suddenly she can think of nothing else.
"Why do men always go for blondes?" she grumbles to herself, "She's not even a natural blonde. She's too skinny. She's not even that famous."
She plops on the couch and looks at her daughter who is happily playing with a red Solo cup, entertained by the simplest of objects at her age. "Ugh, stop it, Beca," she says aloud. She doesn't get why this is bothering her so much. She doesn't care about celebrities or their lives. It doesn't affect her in any way. But this thought keeps eating at her brain like a parasite.
"He's probably a douche in real life," she says to herself, "Any guy who is that good looking is probably a dick. Yeah. The blonde was married when they worked on that movie together. Only a douche would break up someone's marriage." She Googles the guy and clicks on his Twitter page. "See, inane crap," she taps the screen, proving her point to no one.
She's distracted and irritable as she looks at her daughter. She's frustrated, because after returning to work when Melody was only ten weeks old, she had worked full time up until a week ago, when her boss insisted she take a sabbatical to "recharge her batteries." She was relieved, because after experiencing the guilt of not being with her child, she was finally getting a chance to be here day in and day out for a bit.
Things aren't going as planned. She is bored, and restless, and feels even guiltier because she looks forward to nap time every day. Melody had weaned a month ago from breastfeeding, and Beca thought she'd be thrilled, but something had been off ever since. She sighs loudly, and enters the words "depression after weaning" into Google, and a bunch of sites pop up.
Oh. So this explains it. "Apparently Mommy's hormones are all jacked up," she says to her daughter, who just smiles back at her.
Jesse arrives home from work later, greeting his girls with a kiss and an animated story about how great his day was. She's standing at the sink, doing a mountain of dishes which include the million parts of Melody's sippy cups and bottles, the high chair tray, her bibs, and she's only half listening to him.
"Hey, my folks are stopping by for a visit tonight before they head home tomorrow," he adds, and she snaps to attention.
"What?" she says.
"I told you yesterday, they're in town passing through and they want to stop and see the baby," he explains. "We talked about this last night, or were you not listening to me again?"
"Oh, like you listen to me when one of your precious movies is on!" she snaps back, but by now, the tears that have been threatening to spill all day begin their trek down her cheeks.
"Why are you crying?" he asks.
"Because I'm sad, Jesse! My hormones are all crazy, and I'm depressed. I'm sorry, I can't help it!" she sniffs.
"That's not fair!" his temper flares, "If I'm having a bad time, and I come home grumpy and snappy, I don't make excuses for my behavior. But you can always just say it's your time of the month, or it's hormones, and I'm just supposed to roll with it?"
"I'm not making excuses, I'm telling you I feel sad and just insane right now!" and just then, the doorbell rings, signaling his parents' arrival.
She runs across the kitchen in the direction of the stairs. "Where are you going?" he yells over his shoulder as he walks to the door.
"Upstairs! Tell them I don't feel well. I'll come down when I'm ready!" she shouts at him.
"Oh, you don't feel well, there's a big surprise," he says sarcastically.
"Fuck you!" she yells, slamming their bedroom door as hard as she can. She hears the sounds of him greeting his parents, and she flings herself on their bed, shaking with sobs.
She stays in the darkness of their bedroom until she hears him enter. He sits on the bed beside her. "Are you coming down?" he asks.
"Nope," she replies, not turning to him.
"Beca," he starts to say.
"I can't," she replies, and he leaves.
She doesn't go downstairs until she hears them leave. Melody is already asleep, and she quietly goes into the kitchen for a drink of water. Jesse looks at her, but doesn't say anything, his eyes trained on the television screen where another one of his movies is playing.
He doesn't join her in bed that night, either. In the morning, she wakes to the sounds of Melody on the baby monitor, and she goes to start the day. They keep the morning routine and conversation normal, as if nothing had happened the night before.
It isn't until she makes a joke about a song playing on the radio, "Why does Jason Derulo always have to say his own name in his songs?" that he turns to her and says, "So are we going to talk about it or not?"
She doesn't want to talk. When she talks, she gets upset, and she's been walking that fine line for a while now, struggling to keep herself on the happy side, and hanging on by a thread.
"Things happen, and we never talk about it, and then they never get resolved," he says as they pull into the parking lot of the baby discount outlet. "I'm sorry I was a dick. I know it isn't your fault that you're feeling sad, but I don't like thinking that you can just treat me poorly and then brush it off with an excuse. If you have a problem with your hormones or whatever, maybe you should talk to your doctor."
"It's not that bad," she explains. "It's just that maybe I'm not cut out to be a full time stay at home mother."
"And that's ok," he replies, "I know I couldn't do it, either."
"Really?" she asks.
"Really," he tells her.
"You know what's really sad?" she asks him. "I've been obsessing over some stupid celebrity couple because I wanted the guy who reminds me of you to be with the celebrity girl who reminds me of me, and instead he's with some blonde."
He laughs, "I'm not into blondes, obviously." He gestures to her hair.
She grins, "Good to know."
They smile at each other before she adds, "I'm sorry too, I've been a total bat-shit crazy bitch lately. I just have all of this anxiety and I don't know what to do with it."
"Tell you what," he replies, "Just let yourself enjoy the fantasy of it all."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning it's your mind, and you can dream or imagine anything you want. Besides, the guy is probably a douche if he's not going after the girl that is like you. Obviously he's not worth thinking about," he explains.
"That's what I've been telling myself," she grins at him. "Ok, so here's how it goes in my mind then. The guy and the girl who are like us are secretly dating, and he's just using the blonde as a cover because she, like me, likes to remain all dark and mysterious and hides her true self from the public. And he has to play it cool, resulting in him seeming like kind of a tool, to maintain the façade."
"And what about the blonde, where does she factor in this?" he asks.
"She's just a decoy," she replies. "It's really kind of sad for her."
They laugh together, and she takes his hand as they shop and complete the rest of their errands. Later, when Melody is tucked in for bed, he joins her on the couch.
"So tell me," he says quietly, "Do these celebrities remind you of us in real life, or do the characters they play remind you of us?"
"Both," she answers.
"And maybe you're obsessing over it because it makes you afraid that maybe you and I weren't meant to be, that maybe someone else could come along and threaten what we have together?" he continues.
"No, I know no one could ever enter the picture and change the way I feel about you. I've been in love with you forever. I've only ever loved you," she replies.
"They're acting you know, it isn't real. That's why they're called actors," he whispers.
"I know," she replies, "But I like watching them together, because it reminds me of how it was when we first met and fell in love. And on days when I feel like I did yesterday, sometimes you need that. Because remembering that passion is what keeps you going. And the fact that he isn't with her for real kind of ruined the fantasy for me at a time when I really needed it to be true."
"You want to remember what it was like when we first met?" he pauses, thoughtful. He takes her by the hand, leading her upstairs to their room. He picks up his laptop from his nightstand, sliding The Breakfast Club into the DVD slot and loading it up. He sits on their bed, fluffing the pillows behind him and gesturing for her to join him.
"If you'll just sit and watch the end of this with me, I can die a hero," he grins at her. And just as she did all those years before, she ends up watching him instead of the images on the screen. Only this time when he catches her staring, she lets him kiss her. As the kiss deepens, she pours every emotion she has into it. Her stomach erupts into butterflies, just like it did the first time she was with him like this, and she's holding his face in her hands, breathing hard when she pulls away and looks at him.
"Thank you," she breathes, pulling her sweater over her head and removing her bra in a matter of seconds. She reaches for him once more, pulling him on top of her, kissing him hard as she tugs at his clothing, eager to have it gone.
And later, when she's straddling his hips kissing a path down his chest, he looks up at her and says, "That celebrity guy is a fucking idiot."
Because, only a moron wouldn't throw himself at the feet of a girl who even slightly resembles Beca Mitchell.
A/N: Raise your hand if you see what I did here.