You promised Beca you'd start at the beginning.

This is the beginning.

Happy families are all alike; each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.

The Beales have always been Floridians. Having grown up in Sarasota – most of it in the Beales' restored 1920s Beaux Arts home, surrounded by cousins, siblings, and adults who raised each other's children, and raised them well – Tolstoy's dictum never really sank in until you went to college.

Your bedtime stories from Grandpa Beale, retired judge and avid historian, ran the gamut between Grimm's and the adventures of your great-great grandfather, the first Abraham Beale. The First – as your family called your great-great grandfather to differentiate him from Grandpa Beale, who was The Third – was a real estate developer who settled in Florida during the roaring twenties. The horn-and-wood name plate on Grandpa Beale's desk still bore his name.

Instead of The First's business title, the raised letters under his name read: Familia supra omnia.

Grandma Beale's pies and cakes, famous since her debutante years, crowded the family's dining tables on every occasion.

Your mother, Agatha Beale née Davis, wrote for Life and won a Pulitzer for reporting on the 1980 Miami riots.

Dad, now-retired surgeon Charles Beale, never passed up an opportunity to take you and your eldest sister Caroline horse-riding.

Or you and your older brother Caleb roller-skating.

And you and your youngest brother Ciaran sailing.

And you, just you, to the NASCAR track in Daytona.

Cousin Jane worked at Mote Aquarium. Cousin Dan played for the Jacksonville Jaguars. Aunt Claire was on the board of the Ringling. You could always rustle up a cousin or two on a weekend for art, sports, or nature.

Your point being: growing up, you had no shortage of beauty, of money, of joy, of company.

Growing up, Aubrey and Beca had none of these things.

Your little slice of Florida was overwhelmingly conservative. Bush voters, bible-thumpers, crazy drivers, and every imaginable form of wealth and entitlement were always just around the corner of the family estate. Meanwhile your household subscribed to The New Yorker, occasionally took up religion, and hosted Fran Lebowitz.

You grew up strongly aware of inequality, of mortality, of sex. You were painfully aware of your privilege. You knew, from reading Annie Proulx and James Baldwin, the breadth and depth and tragedy of the human condition.

You knew about the world, and all that remained was to see it.

And so it was that you arrived at Barden University an absolute smartass. Convinced you were older than nineteen, convinced you knew the meaning of life. To live, you believed, is to follow your instincts. At high school it brought you to the most interesting places: the only boy on campus who read Kama Sutra; safe spaces to smoke weed; friends who became bandmates; girls who liked to experiment.

Like your father, you will spend the next two decades becoming a surgeon. Unlike your father, you wouldn't spend the first few years of it seriously. Barden's pre-med program wasn't the best in the country, but it would still get you into Harvard. College is supposed to be the best years of your formative life. Why miss out?

The freshman orientation told you just how liberal Barden was. Girls received whistles. Along the quad students distributed pamphlets on Greek organizations, held marches for stricter gun regulation, or simply passed out from being too stoned. Student clubs fell all over you – the Barden Bellas, the theater club, and the women's tennis club were especially keen. Complete strangers invited you to parties. This wasn't a surprise. You talk a storm and possess great beauty besides. This is a blessing you never take for granted.

To prepare, you ambled back to your dorm. A nap was in order before you hit your first college party.

You spotted a girl up the deserted steps. She was struggling with the most vintage suitcases you've ever seen, monogrammed leather boxes in black and tan, all worn surfaces and metal corners. Up close you knew you haven't met anyone like her before. She had a chilling beauty about her – the classical kind, all loose blonde curls and cream skin, a prize for technicolor film. Her lips were set in a severe line, her celadon-colored eyes just as resolute. But it was her expression that made you stop: it was the grim, faraway look of an émigré, someone not of this world.

You felt as caught as poor Achilles from that scene in The Iliad:

The goddess standing behind Peleus' son caught him by the fair hair,

appearing to him only, for no man of the others saw her.

Achilles in amazement turned about, and straightaway

knew Pallas Athene, and the terrible eyes shining.

This is how you met Aubrey Posen.

Aubrey was your first real friend in college. Many tried, and by your first week you had a slew of rotating acquaintances. But at nineteen you were also such a snob. You fancied yourself a people curator. You wouldn't hang out with people who were purposefully gauche or cluelessly superficial. You couldn't stand it when people used their phones during a conversation. You gravitated towards romantics, humanists, aesthetes.

You immediately clocked Aubrey as a humanist.

When you helped her with her bags you learned she read The Lover by Marguerite Duras in its original French. And she didn't frown or find it facetious when you said you chose Barden for the lousy pre-med. I am a human being, so nothing human is strange to me, she said, quoting Terentius. She was taking English with a minor in ethics.

Your pillow talk must be phenomenal, you joked.

She stared at you, unblinking, and you could swear she was trying to bite back a smile. I take it back, she said, eyes crinkling sweetly at the corners. You are a very unusual person.

You went out almost every week. You showed up to classes hungover. You aced oral recitations. You hooked up with boys. Girls. RAs. Adjuncts. You called your mom and complained about your lack of sleep. You sought out everything.

Aubrey was always alone. She studied in Cox Hall, the library right across the medical building. A few weeks in you realized she was there every night. You were always the first to say hi. She startled the first few times, like a deer in headlights.

Aubrey never made small talk. She always went for the deep end: Why must you always leave your readings at the last minute? I'm sorry, but that boy won't call you back. Did you know Fitzgerald died before receiving critical acclaim? He died thinking he was a failure.

She was the only other person you knew outside of pre-med who was loaded with coursework, so you sat with her whenever you had to cram. Once you sat until closing; the librarians had to kick you out into the night.

You complained you were hungry as you walked aimlessly along the quad. Aubrey pulled out sandwiches from her bag and led you to a nice, moonlit spot in the grass. And you learned that for Aubrey, this midnight picnic was a daily occurrence. Her roommate sold weed, and the steady procession of strangers in their room at night made her uncomfortable.

You brought her to your single room, the only person you didn't invite in for sex. You gave her your spare key. Come up whenever you want. You didn't know it yet, but you extended an invitation that would anguish and delight you for years and years.

Aubrey, you will find, will make it very hard to be loved. She clearly enjoyed your company but never sought you out. It was always up to you to call her, find her, bang on the windows of her cloistered inner life until she looked up.

She refused to audition for the Barden Bellas and then shocked you with a burlesque sing-and-dance version of Feeling Good – straddling a chair with fire in her eyes. She repeatedly declined to become roommates even when it was clear she enjoyed your company. You had to promise, up and down, never to invite people over without her permission until she relented.

But she was also infinitely patient, and you found that you liked making her laugh. Oftentimes you had to shock her, for she was forever reluctant to smile – reluctant to show any emotion, even, as if it was a weakness she had to overcome when she was young. Her understanding of humanity apparently didn't extend to sex. While she never admitted to being a virgin, she listened to your animated stories of sleepovers with a mix of curiosity and embarrassment.

She had a strong sense of justice but a critical view of what passes for law. You found yourself saving quotes from the essays she published on The Barden Review. And she was also a bit of a dark horse: she hustled for money by selling plasma and ghostwriting college essays.

When she strode the halls it was impossible to ignore her. People often mistook her for frigid until she started speaking. She had a gracious, lilting sort of eloquence – the kind that made you hang on to every word, passionate while still making people feel seen. She filed away mundane details with frightening accuracy. It surprised people when she remembered to ask about their exam, or recalled their partner's name.

She knew your favorite snacks and always kept one on her during Bella rehearsals. She always showed up on time, out of a strong sense of not wanting to miss anything. Delightfully straightforward but never tactless, she reminded you the most of your mother.

She also received phone calls that left her sobbing but wouldn't tell you who called and what was said. You could talk to her about anything but her own history – she straight-up stopped speaking whenever you prodded. She wouldn't even tell you her hometown in Vermont. Not even when you secretly dug through her stuff for an ID, a bus ticket, a billing address. Not even after you threw her a birthday party. Not until the campus police knocked on the door of your new shared room.

Someone named James Posen was caught breaking into your building.

Some people don't deserve kids.

You should have been scared. But all you wanted to do that day was kill Aubrey's father with your bare hands.

What a shitstain of a man. After learning about him you cried with Aubrey, relieved at finally understanding her. Your Aubrey, l'erudit, ton amie; how could her own father hurt her? How could anyone? You swore you'd do everything to help.

By the time James Posen posted bail you were already safe and sound in Florida. That was Aubrey's first Christmas with the Beales.

Oh my god, Aubrey blurted out, as the cab rounded the gated lot of the family estate. All this time asking me about my family, and you've never mentioned you live in Buckingham Palace.

It's old, you waved off. This wasn't the first time you shocked a friend with the size of your house.

Aubrey gaped at the manicured lawn, the palm trees and animal hedges lining each side. You know what else is old? Buckingham Palace.

You brought her to Grandpa Beale's study first. If anyone in the family knew what should be done about Aubrey's predicament, it would be him. After listening to Aubrey's story he told you to wait in the hallway. You left the door partly open to eavesdrop and heard Aubrey ask what familia supra omnia meant.

Clover, shut that door, your grandfather admonished. You did as he asked, pouting, and sat down to wait in the corridor. They came out after an hour. Aubrey was thanking Grandpa Beale profusely.

I've actually got a case against my father, Aubrey explained, the relief evident in her face. It was the first time she truly smiled since leaving Atlanta. Prison time's unlikely, but your grandfather said a restraining order should keep him at bay for the meantime.

I will represent Aubrey pro bono, Grandpa Beale added. In return she will help me with my book on The First.

You punched the air and kissed his cheek profusely. Oh, Grandpa Beale! I knew I could count on you.

As you've expected, your family was nothing but gracious. More than gracious, even. Aubrey's lack of patience with small talk went over well: the Beales liked to talk, covering everything from grand ideas to the most mundane of shower thoughts.

Caroline taught Aubrey how to drive. Caleb teased you about your 'girlfriend'. Ciaran – forever a baby in your eyes, even when he was already sixteen – asked Aubrey to join his Call of Duty team almost every night. You often went downstairs to your mother and Aubrey having coffee, discussing Joan Didion and their shared inability to write succinctly.

Your father, however, took you aside one day and said: Aubrey's court case will take the same time as your MCAT preparations.

She's been helping me study, actually –

Kid. He shook his head, somber. Without his genial smile his crows' feet and graying hair was more pronounced. You have done well for Aubrey, but now you have to focus on doing well for the MCAT. And a lawsuit can be very distracting.

You were stunned at how quickly he saw through you. But this was no surprise: a serious and observant man, he was the same parent who found your weed stash, who predicted Caleb was gay, who put the fear of God in Caroline's ex-boyfriends. I'm focused, you said, knowing full well you were lying.

I've asked Dad and Aubrey to keep you out of their case.

What?!

Your father held up a hand. Both of them were in agreement. Dad said that with such a difficult defendant, Aubrey's case can get very involved. And the court will put her full history on display. We must give Aubrey her dignity and privacy.

I'm all for dignity and privacy, Dad, but Aubrey also needs all the emotional support she can get, and I –

Chloe, he interrupted, soft but firm. If Aubrey needs that support, she'll ask. Until then, mind yourself.

Sophomore year. You brought Aubrey to parties. You convinced Aubrey to use dating apps; she matched with a few guys but never saw anyone for a second date. You walked home arm-in-arm after Bella rehearsals, sometimes collapsing on the same bed. You pulled all-nighters and she made you coffee and little snacks from the microwave. You taught her how to make a blanket fort. She liked it so much that she made you one almost every weekend. You'd lay side by side inside it, playing songs from a tiny speaker, talking until the sun came up.

Aubrey used to look terrified whenever you called her your best friend. But after her first court date, she sought you out and collapsed in your arms.

One day you entered your shared dorm and saw Aubrey sitting by the windowsill, brows furrowed, reading her copious notes. At the same time you also saw the places in your life where you've made her inextricable: your extracurriculars, your childhood home, your dorm room.

And you saw the future, the places in your life where she still could be.

Your bed.

Harvard.

A home of your own.

You walked up to her, kneading the back of her shoulders. And when the knots were gone and her eyes were closed, you told her: I can make you fall in love with me. Just let me.

Her eyes opened and she faced you. She said, delicately – maybe even pityingly –

I don't think that's a good idea.

Why not?

I have nothing to offer.

You were not going to cry. You have everything I want.

Chloe, you are the person I love most in the world. You know that.

But?

But I don't see you as anything more than a friend.

Oh.

I hope I haven't indicated anything otherwise, she continued.

Does it count that she finally reciprocates your goodnight hugs? Does it count that you're the only one who can touch her without her startling? Does it count if you're the only person she would laugh out loud for?

Not knowing how to proceed, you asked: Are you straight?

I don't know. Her fingers were kneading into her lap, indenting her skin. I don't know who I am, or what I like. What romantic love feels like. She paused and blinked rapidly. I'm sorry.

You felt so, so stupid.

She had only just started to live.

Sorry for asking.

No, that was brave. She smiled wistfully. If I liked someone I know I'd never be that brave.

Junior year. You scored five hundred twenty points on the Medical College Admission Test – placing you on the top ten percent of all test-takers.

You took it as a sign that you can finally be distracted.

You sent your application to Harvard with much fanfare from Aubrey and your parents. At the last minute you also fired off an application to your mother's alma mater, Emory. Emory was an Uber away from Barden, with a fantastic campus and the twentieth best medical program in the country. It was a far cry from Harvard, sure, but at the moment it felt like Atlanta was where you should be.

Your father questioned your decision not to apply to more schools, but eventually stopped pushing. It helped that your mother loved her time at Emory and made no secret of it every time it was brought up.

Aubrey, watching you prepare for med school this early, had also started to think of life after college. She was firm on building a life in Atlanta. This place has been kind to me, she said. And you couldn't argue with that: even compared to Florida, Atlanta had better food, a more vibrant nightlife, and most importantly, Aubrey. If you somehow failed to get into Harvard, you'd still be in Emory with her. And that sounded like heaven on earth.

Aubrey voiced out, for the first time, her fear that she wouldn't win her case. Against your father's judgment, you went to her next court date.

Grandpa Beale saw you on the courthouse steps and tried to bar you from entering. You won't like this, child. You only shook your head.

In session he showed photos of Aubrey in adolescence – documentation she had the foresight to collect as early as fourteen, with a phone camera that produced grainy, light-smeared images. It did not make the captured reality of the images any less damning. Aubrey with a split lip and red teeth. Aubrey with bruises around her neck, eyes blood-red from subconjunctival hemorrhage. Aubrey with half her face black and blue, bearing a zygomatic arch fracture based from the drooping, misshapen swelling around one eye. It was a miracle she didn't go blind from that one.

Five visits to the emergency room in the last four years. Members of the jury averted their eyes. One asked to be recused, citing a daughter around Aubrey's age.

James Posen represented himself. When he finally came to the stand he was manic, ranting about the right to discipline his brood and the decline of Catholic values in America. He had Aubrey's green eyes but none of her warmth.

As Grandpa Beale cross-questioned him Aubrey's eyes remained on her lap. She was pinching the skin between her thumb and forefinger, hard, the skin turning blotchy purple. You wrapped an arm around her.

You faggot, you are beyond salvation, James Posen was suddenly bellowing from the stand, spit flying, spectacularly losing it. Aubrey did not look at him, pressing her face into your sweater. The bailiff eventually had to drag him out.

Aubrey vomited in the courthouse bathroom. You held back her hair and mustered your most upbeat voice when you soothed her. You didn't cry until you were out of sight, her bloodied face showing up in your dreams.

Aubrey won her domestic abuse case in November, receiving two hundred thousand dollars in settlement. She hugged Grandpa Beale, sobbing, while your grandfather patted her back and comforted her.

You also hugged your grandfather, grateful for his protection, for his presence. You didn't doubt him, not one bit; he had gotten you out of everything from knee scrapes to tacky debutante balls. Am I the best grandfather? he whispered conspiratorially. Yes, yes, don't tell Grandpa Davis. You took them out to a steakhouse to celebrate and paid with the money you saved from babysitting.

A great weight had been lifted off Aubrey. On the walk home she told you what she'll do with the money. Get a car. Go to Paris. Take up a weird hobby, like bonsai or stargazing. Move you out of the dorm to an actual apartment. So you'll stop taking over my closet space, she laughed.

The shitty thing about love is you can't just turn it off. Isn't desire always the same, whether the object is present or absent? Isn't the object always absent? Even Barthes knew that love, unreciprocated, was a doomed exercise.

Still, you hallucinate what you desire. You saw, this time, the places in her life where you could be.

So you kissed her on the sidewalk.

Aubrey didn't move.

And then she was pushing you away.

Chloe, I will not. She wiped her lips with the back of her hand, fingers trembling, the confusion and harshness in her face heartbreaking to see. You can have anyone.

You can. You knew this. You have a face men would leave their wives for and you knew exactly what you were worth. You've quit sleeping around but you're willing to bet your phone would blow up the moment you take it back up.

So if there was any way – any way – that you could stop wanting Aubrey's gossamer blonde hair in your hands, her lips in yours, you'd have fucking taken it.

You're all I want, why can't you see that?

You only think that because you're inclined to love, and I just happened to be here.

Wrong. You're wrong, and you're wrong for assuming you know how I feel.

You can do better, Aubrey snapped, already walking away in long, quick strides. Just do better. Okay?

Aubrey didn't join you on Christmas break. You parted at the airport with little to say to each other – you to Sarasota, she to Paris.

Aubrey sent presents ahead for your whole family. Yours was a luxurious, swallow-blue mohair coat that you saw together in a thrift store last summer. When you put it on it was comfortably snug.

How could Aubrey have this coat fitted to your size without knowing your body?

How could she know you, inside and out, without wanting your love?

Your present for Aubrey, mocking you every time you opened your luggage, was your dog-eared, heavily-annotated teenage copy of A Lover's Discourse.

Aubrey sent your mom a photo of Sartre and de Beauvoir's gravestones in Montparnasse. To you she sent a photo of Marguerite Duras's gravestone, along with a quote from The Lover: Very early in my life it was too late. When your mom asked to see Duras's gravestone you burst into tears.

You told her, in Duras's words: I'm lonely, horribly lonely because of this love I feel for Aubrey.

Oh, Clover. Your mother took you in her arms. That girl can't love you. She doesn't even know what to do with herself.

Your mother reassured you it wasn't you. That you've gone above and beyond. But people like Aubrey, after a lifetime of being hurt by others, sometimes choose to free themselves of people entirely. Hence Paris by herself in the winter. Hence walking around a cemetery on Christmas Eve.

But Aubrey is a smart girl, your mother said. She will realize that shutting the world out is not the answer. And that would be the beginning of her real life: one where she depends on people, and allows people to depend on her.

I don't know if I can wait any more, Mom.

You do you, she hummed, kissing the top of your head. But I bet you Aubrey loves up a storm.

Aubrey forwarded the listing of a gorgeous two-bedroom brownstone in Peachtree Park. It was a ten-minute walk away from Barden and had an actual living room, a kitchenette, and a lawn lined with pink redbuds. Even better, it came furnished.

Should we take it? she asked.

Sure, fine, yes, whatever. By the time you returned to Barden Aubrey had moved all your things into your new home by herself. She welcomed you in the doorway with a perfunctory smile. You handed her your late Christmas present in a way that you hoped was just as blasé.

She showed you around and taught you how to use the microwave. She didn't look you in the eye, not even once.

You called each other best friends in public and held each other at arm's length in private. She did not linger in any room you were in; you stopped talking until the sun came up. It became a contest of who could say the least amount of words to each other while keeping things functioning.

When you weren't studying, when you weren't fucking, when alcohol lost its kick in the mornings and blackness took over, Aubrey's words rang in your ears.

Okay, Aubrey. I will do better.

Alice, that year's Bella captain, was a typical Lady Macbeth: deceptive, maniacal, coming apart at the seams. But she was also the only one who managed to bring the Barden Bellas to the ICCA finals – bullying a few girls into anorexia on the way.

Aubrey followed her, blindly, feverishly, often inviting her over to practice scales together in Aubrey's room past midnight. You got so sick of it that whenever Alice was in the apartment, you'd have sex in your room as loudly as you could.

After a few instances of this Aubrey finally knocked on your door to say, irritably: Can you stop?

Stop what? you asked, feigning innocence as you wrapped bedsheets around yourself.

This…fuckathon, this cry for help.

That pissed you off very quickly. But I'm having the time of my life, you said, giving her the fakest smile you could muster.

Are you? Or are you self-destructing? Her eyes were hard. This won't end well, Chloe, you couldn't possibly –

You shut the door in her face.

Whenever you got in trouble with Alice it was from defending Aubrey rather than from messing up your parts.

But since you were trying to do better, whenever Alice screamed in Aubrey's face, you stopped saying anything.

By May you were having a much better time asleep; every waking hour was spent gritting your teeth.

Never had a month grated so hard on your nerves. Every day Alice seemed to reach a new pinnacle of cruelty, sometimes descending into physical abuse. She dragged Bellas by the hair and shook them bodily until she got the note or volume she wanted.

On some mornings you woke up hoarse, and if you didn't recover by rehearsal, there would be burrs in your voice. It happened more and more as you inched closer to finals.

Even worse, you had no idea when it would happen, or why.

You got by on singing at a lower volume, reserving your voice for your solo. That only made Alice yell at you more. Home from practice, you shut yourself in your room and tried to rationalize what was happening: You're tired. You're stressed. You smoked too much weed in high school and now you were paying for it.

On your final rehearsal, your voice cracked at the highest note of Turn The Beat Around. A C6.

Your impeccable, honey-gold Aguilerian voice cracked. Just straight-up cracked. A note you sang before with no hesitation. A note you taught other Bellas to pull out of themselves, Aubrey included.

Everyone stared with a mix of shock and surprise. Aubrey's expression was one of horror.

Then Alice threw the pitch pipe at your head.

You collected your things and stormed out of the auditorium. Aubrey ran after you.

Chloe, she didn't mean that.

You were unloved and losing your voice and Aubrey had other things on her mind. You whirled around, furious.

Why are you defending a fucking despot?

She was daunted by your anger, something she has never seen before. Alice is naming us Bella captains, she finally said, her voice small.

Leading the Barden Bellas. Before your voice cracked you would have been thrilled by the idea.

Now? There wasn't enough money in the world.

So what, Aubrey?

What do you mean, 'so what'? So we'll remake the Bellas into our own fashion – isn't that exciting?

You heard the hope in her voice. Aubrey took her Bella responsibilities with the seriousness of a fanatic. It was her first taste of sisterhood and community – a well that Alice had poisoned in a matter of months.

It won't be this difficult next year, she said, standing up to her full height. I promise.

I'm done, Aubrey.

She laughed in disbelief. Are you serious?

I am. I'm over the Bellas.

You can't just leave, what is wrong with you?

I am losing my voice, you wanted to shout in her face. I am losing you. You couldn't decide which was worse. You loved your voice, how it set you apart as more than just a pretty face, its warmth and dimension perfect for singing your baby brother to sleep. Hell, you used to sing Aubrey to sleep. But you also loved Aubrey, even if you couldn't stand your current place in her life, couldn't ever go back to a time when you were just her friend.

Chloe, please, she said, fully unnerved by your silence. I know things between us are strained, but everyone in that room needs you. Not just me, or Alice. The performance won't work if you're gone. It just won't.

You briefly toyed with the idea of negotiation. Your father would have. Love me, you wanted to say, and I'll stay. I'll jump through hoops. I'll meet flying pieces of metal headlong.

Your mother, unfortunately, taught you not to be cruel. The ICCA championship was bigger than you or Aubrey or Alice. The Barden Bellas had not won the finals in nine years.

Frankly, you didn't think you'd win that year either – not with the competition you've seen in the semi-finals. Everyone else was too good, playing with genres, doing new things with a cappella. Still, every Bella in the room spent the better part of ten months performing the setlist to perfection. And you had at least three solos that would, at this point, be impossible to replace.

More importantly, no amount of negotiation would make Aubrey want you back. And your mother taught you not to settle for anything less.

After the finals, you told her, I quit.

And then, Pukesgate.

Everyone quit the Bellas. Everyone. Because of Aubrey, the Bellas were uninvited to every social event. The laughingstock of Barden. Summer break couldn't come fast enough.

Aubrey skipped college and holed up in her room. Even if nothing had been resolved between you and Aubrey, love is love; you brought her food every day, returning for the untouched meals after your classes. Every derisive comment about Aubrey hurt. On campus, complete strangers approached you: oh my god, you were in that puking lady video. People kept tagging you and the Bella social media accounts in five thousand different iterations of Aubrey puking and you couldn't even look at your phone anymore.

That is the woman I love, you wanted to scream in the quad. Get your fucking eyes off her misery.

You weren't a moper. And you couldn't stand the desolate energy Aubrey projected all over your apartment. After a week of this you stormed her room and demanded she talk.

I am at a loss. Aubrey, draped over her bed, was the epitome of tragedy in her stained kimono robe and red-rimmed eyes. I want to quit Barden.

Really? You're leaving college in your last year?

You're not the one who humiliated herself on a two-hundred-k scale.

Bree, we'll laugh about this, like, five years from now.

And what do I do before we get to laugh about it?

I don't know – get a summer internship? Put together a new setlist? The world's your oyster.

Why do you even care? You quit the Bellas.

Look, if it makes you feel better in any way – I'm back in.

You don't have to do that. Aubrey's expression was wooden. And you don't have to bring me food every day.

Goddamnit, Bree, why won't you let me help you?

I am not –

You're punishing me for wanting you.

You expected her to deny. But when she didn't, you continued: I can be here for you without falling any more in love with you. I'm not stupid.

I didn't say you were stupid.

Then why are you icing me out? You think that's going to make my feelings disappear?

Aubrey shook her head.

I don't know what you want me to say – I'm sorry? I'm sorry you don't love me back, that it's out of your control?

I do love you. Aubrey finally met your gaze. But it's not about you. My father – he always said a Posen's life is never okay –

Are you seriously going to take life advice from –

– I now understand what he meant. I don't know if you've noticed, but bad things happen wherever I go –

Bad things happen everywhere, that's not your fault –

– and it rubs off on people around me. I'm – her voice caught, effectively shutting you up. I'm a cursed, noxious cloud.

Her face screwed up, and she broke down sobbing.

You walked over, trying not to cry yourself. Started rubbing her back gingerly, then intensely, like you could heal her with your touch. Gradually her shoulders stopped shaking.

How can her love be a curse, if it's all you ever wanted?

I ruin everything I love, she managed to continue. I loved being a Bella more than anything in the world, and then I tore the group apart.

Your anger for James Posen, always straining to boil over, reared its ugly head. You didn't think you were capable of real hate, but you hate him: for making Aubrey feel unworthy of affection, for ruining her ability to trust.

You took a deep breath. Aubrey listened to you least when you raised your voice. Why don't we raise the level of discourse? she liked to say, when you were being selfish or petulant about something. It was condescending, but it also instantly made you realize how petty you were being.

May I offer some perspective?

Please, she sniffed.

You lived most of your life with people who made an art form out of hate. Your father clung to his religion because it enabled him. Your mother is an alcoholic, likely bipolar. She likes to hold a steak knife to your father's face. They fight almost every week, shouting until the hunting dogs hide under your bed.

That's them.

But your parents think they're good people. Doing better than everyone else. They have to, because to admit they're miserable means there's something wrong about the way they live. So if they're infallible, someone else must be causing all their suffering. Maybe their children. Maybe you. Your anger was rising but Aubrey was hanging on to your every word, so you fought to keep your voice even. You see, you're the most convenient reason they could find for their unhappiness. That's why your father said a Posen's life is never okay. It's to make sure you'll always be as miserable as them.

Aubrey blinked, letting your words settle.

This is why I didn't want you going to the hearings, she finally said, brushing a stray tear off her cheek.

So I wouldn't know what your parents were like?

So you wouldn't know me.

Well, it's too late for that. I know you, Aubrey. You planted a soft kiss in her hair, and even that simple gesture hurt. It had been so long since you have been anywhere near that scent of violets you so craved. You're just like the rest of us, trying to do your damned best. And I know your love isn't cursed, or noxious. I'd be glad to take it, you wanted to add, but this was not the time to insert yourself. If anyone is noxious, it's your parents. They're despicable abusers and gaslighters who tried to break you for years.

But I am broken. And I spread my brokenness to others.

Well, try me. You can't break me.

I've already embarrassed you and hurt you just by being associated with me.

I wasn't hurt. But I will be, if you keep pushing me away.

Aubrey stared at her lap. I will stop. I'm sorry.

Good. Can I be in the thick of your cloud now?

I'm still not sure that's –

I don't care, Bree, I miss you. Her tear-stained face was dull and sunken and you wanted so badly to hold it in your hands.

I missed you, too.

That was all you needed to hug her.

Senior year. Aubrey applied to Emory law school. You flew to Boston for interviews at Harvard. And Aubrey decided to rebuild the Barden Bellas.

At the freshman orientation both of you nonchalantly handed out flyers and answered questions about your a cappella group. Fake it 'til you make it, right? Whenever someone snickered, pointed, or straight-up laughed at your booth Aubrey grasped your arm, prompting you to whisper soothing words in her ear.

The moment you saw Beca you saw, immediately, a kindred soul.

You became aware of your sexuality at a very early age. By the time you met Beca you've honed your tastes and senses to a fine point. At a glance you could tell when someone wanted you, and whether they could please in bed. You could tell who lives knowing there is sensuality in everything, that in a profane world the sacred is within reach by willing mortals – with one look, or a slip of the hand.

Beca, like you, is always ready to look behind the veil.

Beca's skepticism, the tendency to deflect – you saw it all melt away when you walked in on her showering. After your last notes of Titanium echoed away you stared at each other with a quiet understanding, knowing full well the other places where you could sound this good.

You've got a little crush, Aubrey teased after Beca's audition, brushing the tip of your nose with a finger. It only made your blushing worse. Don't let it cloud your judgment, though.

Of course it fucking clouded your judgment.

Aubrey – to your chagrin – only wanted applicants that fit the Bellas' previous mold. You had to argue Beca's case for hours, as well as Amy's, Cynthia Rose's, and Denise's. You were bickering even up to hood night, crouched at the bushes behind Beca's dorm.

Then Aubrey proved to be a consummate kidnapper, trailing Beca catlike before noiselessly slipping a gunny sack over her head. The next moment she had Beca in a half-nelson hold.

Beca kicked and screamed, genuinely freaked out. It's Aubrey, you idiot, we're taking you to aca-initiation, Aubrey snapped, not sticking to the script you wrote to assure the safety of kidnapped Bella initiates.

Who's Aubrey?! Beca cried, her voice teetering on hysterics.

We are your sisters, Aubrey and Chloe, and we're taking you to the Barden Bellas' Initiation Night, you told Beca in a rush, before turning to Aubrey in amazement. Holy hell, where did you learn that?

Chloe? Beca was suddenly still. You sick fucks, this is the 'cute little soiree' you texted me about?

We're so sorry!

I'm not, Aubrey said, amusement lacing her tone.

Aubrey, please, let her go. Aubrey loosened her grip and Beca pulled the sack off her head, glaring at you and Aubrey.

You're lucky I didn't have my rape whistle with me, she said, standing up to her full height and patting down her hair in an attempt to reclaim her dignity. And you, Aubrey – she sounded out the vowels of the name with pure disdain – you're lucky I didn't reverse-headbutt your nose or something.

You wish, Aubrey said, coolly. Are you going to get in the van or not?

The rest of the girls, thankfully, were less freaked out when you stuck to the script, recognizing your voices and coming along without much protest. By the fourth kidnapping – Stacie's – you and Aubrey were breathless with laughter as she drove the van, giddy at being the two people left in the world to carry on this old Bella tradition. You and Aubrey.

You didn't regret arguing for everyone's places. As soon as the initiation rites were over you turned on the lights and saw they were good girls, full of grace in their own ways. Amy had a smile that lit up the room. Denise had a soft, lilting accent that you could listen to endlessly. Cynthia Rose had – there was no other way to put it – swag.

And Beca, once relaxed, had a way of speaking her mind that just tickled you right.

At the party you drank until you had the courage to pull her close. I think that we're going to be really fast friends, you told her. You didn't miss her lowered voice, her breezy response, the way your entire body warmed up to her touch.

Stacie – who practically announced herself as another kindred spirit during her Bella auditions – quickly brought you back to earth. Don't get attached, Red, she noted later, watching you watch Beca with interest. She'll be gone in the summer.

What do you mean?

She's just here because her dad paid her to try college or something. She's dropping out after the school year.

Beca is an aesthete, her music influences spanning genres, decades – even centuries. She listened to anything and spoke of producers you've never heard of – Sylvia Moy, Teddy Park, Nigel Godrich – with a reverence normally reserved for Grammy award winners. The more you talked to her the more it became clear pop culture raised her. She credited Scully on X-Files as her gay awakening. She saw The Cranberries on Letterman. She could name the most obscure personalities on TV as this girl or that guy from this band or that reality show.

Aubrey, raised in a patriarchal household, knew Law and Order, videogames, Jerry Springer and actual fucking hunting. More than once you've seen her scoff at Beca's interests. They were too modern, too loud, too far from the conservative American values she grew up with.

That year Aubrey also exercised those values to a degree you've never seen before. She ran the first few rehearsals with an iron fist, harsh and exacting on things where she shouldn't be: Beca's earrings, Stacie's sexuality, Amy's cardio. The worsening state of your voice.

Your voice. The more you sang, the more it lost its resonance. You still taught the girls how to sing up to C6, but you wouldn't dare take on a solo higher than a C5. Singing anything higher at full volume was like inhaling acrid smoke.

When Aubrey learned you gave your solo to Amy, she was incensed. This is the last year we are singing with the Bellas. Do you realize that?

Amy's belt goes up to G5.

So? You've been singing at C6 for years and years.

Aubrey, if the girls don't get solos this early, how will they carry on after we graduate?

That finally shut her up.

One night you woke up to a sharp, bracing pain deep inside your ear – a seven out of ten in the pain scale, ten being the time you had appendicitis. Breathless, you choked down aspirin and fell asleep, curled up into an agonizing ball.

The next morning you skipped your first class to go to student health services.

A laryngoscope and the verdict was in.

You had vocal nodules.

Your options: surgery, or six months of vocal rest.

You walked out of health services in a daze. You bumped into Stacie, who proudly showed off a fish bowl full of condoms from the sex ed therapist.

What's wrong, sweetie? she then asked, you didn't laugh. You couldn't hold your tears back any more. She thrust the fish bowl at a passing student and gave you a hug.

You spent the day in a daze.

Unfortunately it was the same day as the Sigma Beta Theta mixer.

After your disastrous first performance as a group, Aubrey – in front of the Bellas – finally demanded what was wrong with you.

I have nodes.

You couldn't trust your voice anymore. Aubrey gripped your hands, and for a moment she was the only one you could see, eventually also blurring in your vision. I have to pull back, you told her.

Bit by bit Aubrey relieved you of co-captaining duties, until all you had to do was show up in rehearsals.

You didn't mind. You had new diversions. In class you finally saw your path to oncology taking shape. The intersection of life and death became clearer in your biology labs, in the mutations you dissected out of animals.

In bed, Stacie: discreet, unattached, and generous, you came to her whenever you needed a friend. She let you go wherever you wanted, which meant that sometimes you fucked and sometimes you just painted nails or watched RuPaul's Drag Race. Sometimes she'd practice diagnostic questions with you for her psychopathology class, and in return she'd let you call her Aubrey in bed.

And in rehearsals, Beca. You tried every possible excuse in the book to get closer.

The truth about Beca was this.

Beca, unlike most people of her age, had a dream that never wavered since twelve: to produce music. She described the discovery like a calling. One day she was on the couch, eating cereal for dinner, when a Fatboy Slim concert aired on MTV. She was then filled with a burning passion to know how music like that – an irresistible sonic collage of beats, vocal samples, and melody – was made.

From then on Beca made music in her bedroom in Seattle, putting it out on the internet, waiting to turn eighteen. It was the age her mother said she could finally leave. For LA, for New York – anywhere, really, her mother didn't ask, for she was usually too out of it to do so. Beca's mother preferred blissful ignorance over being around.

When her mother died, Beca was sixteen. Relieved, Beca quit school and slowly moved her way down to LA. Her father, who taught Old Norse literature in Barden, finally found Beca in Portland a year later. She was faking her age and working as a barback in some industrial nightclub. Horrified by Beca's living conditions, Dr. Mitchell cut her a deal. She would stay in Atlanta for a year to try out college, and if it wasn't a fit, she could then go wherever she pleased. He would pay for her way.

Of course, you learned the truth much, much later. You fell in love with her first.

If Aubrey ever noticed you and Stacie she didn't give a shit. It was your friendship with Beca she nitpicked: Will you tell Beca to take off her ear monstrosities? She's always got headphones on, what do you even talk about? Do you know if she's actually seeing that Treble guy? She is not a Barden Bella, why do you even keep trying?

Aubrey and Beca couldn't get along. This shouldn't have come as a surprise. Aubrey was adamant that last year's setlist was the closest you got to winning the ICCA, and all you had to do was to finally perform it to perfection. Beca's freewheeling approach to music and performance had no place for such rigidity. She complained to anyone within hearing range – often Aubrey – that the setlist bored her to tears. Her participation at rehearsals was rote, her Bella duties clearly her lowest priority.

Why do you keep falling for these kinds of people?!

On one of Aubrey's anti-Beca tirades you asked, jokingly, You jealous, Bree?

Aubrey stopped mid-rant, incredulous.

Finally, she sputtered: of Beca?

You smiled, unable to hide the mischief in your face. Sure.

Aubrey started rubbing at that little muscle on the side of her neck that appeared whenever she was going to vomit. You're crazy, she finally said, her posture not relaxing one bit. She doesn't have anything I want.

So you wouldn't mind if I asked her out?

She scoffed. Be serious, Chloe.

I am serious.

Aubrey's mouth was set in a grim line. I have no business telling you this, but Amy said that Beca doesn't plan on staying in college.

I'd still ask her, you shrugged.

She sighed and pinched at the bridge of her nose. That is terribly ill-advised.

Why? I'm not staying in college, either.

That's different. Beca isn't just leaving college – she's leaving the state for California.

You're making it sound like I plan to settle down with her, you said, in your most cavalier tone. Maybe I just want to have a good time.

There are plenty of other people you can do that with. Her voice was clipped.

Well, why not Beca?

She looked at you, stupefied, as if she couldn't believe your naivete. Because, I don't know, it's messy to sleep with a fellow Bella? Because she doesn't seem like a have-a-good-time kind of girl? Because you're her senior and that's an abuse of your position? How many reasons must I list before you get your head out of your ass?

Interesting, the way Aubrey defined Beca as not a 'have-a-good-time kind of girl'. You knew this from observing Beca, but that meant Aubrey observed her closely, too.

If I can't have you and I can't have Beca, you said, carefully, who am I allowed to have?

She looked like she'd been struck.

Seriously, Aubrey, who are these 'other people' you keep pushing me to be with?

Why do you keep poking the part of you that desired Aubrey with a stick? Aubrey only ever responds this way. Yet you keep hoping something else will eventually fall.

Her green eyes combed you over with deathly intensity. When she finally spoke it was biting, her words cutting off in harsh syllables.

Be with whoever you like, Chloe. But don't you fucking compromise the Bellas.

She held your gaze with terrifying calm. And then she turned on her heel and left.

At your next rehearsal you taught Beca a piece of choreography, lightly placing your hands on her waist. You were showing her how to complete a quick half-turn for Turn The Beat Around when you looked up and saw Aubrey. She was staring daggers at you.

Beca wasn't there.

You spoke – even flirted – after Bella rehearsals. Met up for the occasional coffee. Eventually hung out in her dorm while she made mixes. Over time she also hung out in your room, usually when Aubrey wasn't around. You'd even speak to her dad whenever he checked in on Beca at her dorm.

But she was never really there.

She constantly talked about leaving. Like Dean Moriarty from On the Road, she couldn't wait to be gone. She talked about the LA neighborhoods she would live in, all the cool people she would meet. No mention of anyone cool in Barden until you prodded. I guess you're cool, she conceded with a smirk. Stace and Ames and Jesse, too.

Out of the Bellas she talked to you the most, but you knew so little about her. She alluded to ex-girlfriends, friends at the radio station, people who taught her how to mix and play instruments. She liked spending time with the Bellas – she would never admit it – sometimes incorporating Cynthia Rose's vocals or Lilly's beatboxing to her tracks. Her sparse possessions pointed to an inner life whose texture seemed to surpass your sheltered one: a shabby sleeping bag, a snuff spoon, a scratched folding knife. Worn boots that looked like they have resoled many times. And then she went and punched a guy at Regionals with a practiced hand.

You knew so little and you knew she was leaving. She, Aubrey, and Stacie had practically told you in neon letters.

But you wouldn't be Chloe Beale if you didn't shoot your shot at least once.

So one late afternoon, while you were sprawled on opposite corners of your bed, you asked her, light as you can. If I ask you out, will you still go to LA?

She didn't even look up from her laptop.

You're such a flirt, Beale.

Both of you were supposedly studying. Instead she was making mixes, while you scrolled through Instagram and lollygagged under a big patch of sunlight from your window.

You inhaled deeply and said: I'm into it if you are.

She went very still, like she couldn't believe what she just heard. She had a sharp and aesthetically-pleasing face, but it was her transparency that made it infinitely watchable. She could never lie about how she felt.

She removed her headphones and sat up, staring. You – you're not with Aubrey?

God, I – I wish, you almost said. No.

But you and Aubrey are always – I don't know. It looked serious to me.

It is serious. She's my best friend. A gloom descended on you, which you quickly tried to deflect: Is that why you're so skittish whenever I touch you? You're scared of Aubrey?

Oh, fuck off. She stretched out her toes, smirking, until her legs were touching yours. Beca and Aubrey were alike in this regard: they never admitted to their weaknesses. Her expression settled into something wistful. You know I've wanted to go to LA since, like, forever.

Best place for music production, you said, regurgitating her own lines. Got Pharrell and Capital Records and stuff.

Hell yeah, baby. You think I'm gonna risk it all for red hair and blue eyes? She looked into your eyes then, and something shifted in her face.

Oh, the way you must have looked lying down, right where the sepia tint of the afternoon was shining! You shook your mane of fiery curls, emboldened by her gaze. Your face was getting warm. It had nothing to do with the sun.

Her lips parted as if to say something. You felt inebriated and reckless, the way you are on four glasses of wine.

Yours if you want it, you murmured through parched lips.

She let out a breath. Thanks, I'm – she was turning scarlet, moving as if to touch her ear, before putting her hand down. Finally she settled for pulling away from you, placing her knees up to her chest. She looked like she couldn't believe what she was doing. I'll keep it in mind.

Please do.

She scratched at her earlobe. Looked away.

Shit, dude, look at the time –

When you went to Aubrey's room that night she was tucked into bed. She was reading another giant tome of a book, tea on her bedside table, oblivious to the lateness of the evening.

You snuck into the crook of her shoulder. She wrapped an arm around you instinctively, but her eyes remained on her book. She was always distracted by the minutiae of things.

You recalled your favorite line from Company: Somebody hold me too close; somebody hurt me too deep. One day, you thought, someone will take everything that you are and run away with it. Someone will embrace the monolith of your love with an unblinking eye.

One day.

You couldn't cry about Aubrey to Beca, or Beca to Aubrey.

So you cried about both of them to Stacie.

Girl, be serious. You can't have them both.

Why not? you whined, aware you sounded childish but also seriously asking. What was wrong with you, that the women you want couldn't want you back? You're hot, you're not an airhead, you always had a kind word for others. In high school you were even voted most likely to succeed.

Because Aubrey's avoidant, and Beca likes to pretend she's above love and affection?

People really underestimate Stacie – you included. The girl was a walking sex encyclopedia and a psych major to boot. She only shrugged your surprise off.

Besides, what are you gonna do with two girls, honey? Can't scissor them all at once.

That made you laugh, sending snot flying. I'll build a harem, and have them suck my toes until I come.

Five toes each. That'll be the day.

One good thing came out of the Regionals fiasco: Beca committed.

She arrived to rehearsals earlier, occasionally beating everyone else to the auditorium. She stopped making faces during performances. Once you even caught her taking notes.

Her commitment rubbed off on others. Aubrey often chided Cynthia Rose for using her phone during rehearsals, but Cynthia Rose finally stopped when Beca asked. Stacie danced with focus, forgoing the extraneous lewd gestures she used to make. Amy begged for new ways to sing her solo and looked at Beca to back her up. Quitting – a buzzword the other girls had said at one point or another before Regionals – all but disappeared in your conversations.

The only person who couldn't see the change was Aubrey. Everyone's suggestions grated at her; her hackles rose every time someone tried a change. Everyone had choice words for her leadership – even Lilly, whose voice became louder whenever she said the setlist sucked.

You were Switzerland, mediating, fielding suggestions. Making apologies.

It would have been fine if things with Aubrey were great behind closed doors. But Aubrey had withdrawn into herself since learning you had nodes. Whenever you offered help or advice she only replied with a variation of I don't want to bother you or I don't want to tire you.

It didn't help that she was so busy. Aside from the Bellas she had taken on an internship at Atlanta Magazine and joined the college astronomy club. She also added extra coursework as soon as she found out she was accepted to Emory law school.

She refused to talk about the immense weight of pressure she was constantly putting on herself. Gradually, you learned not to ask.

One day you arrived at the auditorium to hear raised voices.

– can use voices for drums. For sound effects. Lilly can beatbox, for God's sake, said Beca.

And you can do all that noise on your other extracurriculars. Aubrey's words were exaggeratedly slow and loud, like talking to someone with a head injury. Here, we stick to what works if we want to win –

– if it works, then why are we just one point ahead of the Sockapellas?

Because Amy deviated from the script.

We won because Amy deviated from the script.

Whether that is true or not, I hold the pitch pipe, so –

You're wasting us.

Aca-scuse me?

You entered the auditorium before things could escalate. The rehearsal that followed was the longest two hours of your life. Aubrey and Beca kept talking over each other, cowing the rest of the girls into silence. As soon as the clock struck seven Aubrey stomped out.

We're so much better than this, Beca groaned as soon as she was gone.

Everyone started the usual round of complaining, collecting their things and banging out of the auditorium one by one. Beca slumped over a chair with another groan, head tilting heavenward. You counted to ten as slowly as you could and walked over, placing a hand on her shoulder.

I'm sorry Aubrey didn't like your suggestions.

She lifted her head. There were bags under her eyes; she looked just as tired as you felt.

I don't know why I even care. Like, why can't I just walk into the semi-finals ready to sedate the audience? She waved a hand in surrender. God, how do I stop caring?

I like that you care.

Her eyes met yours, a small smirk playing across her face for the briefest moment. Well, Aubrey can't stand it. And now I can't stand myself. This is a cappella! Why do I give a shit?

Prison really changed you, Beca. It made you see the important things in life.

Fuck off, she laughed, bumping your shoulder. You felt heady, the way you did when you were doing anything mildly dangerous, like standing on top of a skyscraper. Enough about me. You won't believe what I learned at the radio station today.

You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and grinned at her. I'm ready.

Jesse's got a crush on Aubrey.

No way, you gasped. Not that this was news to you; before Pukesgate, people asked Aubrey out all the time.

Way. He said she complimented him for refusing to fight those geezers at Regionals.

Aubrey hates violence.

Probably why she can't stand me. Anyway, he asked how we could dance for two hours daily on high heels, and when I said Aubrey also wore them all day it's like floodgates opened. Dude couldn't stop talking about her.

He's not Aubrey's type, you blurted out.

What's her type, then?

You didn't know. Aubrey's attitude whenever she used dating apps was self-defeatist: she just had to get things over with, she said, skip to the part where she had a partner and a house and a timeshare in Florida. You found that hilarious, as well as the idiosyncratic guys she went on dates with: literature snobs, classics scholars, tennis players, lumberjacks. She came home unhappy with all of them.

Beca's eyes were bright, waiting for your answer.

I'm not outing Aubrey, you laughed.

Fine, you don't have to answer that. Beca leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms at you petulantly. I'm just saying, we can set them up on a date.

This was more shocking to you than Beca's initial news. And have her vocal cords ripped out by wolves?

You know that's just a stupid rule Aubrey made up, right? Beca was grinning, waggling her eyebrows. It would have been adorable if her suggestion wasn't the worst idea, ever. Come on! You're co-captain, you can undo it.

We made up that rule, and for a very good reason, you snapped, cooler than you meant to be. There was a pain behind your eyes that you're suddenly aware of. Besides, with or without the rule, Aubrey wouldn't go for it.

Dude, Beca huffed, now clearly miffed by your absolute lack of enthusiasm. What's up? I thought you'd like playing matchmaker.

I am. You bumped her shoulder, trying to bring the smirk back to her face. But not with Aubrey.

Why?

Because. You knew you were annoyingly oblique, but you can't stop. But you couldn't say you didn't like imagining Aubrey with Jesse, either. You said, instead, Aubrey doesn't want it. She hasn't gone on a date in ages.

Huh. Beca tilted her head thoughtfully. Is that why she's got a stick so far up her butt, I can wave her around like a popsicle?

A sound made you both spin. Across the room, Aubrey was retrieving her phone charger.

Beca didn't mean that, Bree.

She absolutely did, Chloe, are you stupid?

The truth about Beca was also this: she had fine hands, small and slender, and ever since you asked her to think about going out with you, you haven't stopped imagining what they'd feel like on your body.

Beca liked to catch your eye across the room, and not in the way Aubrey does. Whereas the blonde would try to telepathically communicate a message, Beca's eyes simply twinkled, as if relieved you found each other in the crowd. Are you always that pleased to see me? you once teased her, and her reply was a sheepish mumble: why wouldn't I be?

Aubrey preferred the indifferent breath of academia, holing up in libraries for hours to learn the secrets of the universe. Beca liked the rough and tumble of the outdoors, sometimes even falling asleep at the quad in between classes. She'd arrive at Bella rehearsals with grass stains in her pants, shrugging off Stacie's fussing and Amy's ribbing.

Beca, unlike Aubrey, cared for gossip. She liked to hear who did what and who slept with whom whenever you went out for coffee. She aspired to sangfroid, but one joke from you could make her laugh so hard she'd get the hiccups. If Aubrey was as impassive as a locked vault, Beca's emotions always leaked out of her. She couldn't keep a secret to save her life.

And yet you were pretty sure that if Aubrey and Beca stopped sniping at each other for one minute – maybe an hour, tops – they'd actually find plenty of things to like about each other. Beca's unfiltered sense of humor could make Aubrey laugh; on more than one occasion you've caught Aubrey doing just that, turning away after some random quip Beca had made in rehearsal, so no one could see her smiling. And Beca could use some of Aubrey's tact, for she was forever getting into trouble for her sarcasm – either with professors or pushy drunks at the bars the Bellas frequented.

No amount of explanation to Aubrey, however, could make her see things your way.

When you got another letter from Harvard you called Aubrey over. You were still in disagreement over Beca, but old habits die hard.

You sat on the couch and Aubrey stood behind you. Her hands anxiously gripped your shoulders as you opened the envelope.

Dear Ms. Beale, the Harvard Medical School Admissions sincerely regret to inform you –

You howled like a madwoman, the kind that sent birds outside flying.

Your father and grandfather went to Harvard. So did your sister, Caroline. During her time she was a Harvard Opportune, performing across the world as far as Britain. It inspired you to take up a cappella at Barden.

Harvard was the biggest dream you've shared with your father. Such was his delight that you were following in his footsteps. The two of you had been on a quest to improve the human condition since Grandma Beale's early death from cancer; you promised your father that no other family member would have to suffer the same.

Harvard. The school where anesthesia was first introduced. Where the first successful heart valve surgery was performed. The foremost on medical research in America, if not the world. You will never walk its hallowed halls.

Aubrey accompanied you to Florida so you can tell your dad.

For the first time in a long time, she held your hand.

If your father was disappointed he never showed it. There are other ways to become a doctor, he assured. And like a prophecy, on your last day in Sarasota, you got your acceptance letter to Emory.

You were in your childhood bedroom with Aubrey, leaving your packing at the last minute. Aubrey, who was used to this happening, moved around quietly – tossing clothes into your shared luggage, stuffing loose coursework into binders. You waved your phone at her, speechless, and she looked at you with alarm.

Emory, you finally screeched, jumping up and down. I got into Emory!

Hearing the screams from your bedroom, your parents came over to investigate. Upon comprehending the news Charles Beale, well into his fifties, lifted you in a bear hug. Behind him a smiling Aubrey read the rest of your acceptance email aloud.

And then – to your and Aubrey's shock – your dad also pulled your mom and Aubrey into his arms. My girls, he kept murmuring, his smile watery. My brilliant girls.

Shortly after that you brought Aubrey home for Christmas break. December in Sarasota has always been your favorite time and place, the days between Christmas and New Year a softer, kinder life, like the sun shining nonstop without making you feel hot.

That year was the best yet, the balmy weather settling pleasantly into your bones. Aubrey was back to her old self – the one you had deep talks under blanket forts with, the one who didn't complain of migraines every day. She watched a game with Ciaran at Ed Smith Stadium and went kayaking with you in mangroves. She decorated Christmas cookies with your younger cousins. After Christmas lunch she joined the family in playing Capture the Flag, displaying her typical zeal minus the pressure-cooker competitiveness she brought to Bella rehearsals.

Your mother suggested you take Aubrey out on the family sailboat.

The sea was pleasantly calm, not a swell or current in sight. I am a disaster, Aubrey laughed when you were in the water, failing to obey your order to hoist the heavy sail in any way. Her blonde hair whipped in the breeze and her cheeks were tinted rouge by the afternoon sun.

You left the jib and stepped behind her, reaching around with both arms, demonstrating how hard she should pull on the halyard rope. She then told you that dis aster, in ancient Greek, literally meant bad star: a fault in the stars.

Do you know where desire comes from?

She shouldn't be asking questions like that, not while you had your face in her hair. She smelled of violets and sweat. You found yourself clutching the halyard in a death grip, trying not to press closer. With the ocean rocking you back and forth, it was impossible.

De sidere, she continued, tilting towards you. Your lips brushed the curve of her ear. When she next spoke, her voice was low. From the stars.

You've touched often, and you've touched before and after you told her you loved her. But something about this felt different. Charged.

You wanted to tighten your arms around her, but taking her by surprise wasn't her speed.

So slowly, you pressed a kiss into her neck, right beneath her ear.

You tasted salt on her skin. You were so close you felt her shiver, heard her sharp intake of breath. But she did not move away.

You went completely against your nature, and yet this was the closest you've had her.

You surprised yourself further by pulling away. Be right back, I have to raise the jib. She watched you steer the bow in the right direction, killing the engine as your sails caught wind.

When the boat was slicing through water at six knots you opened beers and joined her on the front deck. She was staring at the horizon, arms wrapped around herself. When you sat next to her she looped her arm around yours, placing her head on your shoulder.

In that moment you knew: something had changed.

That night you made another blanket fort. Before you fell asleep you were dimly conscious of Aubrey spooning you.

It happened again a few nights later, both of you dog-tired on the couch at Peachtree Park after your flight. And again, in your room on another night, after she frog-marched you to bed.

One afternoon you fell asleep in her room and woke up to her kissing your nape. For Aubrey – who couldn't even hold hands in public without nervously glancing around – this was huge. She loved being held but never initiated it herself. She once told you she only found touching easy with people she would never see again; what would the other person think, she said with a shudder, if they saw how much I liked it?

You held your breath, willing yourself not to respond, your insides molten. It turned out you could literally be paralyzed by devotion.

happy new year, Beca messaged. u back? 90s theme at the garage tonight, be my +1 :)

You had everything.

And then, on one night in February, you lose everything: Beca, Aubrey, and the semi-finals.

No, that's okay – you don't have to pretend you're allowed to have a say in the group, right?

As Beca stormed away you were sure it was the last you'd see of her.

The silence in the bus as Amy drove back to Barden was so thick you could pierce it with a knife. You were sure it was the last you'd see the Bellas together, too.

As soon as you and Aubrey got home she was a whirlwind, collecting pen and paper, putting on her eyeglasses.

We're writing to the ICCA. We're going to explain that our performance has been tampered with –

What? No.

Chloe, we can't just stand by after Beca ruined the Bellas –

You ruined the Bellas.

Aca-scuse me?

You're a tyrant who refused to collaborate down to the last minute. You ruined the Bellas.

I lifted the Bellas single-handedly while you ran around doing whatever it is you were doing –

Really? You think the girls would've stayed if you're the only one they answered to? I ran around keeping everyone's wits together, Aubrey. I apologized for your shitty behavior over and over. And you know what? I'm sick of it!

Oh, please. All you did was talk about me behind my back so you can hook up with Beca!

I never talk about you behind your back. And Beca's either hooking up with me or Jesse, so which one is it?

I don't know and I don't care. She wrote furiously, then threw her pen across the room. I can't. I can't fucking do this. You kicked off your shoes, refusing to be intimidated by her display of frustration, and collapsed on the couch.

Maybe a separation will do us good, she finally said.

You rolled your eyes and went to go to your room, eager to get away from her yourself. But she continued: The lease expires in two months.

Oh.

I'll look into student housing over spring break, she said, at your pained silence.

You said nothing until you've locked yourself in your room. Then you called Stacie and told her you were heading to Emory Med tomorrow.

Your mom and dad surprised you by flying in. They didn't have to – a phonomicrosurgery is minor enough that you could speak again in a few weeks – but there they were: cooing your childhood nicknames, bringing you a nine-inch peanut butter cup pie. Of course you cried when you saw them.

Stacie boldly introduced herself as your girlfriend. Your mom knew she wasn't but played along graciously. Your dad, notorious for his inability to read a room, loudly asked where Aubrey was. He was met with stony silence.

By then you were on strict pre-op voice rest, so Stacie had to explain what went down at the semi-finals. When she spoke about your fight with Aubrey you interrupted her by writing in your little Magic Slate: I don't want to talk about this.

Does Aubrey know you're here? your mom asked.

She can't know, you scribbled, underlining the words repeatedly. Your parents exchanged a look.

She thinks Chloe's staying with me for a bit, Stacie said.

You've been nothing but good to that girl. Your mom's voice was hard. What happened?

Tiff, you wrote.

Tiff? Stacie said hotly. Chloe, she was out looking at dorms when I picked up your clothes.

I ought to give her a talking-to, your mother growled.

Mom, you said, and she gave you a withering glare. You weren't even supposed to whisper. Please, you mouthed, throwing your dad a panicked look.

Your dad gently nudged your mom back to her seat. They're grownups, Auggie, let them deal with that on their own. To you he said, You can deal with it, right? It can't be worse than – he cleared his throat and looked at your mom for approval – the Paris thing.

Stacie glanced back and forth at your parents, at your mom's stiffened posture. You know I'm not dating Chloe, don't you?

Oh, hun. Your mom patted her hand, her nostrils still flaring. We talk to Clover every week.

The night before surgery you woke up to your mom asking Stacie what Beca was like. You kept your eyes shut.

She's kind of a badass? Very independent, like, camps by herself and stuff.

Oh, really? Your mom sounded impressed. She and your dad always spoke of driving around America in an RV as soon as Ciaran went off to college. Is she anything like Aubrey?

Well. They're both stubborn, but Beca's way more approachable.

I worry Aubrey used our daughter.

Aubrey isn't – you didn't get that from what I said, Mrs. B, right? Aubrey's not manipulative, I think, just cunty. Your mom must have shown some sort of disapproval, because Stacie immediately followed up: Sorry. I don't mean cunt, I meant cun-ty, like, fierce in a drag queen kind of way.

Oh, her heart's in the right place, but whenever they fight it's always up to Clover to pick up the pieces. Did she reach out? Stacie's silence was excruciating. Why is that?

I don't know, ma'am. I don't know Aubrey well.

See? That's the problem, right there. She takes too much and gives back very little.

She's very proud, Mrs. B. That's all I know.

After your operation Stacie incessantly begged you to let the Bellas visit. At least let me tell them. They'll write letters and send nudes. But there was no point if you couldn't do the thing you loved to do the most with them – talk, glorious talk, gossip and joke and cackle until they get evicted from your bedside. And you wouldn't be able to stand it if any of them asked about Aubrey, or said anything bad about her. If you were the last person in the world who cared about Aubrey, you didn't want to know.

Your mom left Atlanta first. She was invited to speak at a literary event in Johns Hopkins, one that would also be attended by her literary hero Joan Didion; you and your dad finally convinced her to go. At the last minute, within Stacie's earshot, she asked: Why don't you date Stacie? She's got a nice head on her shoulders.

Mom!

Stacie simply laughed her off. I'm not complicated enough for Chloe, Mrs. B.

Shortly after she left your dad was ready to leave, too. He was supposed to meet your mom back home in Sarasota, but he said he wanted to see the Johns Hopkins medical program. He couldn't tell the truth but you knew, and you found it sweet: he couldn't stand being away from your mom too long. You also couldn't tell him you wished he would leave. You were done pretending you were fine.

Before he left he moved you into a hotel across the hospital so you can walk to voice therapy. He even got two beds so Stacie, who volunteered to accompany you to your sessions, could sleep over whenever she wanted. When he got to Baltimore he called to gush about Johns Hopkins. Some kid just developed a test that predicts the risk of pancreatic cancer, he said. It was the cancer that killed Grandma Beale; like most people who had it, she was diagnosed only when the disease was at its final stage. They accept transfers, did you know that?

In your third or fourth therapy session you were finally allowed to sing. What should have been a short and simple exercise of finding your vocal range took about an hour. Aubrey used to envy you for being able to summon your head voice with zero warmup. Now you could barely squeak out a note.

The results were disheartening. Your highest note was G4 – two full octaves lost. Your lowest note was still E3. Your vocal range was barely an octave.

At this point you didn't qualify as a singer, let alone a soprano.

Sensing your despair, your doctor assured you that in your case, regaining the power and resonance of your old voice was possible.

What about my range?

He averted his eyes. Some recover their vocal range, some do not. We'll know as you progress through the therapy.

So I can only sing up to G4 from now on, that's it?

You may be able to add a few more notes to your range as you heal. But you'll also have to prepare for the possibility of not singing anything higher than G, or G-sharp, at best.

That was when Aubrey, after weeks of radio silence, announced in the group chat that the Bellas were back in the ICCA finals. You felt the color drain from your face.

Fuck yes! Stacie yelled, ecstatic, before seeing your expression. Oh, babe, no.

You were still not allowed to use your voice outside of therapy – probably for the best, because it would have betrayed your emotions even more. This is good, you wrote in the Magic Slate. You distracted yourself by scrolling through the group chat, trying to ignore the clawing in your stomach.

The only other activity since February was Aubrey removing Beca from the members.

You showed Stacie your phone, pointing, widening your eyes in a clear question.

Stacie's eyes went round as saucers. Oh my god, the bitch did not. That sneaky, evil, scheming-ass – you glared at her, and she held up her hands. Whatever, Aubrey's the love of your life, but – Chloe! Without Beca we are so, so screwed.

You patted her hand and started composing a text.

Aubrey, of course, remained bullheaded until the very last minute.

Chloe, could you please get your head out of your ass? It's not a hat.

You didn't want to hash out your issues with Aubrey in front of the girls, but that was the last straw. I have been there for you for so many years, and all you do is treat me like shit. And you finally got to tell her, right after she vomited what seemed like months' worth of stress, what you've been thinking all along: We could have been champions.

You were so mad that had she let Beca walk out of the auditorium, you would've strangled her.

Your anger was eclipsed by relief as soon as Beca came in. And then, awe, at how Beca handled the rest of the rehearsal. In a few words she had calmed everyone down, convinced everyone to reveal truths about themselves. Hers was particularly poignant: I have never been one of those girls who had a lot of friends who were girls. And I do now, and that's pretty cool.

The gasp Aubrey made when you told them about your surgery was enough to make you cry. The shock and dismay in everyone's faces didn't help. You wondered if you should have just let Stacie invite the girls to your bedside. But then Aubrey gripped your hand, making you cry harder, and you knew you made the right call. Only Stacie can keep a secret in this group. If anyone else knew, they would have told Aubrey. And Aubrey would have come. And you would have ruined your last remaining voice just to reassure her.

After the first time you sang under Beca's leadership – the first time the group sounded so good – the first thing Aubrey said to you was: You were right. I'm sorry.

Aubrey convinced you to renew the lease on Peachtree Park, promising to bring you to voice therapy every week. She told Stacie while they moved your things back to your old room. Thank God, Stacie said to you with a wink. Any longer, and your mom would've forced you to make an honest woman out of me.

What's that supposed to mean? Aubrey asked, as you waved Stacie's car off.

It means you've been replaced, you joked. She didn't laugh.

That's reasonable, after everything I've done.

Don't beat yourself up about it, Bree.

She hugged you then, a long one, and you felt her inhale the top of your head. I will be your home. No matter what happens, you can come to me.

I know that.

You didn't, but that's the person you've always hoped I would be. She wouldn't let you go, and you realized it was because she didn't want you to see her crying. Well. I'm out of ways to make you hate me, so from now on you are stuck with me. I can't promise to be your lover, but I promise to always take you in – whether we fall in love, or fight, or stay friends for another century.

It sounded like wedding vows, you thought, feeling your chest ache and expand. You loved the idea of being a hundred years old and still coming home to Aubrey, maybe after fifty fights and several divorces later. To have a home in Aubrey meant having a love like your mom and dad's – the kind where you can't stay away from each other too long.

It took a while to shake off the novelty of seeing Beca and Aubrey working together. Suddenly it was Aubrey whom Beca invited home to check out her mixes, and Aubrey placing her hands on Beca's waist to direct choreography.

They still regarded each other warily, but there was also a begrudging respect developing between them. Beca admired the technical perfection Aubrey brought to her singing, her ability to identify and sing any note on cue. Aubrey was impressed by Beca's vast musical references, and her skill of slapping together any instrument, beat, or sample into a harmonized piece of music.

You watched them watch each other, alert as cats. They looked so perfect standing next to each other that you had a violent urge to push them together, the way you did with your childhood dolls. You wanted them to get physical and act out their distrust, writhe on the floor perhaps, until they were on top of each other. This desire made zero sense but it only got stronger by the day.

Finals night should have been one of the best nights of your life. The Bellas won the ICCA championship after years of drought, under Aubrey and Beca's leadership no less. You were in New York with the best friends you could ever ask for. You're a tenor with a new lease on life.

Everything would have ended on a high note, had you not lingered onstage to see Beca and Jesse kiss.

This grieved you more than it should – you didn't realize you had any serious hopes pinned on Beca until that moment – but before you could excuse yourself Aubrey was cradling you in one arm, walking you past crews and hallways until you were suddenly in an empty dressing room.

I don't know what's happening, you said apologetically, as she wiped your tears off with a handkerchief. Her eyes were level with yours and seeing her concern up close made you sob harder.

Do you want to leave? she asked. I can tell the girls you're not feeling well.

You inhaled big wet gulps of air, trying to get your bearings, and shook your head no. Everyone else was visiting New York for the first time. Caleb, who was studying fashion design at Pratt, was taking the group out for drinks and karaoke in two hours.

I didn't know you cared about her that much, Aubrey said. Were you seeing each other?

No. I'm not in love or anything, I just – I tried to make a pass at her, and she seemed into it. Guess I was wrong.

Aubrey closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose, hard, the way she does whenever she was getting frustrated. Finally, she said: tell me what you need.

You covered your eyes with your palms, willing yourself to stop crying at every. Single. Thing. I need you to slap me hard, and, I don't know. Tell me 'I told you so'. Tell me to buckle up, or something.

She glared at you as if seriously considering the slap.

Beca fucking Mitchell, she sighed, hugging you instead. Unbelievable.

Your interest in Beca was clearly an open secret, for as soon as you rejoined the group the girls kept shooting you furtive glances. Stacie gave you a little forehead kiss. Amy, upon catching your eye, pointed at the Trebles across the theater and drew a finger across her throat. You weren't sure whom she meant; Beca was standing with Jesse then, making your stomach roil. Aubrey followed your line of sight, and by her murderous stare you were sure she'd be happy to sic Amy on them. When Caleb arrived and Aubrey went to talk to him Cynthia Rose sidled over, squeezing your shoulder.

Aubrey was rounding up the group when Beca walked over towards you. Hey, can we talk? she asked, before Stacie elbowed her out of the way.

Your brother's hot, she purrs, in the honeyed tone she uses whenever she invites you over.

We were actually talking, Beca interrupted in a tight voice. You watched her lips move and your eyes started to sting. You knew she was here to let you down gently but you'd rather save yourself the embarrassment. What was left for her to say? Sorry, you weren't just contending with LA?

Stacie looked at you expectantly. You took Stacie's hand and Beca stared at it, eyebrows knotting. Let that confound her. You've obsessed over her for longer.

It can wait, you say, surprised at how easygoing you sounded. You sounded like the world was your oyster, Beca already a thing of yesterday.

As soon as you stepped out into the evening the girls' faces changed. The streets were bathed in the warm glow of street lamps and storefronts. Everything and everyone scurried past your group with great big purpose: limousines, girls in Juicy Couture, rats, men in suits, a guy dressed like Jesus. The air smelled of bergamot and piss. It was a perfect summer evening in New York.

Caleb and Aubrey led the group, you and Stacie following closely. Behind you the girls chattered animatedly and you thought: this is right. You will not allow Beca's new relationship – and your poor reaction to it – to color everyone's night.

So you drank copiously, and sang copiously, and egged everyone else into doing the same. Not that the girls needed much coaxing: they were giddy from winning, and even giddier at spending part of your twenty-five-thousand cash prize on alcohol. Amy pushed shots until you lost count. Stacie kept making toasts: to everyone's health, to you and Aubrey and Beca, to the Beale gene pool. Everyone participated in the drinking games you and Cynthia Rose started: I'm Going On A Picnic, Medusa, Paranoia. Aubrey, initially apprehensive, got drunk enough to sing Cher to your Sonny on a duet of I Got You Babe. And you got drunk enough to tell every person who sat next to you that you loved them. Caleb wrinkled his nose. Aubrey kissed your cheek with exaggerated affection. Stacie suggestively stroked your knee, laughing and withdrawing when you slapped her hand.

Beca quickly faded into the background, an inanimate chair out of the corner of your eye.

When you come to – like, really come to – you're on a cab to the airport, wearing fresh clothes. Aubrey sat next to you, head tipped towards the cab ceiling.

Are you okay, Bree?

Her head snapped up, and she straightened her posture with a groan. Why did we think we could drink that much and fly home four hours later?

Despite feeling like absolute dog shit yourself, you couldn't help but laugh. She chuckled and handed you water.

I'm proud of you, you told her. For winning the finals.

Oh. Her smile widened, the exhaustion in her eyes clearing. It wasn't just because of me.

Just take the compliment, Bree, you deserve it so, so much. The car smelled like mildew; you leaned on her shoulder, trying not to vomit. When the urge passed, you asked: How do you feel?

Bittersweet, I suppose. She brushed a hand to her forehead, as if suddenly shy. During Amy's solo, where the crowd was really screaming – at how good she sounded, at how good every one of us sounded…This is going to sound corny.

You can tell me.

I realized I no longer cared if we won or not.

You placed a gentle hand on top of hers. That's not corny at all. That's, like, really sweet.

Thank you. The fact that we did win was just icing on the cake.

I'm sorry for crying so much after the finals. Did I ruin it for you?

Aubrey shook her head. You're always telling me not to apologize for how I feel. You should take your own advice. The cab slowed into traffic – some commotion was going on ahead – and you both watched for a while, unable to look away. The voices of men grated on your ears.

Did I ever tell you Jesse had a crush on you? you eventually asked. Beca told me.

Oh. Aubrey put on sunglasses and leaned back on her seat. She took so long to reply, but when she did, it was fitting: I guess c'est la vie.

Days later there was a soft knock at your bedroom door. Outside, Beca called your name.

You dried your tears and called her in. She sat on the edge of your bed, backlit by your bedroom window. You were suddenly aware of the soft afternoon light on your swollen eyes, the rumpled pajama set you've been wearing for days.

So that was really stupid of me, she started, very seriously. I dunno why, but a cappella makes me do weird things. I swear I don't usually go around kissing guys or performing to movie soundtracks.

She faltered at your lack of reaction, one hand fidgeting with her earlobe.

What I mean is, she continued, I'm sorry. I'm sorry for kissing Jesse. We had a falling out before the finals, and I was so relieved he forgave me during our set that we both, uh, got carried away. It's a bit awkward with him now, actually. He really likes Aubrey.

And you? you prompt, wincing at the hope in your voice.

Me? It looks like I'll actually risk it all for red hair and blue eyes.

The relief that washed over you was so, so sweet, you found yourself laughing at nothing.

And then, crying at nothing.

Oh, Chloe. Beca scooted closer to you, concerned, and that was how you found out butterflies in the stomach are a thing: you had it from hearing your name in her mouth.

You sure about that? you prompted, a glob of snot streaming unattractively from your nose. Beca handed you a tissue and gingerly reached out to rub your shoulder. Because you don't dedicate an entire setlist to someone who's just a friend.

Hundred percent. I don't regret the setlist; it helped me get Jesse back. I regret not coming here sooner, though. She cleared her throat awkwardly. Listen, I'm really not worth all of this crying. Not even if this stripped-down version of you works for me.

Beca, this is the worst I've looked in my entire life.

Her hand on your shoulder stilled, as if holding you in place. I mean it, she said, her eyes soft. Then she leaned in and kissed you.

When you were fifteen you had to do a book report on the concept of Americana. Your mother was away on a writing workshop, so it was your father who directed you to Bret Easton Ellis's Less Than Zero.

It was a book forgotten on the bottom row of your family home's numerous bookshelves – the cover was creased and bent out of shape, the pages so crunchy pieces of it fell off when you dog-eared the corners. I haven't read it but it's supposed to be very rock n' roll, your dad said. When it was published your mom couldn't shut up about it.

The book was a riot, a trip, a wild awakening – all these when you were on the cusp of your teenage years, heralding the sex and all other illicit activities that would follow. It was your first foray into a darker experience, a rejection of innocence that you would deliberately chase.

That was how it felt, dating Beca Mitchell. She was charming, but at first she was pensive, formal even, whenever she took you out. After weeks of coffee and skating rinks you accused her, playfully, of holding back.

She stared at you and finally said: It's not you. You're perfect, you don't need to change anything.

Oh. You bit your lip, trying to hold back a smile. Then what is it?

Beca tilted her face towards her shoulder, suddenly shy. I'm holding back because I like people too intensely. Her hand went up to her earlobe. And, um, that scares them off. Seems it's rare to be all or nothing in dating nowadays.

You stared at her, dumbstruck.

And then you wanted to kiss her.

I like people too intensely, too, you said, quickly.

You do? She regarded you with frank surprise. You couldn't blame her. You've been dating since fourteen, fucking since sixteen; in all those years she was the only one to unwittingly offer you the thing you've wanted most.

Someone who will embrace the monolith of your love with an unblinking eye.

I do, you replied, elated. And you're right, it scares people off. Whenever I tell someone I like them I don't think they know what to do with it. You gestured at the space between you. Case in point.

Her laugh was breezy, like she couldn't believe what she was hearing. I mean, I still find it hard to believe that you like me. You're so out of my league it's crazy.

Oh, I'm just a girl, you said with a smug flip of your hair. Have you considered that you may be out of my league, too? You're quite special, yourself.

She averted her eyes at that, her ears red. I'm okay. But you? There's, like, a rarified air about you. I've seen people walk into trees because they stared at you too long.

You snorted, because you've seen it happen more than once. Then you remembered Aubrey and all the ways you've tried to tell her you loved her.

I'd love it if someone loved me intensely, you mused.

She nodded thoughtfully, and then said: I can try.

And so it was in your bedroom hours later, with you and Beca locked in a grappling embrace, grinding out a climax on each other's thighs. Beneath her you were opened wide as if subsuming her smaller body into yours. You delighted in her litheness, how easily you could direct her rhythm with the slightest bounce of your knee. Her face was buried into your hair. Oh, how she loved your hair. She went wild when you trailed it across her face, her stomach, her breasts.

A tide of pleasure swelled inside you, first as a tingling in your toes and rising to the backs of your diamond-spread legs, making them tremble. You're going to make me come, you whispered, stunned at the speed at which it was happening – mere clenching and friction never did it for you before. She pressed herself closer to your neck, panting right in your ear: I'll come with you. Her voice, the assured promise behind it, sent you crying out as the orgasm rippled through you. Above you her thrusting acquired a jerky, frenzied quality, and her voice joined yours as she came too.

That summer was the perfect time to fall in love.

It was the first real break you've had from building a medical career, and the last time you were free to do as you pleased. You volunteered for an animal clinic. After getting over the smell of dog pee you discovered an aptitude for making animals, especially cats, feel calm.

Beca, who was managing the radio station with Jesse that summer, often met you for dinner at your apartment. Sometimes you and Beca hung out with Aubrey and Jesse, but most of the time you stayed in your bedroom or walked around the city.

Beca enjoyed walking long distances. It was a habit that wouldn't translate well to Florida, you thought, where it was too hot to even get out of the car. She liked to meander around downtown Atlanta, which was chock-full of interesting options: parks, galleries, the Aquarium, street markets. She had a keen sense of direction and was never lost. Soon you had a bunch of favorite hole-in-the-walls and bars.

Like Beca, Jesse slept over often. Whenever you were home you watched Jesse retire with Aubrey to her bedroom at the end of every evening. It gave you a low-simmering anxiety – like worrying about leaving the stove on. But Aubrey seemed calmer, more affectionate even, so you pushed it to the back of your head.

All or nothing. Over the next few weeks you found a certain thrill in being Beca's, someone she can climb and ride at will. Your body went along, seemingly reinventing itself to become extremely sensitive to her touch. Your skin ran hot and damp. Your nipples hardened when she spoke into your ear, the lips of your sex swelling between your thighs.

All or nothing. Before the summer break even started Beca had already enrolled in Barden for fall. What about LA? you asked, a black wave of anxiety crowding your chest. You didn't want to be the reason she stopped pursuing her goals.

LA? she snorted. Over this? You're crazy, Beale.

But then one day she left her laptop open on the coffee table, and you saw the top half of an email on her screen. Dear Beca, it read. Thanks for sending us your demo. After careful consideration, it isn't what we have in mind…

That summer your parents were also seeing Ciaran off to Duke University. You seized on the idea of them meeting Beca on their way to Durham.

Your parents were giddy at the thought – Beca was your first girlfriend after a string of high school boyfriends. So they also brought Caleb, whom they planned to drop off at New York, and Caroline, who would trail them up to Boston in her old Prius. From there your parents would drive their new RV to New Hampshire and Maine.

When they arrived in Atlanta your dad promised you dinner at Highland Tap. That was where you found them after hustling over from the animal clinic – your mom, your dad, Caroline, Caleb and Ciaran, at a large table groaning with numerous dishes and drinks.

Your dad raised his scotch as soon as he saw you approaching. The Super Six! he boomed.

Hear, hear! the rest of your family chorused cheerfully, drawing attention from the restaurant staff as they raised wine glasses and tumblers. Your dad grabbed you in his usual bear hug.

Beca, who was supposed to meet you at the restaurant, was nowhere to be seen. Her phone was off when you tried to call. When she finally arrived you were already three martinis in, loudly arguing with Caleb about Madonna or some shit.

Beca hovered uncertainly off the side. Delighted, you went to greet her, putting an arm around her waist.

So this is my girlfriend, Beca –

All heads turned to look at her.

Oh, she's cute! your mom exclaimed. You raised an eyebrow at her, and she snorted into her Manhattan before beckoning Beca over. Beca, hun, welcome. Sit next to me.

Beca cast you a panicked look. You responded by kissing her temple and pushing her towards your mom. You weren't worried. Your mom is the warmest person you know.

Caleb winked as he made space between himself and your mom. He had met Beca on the Bellas' trip to New York – the very same trip where you drank liberally and pretended to be fine until blacking out. As the story goes, Caleb and Aubrey had to carry you into a cab while you cried why can't I have nice things?

Stacie told me you camp by yourself, your mother told Beca as soon as she was seated. Tell me all about it.

Beca was pale and jittery. It's okay.

Well, Charlie and I just got a new RV. Any special tips to help us survive the wilderness?

Um…lock your RV?

Caleb snickered at his plate. You gave him the most murderous glare you could muster.

Oh, that's a given. You've got to keep yourself safe, your mom persisted. You've also got to pass the time somehow, especially in campgrounds without internet. What do you do then? Do you read or watch movies?

God, no, Beca snorted. They're all too long and too predictable.

It was your mom's turn to raise an eyebrow. In record time Beca gave her the impression that she lacked curiosity – one of the few things your mom didn't tolerate. Before your mom could respond, you quickly introduced Beca to everyone else at the table.

So you're headed to college, Beca said to Ciaran when it was his turn. What are you studying?

Public policy analysis, Ciaran answered. You leaned over and ruffled his ginger curls with pride. As the sibling closest to your age you fawned over Ciaran like his second mother. Your mom was nearing fifty when she had him, and was tired of child-rearing by then.

You used to make up silly songs so he'd eat his vegetables and go to bed. Now he was grown, heading off to a destiny of his own.

Never thought we'd have anyone in this bunch going into law, your dad told Beca, beaming, but someone inherited Grandpa Beale's social conscience. He was obviously tipsy, for he was looking over his brood with wet eyes.

Thank god, Caroline interjected. It would be so embarrassing to ask Aubrey to defend everyone's malpractices pro bono.

Oh, you think linguistics adjuncts don't get sued? Caleb snarked.

No one's gonna get sued. We raised you better than that, your mom said. That said, Clover's gonna get sued the most.

That's not my fault! you said hotly as your siblings sniggered. One in three physicians get sued at some point in their career, it's just facts!

Are we sure you didn't convince Aubrey to go into law because of that? Ciaran asked innocently, sending your siblings into another fit of laughter. Just seems like something you'd do, Chlo-bear.

Oh wow, Beca interrupted, you guys know Aubrey?

Caleb, Caroline and Ciaran stared at her like she was an idiot. Chloe's girl – Caleb grinned, before you kicked his shin under the table. Does a bear shit in the woods?

Your mom, instead of scolding Caleb, only rolled her eyes. Aubrey stays with us every Christmas, she said, the affection in her voice surprising you. The last time you heard her speak of Aubrey she talked like Aubrey was dead to her.

Speak of the devil, your dad said. Aubrey was making her way to the table, throwing you a rueful smile. Your mom waved her over, greeting her with exaggerated kisses on the cheek.

I'm so, so sorry about being late, Aubrey said. My editor had me transcribe a bunch of interviews.

Oh hun, you've met Rebecca Burns, then? your mom asked excitedly, before turning to her other children. Aubrey interns for Atlanta Magazine, did I tell you? Your Aunt Becky is the deputy editor.

She's actually leaving soon to teach at University of Georgia, Aubrey said, settling next to you and accepting a glass of wine from Ciaran. When Aubrey shifted the conversation to the clubs Ciaran would join at Duke, you sidled between Beca and your mom.

I thought you were mad at Aubrey? you asked your mom in an undertone. If I knew you were talking, I would've invited her myself.

Your mother patted your hand. She's been calling, hun, and you know how we get when we talk about Didion. Oh, she sent me that video of yours singing Fast Car in therapy! Did I tell you?

Well, you're telling me now. On your other side you reached for Beca's hand. She responded with a death grip, but her eyes remained fixed on Aubrey.

Mom missed it! Caroline exclaimed, interrupting your whispering. Aubrey, say it again.

Aubrey assumed a serious face. Why was Buzzfeed's editor found dead in the bathroom?

Your mother, who liked to rail about the quality and reactivity of Buzzfeed's journalism, rubbed her hands together. Why?

Because number two shocked him.

Your mother burst out laughing. Gods! If I had a penny for every time a Buzzfeed headline irked me, we wouldn't be able to send Ciaran to college.

Beca was quiet on the Uber home, opting to sit on the passenger side. Aubrey, her mood the polar opposite, sat next to you instead. Ciaran kept bringing her wine throughout dinner and she had much to say about the evening. Caroline's selling me her car. I didn't know Rebecca Burns was your godmother. Why does your dad keep hinting I take up law at Johns Hopkins?

Christ, Aubrey, we get it, Beca finally groaned, turning around to glare at her. Chloe's family loves you. Now shut up.

Your jaw dropped open – Beca hasn't been openly antagonistic of Aubrey since the semi-finals. But Aubrey only arched an eyebrow at her.

They're not going to love you if you're too checked out to engage, Aubrey said. These are very passionate people.

Oh, yeah? You're sure it's not because I didn't bring toilet jokes to the party?

It's certainly not because I give one-word answers like some unenthused zombie, Aubrey retorted. What kind of special idiot gets high as a kite before meeting their girlfriend's family?

Beca's eyes widened, her hand automatically shooting up her earlobe.

What did you do? you asked her, quietly.

I ate an edible. She couldn't meet your eyes. It turned out to be stronger than I thought, like, I couldn't even remember what restaurant I was supposed to go to at some point. She exhaled and bowed her head further. Fuck. I'm sorry.

Aubrey leaned back in her seat, satisfied. You weren't. While you were relieved that the twitchy, bordering-on-rude Beca earlier wasn't an accurate representation of herself, Aubrey was right – how could Beca make such a terrible judgment, and on the first time she was meeting your family nonetheless?

Hey, Beca said, reaching out to take your hand. It's not about you or your family – I'm sure they're great people. I was just desperate to take the edge off.

I was there. I would have taken the edge off. You sighed, trying, and failing, to smile at her in reassurance. Oh, Beca. I wish you could've just trusted me on this.

Beca's eyes darted towards Aubrey, who was pointedly looking out the window. Can we talk about this at home?

The rest of the ride was excruciatingly silent.

When you were finally alone in your room Beca apologized. And then she said, I didn't know your family was so highbrow. And so bougie.

Does that bother you?

She let out an airless chuckle. I felt like a dullard, like, a couple of times.

You're not – that's the weed talking.

Beca only grimaced.

Your mom prefers Aubrey over me.

Well, she's known Aubrey longer. And she can't stand apathetic people, which is kind of how you came across. I know that wasn't the vibe you were trying to give off, you added quickly. Why don't you come with me and Aubrey tomorrow? We're seeing the family off at The Burgess. I bet you'll charm them better sober.

I don't know. And before you can ask her to elaborate: Why was Aubrey even there?

Well, you heard what my mom said, you said without thinking. Aubrey's family.

Your brother, Caleb. When I asked about Aubrey – he was gonna say she's your girlfriend, right?

You smiled in the most reassuring way you can, while making a mental note to wring Caleb's neck the next time you see him. He likes to joke about that.

Did you and Aubrey ever date?

No.

Did you want to?

For a time.

Her eyes widened and she started to say something, visibly incensed. Then she thought better of it and clenched her jaw shut.

Beca, whether my family prefers Aubrey or not, I prefer you.

For a while she said nothing, scuffing her toe on the floor. When she next spoke she was calm and deliberate, but there was an undercurrent of emotion that suggested it won't last for long: If I wasn't in the picture, you'd be with Aubrey now.

All or nothing. You told her, with as much honesty as you could muster: Maybe, but it's all in the past.

It's not! she burst out. This is why Aubrey hates me!

This was news to you. Sure, Aubrey wasn't enthusiastic about Beca. There was a forced casualness in Aubrey's voice whenever they spoke, like she was restraining herself from saying something abrasive. She often gave Beca a wide berth. Beca was equally on edge around her. She didn't tiptoe around Aubrey, but she never strolled into the house as casually as Jesse did.

But Aubrey did not hate Beca. Whenever Beca pontificated about some song or artist over dinner Aubrey listened with utmost attention, even if she remained silent. And Aubrey predicted Beca's comings and goings with unfailing accuracy. Aubrey would move leftovers to the front of the fridge and disappear to her room right before Beca crossed the doorway, complaining she was starving.

When we were headed to New York I thought we'd finally be friends, Beca continued. I was so sure of it. So why else would she be treating me like a stranger?

Aubrey's wary of you because she's protective of me –

She's jealous, Chloe!

She isn't. The next words you spoke with a bitter tang. She's with Jesse. Isn't that enough?

Beca shook her head, even more forlorn. Now you're gonna tell me Aubrey's non-negotiable, she said, recalling one of the first things you told her when you started dating.

Yes, and it still is. You squeezed her hand. Beca, you can take me at my word, or doubt me until it poisons what we have. And I love what we have, so will you please trust me?

You said all or nothing, Beca spat, but I can't even ask you to choose between me and Aubrey.

You pulled away, seeing red.

How dare she even say that? How dare she threaten to cut off the center of your gravity?

All or nothing doesn't mean I'll drop my best friend to satisfy your ego, you growled. Aubrey is my home.

I'm your home! Beca thundered. I'm your girlfriend! I'm the one who should be bantering with your mom, the one you should be coming home to at the end of the day! How would you feel if I brought you to Dad's and Stacie was up there joking with Sheila? How would you feel if Stacie and I lived together, and I shared her bed whenever I couldn't sleep?

Beca, you can't have been expecting to banter with my mom the first time you meet. And if your friendship with Stacie was anything like Aubrey and mine, I'd be very happy for you.

Really? You won't mind if Stacie and I were on the brink of dating before we got together?

No. I trust you.

So I can't even tell you to go live somewhere else, that's it? I can't even tell you to see Aubrey less?

What happened to free will and free choice? Beca, if you think 'telling' me to see Aubrey less will make our relationship stronger, think again.

I am your home, she railed, not hearing you at all. Say it.

Home doesn't impose conditions.

What does that even mean? Beca shrank into herself, gripping her head. You know what? Fuck all this philosophizing. If I'm not enough, just say it.

What was there to say except that you loved her, that to you she was practically synonymous with passion and pleasure? That for you it was truly all or nothing, but Aubrey is your harbor and Beca the salt in your blood? You rubbed up to her with your face, in the soft way cats do with each other. You didn't want to hurt her any further, but you won't lie to her, either.

I love you, Beca, you told her for the first time, as simply as you could.

Her eyes widened in shock, then filled with tears.

You're everything and better than anything I could have imagined, you continued, biting your lip to keep it from trembling. And I understand your urge to have me all to yourself – I want you for myself all the time, too. But we can't always act on that urge, make each other the center of our orbit. It will make both of us very, very unhappy.

I don't understand, Beca murmured, her voice waterlogged.

I already have a home. I have my family, and yes, Aubrey. Home grounds me. But what I have with you is different. It sets me afloat. It moves me, it preoccupies me, it makes me unrecognizable even to myself at a snap of your fingers. But its intensity won't last forever, so we also have to nurture our other relationships – with friends, with family, with ourselves.

I'll always feel this way, she interrupted, stubbornly.

Oh, she was so young, despite the mere four years you had on her. A couple of years ago you also thought Aubrey could live off your all-consuming love, the kind that obliterates the future and exists only for the present. But she only became your home when you understood how to love her with patience. When you loved her through everything telling you it was irrational to keep loving her, when you embraced an unknown future that couldn't say what the two of you will become, she became yours.

I hope so. You kissed the top of your head, inhaling the citrusy, smoky scent lingering there. But boxing me in and telling me what to do isn't going to make this feeling last. You won't be my home – you'd be a cage.

Beca chewed on this, her expression slowly clearing.

You said all or nothing. What did you mean then?

I meant I'll love you until our shared intensity blows itself out, then find new ways to love you some more.

She didn't respond for a long minute, but her posture was losing its tautness. Eventually she said, I wish I'd remember what you just said forever, so I won't feel this way again.

I'll remind you when you forget.

She pressed her forehead to yours, a gesture of surrender. How do I become your home?

By loving me unconditionally.

When you went to see your family off the next day you were in a dark mood. You wished you could join them for the rest of the summer. You wished Beca's understanding extended to bidding them goodbye. You wished she was there in Aubrey's place, chatting with Caroline, sassing up Caleb.

Your mom read over your shoulder as you texted Beca. Clover, you're badgering the poor girl.

She needs me, you muttered, wrapping up the text, especially after feeling so uncomfortable last night.

This bothered your mom, as you thought it would. But we've been nothing but welcoming! Did you miss the part where she and your father rambled on and on about jazz? Apparently she is the only other person alive, besides Dad, to know Bobbi Humphrey.

Mom, I wanted you to like her.

Oh, hun. That won't happen right away, you know that.

You liked Aubrey right away.

And your father took three years to court me. Trust takes the time it takes.

You crossed your arms, annoyed at how rational your mom was being. You wanted someone to blame for Beca's unhappiness. She wasn't having it.

Besides, haven't we taught you to trust yourself above all others? she prompted. You like Beca. That's what's important.

Yes, but I wish you didn't shut Beca down as soon as she said she doesn't read!

Clover, nobody shut down anybody! The conversation simply moved along.

Why can't you admit you find Beca boorish, Mom?

Your mother drew herself to full height. Mind yourself, Chloe Beale.

Aubrey chose this moment to join you. What's the matter? she asked, looking from your defiant expression to your mother's stony one.

Mom doesn't like Beca.

Oh. Aubrey bit her lip, seemingly torn. Finally she said, Beca's very good to Chloe, Aunt Auggie. And then she squinted, like she was trying not to grimace at what she just said.

Oh, I'm sure. But she was late to dinner, and she could barely hold a conversation. You raised your eyebrows at your mom, but she only continued: She doesn't read, Aubrey. Seemed proud of it, too.

And the truth comes out, you muttered.

She was late because I left my phone at home and I asked her to swing by for it, Aubrey said. This was a complete lie: Aubrey never leaves her phone. She couldn't stand commuting without listening to her precious podcasts and audio books. Not doing so, in her opinion, is simply unproductive. She's also terribly insecure, and a touch shy, but weren't we all at twenty?

Gods, she's twenty? Your mother flinched. I forget she's younger than y'all.

She's working her way through it, like Chloe and I. Aubrey flashed you a smile. Beca really doesn't read, so you'll be disappointed on that front. But she doesn't lack imagination or sensitivity. She once sampled Toccata and Fugue in D minor on a rap song! Who does that? And don't get her started on ABBA – she goes on about them like they're the second coming of Christ. She can really surprise you, Aunt Auggie.

Aubrey is the last person you'd ever ask to vouch for Beca – but it was clear, from the way she just described your girlfriend, that she knew exactly what to say in order to pique your mother's curiosity.

Well. Your mother turned to you, bemused, and you quickly tried to wipe off the astonishment from your face. I'm sorry, hun. I've been around such high-spirited people for so long that I've forgotten how it is to be twenty…if there is a next time, I'll make an effort to know Beca better, hm?

I appreciate that, Mom.

That was the day Aubrey bought Caroline's car.

Aubrey sang as she drove you home, obviously pleased with herself. The sun was out, the car radio played Nina Simone's Feeling Good, the Sunday roads were empty. Soon the two of you were harmonizing, sustaining notes in your lungs for as long as you could, until you were giddy from the lack of air.

Thanks for hyping Beca up, Bree.

Aubrey shrugged it off, like she always did whenever she did a nice thing for somebody. I heard Aunt Auggie say my name, so I came over.

If I wasn't dating Beca, do you think we'd be together?

Aubrey glanced at you in mock horror. You can't be tired of her already.

I'm not, and I'm seriously asking.

She looked back at the road, mulling this over.

I'd be lying if I said I never wanted that at some point, but you're really into Beca, she pointed out. If you didn't see that through, both of us would've been very unhappy.

So you're happy with how things turned out?

She shrugged. We've got exactly what we need – barely-twenty collegiates who bring us action without slowing us down. What's there to complain about?

God, is that how you see Jesse?

I suppose. He's easygoing.

What does that even mean, 'easygoing'?

He's fine as long as I allocate time for a movie and a fuck.

Bree!

I suppose that's why the relationship works, she pondered, ignoring your vehemence. He's never asked for more, almost like he understands that we don't need any more than what we're getting. I can live with that.

So his love doesn't scare you.

Strange way to put it, but sure. She cleared her throat. So what happened to you and Beca after we got home? Did she have a better explanation for being stoned, aside from 'I'm scared'?

That's harsh.

It is. Sorry. Aubrey sighed. I admit the Beales scared me too, when I first met them.

Really? You held up better than any boyfriend I brought home.

Aubrey laughed at that. Really. You all look like you stepped out of a royal Christmas card. And my god, the brilliance! Everyone's into literature or STEM or fashion or some other esoteric study. I doubt I've seen a bigger bunch of freethinkers and clowns.

They'd be tickled to hear that, you said smugly, your chest warming up just the same. Unfortunately that's what makes Beca uncomfortable about them. She called them 'highbrow' and 'bougie' – are we?

Uh, yes? She snickered at your stupefied expression. Chloe, this can't be news to you. You have an estate and everything. And by everything I mean a tennis court, a pool, a dock for your sailboat… She bit her lip, considering her next words carefully. My family was considered wealthy, back in Canaan. But our house was a three-bedroom with two thousand square feet.

Grandpa Beale had always been clear-eyed about the fact that Abraham Beale The First was no ethical billionaire. It was why he steered the family away from conservatism, sought to make reparations throughout his lifetime. And for the most part, it worked: the Beales are renowned in the south for being open-handed, down-to-earth. Your father marrying a journalist only furthered that impression. No one in the family acted like the trust-fund dunces all over Instagram. Even the tennis court only saw use from the free tennis clinic your father organized for inner-city kids.

But as always, Aubrey's comment put things in perspective.

I recognize my privilege.

As you should. But at the same time it's interesting, because you and your family are highbrow and bougie in a moral way, like if the Von Trapp family was also a bunch of bookish rakes. You both laughed at that. You know I'd never have children. But if I did, I'd love to raise them the same way.

That is so sweet of you to say.

That said, I see why Beca wouldn't be comfortable. She doesn't seem like she's lived a charmed life before college. I'm guessing her mom has something to do with that – she only ever invites her dad to Bella performances.

You're on the money, as usual. Beca could be –

You trailed off, because it didn't feel right venting about Beca to Aubrey. If you keep going, Aubrey might just prove Beca right.

If Aubrey truly did hate Beca, you wouldn't know how to cope.

Aubrey, however, is happy to continue the thought for you: Prone to imposter syndrome? Oh, yes. Very common among the creative types.

The accuracy of Aubrey's reads on Beca was astounding. That comforted you a bit: if the opposite of love is indifference, then Aubrey definitely cared about Beca. And Aubrey wasn't the type to dwell on things she hated. She wouldn't even speak ill of her own father; she thought life was too short for that.

How did you know Beca was high last night?

Aubrey snorted. She's as jittery as you are whenever you bring that huge jug of water to your room 'just because'. She made air quotes with one hand.

You stared at her, stupefied. Your favorite way of taking edibles was in your room, so you could touch yourself for hours afterwards. The first step of the ritual? Refilling the pitcher of water on your bedside.

What? Aubrey teased, a gleam in her eye. You think I didn't know?

You buried your face in your handbag with a squeak.

Anyway, she's lucky Aunt Auggie didn't notice. I was so nervous for her I may have drunk too much. The turn to Peachtree Park came up, but Aubrey showed no sign of slowing down. I'm sorry I didn't tell you I was going to dinner. I tried to give you a heads-up, but you weren't answering.

Beca doesn't like how close we are, you admitted. Her focused expression didn't change, but she gripped the steering wheel tighter. And it bothers her that my mom's very fond of you.

Really? Aubrey pursed her lips. Well, she could've come with us today to make a better impression, instead of whining about it.

Beca isn't like you, Bree. She's lost all confidence to meet Mom a second time.

That little twit, Aubrey muttered under her breath. You admonished her with a look. Why is she overthinking this? If she loves you, she also has to love your family. It's that simple.

For Aubrey, who has overcome greater odds than the rest of you combined, there was always a method to all madness. But you and Beca are people who feel too much. To Beca, who is propelled by passion, fear was crippling.

Thank you for looking out for me, Bree, you said, sincerely. Beca will get there, I'm sure of it.

She'd better, Aubrey harrumphed, in the gruff way she did when she was feeling protective. You felt a surge of fondness for her.

Did you mean all those nice things you said about her? you teased. 'She doesn't lack imagination or sensitivity'?

She scoffed, then looked around.

Gosh, where are we?

I don't know, you just kept driving. You beamed at her. Good car, isn't it?

Oh, it's incroyable! she exclaimed, smiling at the dashboard. If I knew a car would make me this happy I would've bought one first thing. She slowed and pulled the Prius into a parking lot. Well, we're near Grant Park. Can I interest you in a picnic? We could get lemon pepper wet on the way.

A pang settled uncomfortably in your chest. Since getting with Beca, talks like this with Aubrey had been few and far between, and you didn't want to stop. Don't you have internship in an hour? you hedged.

She typed furiously on her phone, ending with the digital swoosh of a sent text. Now I don't.

You're playing hooky for me? It was an incredible gesture coming from Aubrey, who could have a raging fever and still trek to Bella rehearsals or astronomy club with a stiff upper lip. Bree, I love you.

She blinked, surprised.

I love you, she mumbled, the words thick like she was saying them for the first time. Then she started the car before you could say anything else about it.

At the end of the summer Jesse drove everyone to Tybee Island for a good old beach trip. The last time you brought a lover to the beach you were sixteen, about to lose your virginity to a high school boyfriend. It felt right to be twenty-four and painting over that memory with someone you loved far more, far better, even if the place itself paled in comparison to the vivid blues and whites of Florida's beaches…

You looked over at Beca, who was undressing with haste, her mind already on the water. Where she came from it rained two hundred days a year – never a good time for the beach. You remembered the first time you brought Aubrey home, the way she marveled at Sarasota Beach. In her native Canaan there were no beaches. Will they be thinking of you whenever they think of the sea? You certainly hoped so.

You heard Aubrey make a joke, Beca replying something equally flippant. Aubrey started to say something in response but then fell quiet as she watched Beca strip off her top. When Beca snapped her fingers at Aubrey's face she started, cheeks flushing.

You couldn't blame Aubrey; Beca's physicality is insane. She is trim but muscular, as if she danced for a living. Her strength surprised you the first time you slept together. You've seen Aubrey in various states of undress and you knew she was no slouch either. She could sing at full belt while running up stairs.

Later, while the three of you lay on blankets in the sand, you imagined their arms touching. Faces towards the sun, you imagined Beca's finger brushing Aubrey's hip. Beca would make the first move, you were sure of it; Aubrey would be too scared. You imagined Beca turning to her side to kiss Aubrey's neck, tasting salt and violets. You imagined Aubrey with her eyes shut, willing herself not to respond, until you lie on her other side and tell her: it's okay. Lose control. You imagined unstringing their bikini tops as they kissed, exploring whichever body you pleased: Beca's, Aubrey's, the red mole on top of Beca's breast, the hollow of Aubrey's armpits. The sensitive skin above the band of their swimsuits.

You've always imagined them rolling on top of each other, locked in a catfight. But this was the first time you've imagined them in a different sort of heat.

You sat up, looking to your right. Beca, lying next to you, touched your wrist. You okay, babe? There is a wide, disappointing gap between her and Aubrey, who is staring out into the water, oblivious to your daydreaming.

You closed your eyes, sweat emanating from all of your pores. The images didn't go away.

These were the days when Beca, in bed, would ask: Do you really love me? She preferred to ask when her face was pressed into your chest, the better to hear the rumble of your voice.

That night she asked again, and you gave your soft, well-worn reply: Yes, you dummy, I do. And then you thought of the fantasy you've had just this afternoon, your burning desire to see her with Aubrey. To see yourself having them. The back of your neck suddenly felt prickly – with guilt or lust, you weren't sure.

Love you, too, she said. Sorry I keep asking.

Fall semester started at Emory – a whole new ballpark, its curriculum and approach to medicine much more grueling than Barden's. Despite older professors invariably asking how you were related to Agatha Davis-Beale, no one showed you any special treatment. Your assigned cadaver terrified you less and less, until – with a bit of horror – you realized the smell of formaldehyde made you crave chicken biscuits.

Aubrey, starting law school four buildings away, was as relieved as you were to be going to Emory together. Within Emory grounds, out of sight of Beca or Jesse, Aubrey is all yours. Every morning she drove you to college. You met up for a snack whenever possible; she brought you coffee when your classes ran late. Oftentimes she also drove you home. You fell asleep on the passenger seat more times than you could count.

Seeing Aubrey more frequently meant that you also saw her trying to put Beca at ease. Aubrey dropped all pretense of small talk, speaking to Beca with her typical dry humor. She'd grill Beca about her plans for the Bellas, matching Beca's sarcasm with her own archness. They could speak of the same point of contention for days, picking up exactly where they previously left off. With a bit of prompting Aubrey was also happy to recount these contentions: Your girlfriend says my music taste is stuck in the 19th century, but she herself is obsessed with eighties music. Beca's convinced musicals are a drag, but that's because she's never seen Company.

New habits were born. Beca slept over on weekends. You helped Aubrey with weekday meal prep every Sunday. Jesse set up movie nights, sometimes inviting Benji and some of the Bellas over. You occasionally joined Beca at Doctors John and Sheila Mitchell's for dinner. And you learned to keep your Saturday nights open, for Beca always had something planned: usually clubbing at The Garage, but sometimes visits to art fairs, music shows, one time even a cemetery tour.

On one of these Saturdays, while you agonized over what to wear to The Garage, Beca arrived. Aubrey, who was reading in your bed, got up to let her in.

She's not ready, is she? you heard Beca ask in the hallway, as soon as she saw Aubrey.

Barely, came Aubrey's curt reply.

You greeted Beca at your bedroom door. Aubrey went to resume her place in your bed. Sorry, you told Beca, not sorry at all as you gave her a kiss. It'll take another hour.

No problem. Her smile cooled upon seeing Aubrey in your bed. Can I wait here?

Aubrey let out a cough that sounded suspiciously like 'clingy'. Beca rolled her eyes.

Struck by a random burst of inspiration, you said, everyone get out, I'll mess up my eyeliner if I hear you bickering. Muttering, Beca left to sit on the couch.

And you, you called out at Aubrey, who hasn't moved a muscle. Out, please.

Aubrey, who was used to being consulted on your Saturday night outfits, was confused. We're not doing Toot or Boot? she asked, referring to the game you picked up from RuPaul's Drag Race so she could judge your good and bad outfits respectively.

I feel like surprising you today, you said, smirking at her confusion. Out, or I'll assume you're starting to enjoy seeing me naked.

Shaking her head, she left the room. You left the door slightly ajar. Just as you'd hoped, Aubrey joined Beca on the opposite side of the couch.

She was opening her book when Beca asked, how often do you –

Aubrey fixed her piercing stare at Beca.

– never mind.

Aubrey closed her book. What is it, hobbit?

The insult emboldened Beca. I heard that last part in there with Chloe, and – how often do you see her naked, exactly?

You backed into the shadows just as Aubrey's eyes darted towards your bedroom door. Weekly, I suppose. She's always asking me what to wear.

That doesn't bother you, seeing someone who isn't your partner naked all the time?

If Aubrey heard the edge in her voice, she didn't react. No. I'm not a horny teenager.

Okay, picture this instead, Beca said, seemingly frustrated that she wasn't getting the answer she wanted. Say I walked out here with nothing on, and sat right next to you. That wouldn't bother you?

Aubrey took a long look at her – longer than you expected, and long enough to make Beca fidget. Still Aubrey kept looking. And you kept voyeuring on her act of looking, recognizing something in the way her jaw tightened, the way the graceful column of her throat moved up and down.

Beca, bless her heart, read Aubrey's lengthy silence as disdain. Fine. I get the point. You can stop doing that, she said, irritation creeping in her voice.

Aubrey turned her gaze to the book in her lap.

The lengths you go to to prove a point. Jesus. Beca tugged at her earlobe. She didn't like being perceived.

Nudity is never an invitation to sex, Aubrey said. She was still not looking at Beca.

I'm not talking about sex! I'm talking about – I don't know – propriety?

Propriety, Aubrey said with a faint laugh, brushing fingers across her forehead like she was trying to take her own temperature. You're a prude. That's surprising.

I'm not! Don't you think I'm the only one who should see my girlfriend naked?

I suppose that's the ideal state, but you don't own Chloe's body. She can show it to whoever she wants.

So by that logic, if Jesse came to me every day naked and asked me what to wear –

I'd find it strange, but I'd take it up with him. Not you.

Beca looked abashed. Fair, she grumbled. Listen, I'm not mad at you or anything, clearly you are all enlightened adults. I just can't make that mental leap, you know? Every time I try I'm always thinking, whatever happened to keeping your privates to yourself? Is everyone in this house just roaming naked when I'm not around?

Wouldn't you like to know. There was a drag in Aubrey's voice that you've never heard before, and it sent a shiver up your spine.

Beca, missing everything unfolding in front of her, only rolled her eyes. Then she got up to examine the magazines under the coffee table. You shook your head, fond and exasperated. She was always so restless when she wasn't composing.

Aubrey looked away, wrapping her arms around herself. To the untrained eye she looked like she was over the conversation. But whenever Aubrey felt a strong emotion she unconsciously had to press into her own skin – to distract from what was in front of her, perhaps, or to simply remind herself she was alive.

Aubrey was squeezing her own biceps, hard, her nails visibly digging.

Aubrey didn't hate Beca.

Aubrey, who never admitted to a weakness, wanted Beca.

You wanted to shake Aubrey by the shoulders.

You wanted to scream in her face: why do you make me suffer?

Instead you finished dressing and mechanically wished her a great evening at home.

The Garage was packed to the rafters. Beca was excited about the DJ playing tonight's set, and he turned out incredible – his intricate, well-layered electronic music forcing you to dance no matter how you felt, it was just that good. All around you everyone was emboldened to touch, to exercise their desires on their small patch of dancefloor. Beca pulled your arms around her waist until you were matching her rhythm. You were overwhelmed with a mad rush of affection for her.

In the din you whispered in her ear: my body is yours. Just yours. You felt the change in her body as your words registered; she pressed deeper into you, her skin burning. You nuzzled the outline of her shoulder.

By the time you entered the darkened foyer of the apartment you were kissing wildly, sloppily, drunk on gin and heat. You pushed her onto the living room couch. If Aubrey didn't know Beca was yours, you'll make it clear as fucking day.

You slowly stripped your clothes off until you stood in the moonlight, bare as the day you were born.

The clear and shining gratitude in her face brought tears to your eyes. You sat in her lap and cradled her head. You kissed the parts of her skin you know only you have kissed, the side of her rib and the inside of her thighs. At the end of the day Beca just wanted something sweet and simple. She didn't know how to ask for it, but you're going to give her all of your love anyway.

Later, lying on the couch as the sun came up, Beca let out a small chuckle. You looked up from the crook of her arm curiously.

Dancing is a perpendicular expression of a horizontal desire, or something like that. She chuckled again. It's a quote I picked up from English class, I don't know how I remembered.

You shook your head at her. Oh, this should've been the side of you my mom saw! She's a sucker for George Bernard Shaw.

Who's that? she asked, then laughed at your stunned expression. I'm kidding, Dad's weirdly obsessed with him.

You started to say that Aubrey was also weirdly obsessed with George Bernard Shaw, but found you couldn't. As if reading your mind Beca said, We should probably move to your room, Aubrey's gonna be up in a bit. And you realized that as long as you stayed under one roof, Aubrey will not give you peace.

Fear colored your interactions with Aubrey. It gripped you as you watched her do perfectly innocent things, like putting on heels or brushing her hair. It threatened to choke you whenever she and Beca were in the same room.

You've never felt threatened by Aubrey before. Hell, you've never felt threatened by anyone: you've always known your worth. But it was hard to remember the nice things about yourself when you're up against Aubrey. Aubrey was supremely intelligent, fiercely loyal, maddeningly stoic. Anyone who understood that about her would love her.

Whenever she interacted with Beca you hovered, trying not to radiate anxiety. Did her eyes linger on Beca's while passing that book? Does she smell even more strongly of violets whenever Beca was around?

But Aubrey didn't slip again. If anything, her relationship with Jesse seemed to deepen. She used to send Jesse away when you crawled into bed with her. Now she simply beckoned you in, Jesse on the crook of her right arm, forcing you to fit yourself in her left – the tableau not unlike Mary Cassatt's Young Mother and Two Children. Jesse didn't find it weird. You did.

You often eavesdropped on their conversations in the kitchen, a meandering, non-serious kind of conversation. Aubrey would say opinions you didn't know she held, worries you didn't know she carried. She liked it when Jesse let his beard grow – calling him handsome, and one time mister man. She accounted for every cent of her lawsuit settlement and fretted about not making money after law school. Jesse consoled her during her crying fits, usually about her father, and supplied corny movie dialogue whenever she was stuck on her work for Atlanta Magazine. You'd arrive home to them watching a movie in the living room. Aubrey usually leaned on Jesse's shoulder. Jesse would have his arm around her, massaging her wrist or touching her hair, their gestures familiar and lived-in.

She was Jesse's, whatever that meant, and that vexed you even more than the fact that she wanted Beca for herself.

No one said it out loud, sure, but it always felt like Aubrey was promised to you somehow – and now she's with Jesse?

Fuck. That.

You wanted to tell Aubrey you knew. She promised to be your home, and you're sure that would hold up even after such a difficult conversation. You wanted to be told this was a huge misunderstanding – be laughed at for being paranoid, be reassured that nothing will change. Maybe Aubrey didn't desire Beca after all. Maybe Aubrey and Jesse were actually tipping towards love. Maybe you should have just run away with Aubrey when you had the chance.

Beca became your unexpected port in the storm. Her innocent obliviousness, before the cause of your suffering, was now a godsend. Because she couldn't read the undercurrents of your relationship with Aubrey, she failed to notice that you never left them by themselves. In Aubrey's presence Beca always returned your gaze with soft, even longing, like she quietly wished the two of you were alone.

And then the email from Johns Hopkins came.

Your summer was such a tide of pleasure that you've forgotten you applied to Johns fucking Hopkins.

But the invite to interview sat in your inbox, blowing everything wide open. The hand-wringing about Beca and Aubrey was suddenly insignificant next to the decision you had to make. You recalled the words engraved on Abraham the First's name plate, back home in Florida.

Familia supra omnia. Family above all.

You called your mom. As soon as she said Clover? you were reduced to tears. She listened as you relayed, with much sobbing and blubbering, the direness of your condition. You even found yourself telling her about Aubrey's desire for Beca, Aubrey slipping away from you. You told her you loved both Aubrey and Beca, equally, painfully, without any hope of logic or resolution.

Tell me what to do, Mom.

Never, she replied, kind but firm. We've taught you enough.

You thought of Grandma Beale, who taught you how to play the piano. Who always made peanut butter cup pie for your birthdays. Who held the entire bunch of grandkids spellbound every Sunday afternoon with lessons on the jitterbug, the Charleston, and all the other ballroom dances she had to learn in girlhood. She was energetic and companionable – a trait you also saw in your mom, even if Grandma Beale was your paternal grandmother. Her particular streak of youth made it impossible to think she would ever die.

Yet Grandma Beale died when you were fourteen. The only comfort her month-long decline afforded was that everyone was able to say goodbye: eight Beales crammed into her hospital room, and more in the hallway outside.

Your turn came. Speak clearly, Grandpa Beale reminded, as he ushered you to Grandma Beale's bedside. It had so many wires and machines hooked up that you couldn't even tell who was in there.

You stared, shell-shocked, as your father removed the oxygen mask. It was Grandma Beale all right. But unlike the tall and patrician Gran that you knew – the one with her ever-present silk scarf and horn glasses – this Gran was heartbreakingly small and bony, a third of her old self.

Clover, tiny dancer, is that you?

Her voice was weak, but she was perfectly lucid. It gave you the strength to sit next to her. Yes, Gran. You took her hand, as you often did for years and years, demonstrating Lindy swivels and barrel rolls for your cousins. Sometimes even the adults joined. Caleb, even during his emo phase, always did.

All those Sunday afternoons. All your remaining Sunday afternoons, stretching on and on, days your grandmother would never see. You began to cry.

I'm sorry, you kept saying. Across her bed your mom watched, her face scrunching up from emotion. She excused herself from the room.

Out of all my grandkids, I'm most excited to see what you'll become.

Despite your tears you managed to choke out: I bet you said that to all of us.

Well, don't tell anyone. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. I'll carry it with me to the grave.

Gran!

She patted your hand. Hers was cold and frail. These could not be the same hands that guided you through Nina Simone sheet music on the Steinway at home, thundered through the Dr. No theme on the keys to make you laugh. Lust for life like your mother. Brilliant mind like your father. You'll be fine.

I'll make you so proud, I swear.

Child, I already am. She kissed your forehead and you felt every strain, every labored breath it took. Gran loves you, Clover. Mind yourself now.

I'll do it, you told your mom. I'll get into Johns Hopkins.

The interview was in Baltimore, a two-hour flight. It had been so easy to tell Aubrey and Beca that you had a medical mission to Macon, a two-hour drive away. Emory medical college was always sending its students to different hospitals or volunteer programs. You left for the airport before Aubrey woke up; you were back home by nightfall.

You aced the interview. You just knew it. And you wanted to tell Aubrey so badly.

But Beca was also in the apartment for dinner, loudly taking off her boots in the hallway. What the hell, guys, you didn't lock your door! She came to the kitchen, her expression serious. You're lucky I walked in!

Did it occur to you that maybe we left it open because you were coming? Aubrey asked dryly.

Just let me ring the bell, dude. She approached to plant a distracted kiss on your temple; she was eyeing Aubrey. Even if this neighborhood's nice you've still got to keep yourselves safe. Do you even know your neighbors' names?

Granny Whitlock, you said, at the same time Aubrey said, Mrs. Whitlock.

Oh. Beca blinked. Well, that's good, you're friends with your neighbor. You should also check that all doors and windows are closed before you go to bed. And I'll get you a bell for the doorknob, it'll help you hear if someone comes in unexpected.

Aubrey glanced at you. You already knew Beca was a huge softie, but Aubrey was experiencing it for the first time; she seemed nonplussed. That's…nice of you, Beca, thanks for looking out.

Sure thing. Beca, ears red, replanted the same kiss on your temple, inhaling the top of your head. When she finally sat down she was smiling gently.

You couldn't tell any of them. It would devastate them.

Beca started telling Aubrey about an important music symposium that she missed, a must-watch for her final paper on orchestration.

Aubrey said, You idiot, isn't that symposium the one major requirement of that class?

Yep. Beca pressed her fingers to her temples, her eyes closed. I'm so fucking screwed. That day was the last day of Bella auditions and I was doing so much that I forgot.

The smallest of smirks was forming on the corner of Aubrey's mouth. You might have to repeat the class.

Oh, fuck, I might, Beca groaned, missing Aubrey's expression. Why is this goddamn symposium so obscure? I've asked around for a video but I can't find anything, not even an Instagram story. Nada.

Aubrey rolled her eyes, making sure Beca truly understood the severity of her idiocy. Then she said, It's okay. This is what you do. She made Beca get her laptop, dictating websites and emails of old Barden acquaintances off the top of her head, telling Beca to reach out to this and that.

Beca followed her instructions with utter seriousness. About thirty minutes later, their dinners cold, they found a teaching assistant with a full audio recording of the symposium.

That was incredible, dude! Beca exclaimed in relief, reaching out to shake Aubrey's shoulder. Aubrey smiled and looked down on her plate, suddenly shy.

It's nothing, she mumbled. On the table, her hands were balled into fists.

It's not nothing! Beca said, her unexpected vehemence causing Aubrey's eyebrow to go up. Dude. You saved me from repeating this stupid class, which, by the way, would've totally delayed my graduation by a friggin' year, since it's only offered during fall sem. 'It's nothing'? Understatement of the year.

I see. Aubrey's dry response made you want to laugh, and then, walk over to kiss the top of her beautiful head. She had many talents, but accepting compliments wasn't one of them.

Beca looked at Aubrey for a long moment, bewildered by her lukewarm reaction. And then, with a little tilt of the head, she seemed to decide something about the blonde.

Look, you must be so tired of hearing that you're great all the time, Beca said, her voice kinder, but I don't think anyone else would've been that smart, or connected, or relentless enough to find that recording. So thanks.

You recalled the first time you saw them work together. And you recalled your desire to see them pushed together in violent intensity.

That was the moment you knew what you had to do.

Your father liked to say that work is easier when dedicated to a higher purpose.

At Emory, your higher purpose became to be as good as the medical class you were joining in Baltimore. At home, it was to orchestrate a loving, fulfilling relationship with both Beca and Aubrey.

Threesomes. It wasn't exactly anarchy in the USA, but based on Grandpa Beale's stories you're pretty sure you're the first Beale to set foot in that territory. You've been in a threesome twice, but a threesome with Aubrey and Beca would have to be very different: beyond a meeting of your bodies, it will be a meeting of your minds.

A threesome. Well, why not?

You never had a solid plan. Obstacles came up before you could even get started. Aubrey and Jesse's relationship was yet to come to its natural end – you were willing to bet on it, but you had no idea how long it would take. And Beca wasn't ready. She genuinely cared about you, and her wariness towards Aubrey had simmered down into conversant familiarity that lay somewhere before being friends. But Beca still had a lot of growing up to do before she would even consider sharing you with anyone else.

It was simply not the time.

Just the previous week Beca said Stacie's like a guy when it comes to casual sex, and you gently corrected her: enjoying casual sex isn't exclusive to men.

She replied, yeah, but women shouldn't be having that much casual sex.

Why not?

I don't know – isn't it fucked-up that Stacie's hooking up with, like, five guys a week? Just gives me the ick, that she needs that much casual sex to function.

I used to have as much casual sex as Stacie, if not more.

Her jaw dropped.

So I must be giving you the ick, needing that much casual sex to function, you continued, keeping your tone neutral.

That's different, she said immediately. That's in your past.

But if you knew I was sleeping with five people in a week, would you have still asked me out?

Beca sighed. Yes, she finally said, looking at her shoes. Yes, I'd still ask you out.

So what makes me different, that you can't apply the same breadth of understanding to Stacie? She stared mutely at her shoes. She never misses a day of birth control. She's better with consent than most guys I know. She gets tested every month at student health services. Meanwhile I can't count how many times I've done it without a condom.

Beca's face scrunched. I don't need to hear this.

Why do you put me on such a high, high pedestal, Beca? I've done – and will do – things you don't like.

An unholy realization suddenly dawned on her.

Have you slept with Stacie?

You were not one to tiptoe around Beca's emotions, or protect her from her jealousy.

Her expression tightened at your silence. I can't fucking believe this, she said, jerking away when you moved to touch her. Stacie! God knows how many diseases she –

Have you heard nothing? you interrupted sternly. Stacie practices safe sex.

Dude, I don't care! Stacie and I see each other every day – she's my co-captain, for fuck's sake!

What does this knowledge change for you, exactly? She glared at you, seething. You waited, but she didn't give an answer. See? Nothing.

I'm going to imagine you and Stacie in bed all the time, she growled.

All the time, really? I find I'd rather imagine you and me in bed.

Don't joke about this! She paced the room, genuinely distressed. You felt bad for her. But at the same time you believed in forcing a partner to look at you on your own terms. You're no angel despite having the face of one. Lord knows you've followed your impulses to the edge of their limits, even when they've brought you to profane and dangerous places.

Beca, however, preferred to control how you saw her. She'd brush off your astute observations with a wry smirk, as if saying, yes, yes, I know, I should change. Yet she always shied away from serious introspection. It was like she was scared she wouldn't like what she saw.

Okay, you said, trying to appease her. I'm sorry for making fun. I now realize it's a very serious topic; let's talk about it.

When did you sleep together?

During my last year at Barden, when I learned I had nodes.

Was it a one-time thing?

We saw each other until the semi-finals.

Is she better than me in –

I'm not answering that. Her nostrils flared, but you continued in the same calm tone: Beca, don't get me wrong. Being jealous is a valid reaction. But I also need you to understand a few things. You waited until she gave you her full attention, then continued: Women are allowed as much sex as they want. As long as they're genuinely into it, as long as it doesn't hurt them or anyone else, they can do it. Do you have any objections to that?

She shook her head.

Good. When my mom gave me the talk on the birds and the bees, she said that casual sex is a tool that helps us find what we like. It's optional; some people use it more than others. Some people also misuse it, and that's how it loses its magic. Lord knows I've misused it, you said with a wry laugh. Some people confuse which of the two is the tool – the body or the interest in casual sex –and so they assume that the body, like most tools, is degraded by casual sex over time. But that's just not true. No one has the right to tell you what you're worth based on how much sex you are having. You can't and shouldn't judge anyone's worth based on anything, period.

I'm not reducing your worth, or Stacie's worth, Beca protested.

Beca, if you describe any woman's body count as 'fucked-up' or 'gives you the ick', you are. Maybe that wasn't your intention, you added, raising your hands. But that sounds like a bias you didn't realize you have. It wouldn't hurt you to examine where those thoughts are coming from.

I see your point, she said, shoulders slumping.

Never hurts to know yourself a bit better, right? The unexamined life not worth living and all that.

I'll think about it in my own time.

Please do. Lastly: I never lie to you about my past relationships because they're part of who I am. It's not because I want to see you jealous or mad – I actually hate seeing you in such a state. I share because I want us to be honest about everything. I want you to know me better than anyone else, while still accepting me for the things I've done in the past. Do you accept me, Beca?

She hung her head. I do.

Thank you. Relieved, you took her hand and sat her down. Her jaw was still set. I accept you, too, with your surprisingly-conservative values. It's so unlike you.

I'm not conservative, she corrected quickly. I've run around, Beale, and with crazier girls than you or Stacie.

But…?

This whole conversation, I just – She threw up her hands. Fuck, it's stupid.

Tell me anyway.

I just realized I sound like my relatives back in Seattle. She sighed, and you held your breath, for this was the first time Beca ever spoke of her mother's side of the family. They called my mom names. They've always been sort of…critical of her, I think, because she's the only one on that side of the family who went to college – she fought for reproductive rights when she was at Northwestern, that kind of stuff. She was also very sexually liberated. And then she made a mistake.

You were about to ask what the mistake was, until she averted her face. Oh, Beca, you consoled her, taking her into your arms. My love. You are not a mistake.

She's just never been happy after she had me, she continued, her voice thick. I didn't realize how much I've sort of, like, associated her unhappiness with sexual freedom. I really agree with everything you said, I swear – if everyone was this self-aware about sex, or this honest with their partners, everyone would be better off. She sniffed and wiped her face with the cuff of her sleeve. You probably think I'm dramatic as hell, being mad about stuff you and Aubrey find perfectly normal.

Oh, but I love that you're dramatic! She scowled, and you squeezed her shoulder to soothe her. I love that you're never lukewarm about anything. I love all your big feelings, I love dealing with them, I love helping you understand them. Never stop telling me about them.

But I don't want our relationship to turn into therapy. Like, I don't want to trauma-dump or something.

It's not therapy, my love, nothing I do can substitute that. It's just how partners support each other. And it's not like all the feelings you share with me are negative, no? You gave her a small wink, and she managed a watery chuckle in response. Now, do you think you can tell me why you're mad about things Stacie and I did before we even dated?

It's not that you did it, it's – she let out a huff of breath. I can't stand anyone else touching you the way I do. And the fact that Stacie did that, someone I know and I'm close with –

She bowed her head, hiding her face again.

I'm not just gonna imagine her touching you every time I see her, she finally continued. I'm also gonna think, great, here's another person who used to have such a hold on you. And I'm gonna worry that one day she'll try something, and you'll remember that hold, and you'll… She wiped more tears off her face, cleared her throat with a wet laugh. Sorry. It's really dumb, now that I'm saying it out loud.

Oh, baby. You kissed her cheek, inhaling the scent of her tears.. It's not dumb. It's perfectly human to worry that you'll be hurt by someone you love. And it's perfectly human to be afraid of trusting others, too.

I trust Stacie, she said.

Me too. And I trust her not to do that to us. She pressed closer to you. Stacie's our number one fan, do you know that? Remember how Aubrey used to list our nicknames alphabetically in the Bella attendance sheets, and your name was always above mine? Stacie kept drawing a heart around our names.

That was Stacie? Those hearts used to piss Aubrey off, Beca snorted. Come to think of it, everything used to piss her off…

Do you also trust that I won't run away with Stacie as soon as I get the chance? you asked, gently steering her back to the topic. She nodded. I understand your jealousy's not gonna disappear overnight, but if you talk to me about it, maybe it will dissipate over time.

What if – Beca looked at you uncertainly – you tire of talking to me about it?

Beca, I would never.

She let you hold her in place for a while, the two of you rocking back and forth in a tuneless, comforting rhythm. Presently she asked: Auggie gave you a talk on the birds and the bees?

Oh, babe. She gives 'em every time one of us turns fifteen.

You didn't have a plan. But as the fall semester crawled to an end, you had goals.

First, to make Beca care about Aubrey, without it subtracting from your relationship.

Second, to cultivate your intimacy with Aubrey until it finally spills into love.

Third, to keep your upcoming departure a secret, so that it would be the catalyst for both.

Compared to your medical coursework, your romantic goals were unmeasurable and insurmountable. By the time you received the acceptance letter to Johns Hopkins you've gone through a wringer of mourning, denial, and guilt.

Beca and Aubrey, unaware of your turmoil, continued the way they were with each other – staccato, dry, each pointedly causing friction to mask their curiosity about the other.

Meanwhile the days before your departure quickly dwindled.

Aubrey started to ask if something was wrong, occasionally feeling your forehead for fever.

Beca increasingly teased you for zoning out on what she was saying.

Your mom chided you for keeping your acceptance a secret, saying she couldn't do her usual phone calls with Aubrey for fear of slipping.

You got better at lying, blaming medical school for your distant gaze and addled nerves. But there was no excuse for the random fits of crying. You had to run to your bedroom or the bathroom for these, flushing your face with cold water afterwards. Fuck this, you thought, you can't live like this. You will tell Aubrey and Beca and you will all fight and mend the pieces. But what if Beca or Aubrey wasn't ready to forgive you by the time you leave? What if both of them couldn't forgive?

Thus it was easier to pretend things were fine when you were in bed with Beca; easier to have long, spirited talks with Aubrey about films and books and school and everything in between. You didn't want to talk of leaving. You didn't want to make promises. You will hold your silence now and deal with the consequences later.

You spent as much time with Beca as you could. You were still in the early stages of your relationship, learning something new about the other each day. You committed everything about her to memory, her thoughts and moods and laugh. At her best Beca was a high-octane, well-written song, all vibrant ebbs of emotion sweeping you along. But she wasn't as easygoing as she pretended. At her worst she was impatient and uncommunicative, preferring to slam doors and throw things.

The source of her displeasure was always the same. She raged when other people bought you drinks at The Garage. Whenever you were out with the Bellas she wouldn't let you and Stacie out of her sight. She'd give you the cold shoulder whenever a story you were telling about school involved an attractive professor or classmate.

Jealous, jealous Beca.

What do I have to do, you asked her, over and over, so you know I'm all yours?

And even when she couldn't answer you still gave her as much of yourself as you could: in the privacy of your bedroom, in furtive touches on public spaces, sometimes even in the spaces of the home you shared with Aubrey and Jesse. You no longer cared if you were seen.

Spooned in your arms, Beca asked again: do you really love me?

Do you always have a hard time accepting that others can love you – that I can, and do, love you?

She sat up and frowned, not expecting this new response. Why are you saying that?

Because I can reassure you I love you over and over, babe, but you wouldn't hear it if you're constantly anxious about all of it going away.

I'm not – her frown became more pronounced. Fuck. Is that it? I always feel like when something good happens to us, something bad's gonna happen to balance it out. When you responded with furrowed brows, she continued: And things with us have been mostly good, productive fights aside, so I'm – I dunno, waiting for the sky to fall in or something.

The guilt that followed was so thick you actually felt like vomiting. Departing for med school four states away would surely be the equivalent of the sky falling in. Departing without saying goodbye? The sky falling in, plus the ground opening up under Beca's feet.

Beca, good and bad is a natural ebb and flow. Life's a mix of both.

Look, in my rational mind that makes sense. But every time – every single time I'm enjoying myself – it's always followed by that worry that I'll come crashing down to earth real soon.

When you worry like that, doesn't it just suck the joy out of the moment?

Beca bit her lip, looking down at the quilt between you. Yeah. Yeah, it does. She cleared her throat. This doesn't happen to you? You're just living in the moment all the time, taking my I love you's at face value?

You took her face in your hands. Darling, I've got no reason to doubt you, or take what you say at anything other than face value. But I've also lived a very soft life. Surrounded by people who said what they meant, and did as they promised.

Oh. She looked even more dejected. Well, I guess that's where we differ.

I'm sorry about that, my love.

You've never had the sky fall in on you?

The image of Grandma Beale on her deathbed, tubes and wires obscuring her face, sent a painful pang through your chest. The day Aubrey told you you could do better, the day the Bellas lost the semi-finals, Beca storming away –

Babe, it's fallen in more times than you think. And they've all caught me by surprise, which is the way I like it. You smiled at her. You don't 'live' in the moment, Beca. To say so means your life and its moments are somehow separate, which it isn't. Whatever you're getting from me, from us – that's it. That's your life and you just have to experience it. If you're overanalyzing it, you're already missing it.

So what, like – Beca chuckled grimly, be here now?

Be here now. You kissed the tip of her nose. Savor the fact that I really, really love you, dummy. To hell with the sky falling in.

Aubrey faded in the periphery until a few weeks before her birthday, when she told you she had plans with Jesse. You were blindsided. For the last four years you've spent her birthday together; there was, you assumed, an unspoken understanding that it was a day meant for the two of you alone. That year you were planning to book an entire skating rink.

This was on you, for assuming.

Jesse's been asking me to go to this drive-in theater for ages, Aubrey said, casually. She told you while she washed plates. You stood by with a towel, drying them. Apparently it's been open since nineteen forty-nine or something.

Do you prefer that to skating?

Aubrey frowned. I don't feel strongly about both, why? When you didn't answer she continued: you and Beca will be alone for two whole days, so don't forget to eat, okay? Don't just stay in bed and… she made a jerky, haphazard gesture with her hand, accidentally splashing your face. Making you chuckle despite your overhanging disappointment.

We eat a load, Aubrey, don't be daft.

Aubrey's eyes screwed shut, like that would make her unhear what you said. Ew. Just, ew.

Oh, come on, you want to know! You asked about Tom and the others, why not Beca?

Because I know Beca. It's – she paused for a moment, trying to come up with the perfect word. Mauvais ton.

Her accent was impeccable. That was the thing about Aubrey. She had the mannered charm and pedigree of someone well-traveled, even if most of her knowledge was picked up from reading.

Okay, now you're just showing off.

It's French, she said. The closest translation would be 'bad taste'.

What if I kind of want to tell you?

Her eyes widened for a split second.

Mauvais ton, she repeated, firmly.

But why?

Because Beca's my friend. You looked at her, feeling an overwhelming delight at this unexpected statement, and her lips curled to reflect yours. I know, sue me. I'm sure she does not see me that way.

That's not true – she said she was sure you'd be friends leading up to the finals.

That doesn't mean the same thing. Aubrey looked at you, seriously. It's okay, Chloe, I don't need the feeling to be mutual. That would be embarrassing.

It suddenly felt like you were speaking in code. Did she mean she didn't need Beca to reciprocate her friendship, or something else? The latter was impossible; it was hard to love Beca and not want to be loved by her in return. Before you could say anything Aubrey continued: So I would not like to hear anything carnal about you and Beca, thank you very much. I already have enough to think about.

You told Beca that Aubrey considered her a friend.

Beca, lying on the floor of your bedroom with a magazine, didn't put it down. Uh-huh, she said, clearly only pretending to listen.

Distracted, the women you love.

Do you think Aubrey's cute?

'Cute'? she repeated, still half-listening. You mean in the way pit bulls are cute? Sure.

I mean, do you find her attractive?

Her hand stilled from turning a page. Before I answer that, why do you ask?

For knowledge, babe, duh.

Beca lowered her magazine and sat up, seriously considering. It was one of the things you loved about her: unlike Aubrey, who probably would've shut your questioning down with a stern look, Beca always indulged your flights of fancy. She's…not bad? Very all-American, like, a Fox News face.

I don't know if that's a yes or no.

Yeah, Beca nodded, more to herself. If she was a stranger on the street I'd say she's, like, an eight.

'Fox News face'? you prompted, starting to laugh. She laughed as well.

It's kinda weird describing her, she's your best friend.

She's your friend, too.

Nah. She picked up the magazine, looking at it blankly. She thinks I'm a complete idiot, she says so all the time.

I just told you: she considers you a friend.

Huh. She pinched her earlobe, looking thoughtful. No, I don't think so. It'd be so awkward if we were.

When Aubrey told you she was spending Christmas at Jesse's, you were no longer surprised.

So you asked Beca if she'd join your family for the holidays.

You didn't dare hope, but you were extremely overjoyed when she said yes.

Over Christmas break, getting your family to keep mum about Johns Hopkins was nothing short of a miracle. It helped that the Beales were spending Christmas away from the entire clan. That year you went to a family friend's estate in Asheville – the perfect converging point for everyone coming in from all over the east coast.

True to her word, your mother was warmer with Beca. Beca, freed from the influence of psychoactives, quickly discovered things they had in common: a fascination for third places, a patience for walking long distances, a cynical streak. After Beca told her about a camping trip where a pesky crow repeatedly dive-bombed her earring, your mom laughed: You are a modern-day Byron.

You eagerly agreed. Byron: for Beca is dynamic, tortured, sexual, even egotistical. You loved these qualities about her; these were the qualities of a rock star. How else would she become famous?

I don't know what that means, Beca said, narrowing her eyes.

Your mom turned to you with a mock horrified expression, like Beca not knowing Byron was your shortcoming somehow. And then, to Beca: What do you think of that song that goes, 'I am ashes where once I was fire'?

I don't know the song, but…that's a dope lyric, actually.

Well, it isn't a lyric, as far as I know. It's Byron! He's a Romantic-era poet, and one of the best. Your mother turned to you. Is she the Darkness type, or She Walks in Beauty?

Darkness for sure, you grinned. I'll show it to her, Mom.

Your mom turned to Beca with a smile. Well, Beca, we'll make a reader of you yet.

After a boisterous Christmas lunch, where everyone got blitzed on eggnog and traded stockings stuffed with gifts, your mother personally invited Beca to participate in the annual Beale tradition. It wasn't much of a tradition. It was, in a nutshell, Capture the Flag on the estate grounds when everyone was drunk and full – with the sole intention of getting family members to barf. Nevertheless, the Beales participated with gusto. Losers had to clean up after Christmas dinner. Winners got a special prize, annually curated by your parents.

Since Aubrey started visiting for Christmas, everyone tried to get her in their team. At first it was a courtesy, but in the following years it was in earnest: Aubrey is athletic and strategic, only matched in both by Ciaran.

This year, however, there was no mention of this fact throughout the game. Your mother must have warned everyone to mind themselves around Beca.

This year's prizes were Pure Blue denim jeans from Japan. Beca, ending up in the winning team with Caroline and Ciaran, was absolutely elated.

I don't know why I was so worried, Beca admitted later that night, when you two were finally alone. And then she surprised you by telling you, for the second time since you've known her, a story about her mother.

Her mother, she said, left her home alone a lot. Sometimes she'd be gone for more than a month, sending Beca checks to live on by mail. Her mother worked for a research company, running focus groups for various brands across America; it was how she came to meet, and divorce, John Mitchell. Whenever her mother returned she'd take Beca to the mall, then to a bar. As Beca grew up she figured it was simpler to skip the niceties and meet her mother straight at the bar.

Anyway, I can't imagine being drunk around my family, or even just my mom, Beca said with a chuckle. She's a sad drunk, even when she wasn't drunk. Not that she was forcing me to drink or anything – I wasn't even allowed to sit at her table until, what, twelve? That's how I started wandering into DJ booths, actually. Not much for a kid to do in a bar.

That could have gone sideways, you wanted to say, but you held your tongue. What kind of parent would neglect Beca, force her to grow up so quickly? Her self-sufficiency and restlessness suddenly made sense: they were a defense against attachment.

If you were my kid, I'd never let you out of my sight.

She chuckled again at that. You wouldn't have had a choice. My dad said I've been a runner as early as six.

Oh?

Yeah. We had just moved to Seattle then, and my mom lost me at SeaTac airport. She found me at the taxi stop trying to hustle a ride back to Atlanta.

That was the only time you were strongly tempted not to leave for Baltimore. You didn't want to be another person who left her; didn't want to be a story Beca would tell in the future in a similarly-cavalier way. I used to date this girl whose family got me drunk at Christmas…

Your Beca, l'errant, ton amoureuse. Parting with her will cut both of you deeply. You nuzzled her neck, hiding your crumpling face.

At the start of spring semester, a little progress – in the form of Aubrey's outburst.

Why can't you keep your hands off each other?

By the end of spring semester, more progress. Aubrey and Jesse broke up.

When Aubrey texted you about it you were in Baltimore signing up for classes. Your first day at Johns Hopkins was in a few weeks.

Before replying to Aubrey, you forwarded her one-sentence missive to Beca with a ?!

jesse told me, Beca replied. hows aubrey?

alone. i wont be back til tom. poor bree

When you finally got home, fourteen hours later, Beca and Aubrey were dozed out on the sectional. Beca had an arm draped over Aubrey's blanket, like she had been fixing it before falling asleep.

You stifled the urge to crawl in between them. Instead you tiptoed to your room for your toy camera and took a picture. One day, you thought, they'll be so, so glad you did.

A setback, when Aubrey started sleeping with other people.

A step forward – albeit a painful one – when Aubrey slept with a woman.

And another step backward, when Beca expressed unease at how much that woman looked like her.

By the time you were on the plane to Baltimore, hurtling towards your new life, you'd stopped counting.

Lying to Aubrey and Beca, it turns out, follows the same coping mechanisms as a breakup. You changed your phone number. You stopped replying to messages. You deactivated social media accounts. You drank whenever you could, only returning to life for class. The bartenders at the hotel bar you frequented started calling you sad eyes.

As one of Beca's favorite songs goes: running away is easy, it's the leaving that's hard.

You might have gone mad with grief if your father didn't visit you a few weeks in. As he took in your gaunt appearance he couldn't hide his alarm. Eat, he urged over dinner, watching you pick at your salmon. When you asked him to buy you scotch he asked: What's plaguing you, Clover?

Your mother, of course, knew – about your lofty relationship ambitions, and why you had to leave things as you did. She didn't mind you pursuing both Aubrey and Beca – she even corrected you by saying triad was a more appropriate word to use over threesome, which was limited by its sexual connotations – but she very much minded the cruelty of your approach, the fact that you left Beca and Aubrey hanging. Why can't you just tell them everything? she kept asking, up until your final day in Atlanta. You're even more intractable than them.

Your father was more practical; he wouldn't have been a sought-after surgeon otherwise. It was, unfortunately, that same practicality that prevented you from telling him about your relationships in length. Your mom usually gossiped most of the details to him, anyway.

Oh, Dad. You swirled your glass of water pointedly. I wouldn't even know where to begin.

He took a long look at you, then called for two scotches. Finish your food, he admonished. And we are not making a habit out of this. After getting him to buy a second round, you finally told him about Aubrey and Beca.

I thought you were having a hard time in medical school, he said.

Oh, Dad, don't start with that.

I'm not scolding you. He leaned back in his chair, looking you over with startling blue eyes. Your father always reminded you of Paul Newman, especially now that he looked a lot less alarmed. Medical school is a slog, Clover. The workload, the hours, the emotional toll – it's not for everyone. I was so close to quitting until my third year, when clinical hours gave all that knowledge actual meaning. How are you holding up?

Honestly? It's the only thing keeping me going. Your father wasn't wrong – you spent as much as fourteen hours studying every day. But at the same time Johns Hopkins presented a bigger playing field: one where your family name hasn't preceded you, one that challenged you to prove yourself. You looked forward to anatomy labs and picking your professors' brains. Your fellow students were incredibly brilliant and supportive, even if you've refused all invitations to go out.

Honey, are you telling me you like med school?

I wouldn't go as far as 'like', just that it's keeping me sane.

Well, that's still good. Work can give you a sense of purpose.

An escape, more like, you laughed bitterly.

He raised his scotch towards you as if to commiserate, and you clinked glasses with him.

I'm glad you talked to me about this, he said.

Me too, you said, surprised at how much you meant it. You knew he wouldn't disown you for your grand ideas about Aubrey and Beca, but you weren't entirely sure he'd be fine with it, either. You worried he would find it a distraction from medical school – the way he found Aubrey's lawsuit a distraction from your MCAT studies.

Good. Your father cleared his throat. And honey, if I've ever implied that you can only make me proud by becoming an oncologist, that's not my intention.

Oh, Dad, you said, moved by his reassurance. He had been a steadying hand in your medical journey, but never a pushing one. For that, you will always be grateful. Don't worry. You've never made me feel like I couldn't quit.

Glad to hear it. Now, I know nothing on the subject of dating multiple people –

But you'll give me advice, anyway, you smirked.

I wouldn't be doing my part as your father if I didn't, he said, refusing to mirror your insouciance. Treat Aubrey and Beca with dignity, kid. No one wants to feel like a pawn in someone else's game.

Yes, sir.

You pick the places you don't walk away from. He swirled his glass somberly. And such an interesting place, too! You know what your mother and I always say –

Mind yourself?

Mind yourself.

Aubrey emailed you almost every day since you left – angry email subjects that mellowed out to confessional, even trite, as the days wore on.

I CAN'T FUCKING BELIEVE YOU

HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?

Chloe please I just need an explanation

My convo with Aunt Auggie

Beca's staying in your room, hope that's ok

The Atlantic just paid me $200

You never read the contents until the day Aubrey's email subject read: BECA IN BALTIMORE.

You opened the email. It was terse.

Chloe,

Beca is flying to BWI tomorrow, 18:45 Delta. Meet her. She is lonely, horribly lonely. You know why.

Yours, A.

Beca. As always, sounding her name in your head made you run hot. But this was different from your usual dopamine hit; this was fear and guilt, sending prickly heat to the back of your neck, and a burning sensation behind your eyes.

You went to pick Beca up. You love her too much not to.

She arrived looking windswept and small, her long brown hair askew. As she scanned the arrivals area you briefly considered bolting. After all, your next four years will be spent in Baltimore. Maybe it was best to move on with your life. Accept an invitation to go out. Be surprised, years later, to run into Beca in another airport like this, or step foot in Atlanta and see Aubrey in a coffee shop. Maybe they'll be less stubborn. Maybe you'll do better the second time around. Maybe –

You pick the places you don't walk away from, your father said.

You took a deep breath and started walking towards Beca.

She stared at you like she didn't recognize you. You quickened your pace. Her face hardened into blankness, and then, loosened in anguish. You embraced, still fitting perfectly, still surfacing the sensual in each other with one innocuous touch. Her voice was thick as she murmured your name.

She let you hold her hand but didn't speak again until you got to your loft. You have your own place? she asked, her withdrawn veneer thawing a bit. She whistled at the furniture your parents bought. Then she started wandering through the place, aimlessly opening cabinets and picking up knick-knacks. She found a half-empty bottle of whiskey and took swigs from it as she walked.

You followed her from room to room, warily, like a stranger to your own home.

Without speaking about it, you got into bed. It was the natural order of things. For you Beca kept an unfettered desire that you're sure – you hope – no one else has seen before. It made her skin run hot, it made her delirious with laughter, it sent her panting at your heels with desperation. It was infectious. Every time you'd see her in such a state you wanted her just as madly. You couldn't stop until you were both howling at the moon.

She let you kiss her. You let her undress you. You still shared the same unfettered desire, but all the laughter in it was gone. You clutched each other with the desperate grip of dying soldiers. When you said the words that usually initiated your bed-games she did not respond. You came, one after the other, yours feeling like the first time you did, pain rising into pleasure. But the pleasure wasn't complete without Beca meeting your eye, without her self-satisfied smirk as she knelt before your legs.

When you were both sated you finally had to hold her face so she'd look at you.

I am so sorry I left like that.

She blinked at you, the contentment in her face morphing into hardness.

Yeah. Yeah, what kind of person would leave like that? She blinked rapidly and got up, putting on her shirt with quick, slipshod movements.

A callous one. I know. I deserve all this anger.

You kept saying you loved me, then you went and put more distance between us. What the hell, Beale?

You sat up as well, pulling the sheets to your chest. You wanted to touch her but this wasn't the time; holding her before she expressed a strong burst of emotion only overwhelmed her. Going to Johns Hopkins doesn't mean I don't love you. I do.

Then why did you leave like that?

Because it was easier. It wasn't the full truth, but this was the closest you can get without blowing things open. It was also incredibly selfish, and you felt sick with guilt. I didn't want to break up. I didn't want to say goodbye. You stemmed your tears with the bedsheets. That was so, so selfish of me. I'm sorry.

You took the coward's route, like some fucking – Beca pressed a fist into her mouth, breathing heavily. You acted like we wouldn't notice you were gone! You fucking lied for months! You lied to Aubrey, you even got your family to lie for you – what kind of shitty person does that?

There was no good answer to placate you both.

Beca, I really wanted to tell you –

She got up, moving towards the chaise at the foot of the bed, where you couldn't reach her. Shut up, I'm not done. Her voice was louder, her posture squared. You were always telling me to talk! To ask you for what I need! To tell you if something's not working out, so we can negotiate! But of course all that doesn't apply to you, she laughed bitterly. You just fucked off four states away without saying shit! Aubrey and I, we had to call your mom and be told that we were a bunch of clueless dupes! Why? What's so good about this place that you dropped us so easily?

I didn't drop you and Aubrey. And this decision was one of the hardest ones I've ever had to make.

You told her about Grandma Beale and your pact with your father to become an oncologist. About Harvard, trying and failing to get in. Settling for Emory, admitting that Aubrey had largely influenced the decision. Falling out with Aubrey and applying to Johns Hopkins in a fit of misguided anger. Lying while you were going through the application process, forcing your own family to lie on your behalf. Lying until the very last minute, boarding your flight to Baltimore while Aubrey and Beca bickered in the grocery store.

You could've been an oncologist in Emory, she challenged. You applied for Aubrey. You couldn't have stayed for me?

It's not like that, Beca – I don't just want to be an oncologist. I have to be one of the best.

Says who? It's not like you promised your grandma –

I promised myself that, you said, more coldly than you intended. And Johns Hopkins is the closest I'll get. Their medical program's much more holistic than Emory. They even have a cancer research center.

Then why didn't you just say that? she asked, her exasperation growing. This is clearly very personal for you, I wouldn't have stopped you from going. I'm not an asshole.

You're not.

Then why did you act like a fucking child?

She was inconsolable, because at the heart of all her questions she was really asking: how could you have been so cruel? You finally understood why your father told you to treat Beca and Aubrey with dignity. Who are you to play God, tying these women to your fate? Who are you to merge their desires into one improbable path? Who are you to prevent them from meeting anyone else, someone actually present in their lives, someone who could suffuse joy into their days?

For the first time it dawned on you that you could lose Beca.

And here I gave up LA to be with you, she spat.

By now you've seen enough of her emails to know she was lying. Don't make me feel guilty for a decision you made without me, you countered, angrily. You gave up LA for a completely different reason.

What, the Bellas? She laughed bitterly. I wouldn't have stayed for them.

More lies. You've seen how much she cared for the Barden Bellas. Aubrey wouldn't have entrusted the group to her if she didn't. Beyond building a community for the girls, Beca was all about building the group's legacy – collecting achievement after achievement for future Bellas to uphold, years after she was gone.

I saw your rejection emails, Beca.

It was her turn to stiffen, but you weren't done: If you didn't go to LA because you couldn't get opportunities there, then tell me. But don't lie.

She stared at you for a long moment, jaw working open and closed. And then her face collapsed into tears.

Why can't I hurt you as much as you hurt me? The biblical rage in her voice was gone. You had to lean forward to hear her. She was gripping her hair, shrinking into herself. I can never hurt you as much as you hurt me. I love you more than you love me.

Her trust was made of glass and now it was broken, impossible to piece back. Still you tried. You went to her. You kissed all over her face, the way she did whenever you needed comfort. Just because I've been selfish doesn't mean I love you so, so much, you told her. She wept like a child, sobs racking her whole body. This brought the smallest bit of comfort, for Beca thought any show of vulnerability was humiliating. She only ever cried openly in your arms.

When you woke up the next day she was nowhere in sight. You bolted downstairs, your heart in your throat.

You found her on the stoop, smoking a joint and watching the street. You held her from behind, pulse still racing. She smelled of citrus and smoke.

What's wrong? she asked, sensing something awry in your breathing, in the tenseness of your grip.

I thought you were gone.

She chuckled bitterly. Only you could leave like that.

Beca remained wounded. You remained remorseful. When you finally had to leave for class she saw you out the door with an unspoken plea in her eyes. But for what? You wouldn't quit Johns Hopkins. She would return to Barden in a few days. And Aubrey would keep sending emails you wouldn't read.

You were at an impasse.

I'll move here, Beca said. It was almost a week after her arrival, when she was starting to do more than just watch you come and go. That evening she was out when you came home. She returned with incredible Chinese takeout from a place you've never even heard of.

I'll apply to the University of Maryland, or maybe even just start working, she continued, sounding like every word pained her. The music scene here isn't bad.

Is that what you want? you asked cautiously. This wasn't the first time she proposed something because she assumed it was what you wanted. What about the Bellas? Your parents?

They'll deal.

Don't get me wrong, Beca, I'd love it if we didn't have to be apart –

But?

But I feel like you're rushing into this decision.

I'm trying to love you unconditionally, she ground out through gritted teeth.

No, you're placing my needs above your own. Beca, we've talked –

Can you just let me do this? she snapped. I'm not going to resent you. Okay?

You don't know if that's going to hold. What if you can't find a decent job? The music scene here is nothing compared to Atlanta's. The crime rate here is also one of the highest in America; what if you never feel safe? Are you willing to make new friends? Are you okay seeing your parents only during breaks and holidays? You're in your third year at Barden, why transfer out when you could be graduating next year? She met your concerns with silence. Give this a little more thought. Please.

Don't you want to live like this? Her voice was rising.

No. Not if you're going to raise your voice like that all the time.

Chloe – she held her fork in a death grip, as if restraining herself from driving it into your face. Instead she tossed it to the floor, the loud clatter making you flinch. I'm trying to prove something here, can't you see that?

You're not proving anything by leaving your support system back home.

You're my home! she thundered. You're all I need!

Beca, you reproached, as gently you could. It felt so long ago since she was thundering about being your home. Still she retained the same idealism. Here she was, shouting words in an empty room, hoping that by saying them as loud as she could they would come true. Hoping the two of you would simply go on as before, despite having experienced the biggest betrayal you could ever do. You can't possibly mean that. You barely even trust me as it is.

She stared, reality dawning on her. When she finally spoke it was with the disoriented laugh of someone who'd just had a concussion.

No. No, I don't trust you.

You have sex again. After undressing she yanked your hair with a dispassionate silence, tipping your head backwards. When you said it hurt she only pulled harder.

This was new. Beca had always respected your boundaries in bed. Sometimes she wouldn't even put her weight on you. She was forever asking if you were okay.

She slapped you then, your cheek exploding into a million fiery pinpricks. This was also new – and so unexpected – that you only realized what happened when your ears started ringing. The second slap, a backhand, pulled a moan out of your lips.

Your mind understood that Beca was punishing you.

Your mouth, however, was watering.

You fucking like this, she said, sounding both awed and angered.

You've had rough sex before, but never with someone you loved to pieces. With such people, it turns out, your body delighted in being treated like a rag doll.

She forced you into all fours, slapping all over until your skin burned – in your face, in your ass, in your cunt. You felt molten, about to fall apart at any second. Please, you kept begging, unsure of what you were begging for, only that new jolts of pain brought it closer. When her fingers were finally inside you every plunge stoked a rapturous fire deep in your gut.

Listen to you, she murmured, her voice pure venom as she wrapped her other hand around your neck. You're so fucked-up I don't even know why I want you.

You came, bruised and defeated.

Hurt me all you want, you told her afterwards. I still love you.

I do, too. Her fingers touched yours in the dark. Shame, isn't it?

A few days before she left Baltimore, while you both sat in bed absorbed in your own pursuits, Beca suddenly said: I've been thinking.

Mm?

It is kind of a hassle to transfer out here for my last year in college.

Right.

And if I take that gig at the Garage that Luke's been nagging me about, I can afford a trip here every now and then. Maybe I'd even be able to move out, you know? You nodded. God. I'm so over Kimmy Jin making a fuss whenever I come home late.

Aubrey might want a new roommate, you said in the most neutral voice you could manage.

Yeah?

She'll have a hard time paying for a two-bedroom on her own.

Well. I've seen that insane Excel sheet she uses for budgeting.

And it's a pretty good apartment. Walking distance from Barden, in a neighborhood that's super safe. And that bathtub? Unheard of in student housing.

Beca chuckled. Yeah, you guys lucked out. Who found the place?

Aubrey. I didn't even see the place in person before agreeing to move in, did you know that? But it's Aubrey, so I knew it was going to be good.

Right. Doubt she'll want to be my roommate, though.

You'd be surprised, you smiled. I can float the idea, see if she's interested.

Dude. You're not even talking to her right now, she snorted. The night before she asked if you've spoken to Aubrey, appearing relieved when you said you haven't. Anyway. If you're spending the next few years in another state, what's going to happen to us?

You put down your book on Palliative Radiation Oncology. You ever feel like every time we talk, things get very, very complicated?

She set her laptop aside, turning to face you. Yeah, we could go on and on, huh? You like putting me through my paces. When you opened your mouth to protest, she added, it's one of the things I missed most when you left, actually.

Really?

Really. I've become so used to your chatter, it's like I went deaf. And the fact that you just straight-up ghosted, we couldn't even talk on the phone – she cleared her throat. I even missed the times we fought, you know? I can't imagine the number of times I got jealous, or acted like a jerk, and you set me straight. At times you were literally talking me into becoming a better person. I took all of that for granted.

Oh, Beca. You smiled at her wistfully. I never felt taken for granted.

That's kind of you to say. You really didn't have any reason to be as patient as you were – every time we fought I'm always horribly incoherent, then horribly impatient. And I'm mean when I feel cornered. You must have found that really frustrating.

You couldn't help but be proud of her for her self-awareness, even if the circumstances that forced her to recognize these things about herself were grim.

Well, I'd be lying if I said I never found you frustrating. But talking is a two-way thing, and we wouldn't have made progress if you weren't listening.

Was I? I feel like whenever the conversation gets too hard I just say things to hurt you.

You did that sometimes, yes. But then you'd come around and try to see things from my point of view.

See? There's that infinite understanding, she said, pointing at the air between you. The whole time I didn't hear from you I couldn't decide if you were a saint, or the worst person in the world.

If it helps, I find it easy to talk because there's usually the promise of sex afterwards.

Oh, yeah. Otherwise I wouldn't even give you the time of day. She started to laugh, and you did too, the mingling sound of your pleasure warming you inside. It was the first real laugh you've shared since she arrived. You joke, but I swear to God I missed the day-to-day talk, walking downtown or falling asleep. The things we talk about – man, we soar! She said it with such enthusiasm, it made you laugh again. I don't want that with anybody else.

You suddenly wanted to tell her: I love you, Beca.

Let's stay together, she said.

Butterflies in your stomach.

Beca always speaks to you with an earnestness that brings butterflies to your stomach.

Okay, you respond.

Her cool blue eyes were startling in their clarity. You leaned forward to kiss her. She placed an arm around your shoulders, stroked your hair.

This was the moment you knew you were forgiven. Warm and sweet relief washed over you. It was not in Beca's nature to hold on to anger, not when affection came to her more easily. She'd rather touch your hair and inhale the scent of your skin.

Any suggestions on how we'll manage? you asked, when you finally pulled apart.

Don't people usually do the long-distance thing? They send good morning texts, Skype on schedule, that kind of stuff. Beca frowned as she said it. Is it weird that I don't want to do that, the scheduled Skype thing? I mean, let's talk as often as we can, but organically.

No, I get it. We've got so much going on, scheduling is impossible. You thought for a moment. What if I just call you whenever I've got an hour to talk?

An hour? That's too short.

Two hours?

You know what? Just call whenever you want to talk.

That'll be always, you smiled.

Stop flirting, dude, we're already together. Anyway, between the two of us I'll have more free time, so I'm likely to take those calls. Can I call and hang out while you study? We don't have to talk, just keep the camera on.

I'd love that. You cleared your throat, hoping your next words won't alarm her. I won't stop you from seeing other people.

She looked taken aback.

Do you want to see other people?

No. You squeezed her knee, trying to reassure her. I'm saying this because I don't want you pining for me, okay? It doesn't mean we'll break up.

She searched your face, reading between the lines. I don't pine, Chloe, she finally said, rolling her eyes.

Modern-day Byron, you reminded in an undertone, knowing how much she liked the compliment.

You're right. I'll pine a little. Her mouth turned up at the corners. Okay. You're suggesting this, like, open thing.

An open relationship, yes.

So we're together, but dating others and stuff?

I'd prefer it if you didn't date –

I don't want to, she said, quickly.

– but you can do stuff, you said, unable to help the mischievous smile on your face.

She shook her head at you, looking quite dazed. You're crazy, Beale.

Yes, but you like the way my mind works.

I do, but – this is all theoretical, right? she asked. Like, in theory, if someone came along wanting to have sex with me, you wouldn't mind.

As long as you're not emotionally involved with them, no, I wouldn't. You brushed her cheek with the back of your hand. Oh, those blue eyes. You'll have girls lining around the block.

You make me sound like such a stud, she snorted. I don't have a list of girls I plan to sleep with. And I can't really imagine myself picking up a girl, or even wanting someone else, I'm just…God, I'm finding it really, really hard to wrap my head around this.

Well, what's the first thing that comes to mind?

Uh, that it's too good to be true?

Want to hear something crazier?

Christ, what else could top that?

I want to be celibate.

Beca's jaw dropped.

She knew, better than anyone else, how much you liked being touched. Knew that you considered sex a religious experience, the ultimate meeting of tension and will. She knew how much this act of renunciation would cost you: not just sleepless nights, but the actual torture on your soul.

You're kidding, she gasped. You'll die.

I might, you said, joining her in incredulous laughter. You made this decision for yourself, for you simply had no appetite for anyone else. You couldn't bear the idea of being with strangers – people who didn't have an ounce of Beca's charm or audacity – and you'd rather go dry than go looking. But you also knew it would please her. And you love that you have that kind of power over each other.

Why would you do this? she asked.

I don't want to be touched by anyone else other than you.

She sucked in air through her teeth. You sap, she said in a low voice, her eyes soft. I'm not gonna lie, this is a relief. But you don't think that's unfair, that I can have sex with other people when you won't?

Beca hasn't had as much fun as you've had in your lifetime, and therefore doesn't understand that your kind of connection was rare. You told her this and added, just to make sure she understood: it's like listening to Greta Van Fleet after knowing Led Zeppelin.

I'm Led Zeppelin in this scenario?

Yup.

Well, shit. Her eyes were wide. How often will we see each other?

How does Thanksgiving and Christmas together this year sound? Visiting Beca was the only logical way you could see each other. She lived off a small allowance from her father; you don't even know how she managed to afford plane tickets. Next year I'll start driving down to Durham to see Ciaran. It's halfway to Atlanta, so if you don't mind driving six hours each way, we can meet there once a month.

I don't mind. She took your hand. No dating for you either, is that okay?

No dating. I'd kiss a few people here and there, though.

Beca looked you over thoughtfully. I can live with that, she finally said. This'll work, right? We'll make it work?

If we stay honest with each other, yes, I think it will.

Okay. I trust you.

You kissed her, your chest aching with gratitude.

Beca called Aubrey right before her flight home. You didn't expect the ease in which she gave Aubrey updates, the low tone she used when she asked: So you've been keeping track of how long I was gone, huh, Posen?

When she put the phone down she saw you watching her. She said nothing would make you lose her. She waved the phone at you. Something about Posens not holding grudges. Why won't you talk to her?

You yawned and pressed your head back onto her shoulder. I can only take one of you at a time, my love.

Really? Thought you had more stamina than that. You punched her shoulder playfully. I don't know why you're so scared of Aubrey. You said she was your home.

You're scared of Aubrey, you teased, and she pretended to shake you off. You clung to her arm and stuck a tongue out at her.

She'll be so relieved to hear from you, she said, rather seriously. You can even just thank her for my plane tickets. After all is said and done she's actually rooting for us.

See? You nudged her rib. Told you you have nothing to worry about.

The airport PA announced boarding for Beca's flight. You embraced Beca, desperately trying to prolong the perfect fit of her body in yours. You were both crying when you broke apart.

Aww, blue eyes, she sniffled, pushing a lock of hair out of your face. We really are the sensitive ones.

You grieved Beca's departure. You listlessly wandered through the rooms she had been in, sending her long texts of love and devotion.

No one wants to feel like a pawn in someone else's game.

You would never, ever, want Aubrey or Beca to think that this was just a game.

So you steeled yourself and called Aubrey.

I fully intend to steal her away from you.

The certainty in Aubrey's voice as she said that about Beca sent chills through your spine.

Beca's message read: aubrey didnt come home.

There were no other emails or messages. You took deep breaths to ease the painful hammering in your chest. Once you felt calmer, you called Beca back.

She picked up immediately. Aubrey's gone, she said without preamble. Her car's gone, too. Did she message you or anything?

We spoke on the phone last night. You debated whether to tell her more, but ultimately decided it was best if you had another talk with Aubrey first – a calmer one, hopefully, with no more threats about stealing perfect girlfriends. She didn't say anything about going anywhere, though.

Fuck. Should we, like, call the police or something? There was an edge of panic to Beca's voice. This doesn't seem like her. Right?

You recalled the time Aubrey left you for Paris, walking by herself in Cimetière du Montparnasse.

She tends to…escape, when she's overwhelmed.

Fucking hell. A pause on Beca's end. What's wrong with you people? Her voice was high-pitched, almost hysterical with worry. Y'all can't drop a note before leaving?

Beca, it's okay. We'll figure it out, okay? When did you last speak to her?

Last night. We were supposed to go to this thing at the Trebles clubhouse, but I left her behind. She was – Beca groaned in exasperation. Jesus. It's my fault she's gone, isn't it?

Babe, breathe. You paused, listening to her labored breathing – you can just imagine her jiggling her foot, hunched over with phone. Aubrey had ended your call rather abruptly; between then and now, something had happened to make her run. What else do you know?

She called Stacie while we were out. She said she'd be gone for a week, but that's it.

Where would Aubrey possibly disappear to for an entire week? She'd sooner have her throat cut than return to Vermont. Paris was a possibility, except Aubrey was pinching pennies to ensure she'd have enough to cover two more years of law school. Besides, spending impulsively on a vacation was unlike her. She could drive or fly to Sarasota, where she was always welcome. But your parents were somewhere in Colorado right now, camping in their RV.

Are you in our apartment? you asked Beca. Did you try her room?

It's locked.

There should be a key taped under my dressing table.

You listened to the muffled noises on her side. Finally Beca said, I'm in.

Good. There's a pullout drawer under her bed. Can you check if there's a black suitcase in there, with leather handles and metal corners? One with a monogrammed leather tag?

Uh – more muffled noises. There's two suitcases, but no leather tag.

The one with the tag is Aubrey's hand carry. Wherever she is, she took a flight there.

A pause, and then Beca said what both of you were thinking: You think she's headed there?

Yes. You don't know where the certainty came from, but you were absolutely sure you'll be seeing Aubrey soon. I'll let you know as soon as I hear from her.

This is so unlike her, Beca repeated. She's supposed to be steady and rational and everything.

She is being rational, you wanted to tell her. If she wasn't, then she would have stayed in Atlanta and done exactly what she said she intended. She is coming here to apologize.

Unlike Beca, Aubrey wasn't staying in Baltimore long. You spent the cab ride to her hotel wondering how to plead your case. You needn't have bothered. Aubrey was drunk, terribly drunk, and also terribly in love with you. And then she kissed you.

You didn't dare hope for anything just yet. But the next morning, when you woke up to her lips on yours, you couldn't help but imagine the places the three of you could go: Thanksgiving in Atlanta, Christmas in your family home, a future in Atlanta or LA – anywhere, really, as long as you were together.

You told Aubrey, as simply and humbly as you could, that you can make her happy. That you and Beca could make her very, very happy.

And it felt like a new lease in life, the moment she said: I'll have you.

So, uh, things are good with you and Aubrey, right? Beca asked, during your very first Skype call. I mean, she flew there and everything, so you've hashed things out. Right?

It felt like years since you saw Aubrey off at Baltimore Airport, even if it was only yesterday. You longed to get a glimpse of her in Beca's background – only to be disappointed when Kimmy Jin popped into view.

You make it sound like we went at each other with boxing gloves on, you said, taking comfort from Beca's face floating on your laptop screen. But yes, we've talked, woman to woman.

You're on good terms?

Better. You were right, I should've talked to her sooner.

Thank God, she muttered. We also spoke when she got home.

You waited, but she didn't seem like she was going to add any more. And?

And we're fine, she shrugged. Just told her not to run off like that.

That must've been a hard conversation. Are you okay? She nodded, her smile wan. Tell me everything?

She made a face. I'd rather just hear your voice.

You thought things would fall apart after that.

Instead, things fell into place. Beca moved in with Aubrey, got the gig at The Garage, and kept in touch. An embarrassing number of your video calls turned into phone sex, readings tossed aside as you feverishly touched yourselves to each other's voices. Beca, when she wasn't narrating what she'd do to you the next time you were together, asked after the Beales and spoke of lunches with her dad. And she made oblique references to Aubrey without realizing it: This is embarrassing, but I've only just learned how to fold a shirt. What is On The Road about, anyway? Last night was so wild, you would have loved it – I saw the moon through a telescope, right after my gig at The Garage.

I'm raising the level of discourse, Beca quipped over Skype one evening, while both of you wheezed in laughter imagining what happens at a Treble initiation night. (Jesse and Benji wouldn't share.) If they're putting their dicks in birdhouses, then they must be keeping some really interesting birds in there. Like toucans and shit.

You're learning things from Aubrey, you blurted out, before you could stop yourself.

Beca raised an eyebrow, more to herself, as if surprised by the observation. Yeah, she finally said, yeah, you could say that. It's hard not to. She knows a lot, and her books are all over the place.

You get along with her better than Kimmy Jin, then? you beamed.

Oh, yeah. Aubrey's super low-maintenance, like a self-cleaning oven.

That made you laugh. Would you say you're friends now? Beca nodded. I don't know if you remember, but you once said it would be so awkward if you were.

Did I? I don't know why I said that. It's nice having Aubrey on your side.

It is! I am so, so glad to hear you say that! She could always use more people on her side. Lord knows she's had such a hard life.

Really? She used to give me WASP-y vibes, religious and moneyed and everything.

She's from a religious family all right, but we're doing our best to keep them away.

What? On your screen, Beca was sitting up. Who's 'we'? What are 'we' doing? Why are 'we' keeping her family away?

If I tell you, you leaned in, mirroring her earnestness, you'll have to do your part, too.

I'm doing jack shit, she snorted. Not if she's in witness protection or some other nefarious shit. Nope.

Okay, then, you shrugged nonchalantly, waiting for Beca to fold.

If I agree, Beca huffed, crossing her arms, what's my part going to be, exactly?

You just keep certain people from talking to her or being within a hundred yards of her.

That's wild.

Is it? I've been doing it since we were in sophomore year.

Beca thought for a moment. Okay, she said. Tell me.

You hoped Beca would never have to call Grandpa Beale. After all, that day in the courtroom was the first and last you've heard from the Posens. Since then your grandfather diligently renewed James Posen's restraining order every year, personally mailing the notices of renewal to the Posens' sporting goods store in Canaan, Vermont.

So your blood ran cold when you saw Beca's text: on a call with ur gramps. dial in when u can. As soon as anatomy lab was over you called her. She told you about James Posen contacting Aubrey, and the next steps Grandpa Beale told them to take.

How's Aubrey doing?

Beca cleared her throat. Mostly okay, I think. She's giving her statement to the police at the moment.

You did well, you told her. Thank you.

Beca didn't respond immediately. Aubrey and I, she finally said, her breathing sounding close and heavy in your ear.

Yeah, babe, what is it?

We're fine, she said, her voice catching. Don't worry.

When Beca repeated herself days later – Aubrey and I – you already knew what had happened, her kissing Aubrey, Aubrey downplaying how elated she was by it all.

Pretending you knew nothing, however, only rattled Beca. Why would Mrs. Whitlock do that? she snapped, after you suggested, amongst other things, that the landlady kicked them out. It's not like we did anything wrong.

Then what is it, babe?

I don't think I should join the girls at Smithgall, she said instead. She was talking about Aubrey's birthday plans at the state park. I don't like going anywhere with no cell reception.

You wanted to point out that she used to camp in the Pacific Northwest without cell reception, but that would have only made her feel worse. So you said, whatever the matter is between you and Aubrey, I'm sure you'll work it out.

We're fine, she insisted stubbornly. I just dread herding everyone around. Every time I go anywhere with the Bellas I feel like some sort of dad, making sure no one's getting into stupid shit.

And your solution is not to go? You gave her an encouraging smile. Who's going to rein Amy in from jumping in the river, then?

Oh, God. You're right. On your phone screen, Beca clapped a hand to her forehead. Amy will definitely jump into the river. And Lilly was asking Stacie earlier if her jeep could fit a thin forty-inch item that I'm now sure is a katana. Fuck.

Everything will be fine, you reassured her. It's not like it's the first time Lilly brought a sharp object to an outing. And Aubrey will be there to help. Okay?

I'd feel much, much better if you were doing the helping, she said with a tired smile.

You know I'd be there in about a week, right? Don't you worry.

Chloe.

Yeah, babe?

I love you. Beca was utterly serious. That's never gonna change.

Notes from the author.

I've always meant to write a longer chapter about Chloe, but I couldn't figure out what kind of person one has to be to even think of pushing their best friend and girlfriend into a triad. Over time – and with a lot of re-readings – I understood that Chloe has to be someone with so much love to give, and someone with such unshakeable self-esteem that it's just a touch shy of a god complex. So I gave her a family background that cultivates that kind of attitude, and I'm quite pleased with how she turned out: brilliant but out of touch, loving but selfish, well-meaning but ruthless. Perfect foil to Aubrey and Beca, if you ask me.

You'll also notice that this bonus chapter is written differently from the others. I wanted to give it the feel of a personal recollection, so it's all in past tense and italics. It wasn't meant to be this long but I've had such a fun time writing conversations and nuance, and in the end I just left everything in. Consider it a sort of apology for not updating since 2021, I guess?

The final chapter is coming out in August. It's all written out, but I'm giving myself a one-month break so I can edit it with fresh eyes. In that one month I'll also start writing my own book, so if any of you are interested in reading my personal writing, let me know in the comments so I can share my Substack.

For the meantime, I've polished all chapters to make for better re-reading. I realize, with some horror, that in Fanfiction that erases the previous notes I had from the initial versions of each chapters. I'm so sorry about that! Now happy reading!