I just finished reading "How I Met Your Brother" and absolutely LOVED it, so that's why this is dedicated to PureAwesomeness67 (aka the author). You all need to go read it. Like, now. Or after you read this. 

Chapter Forty-One

      “So…” he said.

      “So…” I said.

      “How’s it going?”

      “Fine, you?” I asked vacantly.

      “Fine,” he answered, allowing the room to be submerged in tense silence once again. After a good two minutes and five seconds of unwanted taciturnity, he finally decided to speak again. “Well, this is awkward.”

      “Thank you, Captain Coherent, for that brilliant comment. You deserve a Nobel Prize for concluding something like that,” I rolled my eyes sarcastically.

      “Are you ready to talk yet, or are we just going to sit here and pretend that everything’s normal?” he sighed, clearly not a fan of my wit.

      “Well, you’re standing, actually, and we’re not ‘pretending that everything’s normal’, because it isn’t, Eric,” my voice came out leveled as my eyes began to travel around the room, taking in everything, and acting as a much-needed distraction.

      It was a nice room, and almost fit the expectations I had for what a teenage boy of his caliber’s room should’ve looked like. A rich, navy shade coated the bare walls, the only things obstructing the smooth application of color being two windows and a framed jersey. His bed was the focal point of the room, placed in the center, the headboard sited against the back wall. Propped against the walls were a bookshelf full of physical recognition of all his accomplishments and a desk that looked to be abandoned of all real usage. A darker rug of crimson fitted the floor, complimenting the royal tones of the walls nicely. The room itself wasn’t bad, but it just felt… empty. It was too clean, also. Honestly, though, what did I expect? He was a teenaged boy.

      “Is your favorite color blue?” I questioned, taken by the walls.

      “Red, actually,” he mumbled.

      “Do you have OCD?” was the next query to exit my mouth, in regards to the odd sense of sterility the room possessed. Normally, boys of his age weren’t exactly known for their outstanding cleanliness. Well, the ones I knew, at least.

      “Uh, kinda,” he trailed off, switching gears quickly. “I swear, it wasn’t me who proposed the idea of dinner.”

      “I don’t doubt that it wasn’t,” I merely nodded, continuing to slowly swivel my head about the space.

      “But,” his tone was slightly optimistic, “since we’re both here anyways, are you going to let me apologize and explain, or what?”

      “I’ll take the ‘or what’ route,” I opted.

      “So, is this the part where I ask how you’re English paper on why Romeo and Juliet’s relationship was doomed from the start is going?” he tried to joke, though I didn’t see the humor.

      “No, because, as I said before, I’m not going to pretend that this is normal, because it isn’t. Oh, and I finished the paper,” I added the end part for my own amusement, though it wasn’t all that clever.

      “If we can’t pretend that this is ‘normal’, then what can we pretend that this is?” he bit the bottom of his lip, switching his weight from one foot to the other.

      “Why pretend?” I laughed dryly, looking up at him as I sat cross-legged on the ground.

      “Because pretending is the best thing I can manage right now without completely breaking down,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper.

      “And what would be so terrible about that?” I demanded, sighing, as I willed myself to stand, so that I was closer to matching his height for psychological reasons involving supremacy.

      “I don’t do emotions, Liz,” he said coldly.

      “Neither do I,” I shrugged as if it was nothing.

      “I can’t do emotions, Liz,” his head collapsed in his hands in what I assumed to be frustration. “Emotions make you weak. I’m not a girl.”

      “You have no idea what you just said, do you?” a hard smirk met my lips. “I would take it back fast before you find yourself in a hospital bed, Mr. Wilson.”

      “You’re not seriously implying that you’re going to send me to the hospital for being slightly sexist, are you?” he bemusedly inquired.

      “I am, actually, but that’s beside the point,” I brushed it off, not having the energy to deal with chauvinistic remarks. “Look, I wish I had some profound story about how emotions are good for your mentality, but I don’t, so, though I’m not the best example, just trust me, emotions are… a good thing,” I said, wondering what type of shit was spewing out of my mouth.

      “No,” he objected, “they’re not.”

      “Why am I even talking to you right now!” I exclaimed, throwing my head back in irritation of not being able to get through his obstinate ideologies.

      “Because I’m irresistible,” he offered, a completely and utterly narcissistic smirk budding on his face.

      “Of course,” I humored. “You’re Eric Wilson: the perfect boy with no problems and a strange obsession with some loser named Liz Turner.”

      “You’re not a loser, and don’t even begin to judge me, Liz,” his expression dropped all traces of humor in the span of time it took an adept person to snap.

      “Because you can’t judge perfection?” I mocked darkly.

      “You don’t understand,” he shook his head, “I’m Eric Freaking Wilson, Liz!” he let out a sullen laugh. “Do you even know what type of pressure is put on me?”

      “No,” I said, my eyes connecting with his, “I don’t.”

      “Look at me,” he gestured down to himself.

      “I am,” I said, our irises still locked.

      “This is what everyone sees,” he shook his head, ending our eye contact. “I’m Eric Wilson: the quarterback and Mr. Perfect with the gorgeous body and face that Brad Pitt would be jealous of—”

      “I’m going to stop you right there for two reasons,” I interrupted, before his inner vanity could explode. “Reason one being that you’re not actually that attractive, even though I’m only saying that to bruise your ego,” I paused as he rolled his eyes in disbelief of my words. “And, reason number two, I really don’t have any interest in having this moment turn into one of those mushy, sappy, heartfelt ones where I feel so sorry for you that I end up forgiving you. This is real life, not some book or movie with a perverse romance plot.”

      “I’m not perfect, Liz, I’ve got issues too,” he said earnestly.

      “Don’t I know it,” I muttered under my breath.

      “I’m serious, Liz,” he moved an inch nearer to me. “The second you open up to people, showing them your emotions, is when they take advantage and break you.”

      “Oh yeah?” I challenged. “Is this the part where you tell me some ancient story about how some girl broke your heart because you opened up to her or something?”

      “Yeah, actually, it is,” he took another wavering step towards me, as I sat back down, anticipating the impact of the long, twisted tale he was about to tell.

      “No one’s stopping you,” I urged when he didn’t continue with the excellent roll on which he had been.

      “You know Dylan Collins?” he questioned. And, as if on cue, my phone began to vibrate. I quickly extracted it from my pocket and glanced down at the individual who had tried to communicate with me.

      “Yes, yes, I do,” I said, reading the ironic name that just happened to pop up on my screen. “He just texted me, actually.”

      “Oh,” Eric’s jaw noticeably clenched, “well, uh, we used to be friends. Good friends. Best friends, even.”

      “Nobody saw that one coming,” I mumbled with an eye roll. As predictability went, the situation he had just vaguely described could’ve won an award. Why I hadn’t pieced it together sooner was the real shocker. Eric Wilson and Dylan Collins: Previous BFFs Edition. After living with Monica for all of my seventeen years of existence, nothing really surprised me anymore, so his confession didn’t come across as too astonishing to me. “So, what, did Dylan break your heart or something?”

      He paused, thinking about to approach the question dunked in a vat of sarcasm I had asked. “In a way,” he answered slowly.

      “Do tell!” I physically couldn’t prevent the cynicism from discharging from my mouth.

      “You remember at the, uh, Christmas party, you met Mackenzie, Collins’ older sister?” I stiffened at the mention of Christmas, but merely nodded.

      “She’s dating Trevor. She’s nice,” I commented.

      “Actually, she’s not nice,” he corrected bluntly. “She’s a heartless human being who only cares about one person, that being herself.”

      “Do I sense hostility, or is that just the meatloaf your mom’s cooking?” I inquired, as my fingers loomed above the keyboard of my phone. I didn’t bother reading what Dylan had said, for what I was about to ask was slightly more important than some trivial detail about my history with basketball. Quickly, I typed the words, “Why didn’t you tell me you and Wilson were BFFs?” onto my electronic device, pressing send.

      “Did you just text Collins?” Eric demanded, his eyes glued to my hands.

      “Yes, yes, I did,” I replied truthfully. “Do you have an issue with that?”

      “I do, actually,” he nodded, as I stood back up, the ability to stay still having been extracted from my talents temporarily.

      “Why? It’s not like we’re together or anything. Don’t be so possessive, Eric,” I said lightly, having a strong hunch of how my words would effect him. I wasn’t exactly sure why I felt the need to be so argumentative, I just did.

      “Do you want me to finish the rest of my story?” he asked sharply.

      “Knock yourself out,” I insisted.

      “You’re being really bitchy right now, ya know that?” Eric sighed, running a hand through his hair.

      “Thanks,” I smiled, the new compliment—or insult, depending on how it was perceived—unacquainted with me. Bitchy. I didn’t like the word or the way it sounded, but it had never been used as an adjective to describe my behavior. Generally, I was called things among the likes of “aggressive”, “intense”, “annoying”, or “boyish”, but never bitchy. It was a change of pace, to say the least.

      “You’re so weird,” he murmured under his breath.

      “Thanks,” I restated again.

      “You’re welcome,” he laughed genuinely. It wasn’t forced or even remotely inimical—it was even and seemed as though it was coming from true joy.

      “So, what were saying?” I said in a more neutral tone than the previous one I had retained. “Something about Dylan and Mackenzie?”

      “Oh, right,” he recalled what he had been telling me. “Well, I grew up with Dylan and Alex—”

      “I like Alex,” I interjected calmly.

      “Everyone does,” he assured me. “Anyways, it was the three of us. We did everything together, and were practically inseparable.”

      “Do you have any pictures?” I questioned abruptly. “I’d love to see you and Collins together, not wanting to kill each other.”

      “Top drawer of the desk,” he dully pointed over to the abandoned instillation. I ambled over to the large object, my hand grazing across the compartment he had instructed. As I pulled open the dusty wood of a darker shade, matching the rest of the furniture originally from trees in the room, I was slightly startled with what lay inside: pictures. I had expected there to be one or two photographs of the two within, in addition to an assortment of chewed pencils, hard gum, and crumbled up papers of old assignments, but that wasn’t the case.

      Inside the desk were dozens upon dozens of old images. They were the type that had the date and occasionally time at which the photo was captured in the right hand corner in orange print. Some were solely of a young Eric eluding his front two teeth but still managing to look like the golden boy that he was, while the majority included two other boys. One had bright blonde hair who I could easily tell was Alex, while the other had a mop of shaggy black and was undoubtedly Dylan. Yes, Dylan Collins and Eric Wilson had, at one point or another, actually acted more than sociable towards each other—there was photographic evidence to prove it. It was a little unnerving to see, to say the least.

      “You two were so cute!” I smiled, picking up one of the rectangular sheets with a glossy front side.

      “Were?” Eric looked offended.

      “Fine,” I accepted the alteration I was going to have to make. “You both still are pretty cute.”

      “Both?”

      “Both,” I confirmed smugly. “So, are you going to continue, or leave me waiting, wondering what in the world happened to these two kids playing baseball?” I gazed down at the flimsy artifact in my fleeting custody. The two little leaguers pictured in their three-sizes-too-big uniforms made me feel content inside. They were both smiling, and holding bats that looked larger than the lengths of their bodies as they stood at home plate, a bright blue sky serving as the idealistic background. It was adorable.

      “It was freshman year, I was an idiotic fourteen year old, some shit happen, and I asked Collins’ sister to be my girlfriend. She was a year older than us, so there was an age difference,” he paused, his expression dropping any traces of its previous elation. “Collins stopped talking to me because he was pissed that I asked out his sister. Long story short, she broke up with me almost two years later, and it was really tough on me.”

      “That’s why you don’t date,” I verbally voiced the conclusion that I had drawn up brilliantly in my mind. Everything was falling into place—kind of like a puzzle—explaining itself. Why Eric and Dylan didn’t like each other. Why everyone kept telling me that Eric didn’t date and was wary around relationships. His one girlfriend. It was all coming together.

      “That’s why I didn’t date,” he corrected with a soft smirk, “until I met you.”

      “Oh. That was really sweet,” I commented, slightly stunned that it had come out of his mouth. “Okay, you definitely just earned yourself five brownie points with that one.”

      “When I saw Mackenzie at Christmas, I don’t even know what came over me. All I knew was that I didn’t want to lose you, and, when I saw her, that fear resurfaced,” he choked out. “I know it doesn’t even come close to making up for what I did, but I am, truly, deeply, and completely sorry, Liz. I don’t want to lose you too.”

      Then, I don’t know what influenced me to do so, but my arms sprung to Eric’s torso, thrusting him into an embrace. He was stunned for a moment, unsure of what I was doing, until he finally returned the gesture, latching himself onto me so that my head fell against his chest. I felt secure and impervious in his hold, as if nothing could touch me—I was safe. Relying on another person for anything was always risky, but I could still pretend that it was acceptable. Just for a few seconds. Eric was there for me.

      Our heartbeats matched strides, as the only things that could be heard were our breath intakes and outtakes, in addition to the faint sound of adults downstairs. As Eric’s chest elevated with every ingestion of air, my skull rose, the only thing separating the two being his high quality, collared shirt. He positioned his chin so that it was rested on top of my head, concealing me in securely.

      “So, does this mean that I’m forgiven?” he whispered into my hair.

      “You’re definitely getting close to it,” I murmured back.

      “Can I ask you a question, Liz?” he continued to hug me.

      “Sure,” I said quietly, allowing my eyelids to droop momentarily.

      “Elizabeth Turner, will you—”

      “Oh, please, don’t tell me that this is the part where you ask me to be your girlfriend. That would be so predictable,” I went on to completely kill the mood in only a way that I could.

      “I guess I’m a predictable kind of guy, then,” his laugh was muffled by my hair. “So, what do you say? Will you be my girlfriend?”

      There it was. That phrase. That one, five-worded phrase with twenty-one letters in it. I had heard it. It had been directed to me. Not some other girl, no, it was to me. Finally. Eric Wilson had asked me to be his girlfriend. Not someone else, me. Me. It was a freaking miracle.

      “I feel like ‘yes’ is too understated of a response,” my impulsive mouth blurted out.

      “A ‘yes’ would be just fine with me,” he said.

      “Oh, then, yes, Eric, being your girlfriend would be totally awesome,” I smiled. “Yes, yes, yes, yes, yes!”

      Abruptly, he pulled back from me, only to place his two hands firmly around me waist, bringing me in even closer to him. “I hope this is a corrective experience,” he said barely audibly, before crushing his lips onto mine. I was immediately greeted with familiarity, and the notions of ease and peace that normally accompanied Eric’s kisses. It wasn’t rushed, but rather the opposite—stretched out gently and delicately. Instead of delving deeper into the osculation, he pulled back after a few, tender seconds, a sloppy grin meeting his face.

      “That was…” I trailed off, trying to think of something to fill the void of muteness and describe the experience.

      “Nice?” he supplied, as a faint memory of the first kiss we had shared at the batting cages played about in my mind.

      “Yeah,” I nodded. “It was nice.”

      “Elizabeth! Eric! Dinner’s ready!” called a woman I assumed to be Eric’s mother.

      “Get your butts down here right now!” a lady I positively identified to be Monica Turner bellowed, proving my first hypothesis in regards to the other female accurate.

      “Ready to eat?” Eric sighed, still wearing the satisfied expression.

      “I don’t know. How’s your mom’s meatloaf?” I asked, becoming aware that I too was dopily beaming.

      “Out of this world,” he replied with a laugh, dropping all connections our bodies shared for a split second, before he took my hand in his. Our fingers entwined perfectly, no space left between them. He sent me a sweet squeeze, to which I returned, looking up at him.

      “So, aliens made it?” I determined, based solely off his particular idiom choice.

      “Sure, Liz,” he shook his head, continuing to flash the pleasant smile. “Can we go now, girlfriend?” I didn’t know what it was about the new term of “endearment” he had used, but something about it made my stomach tumble. It was probably just commitment and the fear of dependence, though.

      Shoving all anxiety aside, I regained my previous mentality, conjuring up a coherent answer. “Sure, Eric.”