♫ Said somethin' was wrong with my head
Told me someone was messin' with my mind
Said you gotta get out the situation girl
It's only a matter of time ♪
(Mya ft. Lloyd Banks—Why you gotta look so good?)

"So... you need a Gilmore Girls style pro and con list?" Delilah sipped from her chipped mug and smacked her lips.

"Yeah... I guess so. But make that three lists, for three guys." Coralie, sitting legs crossed on the floor, leaning against the couch, sighed.

The night before, she'd gotten home, snuck into bed, and wished her worries would resolve by morning. But how many times had she done that in the past few weeks, to no avail? She woke to a heavenly scent of java and an aroma of delectable pastries, and when she meandered out into the living room, she located Delilah on the sofa, patting the space beside her. She'd picked up macarons, whipped up some fancy coffee, and summoned Coralie to her side.

They'd been chatting ever since. Delilah had taken the morning off work—friendly emergency, she'd called it, and her dad had had no choice but to accept it—and Coralie didn't have to go in to the label until later that day, due to an important video-shoot that would take up the entire floor.

After a few vanilla pastries and a few sips of java, Coralie understood that Delilah, despite her judgment, was her best confidante. Not Chester, as she'd initially thought. Because Delilah, though gritting her teeth through the whole story and white-knuckling her way through her mug of coffee, wasn't biased, and saw things clearer. As an outsider to the situation, and with a smidgen of knowledge on all three men, she was the best placed to give Coralie some insight on her dilemma. And how to solve it.

"I'm in over my head," said Coralie, letting the steam coat her face, fog her eyesight, and evaporate into her nostrils. The blend Delilah had chosen—a soft hazelnut with hints of raspberry—had been their favorite back in San Francisco, and they'd been unable to find it since they moved to New York City. "You were right, and I'm an idiot. Dating three men? I mean, if you can call my situation with Chester dating... I'm not even sure."

"Hmpf," Delilah snorted and scarfed down another macaron, "I hate to say I told you so, but..."

"But one guy has no idea the other two exist, the second thinks he's top dog when in fact he's got more than one competitor, and the third keeps spitting out shit about fate and coincidences and stars aligning. Ugh, my head hurts." Coralie massaged her temples as she tipped the back of her head onto the lower couch cushion. "This is impossible."

Delilah, who hadn't moved from her end of the sofa, tucked her legs under herself and blew out her cheeks. "Well, what you need is some clarity. So yes, a pro and con list would help. It would be a start, but you'll need supervision, someone to make sure you're not bullshitting anything—"

"—what I need is to stay away from all three and discover which one I miss the most." Coralie laughed, and the sound was hoarse, haunted, displaying the torment she was battling on the inside. "If I miss any of them at all. Ha! That would fix the issue. Celibacy, like I'd planned, yeah?"

"Oh!" Delilah jumped up with such fervor, she caused Coralie to slip sideways and shield her face in fear. "That's it! That's the solution!" She clapped, and Coralie deflated as she realized Delilah was on one of her typical, over-the-top problem-resolving trips. "You declare to all three you need time to think."

"Okay...?" Coralie scrunched her eyebrows and eyed her friend with suspicion. "I basically already did that with Ryan... but you want me to tell that to Michael, too? Have him panic across the country? Breaking up with him is one of my issues, remember?"

"No, you don't break up with him." Delilah paced in front of Coralie, but didn't look at her, determined, brainstorming in that witty mind of hers. She hit the back of one hand into the palm of her other as she stormed, frantic, furious. Coralie imagined a whiff of smoke over her head. "You don't break up with any of them, not yet. But you warn them that you need to disconnect for a while. Ryan's already warned, so there's that. You can blabber some excuse to Michael about needing to focus on your songwriting and needing some space, while reassuring him that it has nothing to do with him, that it's a work request." She huffed. "And Chester? Well, he knows the truth, so you can inform him you're debating and need isolation for that."

Coralie stroked her chin as she sat up straight. "Hm... all right, I can see that possibly working. Michael will be the hardest to convince, though. I'll have to insist that it's strictly because of work. Might have to ask Nikita to send me some fake email to drive the point home, or something. She won't judge, since she's... uh... engaged in an affair, too."

Delilah had no reaction to Nikita's love-life—she was too focused on Coralie's to sniff up the gossip that she'd usually devour with urgency. "One month to concentrate on your writing work. To clear your thoughts. To decide if one of them, or any, are meant for you."

"One month?" Coralie cocked her head.

"I dunno, random number." Delilah slowed her paces. "Seems fair. And in the meantime," she finally whirled around and glowered at Coralie, "you actually cloister yourself in your room or your office and write. Let the words flow. Start a journal, too, and scribble every damn thing that comes to mind. And when we're close to the end of the month... we analyze it."

Coralie groaned as she got to her feet and brushed a few macaron crumbs from her lap. "Is this some legitimate shit, or are you making this up? Or did you get it from one of those stupid reality shows? Because I won't buy that. This is real life."

Snarling, Delilah waved her off as she sauntered into the kitchen and stomped into her room. "It's real," she said, returning a few minutes later with a leather-bound book and a shiny new pen. "A friend... someone told me... anywho, I know somebody who was talking to a shrink about hard decisions. And they told her... him... told them that writing, journaling, could help." She handed Coralie the journal and drew back to the kitchen to refill their coffees.

The book was weathered, but sturdy. The first page had been ripped out, but it was otherwise unused, crisp and clean as if recently bought. "What is this?"

Shimmying into the living room, Delilah snuck Coralie's mug into her grasp and headed for the couch. "A journal. Someone gave it to me, and I tried to start writing, but... got my answers within the first page, so I figured I didn't need to keep going. And the pen... it's a gift. You can hang on to it." She fell into the pillows and swigged a few gulps of java. "Write your goal on the first page—something like, figure out which of the men I want to be with. And you can make your pro-con list at the end. Or however you want to organize it."

Something felt off about Delilah—she was calm, too calm, and almost too knowledgeable about this exercise. Sure, she was level-headed despite all the craziness in her life, but Coralie didn't take her for someone who'd receive advice from a professional. She sorted out her problems with booze and sex and sappy TV shows and moved on to the next with a wink and a smile.

But Delilah wouldn't allow her to dwell on her behavior. Once they'd finished their drinks and destroyed the box of macaroons, she shooed Coralie into her room and instructed her to start writing before she went to work. The sooner she put pen to paper and established a habit of it, the sooner she'd see clarity in her thoughts, in her heart.

Coralie resolved to call Michael later, and to text Chester soon, but while she pondered over what to say to them... she obeyed Delilah's demands. Lounging on her bed, with her tiny desk-light shining bright over her head, she settled the journal in her lap and opened it to the first blank page. She unscrewed the pen, inhaled, exhaled, and let the tip glide along the lines.

"Who do I want to spend the rest of my life with, if anyone? Michael, Ryan, or Chester? Who will take up the most space in my mind if I shun them?"

She scoffed at the questions, unsure writing her daily thoughts would help her answer them. The list seemed a better idea, but she didn't have time to begin it, so she set the journal down and got dressed for work.

As she glanced at her reflection, her cheeks turned pink, then red, then purple. One month away from the three men who'd been haunting her dreams for days, weeks, months, years. One month to drown in her queries, to sort out her emotions, to figure out who of them had the keys to her heart, and who had been a mere adventure, a quick stop on the way to happiness.

As she hastened out, she found Delilah still on the couch, apparently in deep conversation with someone over the phone. Coralie clapped for her attention, and Delilah flipped her off while blowing her a kiss.

"You're complicit in all this," said Coralie, as she unlocked the door. "So don't go thinking your role is done quite yet, missy."

Delilah chortled. "Complicit, huh? Creative. You should use that as a title for something."

Coralie paused in the hallway, after sealing the door behind her, and peered at the faded wall in front of her as she pursed her lips. "Yeah, I should use that. As the title for this damn journal." She threw the keys in her purse and noticed said journal in it—she'd tossed it in on her way out of her bedroom, figuring she might need to jot down some thoughts later that day. "Or for a song." She zipped the thing shut and strolled to the stairs.

What did complicit mean? What did it imply? And what kind of lyrics could she come up with around that theme?

She smirked as she took the first step, uncaring if any of her neighbors heard her talking to herself. "Or both. Complicit... I like it. Maybe this journal will be filled with songs, too. Songs about the men I care for... and that I have to choose from. Who will win?" She shrugged. "Only time will tell. One month, to be precise. One month, and then I'll have my answers. Right?"

♥♥♥