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No paps, though that would've been quite the mess, huh?

Thirty-One

TWO WEEKS LATER

Rachel and Trace watch as Justin takes the five steps to the pool house, a shoebox clutched tightly under his arm. He stops before he gets to the door, turns on his heel, starting back towards the main house before changing his mind again. This continues for a few minutes, the two of them out of his line of vision, completely entertained.

"Should we tell him we can see him?" Rachel asks, tapping the ash of her cigarette over the balcony.

Trace takes a drag of his own, smirking. "Nah, this is way more entertaining."

"So they really--"

"Yep."

"And they haven't talked since--"

"Yep."

"Not even at--"

"Nope."

"Shiiit," she drawls, clucking her tongue disapprovingly. "Sometimes I really don't know how we got the same family cause he is dumb as shit."

"How you think I feel? I CHOOSE to hang around his ass." Trace shakes his head with a roll of his eyes, an underlying seriousness to his sarcasm.

It's only when he realizes Justin's actually about to make it to the door that he takes it as his cue to interrupt.

"Hey, fucknut!" he calls out, Justin jerking his head in their direction abruptly, his embarrassment evident from where he stands in the way he freezes like he just got caught sneaking out of a girl's bedroom, by her father of all people. "Get up here!"

He emerges onto the balcony not long after, waving at the stench of smoke in the air. "What do you want?"

Trace leans back against the ledge, arms folded across his chest, studying Justin. He looks nervous as hell, which makes sense from what he knows. Which isn't all that much, given that Charly has been sparse on the details, but it's apparent that there's been no kind of communication whatsoever between the two.

"What're you doin' down there?" Rachel nods down at the pool house. "And what's in the box?"

"Nothing," he says quietly, answering for both.

"Right," Trace snorts.

"You ask me up here for something or just to give me shit cause I don't have time, Trace."

"Oh you don't have time, now? You're runnin' to try and talk to her two weeks after bolting every time she walks into the same room as you and now you don't have time, huh? That's fuckin' brilliant."

"Trace..." Rachel starts, her tone warning.

"What the fuck is your problem?" Justin face falls, understanding. "She told you."

"She didn't spill her guts or anything, but yeah, I got the gist."

"Listen, I'm not trying to--"

"I don't give, a, shit."

Rachel shoots Trace a glare, surprised at how harsh he's being, with Justin of all people. With any other girl, even if he sympathizes with where she's coming from, he tends to side with Justin, the same way he always has. That's been the nature of their relationship for as long as she's known both of them, so to see him acting so blatantly in Charly's defense is jarring.

Some part of her brain is telling her that she should go inside, let them hash it out between themselves because she doesn't want to get in the middle of it. But with these two, chances are someone's going to end up thrown over the balcony and she's too tired for a trip to the emergency room, so she hangs back, observing silently.

"This is not your problem, Trace," Justin hisses.

Trace's expression softens, the guilt written into Justin's face, and he sees exactly where he's coming from for the first time since Charly got here.

"You wanna know why I hired her?"

"Cause I asked you to?" Justin snaps.

"No, asshole. Since when have I ever done shit just cause you asked? What do I look like, your goddamn genie?"

Justin sighs, playing along. "Fine. Why'd you hire her, Trace?"

"You remember the first time we had to go back to New York, secure you a rep, and you made me and Rach go cause you were too busy throwing yourself one hell of a miserable bitch party?"

Justin bites his lip in thought, the memory clear enough despite the fact that he won't acknowledge it.

"Trace, I don't know if this is a good idea," Rachel says, aware of exactly where this conversation is headed.

As expected, he ignores her. "I had to drop those papers off to Rob, make sure he didn't press charges, and I see Charly coming out of the building," he pauses, noting Justin's head shoot up in shock.

"Yeah, she's comin' out of the building sporting a nice little black eye. Begs me to keep my mouth shut. For you. To not say anything. For you, because she's so fucking worried you're gonna lose your shit again, which you would've and I knew it so I kept quiet. And the whole time I've got this feeling in my gut, it's not right, this is gonna blow up one way or another and this girl's gonna get it worse and it's gonna be on me. I said nothing 'cause I wanted to protect my stupid best friend."

Justin releases the breath he's been holding as the admission comes out, as angry as he is grateful, his emotions working overtime to find some middle ground.

"A month later and she's got two busted ribs and some asshole's got her kid. So all that guilt you're feeling, this bullshit of being a prick so that you feel like you're not responsible for getting her hurt, I get it. But you've got it all ass backwards, man."

"Maybe I coulda done something, said something earlier. Maybe you coulda, shit, I don't know. End of the day, she's not blaming you or me. That girl," Trace points behind him, "owns up to every fucking decision she's made, and that's a hell of a lot more credit than I can give you right now. So yeah, I hired her cause maybe I feel a little responsible, but I'm not tellin' her that cause she'd pitch a fit if I ran in there with some bullshit trying to absolve my own guilt."

Justin rakes a hand through his hair, his shoulders slumped in defeat. "I called her a whore, and then I left. And I had maybe two seconds of fucking redeeming it--taking care of her when she--and then I split when she started to piss me off. Then?" he laughs, humorless. "Then she comes here, per my demands and criticism, and I accuse her of sleeping with you. And it gets better--she tells me she loves me, I screw her in my car. Getting the pattern, here? Maybe your guilt doesn't need absolving, Trace, but mine sure as fuck does."

Trace stubs out what's left of his cigarette in a nearby ashtray. And he's torn, wanting to watch out for Charly's best interest as much as he wants Justin to get out of this funk, but anymore, he has no solution to offer the two of them.

"Just...be careful with her, alright? Whatever you're doing, make sure you're not doing it just for you. Because that's gonna get this situation fucked worse off than it already is."

><><<br />
Justin slides the door closed as he lets himself inside the pool house, scanning the living room for signs of Charly before heading into the bedroom.

He finds her on the floor, spread out on her stomach, surrounded by magic markers and construction paper, glitter and glue, silently reminding himself to call the cleaning lady tomorrow because it's probably going to take at least a month to get the mess out of the carpet.

"Hey," he clears his throat, and she turns her head, giving him a lazy once over before focusing her attention back on the task at hand.

He can swear he remembers Dylan shooting him this same look at least once before, the 'can't be bothered with you right now' air of indifference almost suffocating where before, with the kid, he was just amused.

"I know, it looks like Tinkerbell went a little nuts at the Arts n' Crafts table right now but I'll clean it up," she murmurs absently.

"I need to talk to you."

Charly sighs, moving to a sitting position, gently laying down the pair of scissors in her hand. "Okay."

"What are you doing?"

"Pausing."

"Why?"

She shrugs, giving him a practiced smile. "Just, getting the feeling I don't want to be holding something sharp and pointy during this conversation."

"Oh. Right," he nods dumbly, the innuendo lost on him before he gets it and almost immediately his nerves pick up. "OH. Well, shit...I appreciate that, I guess?"

"You're welcome," she stands, breezing past him into the living room. "So what do you need?"

"What are you doing?"

"Making Dylan a birthday card. She doesn't like the store-bought kind."

"Makes sense."

"Guess it does."

Justin follows her, sliding the shoebox onto the kitchen counter, noting that she's taken up residence behind it, probably to keep some distance from him.

He can't exactly blame her.

"What's in the box?" Charly tries to hide the curiosity in her voice, playing it cool though she feels anything but.

"It's for you," he says, pushing it closer to her.

"Little late for Christmas, isn't it?" She reaches for the top, ready to open it.

"It's not a Christmas present--don't open it." The words come out in a hurry, more or less one giant run-on sentence but the plea in his tone makes her relent, lifting her hands in surrender. "It's just...for you. To keep. In your closet."

"A shoebox that I'm not supposed to open but am supposed to keep? What, you picking up severed limbs for storage?"

"Just...trust me, okay?"

At this she can't help but laugh, the joke not lost on either of them. "And again I go back to, what do you need Justin? Other than dropping off mysterious non-presents, is there something I can do for you?"

She knows she's being curt, a certain bite to her responses that she hardly expects from herself. But she's still reeling with the memory of what happened, of his lack of acknowledgment in the past two weeks, of her own stupid inability to control her impulses and his stupid inability to act like a decent human being.

"Charly, what happened..."

"It's fine."

"It's not fine," he growls, his fist slamming onto the countertop more definitively than he intends, startling them both. "You always do this!"

"Do WHAT?" she snaps, her hands going on her hips defensively. "You don't wanna talk unless you're screaming at me anymore, and I'm getting kinda tired of that game, Justin, cause big fun, it's REALLY not."

"Every time I'm an asshole--or anyone--or something happens and you get--you blow it off like it's normal, it's okay, all's forgiven and you can't just do that when it isn't fucking deserved."

"So what, you want me to be pissed?"

"Yes!"

"Alright, fine, I'm fucking livid. Happy now?"

"Friggin' ecstatic."

"Good, now are we done because I've got shit to do--" Charly shakes her head, grabbing him by the arm to lead him to the exit.

Justin stops dead in his tracks, yanking her back, his head hanging low as he brushes the hair out of her face. "I'm sorry. I...I'm sorry. I panicked, and it's not a fucking excuse--"

"Listen, it's fine. That's not where we're at and that's not where you're at and I should've never said it and if my brain and my mouth had any sort of sense of kinship, I wouldn't have but well, they suck, so."

"You think that--" he doesn't have to finish the thought; he gets it. "God, woman, you're dense as shit, you know that?"

"Is this your strategy to keep me pissed because if so, good job you," she huffs impatiently as he wraps his arms around her, and she leans into him despite her better judgment.

"I love you, you know that..."

"Because of my stellar ability to mind-read?"

He puts some space between them, searching her face, both of them at a loss of what to do anymore. And maybe he can't give her everything, or she can't. Perhaps functional relationships are luxuries afforded to those people much simpler than the two of them. But the thing he knows, the one solitary fact that stands out above everything else, is that he'll kill himself trying to give her everything anyway.

"I love you," he repeats, slower this time and he can't help but smirk as she glares at his almost-patronization. "To the point of exhaustion, and insanity, I love you."

"Okay, well...same to you, then. Fucker."

"And I can't stand the idea of anybody fucking touching you, sometimes, when I think about it."

Charly stares at him blankly, her lips pursed in thought. "Shall I join the convent now?"

"Charly..." he starts, exasperated.

"Sorry, yes, the exhaustion and insanity bit. Shutting up, continue."

"If I hadn't bailed...then the last time in New York...and, and everything here, I just feel like...if I hadn't left--"

The weight of it finally brings him down, his shoulders slumped, jaw clenched as he blinks back the sting in his eyes, the thoughts he can't word properly swimming through his head.

If he hadn't left, they would have found another solution. She wouldn't have had to go at it alone. She wouldn't have gone back to Rob. She wouldn't have gotten hurt. She would still have Dylan. She would be here out of choice, on vacation, not obligation and a job.

All signs pointing back to him being the culprit, his conscience eating at him day after day, every second he sees her.

"You think it would have made a difference?" she asks timidly, only now understanding where this is all stemming from. "Boys and their macho caveman 'I could have saved you' bullshit, I swear. Who do you think you are, Butch Cassidy?"

Charly laces her fingers through his. "Justin, I've done exactly what I wanted or thought I needed to do my entire life, and sometimes it's worked out in my favor, and sometimes I get royally fucked, but that's not on you, okay? What IS on you is acting like a giant, masochistic, asshole dingbat."

"Masochistic, asshole dingbat? Really?"

"Yes, really. So could we just...stop all that and be normal, huh? I'm not familiar but I hear it's a very nice, pretty state of mind."

"Okay."

"You gonna let yourself off the hook once and for all about this bullshit?"

"Are you?"

"I'll try."

"Me too."

Charly releases her hold on him, playing with her belt loops. "So what now?"

"I guess...I don't know, we try the friends thing? I feel like--everything the way it is, it's not a good idea to--"

"Yeah," she agrees hurriedly.

"Don't worry though, I'm not askin' to watch Casablanca and bond or anything," Justin teases, pinching her side playfully.

She laughs at the memory, shoving him out of her way as she finds her way back to the bedroom. "If you're nice, I might let you. Fair warning though, I recite it line for line."

"I KNEW you were one of those...wait, where you going?"

"To make my kid a birthday card, she's pissed enough I'm not gonna be there tomorrow," she calls out from inside the room.

Justin feigns interested sympathy. "She'll understand. I'm gonna crash for the night...I'll see you tomorrow?"

Charly pokes her head out of the room, flashing him the first legitimate smile he's seen in ages. "Yes you will, almost birthday boy. Or almost birthday geriatric, anyway."

"Oh you're just fucking hilarious, aren't you?"

><><<br />

Charly groans beneath the covers as a pillow flies at her head, struggling to keep her eyes closed against the intrusion. "Go away!"

Another pillow comes crashing down, directly on her this time and she buries herself deeper, the half-coherent part of her brain plotting someone's murder. "Trace, I don't have to be up til' six-thirty. I'm gonna fucking rip out your testicles and feed them to one of the dogs if you don't--"

"Momma, wake UP! It's my BIRTHDAY!"

Charly nearly tears the covers off herself, a bright, familiar face inches from hers. An impish cheshire grin the same as she remembers it being is here to greet her, apparently not a hallucination at all.

Dunno, but she definitely needs to figure it out, huh?

Thirty-Four

The loud buzzing of something nearby forces Charly to grope around in the darkness, a feeble attempt to drown out the offending noise. Once she finds the source, her cell phone, she pulls it to her ear, the dull thud in her head giving way to alertness as she answers it.

"Yeah?" she mumbles into it. It may not be the most professional of greetings, but she's less concerned with this than the sun creeping in through the hotel blinds.

"D'you know there's a video online of you retching on Bono?" Justin's voice cuts through the line, hoarser than she can recall.

She shoots up in bed, setting a hand to her forehead. "What?"

"Yeah...just his shoes, though." He suffocates a laugh.

"Fucking brilliant."

"You alright up there? What's going on?"

Easing back down, she yanks the covers over her head and closes her eyes, hoping that if she can manage to get back to sleep then all the events of the previous day can somehow cease to have occurred.

If only wishing made it so.

"I'm having a mid-life crisis."

"You're twenty-two. At best, you can have a quarter-life crisis, but even then you're pushing it."

"Three."

He frowns, confused. "Huh?"

"Twenty-three, I'm twenty-three."

"Since when?"

"November."

"And you didn't tell me this why?" Justin asks, mock offended, though part of him is genuinely hurt by it, stupid as it is. But then November comes back to him, a kick in the gut, and he does remember. "Oh...right...nevermind."

"Mhmm. Why do you sound like a dying transvestite?"

He nearly chokes on his tea, nodding hellos to the building staff as he passes by them, trying to get to the recording studio he has booked for a morning session with one of his artists. "Got a shitty cold. Never heard it described that way, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Now stop changing the subject. What's up?"

Charly sighs, swinging her legs over the side of the bed and coming to a slow stand, her entire body sore. She's given up on the possibility of sleep by now, which is just as well, she figures, casting a sideways glance to the alarm clock.

"Got into a fight with Laur, so Thelma and Louise we're currently not. Went out with Trace after his show and well...you know the rest."

"I've seen it, anyway," he chuckles softly.

"Which is perfect, considering I've gotta go over and see Dylan in two hours and I'm sure this'll make it real easy for the court appointed woman to brand me Joanna fucking Kramer."

"You are not."

"You don't even know who I'm talking about."

"I hardly ever know what you're talking about, but I know when you're knocking yourself, so I repeat, you are not Joanna Kramer or whoever the fuck. Besides, you can't see your face. Only reason I knew it was you is 'cause you're standing next to Trace."

Justin pokes his head into the studio, lifting a finger to the three people waiting inside, signaling he'll be a few more minutes. He's late enough as is, which is unlike him. Rachel found the video earlier this morning and he's been waiting for a reasonable hour to check up on Charly without getting the bad end of a miserable hangover.

"You had a bad night, so what? Shit happens, Charly."

"Yeah..." she trails off, appreciative of his patience. For the first time since yesterday she's slightly calmer, if still pensive. "I just...need to sort some stuff out, I guess."

"So sort it. I gotta jet, I'm s'posed to be in a session but...you're getting back tonight, right?" He's hoping he comes off sounding mildly curious as opposed to pathetically desperate but he's never quite sure with her.

They've only been gone two weeks and already he feels like he's going out of his mind.

"Flight gets in at nine, L.A. time."

"Alright. Keep your head up, I'll be up if you wanna talk when you get home."

"Okay...thanks," she smiles, running a hand through her hair.

"Anytime."

><><<br />
"Does she watch anything else...ever?" Trace narrows his eyes as the television Dylan's parked in front of, leaning back against Charly's chest, the two of them mimicking lines from Ratatouille to each other.

"Man, trust me, you do not wanna argue with either of them about that movie 'cause you will lose. I've tried, believe me." Drew sets a cup of coffee in front of Trace, taking a tentative sip of his own.

"Momma, do you have to go today?" Dylan tilts her head back, a distinct and familiar pout framing her mouth.

Charly pushes the hair out of her face, breathing a kiss against her forehead. "I do, but I'll be back next week."

"I want you to come back now."

"Me too, sweets. Soon, I promise. I just need to decide whether we should join a traveling circus first," she pauses, half-serious. "What do you think?"

Dylan considers this, her features scrunched together in concentration. "Do you want to join the circus?"

Charly sneaks a look at Trace and thinks, parts of it wouldn't be bad. Surrounded by the comfort of people she trusts, ones who now know everything and have withheld any kind of judgment about her.

There's an aspect of it that's appealing, and safe, and she likes that.

Then again, according to Lauren, her whole problem has apparently been trying to play it safe and screwing it up in the process.

So instead, she chooses the chicken way out. "Do you?"

Dylan climbs out of her lap and turns around to face her mother, sitting indian style. She reaches up, setting her small hands on each side of Charly's face and pulls her forward, determined. "Momma, I think you should do what you want to do. I'll still love you, I promise."

It's said with such sweetness she can't help but laugh, because the joke of it is it's all anybody keeps trying to tell her these past couple of days. The way Dylan puts it, however, gives her some sense of confidence that that whatever she ultimately decides should be okay with her.

"It's a fluke of epic proportions that you turned out so well adjusted, you know that?" Charly pulls her back. "Promise me you'll do something really insane when you're a teenager that'll give me gray hair."

"I promise."

"But do remember to err on the side of Holly Golightly crazy, not Baby Jane crazy. Deal?"

"Deal."

><><<br />
It's close to two in the morning New York time, when Trace and Charly stumble into the pool house with their luggage, exhausted.

Nevermind that it's not quite eleven at night here.

"I think I'm dead," Trace groans, hitting the couch in slightly less than graceful fashion. He kicks his shoes off, rolling over onto his back. "I've been killed by too much work and whiskey, and I'm dead."

"Well, Casper, you make for a stinky ass ghost, let me tell you. Do you ever change your socks?" Charly wrinkles her nose in disgust, her attention flitting to the bedroom when she hears some noise coming from inside.

"I don't need none a your sass, woman."

"Too bad for you then. You crashing here, I take it?"

Her only response is a quiet grunt.

Making her way to her room, she's surprised to find Justin inside, wearing a guilty expression as he tries to shut the closet door in a hurry.

"Justin?" she raises an eyebrow, amused. "Lose something?"

"Not exactly," he mumbles sheepishly, covering his mouth, a violent coughing fit hitting him all of a sudden.

She crosses over, pushing him gently off to the side, wincing at the awful sounds coming out of him. "You really need to take something for that." She slides the door open, dumbfounded at the sight in front of her.

The wall is lined with shoeboxes, starting from the floor all the way to the ceiling of the closet. "What the..."

Justin coughs again, making his way to the bed, taking a seat at the edge of it. "You weren't...supposed to..."

"Alright, wheezy, I get it, stop talking before you kill yourself."

Charly reaches into her purse, retrieving a water bottle from her purse and handing it to him.

He gives her a grateful smile, taking a large swig from it. "Thanks."

"Run out of room in your closet for your stilettos, Cher?"

"Hey! They're not for me, they're for you. And they're not even shoes." he protests, his own body drained from overexerting himself today. "But don't open them, they're not done," he adds as an afterthought.

He lies down, back flat against the bed, the room growing a little dizzy around him.

Charly squats next to him, setting a cool palm against his forehead and he covers a hand over hers, thankful for the contact. "You're insane, you know that?"

"So I've heard."

"And you're running a fever."

"Here I thought I was just excited to have you back," he jokes quietly through closed eyes.

She smiles despite herself, saying nothing as he laces his fingers through hers. This is nice, she thinks. This is the part she'll miss the most.

Because as much as continuing to work for Trace has its advantages, it isn't what she wants to do forever; he's told her as much by now.

Dylan, and Drew and Lauren, are in New York, the place that's been her home her whole life and somewhere she can't imagine leaving. Too many years of history and memories, both good and bad belong there.

And the more she debates, the more she concludes that it's where she belongs, too.

Charly lies down on her side, facing Justin, their hands locked together in the middle.

He blinks, grinning at her sleepily. "Sorry I snuck into your room, but welcome home."

"You sound like shit."

He snorts, forcing another coughing fit out. "Missed you too, jackass." Lifting her hand, he presses a kiss to the inside of her wrist.

She traces his jaw with her free hand, watching as he slips into a restless sleep, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of her mind that's telling her that maybe some part of her belongs here too.

Thanks, Hillbillyrckstr! Much appreciated.

haha and come on chicks, I'm a New Yorker, what other option would there be? I'm a brat that way.

Thirty-Five

TWO WEEKS LATER

"Ok stop...seriously...stop...I can't breathe," Charly bends down, clutching at her stomach, her face flushed red between her knees. Her chest feels like it's on fire, and she's about two steps away from vomiting.

Justin stands back, panting slightly, barely having broken a sweat. He tries to suppress his amusement but it isn't really working. "Charly, we haven't even made it half a mile yet."

"This is torture!" she snaps, lifting her head. "And I know you're getting some psychotic pleasure out of this, you fuckhead."

"Fuckhead? Seriously?" he laughs, forcing her upright by the elbow. "Come on, one mile. You said you wanted to exercise!"

"And clearly we're being very literal. For the record, by exercise I meant sit on one of those tiny stationary bikes at the gym while Oprah's on in the background and I can sit and flip through Vogue trying to decide whether I'm a spring or an autumn while occasionally cycling. Not...THIS."

"Summer."

"What?"

Justin stares down at his sneakers, frowning when he sees the shoelaces have come untied. More than that, as he gets the next part out, he doesn't have it in him to look directly at her. "It's like when you're a kid and you spend the whole school year counting down til' summer break. It's goddamn far away and you keep chasing it, chasing it, thinking it's never gonna fucking get to you so you try to STOP thinking about it and that never works out either, so you wait. And wait."

"And the weather gets nice, and you finish up all your classes and shit so you're sorted. And the last bell rings on the last day of school and you bolt outside as fast as humanly possible because you feel like it's gonna kill you to be away from it a second longer...and as soon as you walk out the school doors, there it is. Summer. And it's always exactly what you want, even if it drives you fuckin' crazy, which it does, more often than not. It's..." Justin trails off, realizing he's said way too much.

Charly imagines she resembles some kind of idiotic cartoon character right now, her eyes large and round and her brain completely devoid of any coherent thought.

"Anyway, you'd be summer."

Charly reaches out, landing a sloppy punch against his arm.

"What the fuck?" he winces, rubbing at his arm.

"Why do you always DO that? Say something like that without even the tiniest bit of irony and with your stupid face and your stupid pout when you KNOW after that I can't say anything back because now my brain is all full of mush. I have mush brain, thanks to you, all the time, very much. See, I told you, fuckhead." She smiles, grabbing the hood of his sweatshirt to pull him forward. "Alright, I'll finish the damn mile and then you are buying me the biggest sundae on the planet. I'm talking whole oreos included, buddy."

"Fair enough."

><><<br />
When they get back to the house, Trace and Rachel are parked in the living room in front of his laptop.

"What're you guys doing?" Justin asks off-handedly, reaching into the fridge and handing an exhausted Charly a bottle of water.

"They're replaying my Linda Blair moment," Charly rolls her eyes with a dismissive wave, hopping over the couch and embracing them both in a sweaty hug.

"DUDE!" Trace shoves her closer to Rachel. "Girl your ass is stank right now, get away from me."

"Oh my god, Charly, I'm gonna pass out if you don't move." Rachel sucks in a breath, plugging her nose.

"Karma's a bitch, assholes," she chuckles, making her way back to the kitchen as she hears her phone go off.

"Well played," Justin pipes up, leaning against the counter.

She takes a large swig from the bottle, putting the phone to her ear. "I do what I can. Hullo?"

"Charlie Brown," Drew greets from the other end of the line.

"What's up, babydaddy?"

"And the L.A. scene has officially become a bad influence on you."

"Trace is a terrible influence, whaddya gonna do?"

"Hey!" Trace shoots a glare at her. "I don't need this abuse, I've got hundreds of people just dying to abuse me."

"And he's quoting Ghostbusters, so apparently I'm a bad influence too."

"Bet your fuckin' ass you are, pretty girl."

Drew clears his throat. "So uh...I had that meeting today? With the woman from CPS?"

"And?" Charly straightens up immediately, sliding onto a stool behind the counter. Justin notices the shift in her expression as he scoops ice cream into two large bowls.

"She said court mandated family therapy, for sure."

"Okay, fine."

"And that everything checked out fine with you, to the point that your last boss, when she talked to him, did nothin' but praise the shit out of you and your professionalism. And you with Dylan. I guess that must've put her over the edge cause dude's some bigshot--"

"Yeah I remember," she hurries the conversation along, having no desire to re-hash her working relationship with Rob. It might be too late in the game, but she does give him credit for providing her with some kind of positive reference because he could have just as easily ruined any opportunity she had for custody of Dylan.

"Sorry," Drew says, sympathetic. "So uh, yeah basically...she said that when you finish up over there, give your notice or whatever and get back here, we can work out some joint custody thing with the court and...pending on your plans here, go from there."

"Yeah, right..." Charly looks up at Justin, who's crushing Oreos on top of the ice cream and a wistful smile graces her features. "I'll get on that, then."

"You alright?"

"I'm fantastic, are you kidding me? Thanks Drew."

"Pretty sure it should be the other way around. I'll see you soon, Charlie Brown."

"Bye."

Justin sets a bowl in front of her. "Extra Oreos, per your request. You do realize it defeats the whole purpose of that run, right?"

She forces a laugh. "Thanks."

"You okay? Bad phone call?"

"No...no the opposite of bad."

He smirks. "So...good, then? That'd be the opposite of bad."

"Trace?" Charly averts her gaze from Justin, needing some time to process this.

"Yeah?" he shouts back, both he and Rachel cackling wildly at the video.

"I have to um...give my two weeks notice."

Trace grins from his place on the couch. "Good for you. 'Bout fuckin' time."

Justin's face falls at the news. In the back of his mind he's sure he expected her to leave at some point; this isn't her home and never has been. As much as he might want to play house, it's not his place. Her family is in New York - of course that's where she wants to be.

"So that was Drew, huh?" It's less of a question and more of a statement and she can already see his entire demeanor change, all the jokes and affection devoid from his expression.

"That was Drew. He's pretty sure that we can work out a shared custody agreement and you know, I kinda have to be there for that. And I want to be."

"Right, where the fuck else would you want to be?"

"Justin..." she starts.

"Enjoy the ice cream, I've actually got some paperwork shit I need to look over for the label, so..."

He heads toward the stairs, leaving Charly to stare ahead at the two bowls that remain completely untouched.

><><<br />
Justin glances up from his place on his bed, his glasses perched precariously on his nose as a knock sounds on the door. He looks over the clock, face scrunching up in mild irritation at the late hour.

"Yeah?" he calls out.

"It's Charly...can I come in for a sec?"

"Uh, sure I guess." Shuffling some papers off to the side, he pulls the blanket up over his bare stomach, rolling his eyes. She's seen him a lot more naked than this.

Charly steps inside, a little unsure as she closes the door behind her. "Hey," she offers him an awkward smile.

"What's up?"

"I just...wanted to talk to you about--"

He removes his glasses, setting them on the bedside table. "Listen, I've got a really long day tomorrow so maybe we can do this later?"

Maybe he's being curt, giving her the brush-off but he doesn't feel like he's left with much of a choice. In two weeks, she's gone, back to New York and out of his life. These are facts this time, not his imagination and so it's easier to keep her at a distance and go about his business than actually having to deal with the present and aftermath of the situation.

"Can you and your wounded ego separate for a few minutes and please hear me out? God, you're like a John Hughes movie right now."

He sighs. "I'm not trying to--I really do have a long ass day--"

"I don't know what the fuck I want to do with my life," she blurts out, earning some interested confusion on his part.

"Oh...kay?"

Charly closes the distance between them, crawling onto the bed in order to sit opposite him. He tugs the blankets higher, wishing that tonight of all the nights he would have worn a pair of damn boxers instead of the briefs he's sporting.

"I don't know...cause I never bothered to figure it out. I had a kid, I got my GED, I did what I needed to do, or what I thought I did, to get by and do shit for Dylan the way I would've wanted it done for me. And that's what I've been doing, and you know that."

"I know."

"So I need you to understand that--that when I say I'm going back to New York, it's not solely because I have to. I want to go."

Justin clenches his jaw, cracking his knuckles anxiously. "So fine, go. I'm not stoppin' you."

"Stop it," she chides. "I'm gonna go back to school, alright? That's what I need to do...right now...for me."

An almost smile pulls at his lips, actually incredibly proud of her for this. "School, huh? So you made a decision."

"Yeah. And I think it's the right one."

"Me too."

"But just I want to be there doesn't mean I don't want to be here, alright you big idiot?"

"Doesn't matter. Two weeks and you're gone so...call it a day, right?"

Charly rakes a hand through her hair, aggravated with his stubbornness. "Do you ever listen to anybody talk other than yourself?"

"Do you?" he retorts.

"Two weeks until I leave, yeah. So you've got two weeks to either be Humphrey Bogart at the beginning of the movie or Humphrey Bogart at the end, pick one."

Justin sits up, leaning forward, suddenly curious as to where she's leading with this. "Meaning what, exactly?"

"Meaning..." she trails off, trying to find the words. She envies his ability to spout off his every emotion and somehow make it sound lovely in a bizarre and twisted way. But she's never been particularly good with her own words, or laying it out there in the open, and she wouldn't know how to start now. So, she figures, just this once it might be okay to steal someone else's.

"Meaning...I love you. Not like they told you love is, and I didn't know this either, but love doesn't make things nice - it ruins everything. It breaks your heart. It makes things a mess. We aren't here to make things perfect. The snowflakes are perfect. The stars are perfect. Not us. We're here to ruin ourselves and to break our hearts and love the wrong people and die. The storybooks are bullshit," she pauses. "So can you stop fucking looking at the endpoint and kiss me now?"

Justin's mouth hangs open slightly as he processes this before his brain kicks in and he reaches for her, pulling her close by the arm as he brushes his lips against hers, landing them both back on the bed, her body settling on top of his. Both of them are laughing through it as he maneuvers them so that she's underneath, her mouth never leaving his.

Charly wraps her legs around his waist, slapping his ass playfully. "Tighty whities, very nice."

He removes his lips from her neck to shoot her a mock glare, before planting another one on her smiling mouth. "Oh and by the way," he looks down at her, pushing the hair out of her face. "I'm not a complete idiot, and I am aware that you totally ganked that little speech from Moonstruck."

She buries her face against his neck, his laughter vibrating through it. "I don't DO long-winded speeches, Shakespeare, that's your thing."

"Yeah well, can't all of us be brilliant. It's all good, least you're pretty."

"You'd be seriously wise to stop talking now."

Justin brings his mouth back to hers, murmuring against her. "Yes ma'am."