Chapter 11: The Best Laid Plans
"Victory!"
Monica changed into her favorite outfit — the wrap dress she'd been saving for exactly this kind of occasion — and spent twenty minutes on her hair before deciding it looked better the way it had been before she touched it. She did an extra button up instead of down, then undid it again, then did it back up, then left it. She lit the last of the tall tapers and stood back to look at the table.
Perfect.
She sat on the couch, crossed her legs, and waited.
The knock came at seven on the dot.
"Coming!" She took a breath, smoothed the front of her dress, crossed to the door, and opened it with her best effortless smile. "Andrew, you're right on ti — Ross."
Her brother stood in the hallway. Behind him: Chandler. Behind Chandler: Andrew, still holding a foil-wrapped packet. And beside Andrew, arm looped through his with the serene confidence of someone who had already won and was simply here to collect: Phoebe.
Monica stared at all four of them.
"Hey, Mon." Ross gave a small, careful wave.
"Why are you — how did you —" She looked from face to face, her brain running the numbers. "Phoebe, I gave you a movie ticket."
"I know." Phoebe smiled. "I didn't go."
"Surprise!" Chandler said, in the voice of a man who understood exactly what he was walking into and had decided to enjoy it anyway. He stepped past her into the apartment, clocked the candles, the tablecloth, the good plates, and let out a low whistle. "Wow, Monica. You really went all out for your casual group dinner."
"Zip it, Chandler."
"Zipping."
Phoebe walked Andrew inside, looked around at the carefully set table with wide, delighted eyes, and turned back to Monica with an expression of total innocence. "This looks amazing, Mon. You did all this for us? You didn't have to."
Then, just over her shoulder where only Monica could see, she mouthed two words: I won.
Monica's smile went rigid. "Let me just — I'll be right back. Make yourselves at home." She gestured broadly at the apartment, turned on her heel, and walked into her bedroom at a pace that was technically not stomping.
The door didn't technically slam.
She stood in the middle of her room and pressed both hands flat against her stomach and breathed.
Okay. Okay. This is fine. This is recoverable.
She pulled her hair back, let it down, pulled it back again, and changed into jeans and a sweater. Then she walked back out.
Everyone had migrated to the table. Phoebe had taken the seat on Andrew's left. Ross and Chandler had settled across from him, Ross with the expression of a man who felt guilty being there and had already talked himself out of leaving, Chandler with the expression of a man who had ordered front-row seats to exactly this.
Monica sat down on Andrew's right, looked directly at Phoebe, and said, at a perfectly conversational volume: "It's not over."
"It hasn't even started," Phoebe said pleasantly.
"Oh, it started."
"Ladies—" Ross began.
"It started," Monica repeated.
Andrew looked at the centerpiece candle like he was considering putting his face in it.
The food, at least, was objectively excellent. Monica's filet was perfect — she knew it was perfect, she'd been monitoring the internal temperature every eight minutes — and the pasta had that particular depth that only came from making the sauce an hour ahead and letting it sit. Chandler served himself a second helping without being asked, which was the sincerest form of compliment he was capable of.
Andrew had set his foil packet on the counter when he came in. Monica, in a spirit of grudging fairness, had unwrapped it and put the brownies on a plate.
"These are actually really good," Chandler said, reaching for his second one before dinner was technically over. "Did you make these from scratch?"
"Box mix," Andrew said. "But I added espresso powder. Makes them taste like you made them from scratch."
"That's the most useful thing anyone has told me this year."
Ross had been quiet for most of the meal in the distracted, inward way he'd had lately — present at the table but somewhere else entirely. Monica noticed. She always noticed with Ross. She just hadn't figured out yet how to ask.
She filed it away.
"So," Phoebe said, with the timing of someone who had been waiting for exactly the right moment. "Andrew, I was thinking about what you said yesterday, about—"
"Oh, I'm sorry, were we in the middle of something?" Monica set her fork down. "Because I thought we were having a conversation about cooking."
"You were having a conversation about cooking. The rest of us were having dinner."
"Andrew was interested."
"Andrew was being polite."
"I was a little interested," Andrew offered, which helped no one.
Phoebe set down her own fork. She looked at Monica. Monica looked back at her. Something passed between them — some escalation, some line being approached — and then Phoebe made a decision, leaned over, and kissed Andrew. Quick, decisive, a clear statement of intent. She pulled back, looked at Monica with the calm satisfaction of someone who had just made an unambiguous move in a board game, and stood up.
"I'm good. Dinner was great, Mon. Really." She picked up her bag. At the door, she paused and turned back. "For the record? I got here first."
She left.
The apartment was quiet for a moment.
Chandler looked at the ceiling. Ross looked at his plate. Andrew looked at nothing in particular.
Monica's gaze drifted, almost involuntarily, toward Andrew.
"Don't," Andrew said.
She looked at him.
"I know what you're thinking, and don't." He set his napkin on the table and leaned back. "Monica. I like you. I like Phoebe. You're both — you're great, genuinely. But I am not a contest." He looked from the door to her. "And neither is she. You guys have been friends for years."
"We're still friends," Monica said, a little defensively.
"Then maybe act like it?" He said it without heat, just plainly. "Whatever this is, it's not about me. You know that, right?"
Monica opened her mouth. Closed it. Looked at the table — the good tablecloth, the tall tapers burned down an inch, the plates she'd gotten out specifically for tonight.
Then, in one fluid motion, she stood up, crossed to Andrew, and kissed him. Firmly. Conclusively.
Andrew blinked.
Monica straightened up, turned toward the door, and called out: "Phoebe!" She was already moving down the hallway. "Phoebe, it doesn't count! You have to be present!"
Her voice faded down the stairwell.
The three men sat at the table in the sudden quiet.
Ross picked up his fork.
Chandler reached for another brownie.
"You know," Andrew said, to no one in particular, "I genuinely thought the speech was going well."
"It was," Chandler said. "Right up until it wasn't."
Ross nodded slowly, with the gravity of someone who had watched this particular pattern play out many times before. "Welcome to the group."
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