Thank you for the views and reviews and the follows, much appreciated.

The strip bar will have it's own intimate moment and a whole lot more ;)

Chapter 5 Summary: Chloe's really having a bad night, added with her ex boyfriend, it easily became the worst of all. Nuns making out or a threesome with E.T? Can Beca turn this hell of a night around?

Chapter 6: Salvatore

Chloe's POV

Oh fuck. FUCK FUCK FUCK FUUUUUUUUUCK!

Why does time cease to tick when I see Tom, only now do I get it. Kibbutz in South Africa: BIG FUCKING MISTAKE. Like, HUGE. What was I thinking? So we've broken up five times over the last three years. Somehow in the back of my mind was the thought that either (1) Tom and I would work things out next time, and what better place to do that than away from our families and friends in a commune on the flip side of the world, or (2) we wouldn't work things out yet again, but I'd be the best freakin' worker that kibbutz had ever seen; and as a bonus, Tom would die of jealousy when I fell madly in love with some beautiful surfer boy from Capetown and left Tom weeding gardens while I bailed on the kibbutz to backpack across the world with my new surfer love who hopefully would have a pretty-looking name like Ndgijo.

Except that would never happen to me. How did such a reputedly smart girl get herself in this predicament, on the brink of adulthood, with no future to grab on to? These last few weeks I've been missing Tom as much as I've been bemoaning him as the Evil Ex. I've held on to the hope of surprising him by showing up in South Africa, yet when he was RIGHT THERE in front of me, what did I do? I froze. Suddenly all my fantasies of reconciliation were gone, suddenly all I could remember was how I was never good enough for him, political enough, committed enough. Tom wasn't a lying cheating skank like Julie, but who had I been kidding? He had been, as Aubrey likes to remind me, a "controlling fuckface." So right there, in a fucking Yugo, next to the poor schmuck I introduced myself to by making out with her, I finally had the moment of clarity that Mom and Dad and Aubrey have been waiting for me to have since I was fifteen: ENOUGH! Aubrey has been right all along. Tom and I are better off living our lives apart from one another.

Oh fuck. Did I just say that aloud? I'm trying to pay attention to Beca but I can't get Tom's words in front of the club off repeat playback in my mind: She talks a great game, but when you actually get to the field, you realize it's fucking empty.

The Tin Woman! Tom called me the fucking Tin Woman! I lost my virginity and my whole youth to him, and that's his review of me? At least I can be grateful that when Tom took off from South Africa back here without telling anybody. I was so hell-bent on the sentiment. Oh, God, I want to be sick right now.

Chloe, why are you such a regression bitch? One night last weekend spent holding Aubrey's hair back while she puked in the toilet, feeling lonely and lost-for me, not for Aubrey; she had an army of dudes outside the bathroom waiting for her to sober up-and I let the dark side of my mind, the Tom side, win out. As Aubrey slept it off later that night in the extra twin bed that's been in my room for her since kindergarten, I wrote to Tom. Was it all the caffeine I consumed riding the night out with Aubrey, or the leftover ganja haze of the reggae club where we'd passed the night? Secondhand smoke may be deadlier than firsthand straight-edge inhale, at least when it comes to impairing my ability to distinguish between lonely longing for the Evil Ex and actually trying to get back together with him.

I hope Tom never finds out the Tin Woman was ready to compromise. I didn't outright say I wanted to get back together. But I said I was willing to consider it. I told him I could be vegan. I could be kosher fucking vegan! I could learn to care about saving the sea otter and only drinking fair-trade coffee. I could believe that Tom and his brothers in Tel Aviv actually have talent and will become the next big thing, an older, punk-infused, fuck-Europe, politicized version of Hanson. I would at least consider living with his miserable, controlling, psychotic mother in Tel Aviv once Tom starts his mandatory Israeli Army service next year, and oh alright fine, she could teach me how to cook the meals he likes and how to hang linens on a line in the sun so his sheets would always be crisp and fresh.

I can change! I can change! No. I can't change. I shouldn't change. "What the fuck do you have to change for?" she said. "He should fucking change, uptight bastard. Why are you doing this? If you need some end-of-adolescence protest, couldn't you like just wreck your dad's Jaguar on the Palisades Parkway or something? Are you really going to put us through you and Tom, the nightmare couple, one more time? "Chloe, you know you'll meet someone else, don't you?" Only I didn't believe her until tonight. What good is Aubrey now, passed out in Beca's friend's van? I wonder if her cell is turned on. I need to tell her Tom is back! And I fucked up but now I have officially woken the fuck up.

"Chloe?" the Playboy Bunny bouncer responds to my pronouncement of oh fuck, which is no small relief because I don't have a fake ID. When your dad is the well-known head of a major record label, it tends not to be necessary at most clubs. "Toni?" I say. S/He grabs me in a hug. Toni interned for Dad last year while deciding whether s/he wanted to pursue a career in the music industry; s/he was also my biggest advocate in my futile campaign (thus far) to convince Dad to produce an all-punk band tribute album to the Spice Girls. "Still working on that demo?"

S/He pulls out a CD strapped inside the bushy tail at her back. "Just finished it! Will you pass it on?"

"Sure," I say, hoping Beca will not interrogate me about who am I, some Twenty-two-year-old flannel-wearing girl, to be passing on demos.

"Go right on over to the VIP area," Toni says. "I'll make sure your drinks are on the house."

"I don't drink," I remind Toni.

"Oh, live a little," s/he says, bumping me at the hip. "Miss Straight Edge, bend 'round the corner for once in your life." Toni turns to Beca. "Awkward? Eighteen-Nineteen years old? Give me a fucking break. But have fun, kids."

S/He gives Beca a playful slap on the ass as we walk in and Beca doesn't react like Tom, who would have pounced back at a drag queen daring to touch her. Instead, Beca laughs and turns back around to return the gesture on Toni's ass. S/he gives her a butt shimmy dance in return. "I like this one, Chloe!" s/he says. "Big improvement. Good choice."

As opposed to what-nasty, fermented egg, the kind one naturally would assume Julie would pass off?

We sit down at a small table that miraculously vacated of bodies as we approached it. For fuck's sake, my heart actually flutters for a moment when Beca pulls out the wooden chair for me. Who does that? And why does that simple gesture for a moment make me forget I am REALLY PISSED OFF and MY LIFE IS OVER. I am distracted from my Tom malaise by the nuns making out to "Climb Ev'ry Mountain" on the stage, and find myself chuckling, all of a sudden having a mental image of me and Beca in a threeway with E.T. I feel the crack of a smile on my lips and a non-frigid buzz spreading through my body. In the flashing neon lights, and with the distraction of the stage show, I finally have the opportunity to truly appraise Beca. I admire her vintage gas station attendant jacket with the name "Salvatore" stenciled under the Texaco logo, and I admit to wanting to run my fingers through the locks of her hair. She seems to have an ironic but sweet half-smile stenciled on her face, despite her Julie hangover.

Beca waves thanks in Toni's direction at the door. She says, "Nice seats your friend hooked us up with. I have to admit, between your drunk girlfriend and your Yugo-insulting ex-boyfriend, it's a relief to see you have some nice friends." She winks at me and why won't that kind smile leave her face because I know if we are ever going to make it through this night/morning/whatever we have going, eventually I am going to have to tell her about Julie and that smile will be gone and I don't want to be the person responsible for killing it.

I don't owe her an explanation or anything but I do say, "I'm sorry about Tom." Only what I'm really sorry about is what I said about Julie, but I can't find it in myself to speak that apology. Yet.

Beca tells the cocktail bunny who approaches our table to please bring us drinks with little umbrellas in them. She says to please just make sure the drinks are of the virgin variety.

Then she turns to me and says, "I don't drink. I'm pretty straight edge. I hope that's not a problem for you."

I'm only "pretty" straight edge myself. I mean, I don't drink or smoke or do drugs, but I'm not over the top about it like some of the straight-edge breed who also don't eat meat or have sex, either. My straight-edginess is rather firm, but reform. I mean to answer Beca with, "It's not a problem for me. It's a fucking miracle." But I think I end up just doing some inane yes/no head-bob of shock. Whoa! Julie dated a straight-edge girl, and one who says please? How did she survive her without being drunk or stoned, like the rest of them? I'm not sure whether to admire or pity Beca for being a fellow straight edge, but I am stoked, too. I'm on a date with a girl who can have a good time without trying to get wasted? The universe is full of surprises. Respect to Julie.

"Want to tell me about it?" Beca asks once the bunny has hopped away.

"About what?"

"The Ex?"

Is this what happens on dates? You kiss before you've met, then talk about why your previous relationship failed? I'm stumped. The only guy I've ever been with is Tom, and his idea of a date was watching Schindler's List in his dorm room. Besides the random incident with Beca, I've never even truly kissed anyone besides Tom, unless you count Aubrey at summer camp when I was thirteen, which I don't. I have no idea how to do this "date" thing. This must be the reason I am frigid.

I really don't want to talk about Tom. I want to forget I ever entertained the notion of getting back together with him. I want to forget I've thrown away my future and that now I have to come up with a whole new plan. So I tell Beca, "I know how to drive a stick shift." Because I think Julie can't. "So you're saying you could drive Emily back to Barden tonight, assuming she'll start again?"

"Who's Emily?"

"My Yugo."

"You have a name for your Yugo? Please don't tell me you're one of those who also names their private parts."

"Unfortunately, I've yet to find the perfect name for mine, so it's in this netherworld of nameless identity right now." Beca glances down at her crotch, then back at me. "But if you think up a good name, let me know. We'd like something a little exotic, like maybe Tris."

Frigid can thaw, right?

Beca adds, "Stacie named hers a dude and she wanted to name our band Dickache. What do you think?"

"Sorry, I'm stuck on The Fuck Offs. Catchy. The sales reps at Wal-Mart will love it."

Our conversation is interrupted by a new act on the stage. Two of Toni's soul sisters are doing an onstage grind to "Edelweiss," making the previous nun performers seem like, well, nuns. Beca stands up and offers her hand to me. I have no idea what she wants, but what the hell, I take her hand anyway, and she pulls me up on my feet then presses against me for a slow dance and it's like we're in a dream where we're dancing on the marble floor for our wedding. Somehow my head presses Beca's T-shirt and in this moment I am forgetting about time and Tom because maybe my life isn't over. Maybe it's only beginning.

I shiver at that thought and in response, Beca takes her jacket off and places it around my shoulders. I feel safe and not cold and from the vibe the jacket gives off, I also feel fairly confident that the original Texaco Salvatore was a good family man, with perhaps a propensity for wearing his wife's panties and betting his kids' college money at the track, but otherwise a solid dude.

I wake up from the dance dream when the audience applauds the end of the stage performance and Beca feels pressed too close against me without the music going. Beca/Salvatore/lovely dancing partner can't be real. It's not possible. Better to end this dream before it becomes a nightmare.

"Why are you so fucking nice?" I ask, and shove Beca away. I don't bother to acknowledge her shocked expression. Score, Chloe. I have killed her smile, and I didn't even have to tell her about Julie. "I gotta pee."

I run away towards the bathroom. A few people are waiting at the door but a single finger snap from Toni and the line disperses. I don't really have to pee. I need to think. I need to sleep. I need Aubrey to be sober so I can talk to her. This morning, my life seemed so clear. Just to go into the city to see the band Aubrey likes rather than suffer through an evening with Mom and Dad entertaining the dreaded hip-hop people at the house. This night was supposed to end like any other night out with Aubrey, watch her hook up with a guy, and then get her home safely. I'm not that girl who randomly meets a guy one night and has her life change. I wear cords and flannel shirts. I don't have the killer body like Julie or Aubrey. Sometimes I don't wash my hair for three days and sometimes I don't floss. What's this Beca girl doing here with me?

I step inside the bathroom as the previous occupant leaves. I clean the toilet with a paper towel, then sit down on it. A trail of graffiti is written down the wall next to the toilet.

Jimmy gives good head. Climb Ev'ry Mountain, indeed.

Happiness serves hardly any other purpose than to make unhappiness possible.-Proust.

You're the one for me, fatty.-Morrissey

I want it that way.-Backstreet Boys.

Claire, meet me on Rivington in front of the candy store after the show. You bring the Pez. You know.

Psst-Sitting on the john and wondering when this night will end? Answer: NEVER. Barden Bellas, unannounced show, TONIGHT, after the von Trapp massacre, before dawn rises? Be there or be square, ayyyy—

There's no date written on the wall but the black-marker handwriting looks fresh. I'm curious whose executive decision it was to name the toilet "the john," anyway? But could this show be tonight? I only fucking worship Barden Bellas. They turned down Dad to sign up with an indie label. They could make me light-stick dance all night. They could make me forget I want to crawl into my bed and hide under the covers, and that I only wasted my youth on Tom, and that I'm on a date with a good girl and I've given her more mixed signals than a dyslexic Morse code operator.

Do I dare show my face back at the table to Beca and tell her about Barden Bellas, I know she's a fan. I swiped the last make-up mix she burned for Julie that led off with the Barden Bellas track, "Don't You Forget About Me." God, she made great playlists for her. Tom's mixes for me were all crap, just a plain dick.

DICK! Did I really ask Beca if she had a name for her private part?

Maybe Tom called it right-I should have been more grateful for him, because no person besides Tom would ever put up with me.

Aubrey may be passed out in a stranger's van right now, but I know what she would say to me now: "Tom was NOT right. And go back out there and give this a better shot. You can do this. Bitch, get the fuck back out there."

I pick up the black Sharpie pen dangling from a string attached to the bathroom mirror and scribble my contribution to the graffiti trail on the wall:

The Cure. For the Ex's? I'm sorry, Beca. You know. Will you kiss me again?

I splash some cold water on my face at the bathroom sink and take a deep breath. Time to go back out there and make this right. I am brand-new. I can change. Only not for Tom. For me.

End of Chapter 6.