The last time I recall being this nervous, it was in sixth grade before giving a speech for social studies class. Still, I guess that didn't turn out so bad; I only lost my lunch all over the front of the stage. Personally, I always believed those rumours it splashed onto the front row of the audience were more hysteria than fact.

God, I hope I don't lose my lunch (or more accurately dinner) now. The last thing I need is to face this little meeting with vomit breath and looking green. More than likely I already look green anyway, but if my stomach could quit churning for even two seconds I would really appreciate it. It's already stopped me from indulging in a comforting glass or three of Piniot Grigio - though I suppose facing this little meeting drunk would be about as helpful as facing it nauseous. Being in possession of my full faculties is the key to getting through this little ordeal.

Time goes by so slowly, says Madonna. The bitch ain't wrong; the only other place in the world that time goes by at such snail's speed is in the gym when I'm stupid and program the treadmill for thirty minutes instead of my usual twenty. It's like childbirth; Lisa says there's some biological imperative where nature has to make you selectively forget how painful it is in order to make you stupid enough to get pregnant again. I think there's also one which makes me forget that I'm just not fit enough to cope with jogging that long at that speed, especially if I then plan to get on the cross trainer.

I have already painted my fingernails and my toes a pretty pink. I doubt this is going to help me in the slightest, just like I doubt the nice underwear I wore or the fact that I changed out of my sweats and into jeans is going to help. He didn't give me much time when he said he'd be here in half an hour (currently at three quarters and counting) but I needed to feel like I wasn't a complete slob. I mean, I have been a complete slob today and pretty much all week, but at least I don't totally look like it.

Oh, shit, that's a dish I missed when I ran round to throw everything in the dishwasher. I didn't have time to vacuum.

And oh SHIT that's the doorbell. Oh God. Oh my. Breathe. Need to breathe, oxygen is good.

Nervously and with a few goose bumps rising on my arms, I shuffle over to the door. I look down at my toes as if to reassure myself they're still pink. Don't even ask me why, it's not like that especially matters right now. Anything I can concentrate on other than opening this door is all this is about. Well, I have to concentrate on opening the door because he's there and he's not going to go away. Besides, he knows I'm home so he'd know I was just refusing to open the damn thing. I need to open it. See, it's easy, all I have to do is put my hand on the handle like so, and…

Wow. The door's open and I don't seem to have processed even doing that. Still, I must have, because there he is. Standing in front of me is a six foot something guy with big blue eyes and a really awkward expression on his face. He kind of looks like he wants to throw up, too. It's oddly comforting to know that I'm not the only one, yet conversely a little alarming also. We both want to throw up at the sight of each other - doesn't exactly bode well.

"Hi."

"Hi."

"Umm… can I come in?" Oh, yeah, right. Manners, letting people in, not having big discussions on doorsteps… right, I forgot.

"Sure." I gesture Justin into the apartment and with great haste and care he steps past me, careful for us not to brush against each other. That doesn't sound like a good thing, but I'm pleased he did because I think that might have triggered the aforementioned losing of my lunch (or dinner).

Justin strides purposefully into my living room ahead of me but then stops with a jolt, like he's just lost all notion of why he was doing so. For my part I shuffle in behind, still looking down at my feet. There's a toe that got smudged already and I hadn't noticed. Justin rocks back and forth on his sneakers, going heel to toe with his hands stuffed firmly in his pockets. He's staring down at his feet too. I guess I ought to say something.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"No, I'm fine, thanks."

"So…" I let the word linger, not sure how to follow it. "You wanted to see me."

"Umm, yeah." He scratches the back of his head, knowing it was both statement and question. "Well, Trace said I should. Repeatedly."

That's just great. That's just great. He has no idea what to even say, and I have this gnawing feeling in the pit of my stomach telling me that he doesn't want to be here and wouldn't be if not for Trace. Thanks, Ayala - I just feel like a real peach knowing that. Why has he even bothered? Why didn't he just tell Trace to shove it? Then again, Ayala can be a brat when he decides to bug somebody so maybe he's just trying to shut him up.

"Oh." That's the best and most articulate comment I can come up with.

"I mean, I… shit. I had this all worked out before I got here."

"Wish I could say the same." Okay, I get snappy when I'm wounded, but I really do have no idea what he's come here for and my defences are on purple alert (worse than blue, not as bad as red). There's a possibility he's just here for closure, which means my heart gets broken and I can't take that any more. I only stopped being heart broken over Will a few months ago; I'm not ready to go back there over somebody else. If that's what he's here for, I'd rather he didn't go there and just left me hanging. Even that's preferable.

"I umm… fuck it. Trace and Rachael keep saying I should have let you explain and they even got my own mother ganging up on me saying it, so explain."

Okay, am I the only one he just confused? "Explain what?"

"Everything."

"Well that really narrows it down, thanks." Did I mention I get sarcastic as well as snappy? Did he honestly just walk into my home at this little meeting he called and then demand explanations from ME? I think I'm owed one first.

"Just… I don't get, it Chelsea. I never got it."

"You never got what?" I throw my hands in the air. He hasn't even been in the room for five minutes and I'm totally exasperated. "Why are you even here? You suddenly got a yen to talk to me having ignored me for weeks on end?"

"Yeah." Oh… was totally unprepared for that. "I think it's time you told me exactly why you strung me along for so long and why you were embarrassed to be with me, because continually wondering kind of sucks and I'd like to know so I can forget about it."

Surely it's easier to forget about something you were never told to begin with… never mind. Let's go back to this whole embarrassed thing, because that's where he's got me confused. "Embarrassed? Why would you think I was embarrassed?"

"You hid me from your friends, practically had a coronary any time we did something that could be remotely construed as being together, and then that last night at the club your face said it all."

"Oh? And what was that?" I ask dangerously through gritted teeth.

"You had shame written all over it." He kicks at the pile of magazines I had next to my coffee table, and I ought to be annoyed at him for making a mess of them but I'm kind of stunned.

"You think I was ashamed of you?" He nods and glares at me, hurt written all over him, but all I can do is shake my head. We're both static, standing dead still but for the movement of our heads. "No. Me."

"What?" He doesn't get it.

"Me. I was ashamed of me."

"What?" He splutters it out again. "Why would you have to be ashamed of yourself for being with me? You could see it when Sophie walked in, I was your dirty little secret that you were ashamed was exposed."

"God, does everything have to be about you?" Typical Hollywood, that whole comment of his - it was just Hollywood all over. "I was ashamed of myself and that had nothing to do with you. I had sex with you in a public place that anybody could have walked into. Something that Sophie then proved by only walking in like thirty seconds after we had our clothes straightened out, which is why it hit me worse when I saw her. Do you have any idea the media shit that would have happened if it had been somebody else instead of her? I was ashamed of myself for being stupid and acting like a slut, not because it was with you. God, are you that self absorbed? Have you just been assuming this whole thing was about you all the time? It was about ME, okay Justin, ME. I was ashamed of ME for doing something so completely stupid."

"Well… I was there too. So you're saying I was being stupid?" God, he's still trying to make this about him.

"I'm not your mother or your conscience, Justin, so I'm not saying anything. Again, this is not about you." I roll my eyes at him before turning my back and heading to the kitchen, glaring at the counter top as though it were him. This is what this whole thing has been about? He treated me like shit because he assumed it was all about him? "All I know is that one minute we were having sex and the next you were making assumptions out of nothing and dumping me. Lord knows why."

"Why? Why?" I hear the footsteps behind me as I'm pouring Sprite out into a glass by the sink. I even smell him coming before he gets close enough for me to realise that he's standing right behind me. "Because I had to beg you to even go out in public with me. Because I couldn't even get you to admit we were dating. Because at every turn you were pulling away from me when I'd done sweet fuck all to deserve it. And you wonder why I felt like you were ashamed of me? Because everything you did was acting like it."

"God." I turn around and lean against my counter, compulsively sipping at my freshly poured drink. "Did you not listen at all when I told you I was still getting used to dating again and that you'd have to be patient with me? I know I said it very clearly and repeatedly."

This argument plainly doesn't convince him, because he matches my stance with his arms folded and his eyes cold, boring into me. I focus on the spot between them, on his nose, to avoid having to directly stare into them.

"That excuse ran out of juice long before then, Chelsea. You still can't even admit what the problem was now, can you?"

"Fine." I slam down the glass and nearly break it, I'm so incensed. I shove him backwards and get an angry 'hey' from him, but it doesn't stop me punctuating every sentence with another shove. "You wanna know what my problem was? I was head over fucking heels in love with you. The last time that happened…" shove number four goes in there… "it took me years to get over the fallout and I still wasn't over the fucking fallout before it was happening again so excuse me for wanting to go slow!" The next contact is more of a punch to his chest with my fist. "Just sucks for me that you were so busy thinking about what you wanted out of me that you didn't consider that maybe I was trying and that it was just taking me a while to work it all out!"

Well - I was so busy getting angry and being mildly violent that I didn't notice the peculiar look he's got on his face. There's some shock in there, but the rest I can't quite read. His eyebrows are raised and his nose is wrinkled and he keeps chewing his bottom lip.

"You're in love with me?"

The only thought currently running through my head is 'shit, why did I just say that?' It's a severe act of masochism. I said it, I can't take it back and now I've just put myself completely out on the table for him to stomp on, which I'm guessing is going to happen very swiftly from the look on his face. The unreadable expression has evaporated to be quickly replaced by serious amounts of being pissed at me.

"What, you're ashamed of saying that too?"

"No…" Okay, now I'm whining. I just want this conversation done and him out of here so I can go and sob my little heart out. "Just doesn't seem like a great thing to be in love with a guy who despises me and came over here to chew me out for all these crimes I committed against him. Oh God…"

I can't help it, I couldn't wait. I've burst into tears and now my hands are hiding my face, fingertips clutching painfully at my hairline as if the sharp tugging will make me quit crying. I have no idea how I'm still standing up, because my knees feel numb. It feels like all of me has gone numb, with the exception of that stabbing pain in the cursed organ that got me into this whole mess. Maybe I should just swear off love, because clearly said heart is incapable of leading me right.

I'm brought back to attention when he grabs my hands from my face and wrenches them away. "Despise you? What, you think I'm this fucking bothered about a girl I hate? I was hurt because I love you too, idiot!"

Time has stopped again. My brown eyed gaze flew to his blue eyed one and we're both just kind of glaring at each other, breathing heavily. My wrists are still being firmly gripped in the air by his hands, our arms still struggling against each other. Did he just say he loved me and then call me an idiot? Have I dreamed this whole surreal encounter?

"You love me?" I squeak.

"Very obviously for a long time now. No shit, Sherlock."

"And I love you…"

"So you just said."

"So…" My brain slowly ticks over in an attempt to comprehend all this. "What are we fighting about?"

In some intangible way, the entire atmosphere just shifted. Neither of us has moved, even now, but something's different. His face hasn't changed and I doubt mine has either; we're still staring at each other. Yet somehow, from being numb there's something prickling uncomfortably in my limbs, like electricity crackling. It's almost painful.

"I don't know," he finally says.

"Then do you think maybe we could stop?" I ask.

***

"God. Who the hell is that at this time of the morning?"

I ask because her God damned doorbell has just gone off right as I was getting to sleep. I'd finally got warm and comfortable in just the right spot when that fucking thing rang. I looked over at her clock and those bright red numbers did not lie, even through the dark. It is exactly one thirty, and not in the afternoon. No human visitor calls on a person at this time of night (or morning).

"I have no idea." Chelsea lets out a yawn and reaches over to turn her lamp on. Immediately I feel cool air invade the space between us where her body was a moment ago. It was probably only about half an hour ago that the make up sex finally stopped. I felt the need for us to go again because the first time was a little fraught, what with her still half in tears and all. "God, why are none of my clothes in here?"

"Because I got most of yours off in the other room?" I offer up. She gives me a wry look and a light poke before reaching down to grab my shirt. She buttons it up as quickly as possible and then reaches into her dresser drawer and pulls out a pair of shorts.

"God, you're going to answer it?" I ask in disbelief. "Let them come back in the morning."

"It's one thirty. I assume this is important if they're here this late." As if to agree with her, the doorbell goes again. "Back in a minute, Justin."

I watch her get up and shuffle out of the door, half asleep. When she's gone I roll forward onto my stomach, onto the spot she's just departed. It's still warm with her body heat. I breathe in and the sheet smells of her. Tonight was one hell of a fucking night and I still can't believe I'm actually here, with her. Once we'd got to our little screaming match crescendo and both yelled out that we loved each other like it was an insult, there wasn't much else I could do but lean forward and kiss her. We'd stood there for maybe a couple of minutes like we'd been frozen Han Solo style, just glaring at each other like we didn't quite believe it. If one of us hadn't moved we'd have probably stood there until hunger or dehydration set in.

So I broke the moment and kissed her, and then kissed her some more, and then had sex with her. Weirdly I think it helped, because once we'd done that it was like all the bad tension had left the room and we could have a real talk, the kind in which you actually communicate. She said sorry, I said sorry, and I think we now actually understand each other. I get that she was scared and overwhelmed, and she gets that she was giving off a lot of confusing signals. Now I know it seems ridiculously simple, but I guess when you love somebody everything gets kind of blown up out of proportion.

Damn. I guess I really owe Trace now. I only even came over here because he kept yelling at me about being sick of me moping around like 'some pissed off wounded puppy.' He said I was acting like a little girl and I needed to grow some balls.

And damn, she's been five minutes already. I can't see my boxers anywhere, put I manage to grab my jeans and pull them on - shit, unworn denim is kind of cold when you're going commando. I'm guessing it must be Kennedy or Sophie, so I won't bother trying to find my shirt which I can't see anywhere either. God, what were we doing with those damn clothes and where did we fling them off to? My concentration was too firmly on feeling her up.

When you walk out of Chelsea's bedroom and into her living room, it's on the opposite side of the apartment from where her front door is. Her front door is set away from the living room by a little corridor which is attached to her cupboard-like utility room. This is great, because it gives me the opportunity to indulge in one of my many talents - unseen eavesdropping. Why do I need to eavesdrop? Because whoever is at the front door still hasn't been let in after five minutes of being there.

"So… let me get this straight." She sounds a little ticked off. "You've been in a hotel all week, missing work, to try and wait me out until I was feeling better?"

"Yep." Hang on a damn second; that voice sounds male.

"Bullshit."

"What? No."

"Bullshit, Will." Will? Her ex fucking boyfriend is at the door? That's it, he's got exactly sixty seconds to walk away from here before I walk out and pound his face into the tiled floor.

"I'm telling you the truth!"

"You know what I think?" She says angrily. I can even imagine her tossing her head back like she always does when she gets annoyed. "I think you took my advice and went home to your wife, except she didn't want your sorry ass any more. And why would she, after I totally outed you for all the lies you told her about us having an affair? I think you tried that for a couple of days and when she wouldn't have you back you came back here on the red eye to try and worm your way in here again, hence this ridiculous time of night. Am I wrong?"

"Of course you are! I left her for you!"

"You left her because you're an asshole who always thinks the grass is greener somewhere else. Especially when you came back across this grass and realised I was doing pretty well for myself. Go home, Will - if not to your wife then to your mom or something, because you're not welcome here any more."

"Chelsea…" That slimy tone of voice makes me want to walk out there and beat the living crap out of him. He's trying to sweet talk her, I can hear it. "You know we've never really been over."

She lets out a sharp, derisive laugh and in that second I love her a little bit more. "We were over the second you decided that it was worth throwing me aside like I was garbage for the cheap lay you'd been having while I was busy kidding myself and turning a blind eye. And if we weren't over then, we were definitely over when I realised what a waste of skin you are. You need to leave, Will."

"But…"

This is the moment that I intervene. For Chelsea's sake I'll do it with a little less violence than planned but I will beat the crap out of him if he doesn't leave, I swear. "Chels?" I call out before I pop into view at the end of the corridor, walking down beside her and feigning ignorance. "You've been gone a while, everything okay?"

"Yeah, Will was just leaving." She glares pointedly at him, but he looks too shocked at the sight of me to register what she's saying. You can see him noticing our half naked states and putting two and two together. Take that, bitch. She's sleeping with the A list now.

"What's he doing here?" He splutters.

"What am I doing here?" I chuckle insincerely. "I'm not the one who turned up on her doorstep in the middle of the night and woke her up. What time do you call this, dude?"

"As my current rather than ex boyfriend, he has an actual reason to be here. Unlike you. So buh-bye now."

With a quick swing of her arm, she flings the door shut in Will's face. I know I'm wearing the most self-satisfied expression known to man, but she just referred to me as her boyfriend. It's ridiculous that after all the time we spent together with her not saying it that it's now only taken one make up session for her to capitulate, but do you think I care? I finally got her to admit that I'm her boyfriend AND that she loves me, all in one night. I'm on a roll.

She lets out an exasperated growl, still staring at the door, and I wrap my arms around her from behind. She tips her head back into my chest for a brief moment but then laces her fingers with mine and starts walking away. It's uncomfortable walking like this, with me still pushed up against her back, but I have no plans on letting go.

"Heh. All that time I spent getting over him and then he comes crawling back and I could care less," she tells me through a yawn. "Though I'm now tempted to move… but I guess a cop wouldn't have much trouble looking me up."

"All the more reason that you should spend time at my place." I tell her with a kiss to the temple as we make it back into the bedroom.

"Oh, you mean I'm forgiven enough that you won't run out of the room like a little girl every time I show up?"

"Did not," I grumble as I start running kisses along her collarbone.

"You know you did too."

I quickly unzip myself and yank off my jeans, ready to fall back into bed. Chelsea seems to hesitate, but being the gentleman I am I have no problem pulling down the shorts or unbuttoning my shirt for her so she can take them off. I'm selfless like that.

"Are you okay?" I ask as the shirt falls away and I pull her to me. I drop a kiss on her lips and she hugs me back, one of her hands rubbing my back in a reassuring way.

"Yeah. Just been a very long day."

"You got work tomorrow?" I ask. She shakes her head. "Then we can sleep late."

"Good."

Chelsea smiles at me and kisses me again before pushing me back onto the bed. I laugh and take it as a hint that she'd like to get back to what we were doing before Will decided to show up - which, as I recall, was falling asleep. I scoot over and then hold back the covers for her, letting her climb in and turn off the lamp before draping them and my arm back over her.

"So no regrets about sending him packing?" I tease. "I could always run back and tell him to switch with me."

"Ugh," she pulls a face at me, and I can see the disgusted outline of it even without the lamp. "My only regret about that bastard is that my residual issues with him nearly screwed up my chance with you."

I'm sure my smug glow must be lighting up the darkness. "I knew you loved me."

"Sure you did," she snorts as she burrows herself into my embrace. "That's why you had the big girly hissy fit about me never saying it. You were more of a woman about that than I was."

Somewhere, far into the night, I wonder if Trace somehow heard her saying that and is laughing that she agrees with him.