Chapter 88: Birthday Party
Andrew left Monica's apartment at ten, said his goodbyes, and walked home thinking about the SAT in two days and whether he'd prepared as well as he thought he had.
The answer, he decided, was yes. The work was done. The panel was at Proficient 21/100 on test-taking skills and had stopped moving meaningfully three days ago, which he'd learned to read as the signal that additional cramming had diminishing returns. What moved exam performance at this point was sleep and composure, not more practice tests.
He went to bed at ten-thirty and slept well.
SAT exam day. Testing center, Upper West Side.
Andrew arrived with his admission ticket, two pencils, and the specific internal quiet of someone who had done the preparation and was now just executing.
No nerves, exactly. More like impatience — the feeling of standing at a door that had been closed for a while and was about to open.
He was thinking about Columbia versus NYU when a car pulled up at the curb and Lola got out.
"Andrew." She smiled, slightly tense around the edges. "Good morning."
"Morning." He fell into step beside her toward the entrance. "Ready?"
"I think so." She exhaled. "I've been ready for three months. At some point you just have to go in."
"That's exactly right," Andrew said.
They went in.
The exam took four hours. Andrew finished each section with time to spare, reviewed his answers, and didn't second-guess anything he'd marked with confidence. The math section had two questions that required genuine thought rather than pattern recognition — he spent extra time on those and felt good about both answers when he moved on.
He came out into the afternoon light with the clean feeling of something completed.
Lola came out ten minutes later, found him on the steps, and sat down beside him.
"How do you think you did?" she said.
"Well," Andrew said. "You?"
"I don't know yet." She looked at the street. "Better than last time, I think. The reading section felt different — I wasn't fighting it the way I was in May." She paused. "Thank you for what you said. About not letting the case be the reason."
"You did the work," Andrew said. "That was you."
She smiled. "Results in three weeks."
"Three weeks," he confirmed.
They parted on the corner — she had somewhere to be, he had a food truck to prep for tomorrow's service. He walked home feeling the particular lightness of a task genuinely finished.
Ten days later. The night before Monica's birthday party. June 14th.
Monica's apartment was operating at a specific frequency that Andrew recognized as Monica in full event-preparation mode — a state that combined the organizational precision of an air traffic controller with the emotional investment of someone for whom a birthday dinner was also a statement about their values and capabilities.
Ross and Joey were being directed around the apartment with the focused efficiency of soldiers who understood that questioning orders was not an available option.
Chandler was sitting near the kitchen with the expression of a man managing several things simultaneously.
Andrew came in at seven, hung his jacket, and had been in the apartment for approximately forty-five seconds before Monica materialized at his elbow.
"Andrew. Can I have a word?"
She was already moving toward the hallway. Andrew followed. Chandler, seeing his opportunity, fell in behind them — apparently this conversation involved him too.
The three of them stood in the hallway outside Monica's door.
Monica looked at Chandler first. "I need you to not break up with Janice tomorrow."
Chandler spread his hands. "Monica—"
"I know you're thinking about it. I can tell from your face. Your face does a specific thing when you're building up to something." She crossed her arms. "My parents are coming. I need the guest list to stay stable. One relationship implosion per birthday is my limit and I haven't had one yet so I'd like to keep it that way."
"Monica." Chandler's voice went up slightly. "If I don't say something tomorrow, she's going to talk about moving in. She's already mentioned it twice this week."
Monica opened her mouth.
"Cohabitation," Chandler said, with the emphasis of a man reading from a list of concerns. "Her laugh. Every morning. Her 'Oh my God' every time something happens on television. Monica, I love her, I do, but I cannot have that be the first sound I hear every day for the rest of my life."
Andrew said nothing. He was watching this with the specific attention of someone who understood both sides of the situation clearly.
Monica looked at Chandler for a long moment.
"Have you talked to your therapist about this?" she said.
Chandler blinked. "How do you know about—"
"Ross told me."
"Ross," Chandler said, with feeling.
"What did your therapist say?" Monica pressed.
"She said—" Chandler stopped. Started again. "She said the laugh isn't the issue. She said I know that. She said the issue is that I'm looking for a reason that sounds external so I don't have to deal with the internal one." He said it with the flat delivery of someone reciting something they'd been told that they found accurate and irritating in equal measure.
Monica looked at him.
Andrew looked at him.
"Okay," Chandler said, to the hallway wall. "Okay. I won't do anything tomorrow."
"Thank you," Monica said.
"But after the party—"
"After the party is after the party," Monica said. "That's between you and Janice and your therapist."
Chandler nodded. He looked slightly relieved, actually — the decision deferred by one day, but the recognition of what the real work was sitting more clearly.
Monica turned to Andrew.
"You," she said.
"Me," Andrew said.
"My parents will be here. My friends will be here. This is my birthday party and I am asking you — sincerely, as your friend — to not turn it into an episode of something." She looked at him steadily. "No disappearing into rooms with people. No showing up with someone and then ignoring them. Just be a normal person for one evening."
"I'm always a normal person," Andrew said.
Monica's expression communicated her specific feelings about this characterization.
"I'll behave," Andrew said.
"Thank you." She straightened up. "The party starts at seven tomorrow. Dress nicely. Both of you."
She went back inside.
Chandler and Andrew stood in the hallway for a moment.
"She knows about the therapist," Chandler said.
"Ross has a lot of feelings and not always good judgment about which ones to share," Andrew said.
"That's the most accurate thing anyone's said all week." Chandler pushed the hallway door open. "Are you actually going to behave tomorrow?"
"Probably," Andrew said.
"That's what I thought." Chandler held the door. "Come on. Monica made something for dinner and I've been smelling it for an hour and I need it."
They went back inside.
Across the room, Janice was talking to Phoebe with the warm, interested attention she brought to everyone, and Phoebe was responding with genuine engagement because Phoebe responded to genuine warmth with genuine warmth, and their conversation had the easy flow of two people who had found an unexpected frequency.
Joey was on the far end of the couch, a safe distance from both of them, eating something Monica had put out.
Andrew sat in the armchair and watched the room do its thing — the specific comfort of people who had been in this room enough times that being here felt like the default state rather than a decision.
Monica's birthday party was tomorrow.
Red Hook had been Thursday.
He hadn't written about Red Hook yet in his head — hadn't processed it, hadn't filed it. That was still sitting somewhere that needed attention.
But tonight was tonight.
He let the room be what it was.
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