INVISIBLE
Ross has his duffel bag tight across his chest and the kiss he'd given Rachel this morning still on his lips when he rounds the corner into Dr. Phalange's hallway. He doesn't make it to the office though because at the same moment their therapist exits her door, her designer purse dangling on her wrist and turning to lock up.
"All the women in my life leaving me alone, it's like college all over again," Ross jokes exasperatedly and walks towards her.
"Speaking of college, monsieur Geller, I've decided to hold our class outside - to Rachel's suggestion, actually," Dr. Phalange clarifies with a slight nod. "She'd mentioned a bistro near her office, thought you'd appreciate a meal after a five hour lecture and also so you can pick her up quicker after her work meeting."
Ross can't help but grin impishly at the thought of Rachel thinking of him even while at work. He should've known. He should've always known...
"So who's picking up the tab at this place, you or Louis Vuitton?" Ross asks, falling into step with their therapist, noticing how much she looks like Pheebs, if Pheebs traded hair clips for a sleek bob and hippie skirts for a functional trench coat.
"Technically, you and Rachel are," Dr. Phalange replies with an uncharacteristic snicker. "But okay, as long as you two grown adults start calling me Fiona already."
"Okay, Fee."
"I explicitly said Fiona."
Fifteen minutes and a Line 28 line ride later, they're seated at a window table at Le Table de Lucie overlooking the imposing, bustling building that is LVMH, with two black cups of coffee and an untouched tray of canapes.
"I realize I don't eat at all on Fridays until after our sessions are done," Ross confesses to the smoke emanating from his cup.
"I figured, that's why I volunteered for the check," Dr. Phalange - Fiona - replies dryly as she puts in a single drop of milk in her coffee.
Ross chuckles, his right hand twiddling with his left ring finger.
"So, how's the week been?" Fiona asks, and compared to Dr. Phalange, she sounds like a friend. So that's how Ross answers.
"This move is hurtling at lightning speed," he says, putting his cup down gingerly after a (hot! very hot!) sip and eyes it suspiciously. (Fiona laughs.) "I'm happy, yes. But everything's happening all at once, it's a whole new country and and a baby and work and French and lather, rinse, repeat. And when I close my eyes at night, it's the Benny Hill theme remixed with wedding bells and Rach always comes into the forefront and I end up holding her tighter when we sleep."
"Do you want to expound on that?" It's definitely Dr. Phalange asking this time, but Ross doesn't really care.
"I do," he answers, thinking of how much he must have talked Chandler's and Joey's (and Mon's, and Carol's, and a great part of the West Village's) ears off over this matter. "I say it's easy to expound when Rachel is the explanation, but I'm always lacking words beyond that. She's so...she's so...she's everything, you know?"
"I understand," Fiona nods. "But aside from being a licensed therapist, I also married the love of my life, and he did manage to propose without me running for the woods - or the nearest coffee shop, in your case, so like I've said before, I'm here to guide."
"Is it obvious?" Ross asks.
"That what?" The therapist replies.
"That I do want to marry her," Ross murmurs thoughtfully.
"How do you Americans say it - duh?" Fiona almost scoffs. "You're no subtle man, Ross Geller."
"I know that, so why is she acting oblivious?" Ross nearly pleads.
"Oh, she is far from oblivious, and I think you're refusing to see that," Fiona tells him. "She wouldn't be as provoked if she were."
"I am getting on her nerves, aren't I? But why?" Ross croaks out, now fanning the still-hot cup of coffee. "We've said to each other, this is it. No more messing this up again. And that includes giving her all of the best, from this season's red carpet pumps to taking care of Emma's midnight moods to a wedding that's as amazing as she is, to a groom who'll say the right name and knows how lucky he is to even be waking up next to her every day, there are times when he wonders what's an altar even good for. I'm already over the moon and I don't want her to ever feel obligated, so I'm at my wit's end here."
"First, I think the groom's gonna say the right name this time," Fiona tries to hide her smirk through a sip of coffee to no avail, and Ross wants to smash his fists together. "And second, why would you think she's obligated?"
"The first time we said 'I love you', it sprung from an argument, surprise, surprise. But said argument was about how she doesn't want her future decided for her."
"You do realize you're both very different people since then. Have you tried telling her this?"
"It's not that easy..." Ross trails off. "You already know. In all of the times we've sat down and talked, we didn't get it together at the end. We hashed out our big breakup from afternoon 'til the next morning, only to end up tired and inconsolable. She sat me down and revealed her feelings for me while I was still married to another woman and we laughed in defeat. I told her 'I don't want to know that it never could', she told me 'it's never off the table', and we let those permeate in agonizing silence. Not to mention our history between proposals..."
"On a scale from one to ten, how spontaneous would you say you are?" Fiona asks and drinks from her cup with ease.
"I don't know," Ross shrugs. "A five? Rach once told me I never seized the day and there were times when I purposely tried to, but it always gets in my head. Easy for her to say, she knows what she wants, and for some reason, it's me. I, on the other hand, need to examine the variables, to be certain -"
"Let me rephrase the question," Fiona's tone perks up, as if she's discovered extra beans in her coffee. "How spontaneous would you say you are - when it comes to Rachel?"
Ross scratches his head at that - their therapist has got him there. He thinks the last time he tried to take on spontaneity for Rachel it had ended up in a burning table and a relationship in flames, and since then out of preservation (for both of them), it's been a lot of prodding in the right direction (that he's eternally grateful for). "Are you trying to tell me to start seizing and go for it? Because I've tried - when we first started dating, when she got pregnant, when we were living together, but they all backfired spectacularly."
Fiona doesn't respond, clearly a tactic to get Ross to open up more.
"You see, one of our best friends, Phoebe, told me this after Emma was born: 'You might get everything you've wanted since you were fifteen.' But I also knew that wasn't what Rachel wanted at fifteen, or at twenty-five. And at that point, I was still carrying a lot of guilt from that night, I didn't want to shake the friendship we've rebuilt. Basically, I was tired of making the wrong moves." He pauses.
"Pull up your wallet right now." Dr. Phalange scolds, emphasizing each syllable, and she sounds like Phoebe about to mug him.
He takes out a Louis Vuitton billfold out of the inside of his suit pocket - monogrammed R.E.G., courtesy of Rachel - and unfolds it. Credit card, metro card, annual pass to Musée de l'Homme... Ben's latest school ID that he'd sent with a Father's Day card. His boy's growing so fast. And...a photo of Rachel, doting on a giddy Emma in her arms, in one of their walks around Pont des Arts. Waving at him to the camera, it serves as a reminder to come home on time.
"Take a good look at those pictures, Ross. Would you call any of them 'wrong moves'?"
He sighs heavily. "It roots back to Carol, doesn't it?"
"You first wife?"
"Yeah," Ross confirms timidly, and finds that he hasn't thought of his ex-wife that way in a long, long time. She's Ben's mother, and sometimes a friend. "I don't - fault her, for finding herself, of course not. I just - I wish she didn't have to bulldoze our relationship in the process. It - it allowed the variable that I may not be enough, that the person I love can one day wake up and discover everything that's wrong with me and leave."
"And what I felt for Rachel, even back then, was far beyond that, so I treasured what we have as best as I could - until. Until I got greedy. And when she asked for that break, I refused to be the one that got hurt again, so I walked away. And...what I took from the aftermath is that I never should've left. So I'll stay, as long as she'll let me. But I've guarded myself for the both of us."
I was with Carol for like eight years and I lost her. And now if it's possible I think I love you even more. So, it's hard for me to believe that I'm not gonna, well that someone else is not going to take you away.
Honey, that's very sweet, it just seems to me though, that if two people love each other and trust each other, like we do, there's no reason to be jealous.
"I love her, Fiona, that's all there is. Even when I didn't know what to do with it. That love may roll like a breezy spring, or run like a river, it still ebbs and flows into the same body of water. As hard as we - I - made our journey out to be, loving Rachel has been easy as breathing."
"If she were beside you right now, she'd take that 'I' right back, and I would agree," Fiona hums pensively, squinting from the glare that hit her side of the window pane. "The pedestal you used to put her on has been weighing down on you too. That flawed flawless perception of Rachel is what's making it hard to forgive yourself and see past your fear that you've now inadvertently projected on her. Hence, the feeling of obligation, thinking that she's being oblivious when you're the one skirting around what your frontal cortex has been gravitating towards since she came back into your life."
The statement stumps him. He clears his throat, struggling to reply. "I was - I am, insecure. I was po - possessive and held on too tight. I - I took the baggage from Carol and foisted it unfairly to Rachel, who in turn I offloaded onto Emily, Mona, all the other women I've tried to see her through to avoid the possibility of ever hurting her again. But that was never going to work, was it? The distance has only pulled us closer."
"Which circles back to the synapses we've discussed back at the start. Drink some more," Fiona gestures with concern, and he follows, chin now up, at full attention. "When you've been doing something for so long, say, being in love with the same woman for a decade, it's effortless to say you do. But elaborate as best you can. Why is loving Rachel as easy as breathing?"
Ross lets out a deep exhale. "Because she's the most amazing person I've ever met. She's so brave, so strong. She's beautiful and gracious and warm and unflinchingly loyal. She's caring, always trying to do right by everybody. She's a wonderful mother to both of our children. She's fun - and funny! Her sense of humour is biting but hilarious. She's a delightful friend who's there, rain or shine. She knows me, in that instinctual way that I can feel her presence anywhere. She's been undeservingly selfless towards me, and I kinda like that she's territorial about me - makes me feel desired, is that weird? I already said, in one of our earlier sessions, that I didn't like her first because she was a pretty kid, I liked her 'cause she made my sister feel welcome. She manages to put people at ease, so in touch with her emotions, unlike me who'd gone apeshit over a sandwich. I guess...she's the rolling stream, and I'm the crashing wave? We're like this - " he clasps his hands together - "like we said before, lobsters holding claws. She - she makes me want to be a better man, every day, because it's what she deserves. There's a movie we saw back when we first started dating so it's old and cheesy but - she completes me."
If Dr. Phalange heard him sniffle, she doesn't comment on it.
"Et voila," Fiona declares with an encouraging smile. "Do I still need to show you the money?" she adds, clearly catching the movie Ross referenced. "If 'seizing the day' causes you to seize up, then try to believe. Believe in yourself, believe the woman who texted me your allergies in detail, believe in what you promised each other in that apartment that night."
And then she gets up like an attorney who made her case, picking up her clutch that sat beside a plate of bruschetta. "Speaking as your therapist, reflect on what we've worked in the past weeks. As someone completely engrossed in this wild rollercoaster, I'm very much rooting for you both."
"You and everyone who's known us for the past ten years," Ross sighs, though he can't help but smile back. You're Ross and Rachel.
They part ways in front of the restaurant with a curt handshake, Dr. Phalange sauntering to the closest bus stop as if she didn't go off the record - and Ross staying put, until he sees what he thinks is Rachel exiting her office building. Between them - a rush hour of cars driving at unforgiving speed. But one cannot take the New York out of the streets, and he doesn't even allow himself to think - sprints past the concrete, his pant leg grazing a headlight, brain in the clouds as he catches his breath beyond belief.
"Okay, Indiana Jones." When he looks up, Rachel has her arms crossed, sporting a playful smirk, her eyes shining bright against the setting sun. "Have you not been reading my messages?"
Ross checks his phone as he sheepishly nods hello to the gloved doorman privy to the scene, and behold: four notifications ("I know I shouldn't be on my phone in the office but I hope you're having fun alone in the hall of mirrors! ;)) Your choice of dinner and movie tonite to make up for it. Almost done, gonna text"). Imagine if they had cellphones in 1997...
Her latest text reads:
"I'm ready, about to cross the road."
STRING
"Oh my goodness, I'm sorry, I'm so, so sorry!" Rachel yelps, bursting into Dr. Phalange's office and finds the therapist at her couch, poring over a clipboard of notes. Theirs, she's sure. "I would've sent a text but I forgot to bring my charger because I switched Emma's diaper bags around 'cause we went to the museum - and Ross wasn't there to remind me since he had to leave early for a team building - "
"Relax, Rachel," their therapist says, and it's the friendliest Rachel's ever seen her. "I don't have any appointments left. But why are you here?"
Rachel blinks as she settles primly on the couch, legs crossed and clammy palms on her calves. She doesn't like being late anymore; she's learned it's rude to devalue the ticking clock in an industry as fickle as fashion, where trends come and go, where merchandise must launch on the dot, where one minute a tall, puppy-eyed piece is calling your name before it's snatched by a buyer who wanted it more abruptly - okay, that's another trick that time has toyed with in the past. Her eyes dart to the shiny Alma tote on the floor. Huh, maybe if they talk about LV's next collection instead of unpacking her inner thoughts...
"What do you mean? I wasn't able to make it last session so call it even."
"But Ross needed that, though," Fiona explains gently. "As the person who instigated these sessions, he used his individual time to dissect his own personal issues and how they relate to how he approaches you. Ross needed that to be able to evolve past his concerns and move forward. Do you?"
Does she? To be fair, she hadn't been able to ponder about her epiphany some time ago, because she'd been so busy - between work and Emma and French class, so much so that intimacy has plateaued in their schedule. It doesn't help that Ross had been so dodgy the past few days - coming home late, going out for unexplained errands - so part of her thought she'd check in with Fiona - as they're supposed to call her now - to see what's up.
"I guess I just want to be sure," Rachel huffs out, before admitting to the afghan draping the chesterfield: "He's the only man who's captured my heart, and I suppose it leaves me vulnerable since I'm not the only one who's taken his."
The therapist ambles over to her side of the couch, the furthest end away from her, to maintain a semblance of proper space.
"I'm my own person. I have my own thoughts and desires and we're so different in so many ways, yet loving him is also a part of me. I know that now, but it took years to reconcile - to figure myself out, before I can give myself to us fully. And I guess...he did the same thing with traipsing a different woman every season while my longing was kept at bay. I still don't think he knows, how much he consumes me, and that's what's keeping him from...you know. You know what I want, doc."
Listen to me. I fell for you and I get clobbered. You then fall for me and I again somehow get clobbered. I'm tired of being clobbered, you know?
"See, getting to that conclusion would've taken him ages," Fiona chuckles lightly. "But that's the beauty in balance."
"I asked him what he loves most about you and the first thing he says is that you're brave," she says, tentatively, when Rachel keeps quiet. "Brave for starting your life over, brave for letting him back in, brave for being so independent, while he holds on to any sliver of attachment, terrified of being alone. We're crossing the line a bit here, but I don't think he'd care. You're both aware that you're crazy about each other. He knows how you feel about him, and that's why he's been so careful. But I think...no, I believe it's his turn to be confident enough for the both of you. He's been contentedly set this whole time, he just wants to give you the choice, because he knows how important that is to your identity. That's part of what we talked about last week. Rachel, that man...he thinks the world of you. And if you're now ready to have that world taken to the next level, I have no doubt he'd make it happen, right away."
Slowly, like a beaver emerging out of a homemade dam, she raises her head out of its hiding place in the arm of the couch to verify the truth in what the therapist said.
"Really?" she ekes out.
"Absolutely."
"So what do I do?"
"At the risk of sounding like a broken record, talk to him," Fiona implores. "This hour's on me, I'm the one cutting it short, anyway. Run home like you're fleeing Long Island and walk into your future. You have the key. It's going to be worth it."
"Okay," Rachel says and can't really believe she's about to do this.
With her heart pumping in all cylinders the second she decides to actually listen to the therapist's advice, she springs into action. The adrenaline kicks in, coursing through her veins as the balls of her feet rev up in her Louboutins. She grabs the chain of her sling over the backrest of her chair and she feels flushed all over, raring to pedal every step. Bids a quick au revoir to Fiona, hails a cab and gets antsy in that cab over traffic passing by in a whirlwind and technically, her session had just ended when she sprints up the staircase to their building, running on sparks and determination. She barges through their door without so much as an 'I'm home,' not even noticing the darkness enshrouding their apartment until she knocks over their shoe rack.
The sharp, silent screech that hits her sends her thrumming body into a frenzy that, without an outlet for the excess nerves that she'd shoved in the back burner, has her stomach doing somersaults on the flipside.
She shouldn't do this.
She guffaws to herself. This is so stupid - right? How did she come to this conclusion? How could she even call that an epiphany when marriage had never been out of the question? Never off the table, remember? It's only a matter of how when where WHEN. Screw Fiona and her rallying words rooted from a borderline breach of confidentiality.
"Rach?" Ross's muffled voice voice comes out of the nursery and she freezes in the awning, her heels nearly slipping on the hardwood floor. "Is that you? You must have cut your individual session short, I already said you didn't have to do that. You mind coming in Emma's room? I think she's asking for you."
And of course she's drawn to them. Every tiptoe heavier than the last, she makes her way down the hallway, trying to keep her cool, but based on passing her reflection in the full-sized mirror, she looks as deranged as she feels. And her heart can't stop thundering.
Should she do this?
When she opens the door, she doesn't know what to ask first.
I thought you weren't gonna be back until later. Why is it so dark out - did we forget to pay the electric bill? "Why are you holding Emma while on a stepladder?" is what she blurts out.
"Oh," Ross says softly, as if pondering it himself, and promptly descends from the steps while their daughter chortles under his grip. The toddler pouts dramatically when she's put down on her big girl bed, her attention easily recaptured by a flower on one of her pillows. Huh - they must have gone to the park...
"Ems and I were checking if any of the lighting fixtures need work. Do you mind turning it off, then turning it on again, see if it works?"
She nods, slowly - sure. Her breath hitches when she notices a star stuck beside the receptacle, feeling dizzy all of a sudden, like she's about to witness a monumental event. Her finger trembles as she reaches for it, and that excites her more than it should. Could it be...?
She turns to Ross as she flicks the switch, and he's grinning ear-to-ear.
The sight revealing itself leaves her breathless, jaw agape, her fists closing in on themselves for purchase as she scans the space through rapidly teary eyes, too overwhelmed for words. Her lips quiver in shock and awe as to prevent herself from melting into a puddle. Walls completely covered in glow-in-the-dark stars in different sizes and shine. Vases of Casablanca lilies strategically posed in the bookcase, the drawers, strewn across the floor, luminous and bright and lighting up the path to the two most important people in her life. The music box beside their framed family photo playing La Vie En Rose. And written across the ceiling, surrounded by constellations, are the words "Veux-tu m'épouser?"
It's like all my life everyone's told me, "You're a shoe! You're a shoe! You're a shoe!" Well, what if I don't want to be a shoe? What if I wanna be a purse or a hat? No I don't want you to buy me a hat, I'm saying I am a hat. It's a metaphor
fully realized in this: a vocation achieved by merit (a purse), a child of her own to nurture and protect (mothers wear many hats), and the man she's chosen, time and time again, her heart's calling rapid with every beat (an unending circle itching at her finger). She never said she didn't want to be a bride, she wanted to be betrothed to the right person.
"I thought about setting it up the master suite, but figured all this" - Ross gestures wildly - "can stay as decor for a kid's room...after, if you'll have me and - I know it isn't a planetarium but we're definitely gonna have more than cranapple or crangrape since - "
He doesn't get to finish that sentence, because by then Rachel's kissing him. She doesn't even have to think about it, just launches forward into his arms, until her lips catch his in fervent ardor, the most obvious answer lingering between their shared breath but she refuses to part from him for even a second.
Because he's the most passionate man she knows and she loves him and she's in love with him and he's quite literally hung the moon and the stars for her and he got their child involved and she is going to marry him. He's bighearted and generous and thoughtful and he's...he's kissing her back now so any rational thought flies out the window. Even more so when his arms pulls her close as he deepens the kiss, prying her mouth open with his tongue and sighing into it, beaming against her lips. Her back hits the solid surface of the door behind her, keeping them cocooned in their own personal galaxy. His hands are everywhere, seeking, claiming, and she holds on to him as tight - one hand burrowed in his hair, the other one bunching up his shirt. And then after a minute or maybe an hour, he pulls away and it takes several flutters for her to open her eyes and prove none of this is a dream.
Goosebumps prickle all over her skin in the wake of his touch, her shoulders continuing to shake with euphoric sobs as she meets his heightened gaze, deeply hungry under the starry lights. Crumpled shirt, messed up hair from where she's raked her nails through it. He's panting as hard as she is when he reaches for her face once more, trying to even it out with a cheerful smile. "So will you? Marry me?"
"Do I have to dignify that with an answer?" she half-giggles, half-chastises, and finds that she does, wanting to hear herself say that word after everything they've been through. Rachel deserves to say it, wants to shout it out from the rooftops, wants to be Mrs. Ross Geller PHD, and she needs him to know for sure. Spoken ink. Tangible. Real. "Yes."
"Yes?"
"Yes! Oui! Si!" she squeals loudly and hugs him tighter, affection bursting at the seams. "Ten years ago, I was aimlessly looking to escape the doldrums of a life laid out for me. And there you were - a best friend who can make my toes curl. You've shared to me a special kind of love and connection that I never thought possible - so intense and encompassing in its magnitude that it scared me, at first. But you stood close by me, lifted me up when it counts, and it only showed that what I've been searching for was here all along."
"It's always been you, Rach," he replies with an elated exhale. "You're the girl of my dreams, and the woman who made them come true. I can't even imagine my life without you, and I don't want to. Thank you, for taking a chance on me, for your forgiveness, for letting me stay by your side all this time. And I can't wait to treasure and cherish the rest of our lives together."
"Mama, dada," their baby daughter toddles over to them, presenting Ross one red silk hair tie and he kneels down to accept it, and oh my God, this is really happening.
"I don't have a ring, but what I do have is this," he places a chaste kiss on her finger, like a damn prince, before wrapping it in this symbolic, irreplaceable ribbon. "It's called the red string of fate, and it's the one and only thing that I remember during that dig in China. They say that it has to be red, because it's the vein of your heart connected to another - regardless of place, time, or circumstances. This magical cord may stretch or tangle, but never break."
"Oh honey, our string must be a ball by this point, then," she quips, as she wiggles her hand around with a flourish, giddy at it being no longer bare. And she loves, loves, the airy sound of his laugh.
"But we're here now," He proceeds to swipe his thumb across her dampened cheek, and she can't - won't - stop crying, out of pure, unfiltered happiness.
"Ross."
"Hmm?"
"Please tell me we have a nanny for the night - or are we gonna have to be really quiet?" she purrs while circling the buttons on his shirt, nodding towards Emma, who's resorted to plucking out the petals from a lily with unabashed glee. She can't wait to turn her baby into the prettiest flower girl.
"Amelie from French class is a licensed au pair, she should be here in a sec."
"You are Monica's brother," her voice cracks at the end with emotion at the thought of finally being Monica's sister-in-law. The twins' aunt. The daughter(in-law) Judy and Jack have always wanted. A family.
They go on like this, making out like love-crazed teenagers in the abode they've created for themselves, swaying to the rhythm of the music, reveling in the tender heat - distilled into an unforgettable memory. Ross peppers butterfly kisses in both of her eyelashes and it prompts her to lace their fingers together - red strings in the flesh, veins and callouses and scars, and she wouldn't have it any other way.
"I'm sorry it took us a long time," he whispers solemnly into her ear, and she nuzzles back.
"It's okay," spills out of Rachel's lips in a familiar cadence - from another planet, still in the universe of their own doing. "You were worth the wait. And I don't just mean tonight."