A/N: Thank you all who read this so faithfully. This is the last chapter, yes. As much as I would have liked to continue this, I no longer feel any attatchment to this story. I hope you've all enjoyed this, though! If you did, read "High Fidelity" by Nick Hornby, or watch the movie, staring John Cusack. That's what this was based off of. That, and my failure at choir competitions. Oh well. I'm sorry I've been such a terrible up-dater. I swear, I will return.

This is a rushed ending, I realize. And I wish I'd given Erin more time to be a real character, but that's how it goes.

I'm off to revise "Pinstripe Tiretracks" and my un-named story.

Chapter 8

I’m going to do it. I’m going to ask her to forgive me. How could I have been such… a tool? How? I don’t know how I feel about life at this given moment, but I realize now that people are counting on Erin bringing me stability… And I was, too, honestly.

I’ve got my laptop out in the airport terminal. Ben is dozing next to me. It’s an eleven at night flight back to New York, but it was cheap. Natalia didn’t want to come, and I don’t blame her.

The funeral was nothing touching. Then again, what was I expecting? Not much, I think. Mom actually did cry, which means that her whole ‘glad he’s dead’ front was sort of a façade. To be honest, it surprised me at first. I guess that was just how she dealt.

Erin is still in my e-mail contacts. I hit the “COMPOSE” button and start. No backspacing, no pausing.

‘Erin,

I know, I know. I’m probably the last person that you want to hear from, but don’t delete this letter! Don’t just hit that key like you did when you found out that your dad was going to marry your step-mom.

So, now that you’re (hopefully) still reading this, just… keep it up.

I’ve been a dick. A jerk-off. A tool. A bastard. Everything you can think of calling a complete idiot of a man. There’s nothing I can say here that I couldn’t say to your face, but maybe I can put it into words without awkward pauses, stupid word fumbling, etc.

I miss you. I miss your multi-colored socks, your weird eating habits (like peaches with chocolate ice-cream), the way you organized the fridge according to the food pyramid.

I miss your smell. It was like cats and dogs and cleaning solution and air-fresheners and occasionally cigarette smoke. If pet-owners emotions had scents, you would have smelled like that, too. Working as a vet must get stupidly tiring. I still don’t understand how you do it. You were always much better with people’s serious situations than I ever will be.

I miss the way we messed up National Holidays. Like eating ham and cheese sandwiches on Thanksgiving or playing Japanese rock songs on Christmas. We threw eggs at the big Christmas tree our second year together, remember? And all that membrane stuff that you know the name for but I keep forgetting shimmered and we thought it was great… Until that lady threatened to call the cops. Remember? We ran to the apartment and turned on the TV and told each other to ‘act natural’, but we couldn’t stop laughing.

The list goes on, and I don’t want to sound stupid. I don’t even know if you’ve read this. I hope you have.

Love,

Will Lawrence.’

And that is my letter. I look at it for a while, and then send it. They call general boarding, and I say goodbye to Ben, who looks me strait in the eye and says to me: “Good luck, alright?”

I nod. “Thanks.”

“And… hey. Call me, alright?”

I stare at him in surprise. “Seriously?”

He nods, abashed. “Just… It wasn’t my place to be such an asshole these past through days. And it doesn’t mean you’re not still a relationship-retard, but you’re not a bad guy.”

Not a bad guy? Is that true? I take my seat in the airplane, not sure of what to think. That was my brother who just told me that. My own brother, who hated me for so long, who was always better than me, had told me I was a good guy. Well, by reason he had called me a good guy. Not a bad guy.

I get back home by four in the morning, and don’t bother to take my socks off as I fall into bed. I’m so tired, I can’t even think straight.

The next morning I call Juliet.

“Y’ello?” She answers her phone lazily.

“Hey, Julia.”

“Lawrence? Oh my god. How are you?”

“Okay. You got more upset than I did. Say, who told you anyway?”

“Your mom.”

“What?”

“Yeah…” She’s probably twirling her hair as she’s speaking, “She called me, ‘cause first she called Erin, but Erin told her that she should call me, ‘cause Erin said that she, that is Erin, was on vacation with her family. So… I was having my period anyway. Sorry about that.”

“Oh. Okay. Listen, Julia. I know I’ve been sorta stupid…”

She laughs loudly, “Sorta?”

“Well, I just Erin to take me back.”

“What?”

“Yeah. I sent her an e-mail.”

“You couldn’t call her, you jerk?”

“It was like, midnight here.”

“Oh. So… what’d she say?”

“I don’t know. I’ll call you back, okay?’

“Oh my god, okay.”

I set my computer up again, and begin to sweat, yes, honestly sweat as I check my e-mail… Score! She’s replied. Oh shit. What if she’s telling me to go screw myself? It takes me a moment, a serious moment of thought, before I open the message.

‘Will,

I get really, stupidly, mind-numbingly bored sometimes. It’s insane. I find that Art is sweet and affectionate and a good kisser and a good person… But so boring. Just… so boring.

I guess what I’m trying to say (and don’t you dare do one of your little ‘victory dances’ when you read this) is that, yes… I miss you, too.

There’s something in me that wants to see your silly little grin, or listen to you sing Broadway show-tunes while making dinner, or find those cute little things you used to leave for me. Those fruity candies and interesting trash you found, like other people’s shopping lists.

It was fun to review casting with you. Those evenings that Mel and you and I would get together and slander the actors up and down. It was… fun. I miss having that.

You were always fun. Even when you were serious. You were helpful and wiped away my worries with your smiles and suggestions. The time that Mrs. Whitman lost her cat, you told me about the free kittens outside the theater. I told her, and she adopted them all. I don’t know if I told you that part. But you made that possible. It was sweet of you.

Not to say that Art isn’t sweet. He just… it’s unexplainable. I guess I really, really liked you. And… Who’s to say? Maybe I still do.

Meet me on Friday at ‘Muddy Water’ and let’s talk.

Erin.’

I can’t believe what I just read. I can’t believe it. Is this it? Is this my chance to clear the slate of all the fuckups I’ve had in my life? Am I going to get back together with Erin?

I call Juliet, we talk excitedly. She wants this badly for me, and wants me to meet her new boyfriend: a card-dealer from Vegas that she met at a club. There’s nothing sexual between me and Juliet now, I know that much.

We can be friends. And I know that’s a cliché, and maybe there will always be that lingering ‘we had sex’ in the air, but I don’t think so. I mean, after knowing each other for nearly all our lives, how could we not? It made sense at the time, and it wouldn’t make sense now.

Mel and I will continue to work together. I know I’ll have to talk to him honestly one of these days about Robin, but I don’t feel up to that yet.

And tonight I will sleep alone. And you know what? I really don’t care.

And that’s the truth.

That’s the god-damned truth.