♫ I lay in the fire, cry and I cry over nothing
I make a monsoon, and it's about you
What is it 'bout you that makes me come undone? ♪
(Tove Lo—Come undone)

Coralie shuffled through her bar shift, at times eager to be out of the public eye, and isolated somewhere she could cry in peace... but also anxious. Nervous. Unsettled. Chester, though conscious of her situation—and likely the best placed to help her see the light in it all—was somewhat of a competitor for her heart. He'd made that obvious, and she couldn't allow herself to forget that.

Would he be what she needed tonight? A confidante, nothing more? Or would he take advantage of her distress to rub it on thick, remind her how he was her best option as he didn't judge, didn't care about her other lovers, and wouldn't be upset if she kept them?

Minutes before she clocked out, she considered retracting her offer to swing by his place. Her palms were sweaty, she was wobbly, and several times she slurred her words as if drunk. She hadn't had a drop of alcohol tonight—sometimes patrons asked her to do shots with them—and a tiny piece of her wished she had. For some odd reason, liquor seemed to clarify her thoughts and dull her nerves and prompt her bravery.

And to hang out with Chester, she'd need all of that.

In the end, she let her body and brain decide for her—she was going to Chester's. Going home meant confronting Delilah, remembering her "break" with Ryan, and rehashing the news that Michael might be moving close, too close, too soon. Chester, albeit yearning for her, was, in some ways, neutral territory. And she hoped he wouldn't flip the script on her and attempt to push his agenda—whatever it was—onto her already too full plate.

He answered his door in baggy sweatpants and a tight but long t-shirt with a few holes in the sleeves. She recognized it—it was his favorite pajama top, from when they lounged about eating popcorn and watching sappy movies while complaining about their love lives.

"Cora," he said, waving her in, a shy smile slipping over his mouth. "I expected you'd be here later."

"Is it... okay, that I'm here?" She hesitated to enter, cringing at the reminiscence of what had happened last time she was in his oversized studio.

"Of course, hun." His eyebrows drew upwards as his waving became more frantic. "I wouldn't tell you to if I didn't mean it."

She tiptoed past him, keeping as large of a distance as she could, wary he'd grab her and pull her into an embrace that might lead to something else. Something she couldn't handle right now. "Okay, but remember, I'm not here for sex. I can't... I can't have that, not when—"

He touched her shoulder, though staying out of her space as he closed the door. "I got the message, loud and clear. You need a friend; someone who won't give you shit, like Delilah. And someone who's aware of your predicament and also aware of the contenders. Guidance, yeah? Help with your choice?"

She narrowed her gaze at him, holding her purse up, over her breasts, shielding herself. "No, not with choosing. I'm... not ready for that. More like I need... peace and quiet, somewhere to take a load off and... not think. Not care. Pretend for a second that I didn't get myself into this shitty situation and just... be."

He gave her a thumbs up as he motioned for her to follow him farther inside. Past the kitchen, and before the bedroom area, rested a crimson-colored couch with furry throw blankets and matching ivory pillows. A cluttered coffee-table loomed between it and a flat-screen TV, that was turned on to what appeared to be a muted episode of Sex and the City.

Chester perched on one end of the sofa and gestured at her to take up the other. Gritting her teeth and doing her damndest to not gawk at his unmade bed, she sat and dropped her purse at her feet. Her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she took it out, setting it on the coffee-table without checking who was contacting her.

"So..." He lounged, bringing one leg to rest over the other, "do you want to talk about anything? Vent? I won't form any opinions or tell you what to do. I'll... listen."

She permitted herself to relax into the cushions. The sofa was surprisingly cozy, considering how small and stiff it had appeared as she'd approached it. "I... don't know." The torment in her gut grew as she smelled him nearby; a whiff of mint and after-shave with a hint of scented tobacco. Had he been smoking hookah? "I'm so lost, Chess."

She turned to him to find that he'd been staring at her, but not in lust or undressing her with his gaze as he had recently. His emerald eyes were fixed on her cheeks, then her eyes, before he issued her a nod, urging her to continue.

"Everyone's so judgmental. Delilah... she doesn't get it. She's done worse," she scoffed, "much worse in her lifetime, yet she's always yelling at me for my choices. And I know I'm fucked up, I know what I've done is fucked up... but what was I supposed to do? I love Ryan, I... I think I love Michael too, and you..."

"Hey," Chester raised his hands and uncrossed his legs, "you're not here to talk about me, right? Keep me out of the equation, for now. While you bring me up to speed. We can act like... like before, yeah? Friends. A non-judgy buddy to confide in, hug you, maybe feed you. Oh!" He shot to his feet. "Wine?"

Though her stomach gurgled at her—it was food she needed, not booze—she accepted his glass of slightly vinegar-tinted red wine.

As she swirled her drink, sipping from it occasionally, she let it all out. Ryan's pressure, Michael's increase in feelings, Ryan's suspicious behavior, Michael's lack of suspicion. She spilled the details on her sex-life with both of them; passion and intensity with Ryan, romance and soothing sensuality with Michael. What she didn't say was how Chester fit somewhere in the middle—with the same fervor as Ryan, but with more violence, and the same sensuality as Michael, but more in your face about it.

Once halfway done with the bottle, Coralie agreed to let him massage her shoulders, because according to him, she looked so tense her muscles weren't functioning properly and her bones were about to snap. He swore he wouldn't let his fingers creep anywhere unnatural, anywhere she didn't want them to. Eventually, she relaxed into his arms, and they snuggled, watching old reruns and laughing at episodes they'd forgotten existed.

One show—some obscure foreign series about a girl partying and not noticing the men around her who were madly in love with her—prompted Chester to readjust his position, shifting Coralie's as well.

"Everything okay?" She peeled away from him and yanked her cup from the coffee-table. A bit woozy, she closed one eye to squint into the glass and figure out how much of the beverage was left.

He smirked at her, but she could tell it wasn't heartfelt; if anything, it seemed forced, uncomfortable. "This," he jutted his chin at the TV, "reminds me of us. That girl is you. And that guy," he pointed at a dude appearing on the screen—the principal love interest, oblivious and drunk and drugged but head over heels for the girl, "is me."

"No way." Coralie chuckled. "He went to rehab and got arrested and has an eating disorder! That's not you, Chess. You're much milder."

He wrinkled his nose. "No, that stuff isn't me. I meant... how he feels about the main woman. How he feigns disinterest and ignores the other guys flocking around her but... he's jealous. One hundred percent."

Coralie sat up and scooted a few inches away. Chester had implied this before; that he'd had feelings back in the day. And Delilah had cemented it by showing the book, Explicit, and insisting that Coralie be careful around him. He'd all but confirmed it the morning after the threesome... so was this his way of confessing, for real?

Was he in love with me all those years ago?

"I need to apologize to you, Cora." Unfazed by her sudden distance from him on the sofa, he clasped his hands and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. He peered straight ahead, towards the TV, without actually watching what played out on the screen. "Not only for keeping my emotions to myself, but for... that night. I was so angry at you, at that guy, at how he hovered around you... that was why I took off so early. I figured you wanted to sleep with him, and it pissed me off so much but... I didn't want to get in the way."

Coralie's eyebrows scrunched. He wouldn't crane his neck to her, still concentrating on the screen, but she wished he'd spin, so she'd be able to see his expression. "Ew," she whispered, recalling how unattractive the near-rapist was. Once she'd come to and realized what was going on, she'd detected his hideous features and gross body and almost vomited. She preferred not to think about it anymore, but the vision came back, flashing into her brain with ferociousness. "Chester... you don't have to apologize. We went over this, you weren't—"

"—responsible?" He finally flipped to her, sparkles in his eyes, his lips sucking inward whenever he wasn't talking. "I was. You and I never separated without ensuring the other was safe. And I saw you staggering, I saw you looking nothing like yourself, yet I was so irritated and horny and inebriated that I... didn't observe my rules. Our rules. And when everyone else in our gang found out, they held me responsible. And it's true, I was. It's my fault."

"Chester." Trembling, she reached over and seized his forearm. Going into her past, reviewing those images she'd shoved to the farthest confines of her mind, recalling those memories that made her sick to her stomach was difficult for her. Sure, she'd talked to therapists, she'd moved on from her trauma... but of all people to speak to about it now, Chester wasn't who she'd expected. She'd long since accepted that they'd lost their friendship, and despite sometimes blaming him for it all, she never, not truly, loathed him for that night.

I was the one taking drinks from strangers, and I don't even remember why I was so far from cautious.

"I never held you responsible." She squeezed his arm, and tears tickled her lash-line. "And I wish I'd been clearer on that. After that night... we both became so silent, and I should have reached out, told you that in the end... I was okay. He didn't... he never got to..."

Sniffling, Chester slid closer and weaved his arm around her shoulder. "Thank fuck for that. Otherwise I'd have had to murder him."

"You..." her lower lip quivered, and she fought to create coherent sentences, "you can't apologize. Because I apologize. I didn't follow up, didn't reassure you, didn't clarify that I never hated you for this, any of it. I regret it all, so much. Why was I so stupid that night? Why was I—"

"—no." He pressed his lips to her forehead, smooching her skin, forcing her into silence. "You are definitely not at fault here. Dipshits like him slipping roofies into drinks—they are the assholes who need to pay for their actions."

"Chess." She buried her nose into his armpit, taking in the scent of his powdery fresh deodorant. "I'm sorry."

He dug his fingers into her upper arm. "If you say sorry one more time, I might have to kick you out." He loosened his grip and laughed. "No, but seriously... no. We can't dwell on that. The separation was necessary, no? If we hadn't taken that time apart to grow, to learn... then we wouldn't have found each other now, as adults. We've been through shit, we've missed each other, and somehow... fate led us straight to each other again."

She didn't respond, mulling over his words as she continued to hide her face in his shirt. He hadn't coerced her into choosing him, hadn't played tricks on her, hadn't even attempted to be indecent once. And yet he'd made her uneasy, waking the angst she'd swallowed upon sitting on the couch with him. Without meaning to—she doubted he'd planned it—he'd again implied that the universe had wanted them to reunite. And that idea added a sourness to her saliva that she struggled to gulp, and a queasiness in her belly that stressed her sickening feeling that pain, much pain was in her future.

After what seemed like hours—though in reality maybe five minutes—she weaseled out of his embrace and stretched. "I... should head home."

He quirked a brow and watched her as she stood up. "You sure? It's late, super late. Can you get a ride at this hour?"

She snorted. "Lyft drivers are always out. This is New York City, man."

He shrugged and got up. "So you won't spend the night?" From the corner of her eye, she saw him rub the back of his neck and bite his lip. "I'd hate to let you leave like this."

Unable to stop herself, she angled closer and brushed a fingertip over his reddened cheek. How kind he was, so deep into the night, a smidgen intoxicated, blunt with emotions, overcome with remorse. How adorable and sensitive... and too close to her heart.

"I'm leaving with everything I need, Chess. I asked for comfort, and you provided it. No need for anything else."

Visiting him had been a mistake, and she'd realized it too late. She'd hoped to keep him at arm's length, out of the situation while she pondered things, unleashed her sentiments in a safe zone, said her thoughts out loud... but no matter what, he was in the situation. He was one root of the problem—one of the reasons she couldn't sleep at night, had an overactive imagination and sexuality. He formed a part of the trio she had to pick from, and being there, in his apartment, in his arms, was more dangerous than confronting Delilah or calling Michael or rushing over to Ryan's place.

"I have a lot to think about," she said, fetching her purse from the floor and throwing a strap over her shoulder. She proceeded away from him, turning her back to him as she marched to the door, ignoring the quaking in her legs. "A lot to debate, and not much time to figure it out before... it's too late."

He caught up to her and grabbed the doorknob before she could, though not blocking her from exiting. He pulled the door open for her, but in slow motion, drawing out the gesture, waiting for her to look at him. "Well," he said, breathless, almost too sexily to resist, "then you'd better get to work."

His reaction—so easy, too easy—caused her to glimpse him and bunch her lips. "I should."

Flinching, he tipped forward and planted a quick kiss on her mouth—so innocent and brief, it was as if she'd imagined it. "Right. I said I wouldn't interfere, wouldn't push my luck, but... I do hope I have the slimmest of chances of winning your heart, Cora." Once more, he kissed her; this time longer, his tongue dancing behind his lips, tempting her, calling to her, but never breaching into her mouth.

And as he closed the door—also in slow motion—she remained immobile in the hallway, fighting her dizziness, wondering if leaving was the right solution. And unsure why he never told her, years ago, that he'd been so enamored with her.

What would have happened had he come clean sooner?

She wiped her lips, gripped her purse, and traipsed out into the cool nighttime air, desperate for answers.

♥♥♥