It's autumn in the Big Apple and the state of the city is almost as close to what Beca would describe as perfect.
When they'd been in New York freshman year of college, she'd mumbled something about how she'd loved it. Jesse was there—so she must have still been caught up in the moment of adrenaline that had caused her to do multiple stupid things—and he'd put his hand to his chest and cooed at her mockingly "Aw a little cold closed off city for a cold closed off girl" and Beca had punched him and flipped him off.
But that was nothing like NYC in the fall. It's crisp and cool and the trees are a symphony of red, gold and orange. And the sun is nearly down and the street is a sea of fire and God she's drowning in it in the best way.
The wind is cutting and her headphones are functioning as earmuffs under her beanie and even with a scarf and jacket, the cold seeps into her face beneath sunglasses (she's not being an ass assuming she's super famous and trying to hide, there's just a lot of glass here and shit reflects off everything) and honestly it's pretty awesome. It wouldn't be like this for another month or so where she grew up.
She doesn't really have a 'place' right now. They stay in hotels or rent furnished studio apartments if she's in a location for a while recording or producing or whatever. 'They' changes with whatever is going on but she's not above staying with the people that make her career work for her. She's nothing special, just a girl here to jam.
Her group has been scheduled to be here long enough that she has a small studio loft and a beaten path to a 24 hour taco place. It's almost heaven.
She knows that in a room back home, the one that used to be her mom's craft room, there's a growing collection of framed records on the walls and some signed pictures and stuff like that. Her dad has some stuff too like the autographed ball she threw out at the Braves game. But she doesn't keep any of it because she doesn't have a home to put it in. And it's not that important to her anyway.
She gets to the corner and waits for the pedestrian walk sign to light up. She doesn't even worry about creeping lenses or anything like that because it's New York City and for a few minutes in a city of millions she's just her. She doesn't stick out in a crowd other than maybe being a little short. Which is subjective because really, it's not like she's a damn hobbit.
She hasn't pulled a Calvin Harris and completely remodeled her look. Much to some people's dismay. It's still weird to her that people shout her name and she hasn't really gotten any better at dealing with it despite multiple stints in media training. ("You can't say 'sup', to people, Beca." "Dude why not?" "…'dude' is not encouraged either.") But that's sort of her brand, the nonchalance and chillness.
When her life is as insane as it is now there are a few things that provide her solace. People think right off that it's the music. And they're kinda right. But music is the language she uses to tell the story. And yea she's never wanted to be a corny sap but she guesses she kinda is.
Because every so often, beyond tempo and notes, there's a line in her a song of hers—and words are not her specialty but sometimes she adds a few—but it's her tell and it's usually about a color. There's one that people really like in a song of hers called Sky. She knows people like it because the song sold a ridiculous amount of copies and the record company gave her one of those framed records things for it.
But she knows people feel it because sometimes at signings people bring fan art and seeing the words she strung together about "worlds of baby blue" still makes her blush a little. And then Scarlet Fever caused her to nearly be massacred by Swifties when she wrote about being consumed by red.
The songs shift in her headphones and at the opening notes her eyes flick to the time illuminating the screen of her phone. She does some quick mental math on time changes until she remember's she's not that far and imagines a shock of red hair lying against a pillow. She smiles.
She wants to send a text because she knows Chloe is relaxing after a long day. But she can't just send a smiley face because she's not Chloe and she doesn't really know what to say other than "how was your day".
But that's weird. It's not but it is. It's just super freaking weird she acts like they are married.
(It's kind of like a weird unspoken agreement that they don't talk about dating or whatever. Not like she's in the game. But she kinda assumes Chloe is even though she doesn't want to and the name "Matt" has slipped out once or twice which is enough for Beca to assume…things.)
This is when she honestly swears she is emotionally stunted. Because she should be able to just say hi to her best friend without being like "holy shit i love you". She's done it for years. She's a little different and she's a lot vulnerable in ways she wasn't expecting to ever be.
She runs thin some days, she seriously does, and she almost breaks and texts "goddammit just be here" but she is afraid. She's afraid she'd wake up in a few hours to a frantic knock at her door and she can't do that to Chloe who is a teacher now with her own life and a house she's seen in pictures she sends. And she's afraid she wouldn't wake up to her at all when she really, really breaks and actually needs her. So she breathes and ignores it. Just like how she can't give in to the thought of finishing a set, dropping her headphones, walking out the door and ending up on a porch in Georgia at 10 pm. (She's not a dramatic asshole though so there's no rain involved in this scenario.)
Because it would be so friggin nice. It'd be perfect even. It'd be perfect to just hang out at that house in the middle of nowhere (it's not really, it's in a neighborhood) just together with no one bothering them. And the little thing has a front porch and she wants to hang one of those wooden porch swings like the kind in her mom's Southern Living magazines up for Chloe so they can drift lazily back and forth and talk or not even talk at all. They can listen to music that whispers everything she wants to say.
So within that mental freak out she has on occasion, she also, for whatever messed up reason, has a tendency to suffer from white knight syndrome when it comes to Chloe. And with this, like back at Barden during senior year, there's some level of protection involved. Why? Well sometimes she's on damage control because Chloe mad is terrifying and she's genuinely afraid of her. But it also sucks so much to see her sad it's like a devastated puppy, like kicking a goddamn puppy, and she actually physically hurts when Chloe does.
And one day they'd arrived in Pittsburgh for a radio guest DJ spot and one of the guys made a joke after Beca hung up on a phone call with Chloe, and they're all kind of a family so it's ok, but there was a girl in the doorway from the radio station. And then in the pre-spot interview the subject was broached. It was brief, but it was enough for Beca. Chloe is in her tightest circle of secrets.
She has so many people around her now in an ever changing circus she doesn't even know who she can trust. Again, not saying she'd 'confess' anything to anyone because Beca is not about that with anything, but you never know what people might hear and say. Even though she doesn't really give a shit what people say about her, people still have the need to consume her life. And she can see that house and that swing and those trees and that life swallowed up in flashes and screaming questions until she wakes up from the nightmare panting and blinking into the night.
Beca reaches the door of her building, nods to the door attendant, Samson, and takes the elevator to her floor. After sliding her keycard in the slot and nudging her door open she barges in, shifting her messenger bag from her shoulder to the floor.
She might not have her mounted records and autographed memorabilia with her but what she does have is a ratted piece of fabric that's tied to the handle of her bag. It could use a wash and is starting to show it's age but for some reason Beca's never been able to part with her Bella Bandanna.
It reminds her of things and moments and a group of totally awesome nerds.
She feels the pull again and fishes her phone from her pocket as she pulls off all her cold weather gear. She walks over to one of the oversized chairs near the floor to ceiling windows and plops down lacking any sense of grace her mother ever hoped she'd magically obtain.
She does this a lot, sits and struggle with words, in many ways. But tonight, for whatever reason, she thinks things may change. Years from now she won't be able to pinpoint why or what happened on a completely inconspicuous day after a totally uninteresting walk to a bland apartment. She's tired but she's not on the verge of one of her 'wearing thin moments'. This is something different.
This doesn't feel like giving up. This feels like moving forward.
She looks out over the city and she's done with sunsets.
Hey :) she texts. There are three minutes of eternity and a calm stare until a ping from her phone breaks her vigil.
There you are :) is the reply.
Beca smiles.