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Beca couldn’t have predicted this. The skeptic nestled in her brain refuses to believe it even now, that years of A/V tomfoolery and underage club gigs and a thousand dollars of divorce-guilt compensation had conspired to bring her here. Standing at the bus station, a duffel bag of mixing equipment with clothes on top and a midnight, one-way ticket to Los Angeles in her shaking hand.
The full moon hangs low in the sky, so bright that if she squints she can see beyond what the fluorescent station lights illuminate, over flat Georgia land and pockets of suburbia to her own neighborhood. If she could push all the trees and high-rises aside, she would’ve been able to see right through her bedroom window. Take a last look at everything she was leaving behind, and say goodbye to everything certain and solid in her life.
Shaken, Beca looks away and takes a deep breath through her nose. She breathes out.
It’s not that L.A. isn’t everything she’d ever wanted since she was old enough to know what a MIDI sequence was. L.A. is the culmination, the final frontier, like standing at the edge of the Rubicon and building up the courage to cross it, to conquer. No, it’s more because Beca isn’t an optimistic person, and L.A. is viciously cruel to young artists who show up with too many dreams and not enough humility, and could tear them apart like so many paper dolls floating in the wind. She’s under no illusion that it was going to be easy. She’d been ready to work like a dog, to live the starving artist life for years before venturing out into the real world.
But here she was, ready to sacrifice her practical self in exchange for this one, golden opportunity.
“Departure on Bus 47 in five minutes, service to Nashville, transfer to Los Angeles. Final boarding call.”
Beca hesitates. It’s her last chance to back out. Once she’s gone, there’ll be no turning back.
But then the train whistle blows and it feels like fate, the way the attendant winks at her while punching her ticket and she gets her pick of seats on a mostly-empty bus, like this ride was made for her, and her alone. If it were any other night, Beca would simply fall asleep against the window and not stir until the driver shook her awake at their last stop. But tonight she sits up, eyes crisp, soaking in every detail of what The Beginning looks and feels like, the heat on her skin, cicadas buzzing, the weight of her precious baggage familiar and heavy against her side.
The mountain looms before her.
“Everyone on board? Better be, we’re off.” The driver calls out, shrugs, and closes the doors.
*
Her bravado doesn’t last, and it’s not long before the hum of wheels against asphalt lull Beca into sleep.
By the time she wakes, groggy, with a foul taste in her mouth and a red patch on her forehead from pressing against the glass, the sun has risen and the driver is reaching for his radio to announce their first stop- Nashville, TN. Beca shakes the stiffness from her legs and stretches wide, groaning as the blood floods out of her lower extremities and back into the rest of her limbs. Of the four other people on the bus- a businessman and two elderly couples- she’s the only one awake.
The driver looks at her through his mirror, smiling.
“Long night?”
Beca softens the smallest bit- she wasn’t expecting a friendly face.
“It wasn’t too bad. I’ve slept through worse.”
“Well, we’ve got a fifteen minute break once we pull into Nashville. How far are you going?”
“Los Angeles.”
The driver whistles through his teeth.
“Damn, that’s a pretty distance away. But hey, maybe something more interesting will happen to while away the time. You never know.”
“Maybe.”
Beca peers aimlessly out her window, lost in memory.
Nashville holds quite a few of them, a little hazy from age, in her mind. Being from Atlanta and born to parents who were all too willing to drop her somewhere and forget about her for a few hours, Nashville was a bit of a haven for her, with its music stores and coffeehouses and seedy bars that Beca stared at, wide-eyed, until she was caught and ushered away. She’d plead to stay for another hour, just a few more minutes, until her father returned from his own business to pick her up. Then she’d linger, dragging her feet on the pavement and scuffing her shoes, just for another look at the guitars and keyboards through the shop window.
Those days hadn’t lasted long.
Beca physically shakes her head to get rid of her thoughts, distracted, and yanks her iPod out of her duffle. She’d been planning on saving the precious battery power, but if she doesn’t drown out her memories, they’ll nag her the entire trip; she knows from experience. She hasn’t thought about Nashville for years, hasn’t had more than a passing thought for her father in weeks, and her tightly crafted control was not going to be wasted just in passing.
There’s no room to work on her mixes so Beca settles for just listening to music, securing her headphones over her head and pressing play.
The opening notes of Titanium bloom and echo in her ears and Beca smiles, because already new mixes are weaving themselves together in her mind, racing through their endless iterations. A velvety, fertile bass, maybe a hi-hat and a snare at the top of the chorus and the harmony from that Adele song-
Beca taps a finger against her knee, imaginary drum kit at her fingertips, and that’s when they slide into station and the doors unfold themselves with a hiss that makes Beca look up in surprise.
*
Her first instinct is to go for the fire extinguisher or the first aid kit or something, because as the rising sun cascades across the windows, it lights the girl’s hair into fiery red waves that tumble neatly down her shoulders. She’s outlined in profile, there, standing in the corridor as if she owned the place and planned to keep it. Before Beca can look away or duck behind the seat backs, the girl catches sight of her and grins.
Oh shit.
She marches down the rows, a ratty backpack slung across one shoulder and a strange recorder-contraption in hand, and drops them both in the seat beside Beca. A dozen colorful hemp bracelets and a single silver chain slide down to her wrist as she extends a hand out to Beca in greeting.
“Hi, I’m Chloe Beale!”
Her cheer ignites Beca’s already frazzled nerves, this early in the morning, but even as she glares in confusion her other senses perk up, fascinated . She takes her headphones off and shakes Chloe’s hand with a grunt, mutters “Beca Mitchell” and looks pointedly behind Chloe. There are others pouring onto the bus now, pushing past Chloe in the corridor with their own bags and tired eyes and scowls- not at Chloe but at Beca, as if she asked for Chloe to block the traffic.
Meanwhile, Chloe still hasn’t let go of her hand.
The redhead’s touch is cool and soft, slim and strong, but for an instant Beca imagines the contact burn into her palm and race up her arm. She waits, internally frantic, as her beating heart returns to its normal rhythm as Chloe releases her, but something lingers long after they’ve separated. Beca’s chest makes a fist around the feeling, bizarre and unidentified.
Still, it takes Beca clearing her throat three times and a howling baby behind her to make Chloe finally sit down, and when she does it’s with a blatant violation of Beca’s personal space- bumping knees as she sits, rubbing shoulders as she adjusts herself. Suddenly the scent of something fruity wallops Beca in the face, Chloe’s hair narrowly missing the end of her nose as the girl excitedly tosses her hair behind her shoulder.
“So! Where are you going? And for business or for pleasure? I love buses, they’re so intimate, it’s like a look into the human condition. Not like planes, too noisy for conversation, and the subways are way too crowded for my taste. Oooh, those are really nice earphones. I have a pair of Beats, but those look so much cooler!”
Beca only sits there in silent fury, murmuring out “they’re custom,” before ignoring the rest of Chloe’s question. Chloe doesn’t seem to notice, just prattles on about her last stop (the French Quarter, New Orleans) while Beca shrinks and grumbles and squashes herself closer to the window.
Jesus Christ, this is going to be a long goddamned trip.
*
Around Hour Three, it’s become pretty clear that Chloe isn’t getting off anytime soon, judging by the mini-setup she has going on in her lap. What looked to be a backpack at first glance is actually a camera bag, complete with an instant-Polaroid camera and endless rolls of undeveloped film. Despite her general disinterest (and annoyance, because who gave Chloe the right to disturb Beca’s angst fest on her one trip to L.A.? This was unacceptable), Beca finds herself intrigued by the redhead’s busy hands.
Chloe glances over and smiles, holding up the camera and taking aim at Beca’s face.
“Can I take a picture of you?”
“Hell no-“ Beca protests, hiding her face behind her arms. “-I’ve been on this bus for a day without a shower or a change of clothes. I look like some gross hobo baking in the sun.”
“Please? It’s for a project I’m doing, and I’d really like your input. There aren’t too many people our age riding the buses anymore. You’d be my first!”
Beca clears her throat uncomfortably- something about the way Chloe asks, her blue eyes pleading, that makes Beca want to give in- but keeps her arms and her guard up.
“What am I, some sort of lab rat? I’m serious, Chloe, I don’t want photographic evidence of how I look right now. Ask someone else, there’s plenty of people on this freaking bus.”
What she didn’t expect was for Chloe to bounce up, say “Okay!”, and proceed to slot herself into another unused seat several rows in front of them. The older gentleman looks alarmed at his new seat partner, but one touch on the hand and a warm smile from Chloe seems to make him relax, and before long they’re chattering away in excited tones.
Beca can’t make anything of their conversation other than a whisper or two, and it piques her curiosity so that she pretends to be looking out the window when Chloe wraps her conversation, gives the man a hug, and returns to Beca, humming “The Blue Danube” under her breath. Beca finds herself nodding along to the song- Chloe has excellent pitch and vocal range, she acquiesces- before she realizes what she’s doing and stops.
But the pangs of curiosity are too strong to be ignored, and begrudgingly Beca relaxes.
“What’s this all about, then?” She says, fingering the strap of the camera on the armrest between them. The smile that appears on Chloe’s face is too innocent to be smug, but Beca swears that the words “I told you so” are on the tip of Chloe’s tongue.
“I’m an investigative reporter, freelance mostly. The New Yorker asked me to do a piece on America’s Heartland, to try to get the stories that aren’t told enough because no one can find them. I figured, where better to get stories than on a Greyhound? All these people, chasing their dreams with so little to go on, but with all the hope in the world.” She points to her interview subject. “He’s on his way to California to visit his daughter before she gets married. He has all the wedding music with him in his luggage, so he can’t be late. That’s why he looked so worried before. Isn’t that amazing?”
Beca scratches her neck and squints into the sun.
“It’s a romantic image, I guess. But this isn’t the fifties, Chloe. No one really rides these bushes unless they’re broke as hell or deliberately want to avoid people. You’re not going to find hope here unless you make it up yourself.”
It’s completely the wrong thing to say, but in case Beca had any doubt, Chloe’s breath hitches and her face loses some of its cheer, but before Beca can backtrack or punch herself in the face, Chloe shoves her shoulder gently in reproach.
“You’re just not looking in the right place, Beca. You look pretty hopeful to me. How about it- what’s your story? Why are you here?”
She’s turned it around so fast that Beca can barely blink, can only blabber something about privacy and bad camera angles before sinking herself back into the small, tight porcupine she was before.
“I told you before, I’m not talking to you.”
“I can make it anonymous.”
“No thanks.”
Chloe shrugs, yawns, and bats away a lone fly buzzing around her eyelid.
“Well, you’re off the hook for now because I’m bushed, and I haven’t slept in two days. But I swear, I will get it out of you sometime. Still have two days to go.”
She falls asleep minutes later, her mouth so close to Beca’s shoulder that it stirs her hair every time Chloe breathes, a constant reminder of her nearness against Beca’s neck. Beca closes her eyes too, but she can’t let herself doze off until her arms are wrapped securely around her chest. It almost feels like protection, like she’s guarding something that Chloe (for some absurd reason) is trying to steal away.
What she’s protecting, exactly, Beca has no idea.
*
Five hours later, the bus hits a pothole and bounces literally a foot into the air and comes down hard on the asphalt, jarring Beca awake. She blinks her groggy eyes open just in time to see her backpack go careening out of her under-seat compartment and hit the seat back in front of them with a dull thunk. Her entire chest lurches along with the back and she scrambles to her knees, knocking Chloe awake in the process.
“Shitshit-SHIT!”
“Huh-wha? What’s wrong?”
“My mixing deck, all the delicate fucking stuff I put in there-“
Fumbling her way through the zipper and the top layer of wires, she lets a long sigh of relief leave her lips when she flips on all the switches and sees a familiar green light appear. Chloe is peering across her shoulder in curiosity, and Beca sighs, rolling her eyes before hefting the equipment back into her lap and looking over at Chloe expectantly.
“What?”
“What do you mean, what? Aren’t you curious, miss journalist?”
Chloe smiles, shrugs, and leans back, pointedly shifting her gaze away from the equipment and onto Beca’s face.
“You said you didn’t want to tell me. I can respect that.”
Beca scoffs.
“So what, you’re going to let it- hang between us until I finally give in? That’s just cruel, I have to sit next to you for another two days.”
“Your words, not mine.”
Beca cocks her head in amusement, and holds Chloe’s faux-serious stare for another five seconds before she relents and starts to laugh, despite herself. She flips open the laptop and pulls her mixing board out of its pack, handing it to Chloe while fussing with the wires and ports. Years of messing with inferior gear has left her with an acute appreciation for what she has and what she wants, and her hands move with practiced efficiency as she selects her most recent track and loads it onto the queue. Chloe takes the offered pair of headphones and slides them over her ears.
“Okay, ready.”
Dimly, Beca wonders why she feels the need to show a complete stranger a treasured part of herself. She tells her brain that it’s for reciprocity, that Chloe shared something about her own life and so Beca should only do the same in return.
It’s only polite.
“Great, well, I don’t have all my stuff with me, but here’s something-“
A few taps of the keyboard later and she’s inserted her own backing track, the mix of Titanium and Adele that she couldn’t get out of her mind. From there it’s simple enough to add a drum loop, another keyboard track, but as Beca listens, it doesn’t seem right- too cluttered, too busy for something that should be simple as flowing water. So she gets rid of a few distractions, ups the echo, and gently nudges the tempo until it’s almost ghostly, just her voice with the reverb and a calm piano track in the background. There’s enough aural space for something else, another voice or instrument maybe, but Beca leaves it be, satisfied. A promise of something yet to come, perhaps.
She’s so caught up that the voice and the hand on her arm startle her.
“It’s beautiful.”
Beca looks up. Chloe shakes her head softly at her, a small smile curving across the unreadable, tender expression on her face before melting into a look of wonder. Momentarily Beca forgets, and wonders whether Chloe is talking about her or the music, because she can’t tell. Either way, Chloe keeps her eyes locked on Beca’s as the song fades away, reading her with just her eyes, making Beca’s throat tighten in unspeakable pleasure.
Chloe hands back the earphones, and they don’t speak for long minutes while Beca packs everything away, shoves the pack back in its place, and waits, fidgeting for Chloe to say something. Chloe taps her fingers against her lips and suddenly raises both her hands.
“So that’s it.”
“What’s it?”
“That is it. That’s your story. What I just listened to-“ She touches Beca’s hand. “That’s who you are, Beca.”
A well of sadness suddenly blooms in Beca’s chest, and she feels unbearably exposed, in the bright sunlight and in the intensity of Chloe’s gaze.
“So who am I, then?”
Chloe bites her lip, stares straight ahead. When she finally answers, her voice wavers on the edge of indecision before she turns to Beca with that same damn illegible look on her face, reaches down and clasps Beca’s hand in her own.
“That’s not for me to say. I don’t think I could, actually.”
It’s not the first perfect moment of Beca’s life- probably not Chloe’s, either- but it might be one of the best, and she feels in her gut that this is special, something ineffably special.
Beca’s never been so sure of that.
*
By Hour Fifteen, Beca has given up on sleeping proper hours and has resigned herself to watching a newly-refreshed Chloe move around the bus, talking to the other passengers. It becomes a pattern, a small game, where Beca waits and watches (or sometimes listens) and predicts the story Chloe will weave for her when she returns to her seat, to scribble on a notepad and bounce adjectives off Beca’s unwilling ear.
Sometimes Chloe returns with some ridiculous story about go-carts or managerial positions and Beca will laugh, not because she’s being polite but because Chloe is genuinely funny, waving her arms with each syllable and breaking into random voices when characters make their spectacular stumbles in the story. Other times she’ll come back and make a gagging noise at Beca’s laughing face, before whispering “lawyer” or “jerkface” and jotting down a note to skip that certain story on her recorder.
Rarely, she’s stone-faced when she comes back, and her gaze lingers for long moments on the back of the chair in front of her. Her lips tremble and Beca watches, fascinated and dismayed at the same time, as Chloe visibly, painfully pulls herself back together. It’s only a matter of time before Beca gives in, throwing an awkward arm around Chloe’s shoulders, ending up with her leg half-asleep just to be close to her.
It’s inconceivable, that one person can feel that much. Around the third time Chloe’s reduced to tears in absolute sincerity over someone’s sob story, Beca isn’t even sure Chloe’s completely real. Part of her has to be just pure fucking empathy.
Slowly, slowly, the stories pile up. Hours fly by as each mile rolls away under the bus’s wheels, and passengers begin to stream in and out of Beca’s life with increasing familiarity. Still, certain stories stand out: a man whose wife has Alzheimer’s and whose ashes are being transported to the ocean for a last goodbye. A farmer moving to his fifth job of the summer, picking grapes in California. A couple heading west for a chance at love and redemption, and a girl named Aubrey who is running away from her father and his stifling expectations.
Beca’s exhausted and starving by midafternoon, but Chloe only shoves half a sandwich into her mouth and continues to write, spraying crumbs everywhere in a gesture that Beca is sure would be repulsive on anyone else. On Chloe, though, it’s only another unavoidable sign of her passion, and Beca almost forgets to swallow her own lunch, looking at her.
*
It gets more and more sparse the farther they pull out West, so eventually there aren’t even trees or fields of cows to distract Beca from Chloe even if she wanted to. Her iPod finally dies sometime around eight at night, and she discovers that it gets dark really, really quickly on a Greyhound, and that Chloe manages to look flawless even in dingy light while Beca stews beside her.
Chloe shivers suddenly- the bus’s air conditioner has been running all day, and Chloe’s not exactly well-insulated from the elements- Beca is suddenly acutely aware of the extra blanket in her duffel. Finally, after Chloe sniffles and curls up tighter in her little ball, Beca yanks out the fabric and leans over to tap Chloe on the foot.
“Come over here.”
Chloe pops her head out like some sort of meerkat and practically bounces into Bella’s personal space, cuddling up close with a sigh. She nods off almost immediately but keeps Beca from sleeping all that night, because Chloe’s warm and incessant and all Beca can see is her schedule, the amount of hours she has left. How much time they have.
She closes her eyes and prays that she isn’t making a mistake.
*
A young man arrives on the bus around Hour Twenty-Six, and gravitates towards Chloe’s person like a castaway to a liferaft. Beca watches him fall in love right there in the corridor, watches the look of adoration in his eyes as he slowly sets down his suitcase on the seat across the aisle from them, barely glancing at Beca’s furious face. Chloe, to her credit, quickly goes for her recorder and camera and begins to document his story.
He’s apparently a banker, heading to Seattle to take care of his sick mother. Chloe’s face falls faster than Beca would have thought possible, and she lays a comforting hand on his arm.
Suddenly, there’s a pain in Beca’s throat, nasty and ceaseless as it spreads through her body. Jealously, she thinks, in her haze of anger. But that’s fucking ridiculous. She has no claim to Chloe. None at all.
Still, the pain only goes away when Chloe finishes her story, thanks him, and slides back into her rightful place beside Beca. She can’t keep herself from throwing a protective glare in the young man’s direction, and shuffling a little closer to Chloe in her seat.
“What?”
“Huh?”
“You’re acting weird all of a sudden. Is something wrong?”
“You’re so paranoid. There’s nothing wrong.”
Actually, judging by the way she’s incinerating that goon who’s trailing Chloe like a sick puppy, there most certainly is something wrong- something major, if the flush on her face is anything to go by. Beca probably should try to be less obvious, but she can’t help it. Chloe cranes her neck out and suddenly snaps back to Beca, a grin on her face.
“Oh- oh. You like him?”
Beca’s mouth flops open.
“Or you think he’s cute?”
“Are you- are you fucking kidding me? I don’t know the guy, I don’t want to know the guy, like, ever. Can’t you come up with something more creative than that?”
“Alright, alright-“ Chloe laughs, waving her hands around. “Let’s see- you have some super hot boyfriend waiting for you back home and you’re just imagining how badly he’s going to smack that guy who keeps looking over here at you.”
Okay, Beca isn’t sure that it’s possible, but her mouth drops even farther and nearly snorts in disbelief. She leans in close to Chloe and drops her voice.
“Staring at me? He’s staring at you, Chloe. He can’t keep his eyes off of you.”
“What- really?” Chloe gasps, scandalized, and very unsubtle-ly looks back at the banker. He catches her gaze and waves- literally waves. With all five fingers, like he’s a circus clown on holiday. Beca snorts in derision.
“Gosh, I didn’t even realize. I guess your boyfriend has nothing to worry about, then.”
Beca chews on the inside of her cheek. The ball in is her court now, and she has only a few seconds to decide whether to let it go flying by or to swing. Chloe is faced away from her, but even so the anticipation rolls off of her in waves, and when she really thinks about it she doesn’t know in the slightest what to say. There’s a million possibilities but none of them are flawless.
But Beca was never a coward, so she swings.
“What is this obsession you have with my imaginary boyfriend? If you must know, I don’t have one, and I’m not looking for one. And if you’re asking me, he-“ she gestures towards banker boy, “-isn’t the best of options anyway.”
Chloe laughs, throaty and elated in a way Beca hasn’t heard her sound before. A note of relief permeates the air between them.
“Well, he doesn’t know what he’s missing.”
She doesn’t see Beca’s shiver of happiness because she’s trailing her fingers through the shafts of sunlight through the window, lost in thought.
*
Beca’s second night on the bus doesn’t go much different from her first. Chloe is still a blanket hog, and it’s still difficult to get anywhere close to a comfortable position. Her ass is about to fall off, and her leg feels like radio static of the worst kind.
But around Hour Thirty-four, Beca wakes up and realizes that Chloe is beautiful. It happens, of all places, at a truck stop just east of Salt Lake City, just before the dawn. Their driver, nice and efficient as he is, chooses the weirdest times to take breaks, and somehow Chloe wakes up just in time to watch him pull up to the empty stop, park, and leave the bus. Everything is a little bit clearer in the early dawn, too dry for mist and too hot for clouds. It’s still.
There’s a picnic table three yards from where they’ve stopped, and Beca looks blearily at Chloe’s determined face as the same thought crosses their minds. Before she’s even quite awake she’s been dragged outside and is sitting at the battered wooden table, glaring at Chloe doing the sunrise stretch towards the horizon, a serene calmness in her pose. Her entire body aches for coffee, and even Chloe attempting the downward-facing dog isn’t enough to perk her up.
“If the driver leaves without us I’m holding you personally responsible.”
“Would you relax, he’s not going to leave without us. We can see the bathrooms and the bus right there.
Beca pops another cashew into her mouth; breakfast of champions.
“Do you think you’ll get lonely, out there in L.A.?”
It’s a completely unexpected question, and Beca is made fully awake in an unfortunate manner when she almost inhales the nut. Coughing gives her a few hurried seconds to think up her answer before she has to actually talk.
“I don’t get lonely.” She settles.
“Everyone gets lonely.” Chloe retorts, nudging Beca with her knee. Straightening up, she unhooks the silver bracelet from her wrist and holds it up for Beca to see.
“Okay? Nice bracelet.”
“My dad gave it to me when I left for college. Ladybugs are everywhere where I’m from, and I’ve carried it ever since. It reminds me of home, helps when I’m away for a while and need to have something familiar.”
A festering pain starts to burn in Beca’s stomach, and she slides off the wooden bench and starts to kick away the rocks next to Chloe’s feet. Chloe waits, patient as ever, and finally puts her hand on Beca’s shoulder. Their gazes meet, and Beca feels the familiar tingle snake down her spine. She’s the first to look away.
“Did I say something wrong? If I did, I hope you’ll forgive me-“
“At least you have a decent dad, okay? I thought mine was great until we started taking all these trips to Nashville that my mom didn’t know about. They got divorced a year later and my home life went to shit after that. Just- I’m not going to get lonely because I’ve been alone most of my life. It’s nothing new if you know what to expect.”
Even saying the words makes her wince a little; it’s the epitome of cynicism, she knows, and Chloe has to recognize it, and is most certainly going to call her out for it. But instead she just squeezes Beca’s shoulder, once, and then trails her fingers down Beca’s arm to clasp Beca’s hand in her own. Beca looks down at their entwined fingers, distracted, and thinks of pulling away; the energy between them is almost too much, too scary, but then Chloe turns Beca’s hand over and gently touches the skin on her wrist.
“I saw this when I first met you- where’d you get it?”
She’s giving Beca an out, and Beca takes it with gratitude. She eagerly pulls off her watch and shows Chloe the small imprint of a grasshopper, inked in forest green and black across her wrist.
“I got it when I was sixteen. My mom nearly killed me when she found out, but she said that forcing me to keep it would be the better punishment if I ever wanted it off- you know, young impulsiveness and stuff. Joke’s on her, though- I still love it, even now.”
Chloe moves her arm so her ladybug charm dangles down, rests beside the grasshopper, and suddenly envelops Beca in a hug. It’s not immediately electric but it reinvigorates the warm tingle in Beca’s body, rushing through every limb, every muscle, every bone and cell in her body. Good Lord, she’s lovely.
“It’s like we’re meant to be.” Chloe whispers, and tucks a strand of Beca’s hair around her ear.
It’s not fair, you can’t say that, Beca wants to scream. Don’t you know what it’s doing to me?
There’s nothing left to say after that, and when the bus driver appears at the door of the gas station they walk in silence back to the bus.
*
When Beca sees the first sign advertising for Los Angeles realty, she freezes. The world doesn’t stop and the heavens don’t open up to rain fire down upon the world, but it might as well for all the effect it has; Beca waits for the disbelief to wear off, for the pain and the panic to settle in. They’re almost at their destination, and that means Chloe-
The bus rattles underneath her; someone clears his throat.
The billboard passes but it’s quickly followed by another one, and another. Los Angeles stretches its tentacles into the urban sprawl, and they’re headed right into it.
Beca looks over at Chloe, whose oblivious smile shines as radiantly as ever, and desperately wishes for a way to soothe the inner hurricane raging inside her. The facts needed to be faced; Chloe was leaving, soon, and she would be as lost to Beca as any of the other passengers riding along with them. Beca needs to cut her ties; to cut her losses before Chloe took even more from her than Beca had already given up, but then Chloe turns to her, that once-burning touch suddenly far too deadly for Beca to take.
“My camera’s full! This is awesome, I have more than enough material for a four-page spread!”
It’s the first death knell in a long line of them, and all Beca can do is smile and hope that she’s strong enough to take it, when it’s all said and done.
*
“Chloe- can I ask you something?”
“Hmm?”
“What would your dream job be? Like, where do you see yourself a year from now?”
“Well, I’ve applied for a grant that’s taking me to the Amazon for two years to study the native tribes and their medicinal plants. It’s an immersive experience; I’d live like they live, share their customs and their food, everything. It’s down to me and one other person, but I heard from my editor that by now it’s a pretty sure thing.”
“I’m not surprised they picked you, but two years- wow, that’s a while to be away from home.”
“It is, but it’s also the opportunity of a lifetime. I’d be crazy to turn it down, if I got it.”
“I don’t think there’s any doubt that you will.”
“You don’t know that-“
“Yeah, yeah I do.”
*
“Beca?”
Chloe’s voice is sober.
“What?”
“Where are you planning to go in L.A?”
“I’m not completely sure yet. My buddy Jesse has an apartment there, but he’s also tight on money so I might be moving around quite a lot. I have some money saved up and I know how to waitress, though, so I won’t be living on the streets or anything. At least I hope not.”
“What about your parents, then? They probably want to know where you are, right?”
“All I really need to do is call my mom every week or so; I’m a big girl, she expects me to handle myself. My dad really didn’t give a shit after I turned twenty-one, and I wasn’t his responsibility anymore.”
“I’m sure that’s not true-“
“Leave it, Chloe. I’ve known him my entire life.”
“…”
“So you won’t have access to a phone or a P.O. box, or anything?”
“Probably not. At least not until I’m permanently settled.”
“No means of contact, then.”
“Nope. Not many people I need to contact, to be honest.”
“That’s- that’s too bad.”
*
“Next stop, Los Angeles, California.”
*
They’re almost finished.
The bus is almost empty, now, with most of the passengers having already reached their destinations and gotten on with their lives. Banker boy is gone, leaving a slip of paper with his number and name on it in Chloe’s lap, and Aubrey and the elderly couple and the farmer and all the rest. It’s just Chloe and Beca, still sitting in the same seats, waiting for the ride to end.
Beca refuses to believe it.
At around midnight- the final hour- the bus driver finally stops for good and whips the cap off his head, turning around to look at the two of them still sitting there.
“Well, folks, this is your stop. If you’re continuing on, there are transfer buses that will be here in the morning. It’s been a pleasure.”
It’s automatic, the way Chloe gathers her things and steps off the bus, wobbling a little as her legs readjust to the feeling of exertion again. Beca follows in silence, unable to read Chloe’s features in the darkness, and prays that her heart doesn’t betray her by beating too loudly in the empty bus. The platform is brightly lit in all directions, and the feeling of déjà vu ossifies around her so she can’t move when she’s finally standing there, watching Chloe heft her luggage off the bus. It can’t be two days since her entire world shifted in new and terrifying directions. It can’t be two days since Chloe waltzed her way into Beca’s mind and decided to redecorate. It can’t be two days since Beca began to doubt what she wanted out of life, if that life didn’t include Chloe.
It feels like centuries.
Chloe won’t look at her. After being subjected to Chloe’s gaze for hours at a time, Beca is positively sure that Chloe is deliberately avoiding looking into her eyes. But she can’t blame Chloe when she’s doing the same, staring down at her shoelaces like she’s found religion in them, her hands limp at her sides and a desperation cutting a swath through her body. She can’t look, because leaving Chloe is a sin if there ever was one, and if Chloe looks at her with even the tiniest bit of expectation Beca’s going to be lost forever.
She’ll never escape.
The bus pulls away to the loading dock, but the screech of tires against asphalt persists in Beca’s ears. Chloe stands unmoving, and a breeze pushes locks of hair into her eyes, obscuring her face. It’s sheer torture, their silence, and Beca waits for Chloe to say something, anything, before resigning herself to the fact that Chloe was as reluctant to do it as she was.
Beca’ll be the one to ruin it, then.
“I’m catching my last bus tomorrow morning, six o’clock.”
“Mine’s at eight.”
“Great. It was nice to meet you, Chloe. Good luck with your writing.”
Before she can let herself feel anything other than exhaustion, before she can see Chloe’s face or admit the need sparkling in her eyes, Beca draws a quick breath and turns to go.
“Wait, where are you going?”
Beca points to the Super 8 motel sign, creaking as the wind whistles through the metal skeleton underneath the plastic coating.
“I was going to get a room over there.”
The action seems to jolt Chloe into life again, and she, appalled, looks at the motel, then back at Beca, and grabs her by the wrist.
“No, you are not staying there, you’re coming with me.” The possibilities in that sentence make Beca’s heart race. Chloe’s surprisingly strong for someone of her stature, and Beca finds herself stuck in her iron grip as she’s dragged through the doors of the hotel.
“Wait, I’ve got every penny saved up for Jesse’s apartment and it’s not cheap. I can’t afford anything better.”
“That’s okay, I can.” Chloe faces the bored hotel clerk. “I’d like a room with two beds, please- unless you, Beca, want your own room.”
“You’re not paying for two rooms, Chloe, I can at least split the cost of a double with you”
Chloe turns back to the clerk, who is now popping her gum and examining her fingernails, and hands over a battered credit card. Slowly they trudge to the elevator, luggage in tow, and as the bell dings and carries them to their floor Chloe dozes against Beca’s shoulder.
It’s only extending the inevitable, but there’s nothing else to do.
*
Beca watches Chloe buzz around the room with ridiculous energy for one in the morning, flinging clean clothes on her bed before she retreats into the bathroom with a shower bag larger than her luggage. Beca shuffles to her bed and falls face first into the thankfully clean mattress.
She stares long and hard at the popcorn ceiling, trying not to hear the sounds of the shower, water running through the pipes, and imagining Chloe there, physically smacking her forehead when Chloe begins to sing. It’s too much, too soon, and she presses the heels of her hands into her eyes, catching the strains of Titanium sung in a sweet, high voice from the bathroom.
Tears start to burn at Beca’s eyes when she rolls over and looks at the digital clock on the nightstand.
She has ten more hours before her bus heads in one direction and Chloe’s disappears in the other, and maybe two more years before Chloe is even in the Western Hemisphere. She has fifteen minutes, tops, before Chloe comes back in the room and Beca has to get herself together in that time, pack everything she’s feeling into neat little compartments that Chloe can never know about. She has mere seconds to prepare before a wave of hopelessness crashes over her again, making her fist the bedspread in frustration.
Chloe’s leaving. They have ten more hours than she expected, but still: Chloe’s leaving.
It wasn’t supposed to go like this. Beca was supposed to take her last look upon the world before diving headfirst into the cesspit that was Los Angeles, working her fingers to the bone and loving every minute of it. Her mixes were supposed to be the only helping hand she needed to be someone in the world, and now there was this completely crazy girl who was derailing all her plans and making Beca question everything she ever considered worth fighting for.
“Beca?”
“Just a minute-“ she calls back, her voice hoarse, and lunges for the lamp to plunge the room back into darkness before Chloe appears at the bathroom door, a towel wrapped around her head, toothbrush in hand. She can’t look at Chloe, not in a state like this, and Beca walks with bated breath towards the bathroom, trying to side-step Chloe without looking or feeling her.
“I’ll just be a second.“
“Beca.”
She’s never heard her name said like that before.
“What?”
“Are you really going to let me go like this?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about-“
Chloe steps back and flips on the lights again, drenching the room in the yellow glow. She’s changed into a tank top and shorts, with her hair bunched in a ponytail, wisps of hair falling over her eyes.
She’s so perfect that Beca stares at the floor instead of at her before she has even less control than she usually does around Chloe.
“Beca, look at me.”
Beca’s eyes stay down.
“Beca, please.”
She does, not because she can, but because Chloe steps forward and draws her head up with her hands, cupping Beca’s face and running her thumbs along her cheekbones. Some sound, something small and desperate escapes Beca’s lips as Chloe moves even closer, wordlessly asking for permission as her hands trail down, gentle fingers on the back of her neck.
Their breath mingles.
*
It takes only a second for Beca to respond, to surge forward and kiss her like she’s wanted to for two solid days, to press into soft lips and feel Chloe’s sigh of finally, finally, pass through her like mist. It happens with a burst of overwhelming joy as she lets herself lose everything in the taste of Chloe’s lips, her arms tight around Chloe’s waist even as the rest of her body goes slack and her knees threaten to give away under the force of it all. It’s too much and too little at the same time, and she closes her eyes tighter and concentrates on the way Chloe’s body grinds incessantly into her own, hot and wet and sending a wave of pleasure vibrating through Beca’s body. Dimly Beca realizes that she’s running her hands along Chloe’s back, clawing in an attempt to pull her closer, and Chloe responds with so much want that Beca hits the wall behind her with a thump and barely feels it. Hands are under her shirt and running along her sides and her own are preoccupied with touching as much of Chloe as she can.
It’s perfect and devastating.
But then Chloe breaks the kiss for air, almost sobbing against Beca’s mouth, and it’s enough to break her from her stupor.
“Chloe, wait-“
“Why?” Chloe breathes, and it takes everything in Beca to resist the urge to kiss her again.
“I can’t do this, Chloe.”
Nothing has changed. The world hasn’t stopped turning, and as Chloe looks at her, incredulous, the digital clock behind her flips into another hour. Mocking her as the sand begins to run out. They're the same people they were, and Beca can almost see the crossroads where their paths will inevitably diverge.
Beca’s words dangle between them, precarious.
And then they sink in, and Chloe presses her fingers to her lips and steps backwards, a panic flushing across her face.
“Oh, shit- did I read this wrong? I’m so sorry, Beca, I never meant to make you-
Beca stumbles forward in a frantic effort to calm her.
“No, no. I want it, Chloe, I do. I’ve wanted it all this time, since you first stepped on that bus, and I’ve been fighting it so hard but God, you have no idea how much I want you.”
“Then why not?” Chloe whispers, stepping closer with pain written across every feature. She reaches out but Beca pulls back, giving herself more space. God, she needed more space if she was going to do this.
She takes a deep breath.
“I just- I take one look at you and all I want to do is kiss you, Chloe, but we’re both leaving tomorrow, in completely opposite directions, and then you’re out of my life. I’m not going to make this a one night stand, Chloe, I’m not starting something and then not finishing it. You’re worth more than that.”
“I don’t care. Please, Beca-“
“I’m sorry.”
Chloe recoils as if she’s been struck, and she staggers back to sit numbly on the bed. Beca waits in terrible silence against the wall, her lips still red and her body still buzzing with the force of Chloe’s kiss. A minute passes; two. Some inner war is raging in the room but neither of them dare to move until Chloe’s head snaps up.
“Come with me to New York.”
“What?” Beca whispers, disbelief turning her to stone. Chloe is staring at her with so much goddamn pain in her blue eyes that Beca automatically looks down and away, presses her side against the wall for stability. Her breath comes in hurried pants. It’s ringing in her ears, drowning out every rational thought she can muster in a haze of Chloe.
Come with me. Come with me.
“Switch in your ticket tomorrow and come with me.”
And again.
“You know I can’t do that.”
Chloe only steps forward again, her voice rising with each syllable.
“Then I’ll leave and come with you. I don’t need New York to make me happy. I can do my job anywhere, it doesn’t matter as much as you matter to me, Beca. I know you want it- I know you feel it.”
“Your dream, Chloe- your dream is in the Amazon, it’s seeing the entire world and meeting new people, not sacrificing your life and your career to stay with me. I’ll never forgive myself and you won’t either, if I keep you from that.”
Chloe shakes her head vehemently.
“You’re my dream now. I don’t know what happened these past few days, but- they’ve surpassed anything I’ve ever imagined could happen with another person. I got on that bus without expecting anything, and then you somehow made me expect everything- you did this to me. You know it and I know it and all I’m asking you to do is take it, Beca, because it’s yours.”
It’s everything Beca has ever wanted someone to say to her, and it’s terrifying. It’s terrifying because it’s Chloe and she can only give her one answer.
“I can’t.”
It’s the third time she’s said it, and the anger that rises in Chloe is palpable enough to taste, and it rears its ugly head almost as soon as Beca is aware of it.
“Goddamn it, Beca, you’re just going to give up without a fight? You’re just going to walk away from this as if it means nothing to you?”
Beca slams her hand against the wall in frustration.
“This isn’t a fucking rom-com, Chloe. There’s no guaranteed happy ending, there’s no act of God to solve all of our problems. We can’t be six thousand miles apart for two years and somehow stay the same people we are. You know as well as I do that you can’t fight for a stranger.”
“Or maybe you’re just a coward.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Yes, it is, because cowards run from what they don’t understand. So afraid of something that might actually be real that all they do is push other people away.”
“You really think I mean to hurt you?”
“I don’t know what to think anymore- I guess you’re right, we don’t really know each other after all. Maybe everything I’m feeling is just a passing infatuation and you’re taking advantage of it because it makes you feel like you have some sort of control over me. Maybe this is all some game to you. Get someone to fall in love with you and then stab them in the back.”
“That’s- so fucking ridiculous,” Beca says, furious with the need to make Chloe understand. She ignores the fresh wound of that word leaving Chloe's lips. “You want to be mad? Be mad, I’m fine with it- hell, maybe I deserve it. You can make me out to be the villain all you want, Chloe, but I’m trying to protect you. I’m trying to be the better person here.”
“I don’t want a better person, I just want you!”
Chloe yells it and covers her face in her hands, tears spilling out from between her fingers. Her shoulders slump in defeat, and now it’s Beca’s turn to ask.
“Chloe, look at me.”
She doesn’t move.
“It’s for the best, okay? Next week you’ll be in the Amazon or Zimbabwe or something, doing what you’re brilliant at. And I won’t do this and leave us hanging for God knows how long, just waiting for it to fall to pieces because we took a step we never should have taken.”
It’s the beginning of the end. They’re worn out. Anger and desperation depart the room in an instant and are replaced by a weariness that weighs them both down like lead.
“I’m not going to change your mind, am I?” Chloe whispers, her head nestled against her knees.
Beca only sighs, reaches to click off the light, then walks slowly towards her own bed, hearing the mattress creak as she sits and looks to where Chloe’s still form lies in the darkness. Nothing in her experience tells her how to navigate this, breaking someone’s heart. And God forbid, because she’s not sure she can do this ever again.
“I’m sorry.”
Chloe turns away.
Beca presses her pillow over her face to drown out her sobs, listens to Chloe cry herself to sleep, and wonders how much she’s going to hate herself in the morning.
*
The next morning arrives.
Chloe doesn’t look at her, not while they’re dressing in silence, or when they head downstairs to check out, not when Chloe flings their room key on the counter and practically runs out of the hotel before Beca can stop her.
Beca gazes after her and slumps, exhausted, against the counter. The pain washes over her in waves as she follows, shielding her eyes against the sun.
Chloe is waiting there, huddled on a bench, watching the other passengers load their luggage onto the bus. Beca sits beside her, on the opposite end, leaving room between them like she’ll be burned if she gets too close.
“I can’t help but feel like the universe is punishing me.”
“Chloe-“
“I wait all my life to find you, and then you’re leaving. How messed up is that?”
Beca is cried out, every muscle in her drained of energy, but she still feels the ache in her eyes when she hears the brokenness in Chloe’s voice.
“In any other life,” she whispers weakly, knowing that it isn’t enough for anyone, let alone Chloe, who believes with all the passion of a million dying suns, and what’s more, expects everyone else to believe it too.
Chloe gives her a look of complete betrayal and something wrenches itself loose deep in Beca, and she wonders for the millionth time how this girl managed to worm herself into her that deeply when Beca herself didn’t know how to feel.
Because this is not that kind of world and Beca is not that type of person, and what kind of girl falls in love in two days and then expects the entire world to just fall into place?
“You only get one, Beca.” Chloe whispers back, not bothering to mask the bitterness.
She feels Chloe’s hands in her hair, Chloe’s lips on Beca’s shoulder, the shaking of her body as she begins to sob. It wracks through the both of them, and all Beca can do it hold her harder, trying to keep her together when she’s breaking apart.
Suddenly, the train whistle startles the two of them apart, but only enough that Beca sees the blotchy tears on Chloe’s face. It’s the last warning they’ll get; if Beca doesn’t go now, she’ll miss the bus for sure.
But she’ll keep Chloe.
The scales wobble in her mind.
“You gettin’ on?”
“Just give me one second.” Beca snaps, and the bus driver takes one look at them before clucking his tongue and disappearing.
“Beca-“
“I need to be good for you first, okay?” She blurts out, and it’s the last thing she wanted, needed to say.
“I’ve never been good enough for anyone in my life, Chloe. Not my parents, not myself. I’m not going to add you to that list, or pretend that I can be everything that you need because I can’t, Chloe, not now, and you deserve better than I can give you. You have your life, and I have mine. Maybe they’ll be the same one, someday, but not now.”
“Life isn’t meant to be lived alone, Beca.”
“I know. But I need to see what it’s like, so I know better days are coming.”
“Will you find me again?”
“I promise you I will.”
Chloe bites her lip, and Beca can’t help but smile, because despite the tears on her face Chloe still looks damn gorgeous. The morning sun lights up her hair, but this time she doesn’t look like she’s burning. Not at all.
Chloe’s glowing.
“Last call!” the driver bellows.
Beca releases Chloe from her grasp and turns to go. Then, suddenly, she feels arms spin her around and a fierce, blazing kiss is pressed to her lips before Chloe breaks away to whisper “Come back to me someday” against her ear and pushes something into Beca’s hand. Then she’s given a gentle push in the direction of the bus, and her feet numbly carry her forward.
Each step feels like fighting an incoming tide, and she looks back at the woman she just left once she gets to her seat, and doesn’t stop looking until Chloe is obscured by dust. Once it lifts, she’s disappeared.
Gone.
Beca slumps in her chair, dazed.
Chloe’s ladybug swims in a pool of metal on her palm.
*
Two Years Later
“Hey, Beale.”
“Yeah?” She’s immersed inside her work, waving an impatient hand at the interruption. Two years of documenting and crusading against the parasitic logging companies destroying the world were not going to waste just because some idiot said so. Her fingers fly over the keys and her eyes ache from the glow of the computer screen.
“It’s long past closing time.”
She glances at the clock and realizes that it’s almost seven, the rest of the office deserted but for her boss, who gently lays a hand on the drafts on Chloe’s desk.
“You’ve done plenty today- go home, Chloe. You don’t need to be spending your entire life here.”
He nods at the door, and Chloe throws a few papers into her briefcase and snaps it shut before leaving the office.
*
The elevator in her apartment complex is broken, and Chloe groans as she begins the five-flight trek up to her floor. It’s late and she’s exhausted and all she wants to do is eat ramen and pass out on her couch to sleep for the next week.
Her knees are killing her by the time Chloe reaches her door, and her eyelids droop as she fumbles around her purse for her keys. But then, suddenly, she catches a glimpse of silver at her door and stops dead, the key stuck halfway in the door.
Her ladybug is hanging on the handle.
The briefcase falls to the floor with a thunk as a familiar voice calls out her name.
“Chloe.”
Beca rises from her seat on the carpet. She has her hands stuffed in a black leather jacket with a nicer set of headphones slung around her neck, and a newly-minted aura of confidence and strength that floods the entire hallway. But it’s still the Beca that Chloe hasn’t stopped imagining for two years, her image preserved from a single Polaroid photo and an endless ocean of longing.
Beca’s name is the only word that Chloe can say, and she does, almost. She tries. She opens her mouth and she forms the word on her tongue, but nothing comes out. Her vocal chords refuse to obey her, and all she can do is stare and Beca gets closer, closer.
She crosses the distance. She’s so close that Chloe can see each little laugh-line at the edge of Beca’s eyes, can feel the stuttered, nervous breath that Beca releases.
“Am I too late?”
Two years are gone in two steps. Chloe just looks at Beca, opens her heart, and pulls her into a kiss.