Heeeellllloooooo, eeeevvvvvv'rrrryyyybaaahhhddddyyyyy! (I don't know why I felt like rumbling that out like the announcer at a wrestling match.) Thank you all soooooo much for the continued support. :) I can't say this enough, but it all means so much to me and never fails to make my day. So, this next chapter is preeeettttyyyy long, but quite a lot happens in it, so I hope it will hold your attention from start to finish. I'm always excited to hear what you think, so be sure to leave a review! XD I take all of the suggestions and critiques into consideration, even though most of this story is already written out, so I may not be able to squeeze in a plot idea. But still, I do appreciate them all.

And without further ado from your thankful, rambling author, I present the newest chapter! *Spanks rump of trusty steed* And onward we go. :D

CHAPTER EIGHT

"I still can't believe you ordered fat-free, sugar-free frozen yogurt!" I scoff, shaking my head back and forth. "Seriously, Jeff, that's not even worthy of being considered real ice cream!"

We take seats opposite each other at a vintage red vinyl booth. "Hey," he says defensively. "Do you think a body this toned and beautiful is naturally given? No; it takes dedication to carefully planned meals and a rigorous daily work-out to achieve this masterpiece." He sweeps his hand over his body, and I try not to blush as I imagine a shirtless Jeff, manly perspiration beaded over his tanned skin, performing a pull-up on a bar in his home gym.

And now I'm trying really hard not to blush as I imagine him wearing nothing but his notorious (and glorious) pair of blue-and-green striped underwear that show off the perfect toning of his butt and the length of his long legs… Oh, God! Stop it, you pervert! I admonish myself. An innocent ice cream date is not an appropriate time for a Scrubs-worthy elaborate daydream sequence!

"Well," I say after oh-so-casually clearing my throat and thanking the heat in my cheeks for melting away, "I have to admit that I'm disappointed in you, Jeffrey. You promised a night worthy of being called 'the time of our lives,' and yet you buy the healthiest type of dessert at an ice cream parlor." I gesture down to my glorious banana split, three scoops of ice cream (vanilla, chocolate, and strawberry) with two long frozen bananas, whipped cream, nuts, and a maraschino cherry atop each perfect mound of ice cream. "This is what living life is all about."

"A sugar-coma in a bowl?" Jeff quips. "A one-way ticket to Thunder Thighs City?"

"Gee, thanks," I frown, taking a cue from Shirley and playing up the guilt factor. "Not only are you insulting the very point of tonight's carpe diem attitude, but you're also insinuating that I'm going to get fat after eating this." I do my best to pretend like I'm offended; I consider going in for the kill, skipping the Puppy Dog Pout altogether and heading straight into Disney Princess Face.

But Jeff has already fallen for it. "You're right," he says, standing up with his cone of boring and promptly tossing it into the trash can between our booth and the one next to us. "I'm going to order something so fattening and atrociously delicious, Bob Harper will cry with shame!"

"That's the spirit!" I cheer, dropping my offended demeanor at once.

Nodding in determination, Jeff marches over to place his order; he returns with a large hot fudge sundae with the works. He slides back into his seat, lifts his white plastic spoon with a rigid fist, and then…just stares down at the dessert, frozen.

I wait a few seconds, watching him, before saying, "If you want to eat, it usually helps if you put the food on the spoon. You know, just a suggestion."

He nibbles on his lower lip, spoon still frozen midway between himself and his sundae. "Do you know how many calories are in this?" he asks rhetorically, eyes probing mine, trying to make me see reason. "I would be throwing away a full week's worth of treadmill action just by eating half of it."

"Think of it as one small step backward for your over-the-top training regime, and one giant leap forward for your very grateful taste buds," I suggest.

Jeff twists his lower lip sideways with his top row of teeth, a diagonal mark of uncertainty slashed across his handsome face. "I…it...it's mocking me, Annie! It's laughing at me with its caramel and chocolate and those hot pieces of brownie! Why do you hate me so much?" He demands of his dessert, slouching eye-level with it. "Why?"

I can't tell if he's joking or not, since Crazy Jeff can come out when his perfect physique is being threatened, but I'm too busy being distracted by his adorable pronunciation of 'caramel' to give it much thought. (He says 'care-a-mel' instead of 'car-mel.' How cute is that?)

"Jeff," I say gently, "it's just a hot fudge sundae. I promise you're still going to look just as gorgeous after eating it, and your flawless body will not be irreparably damaged." I blush at my effusive compliments toward him, at the way he looks up at me and this strange expression calms his face and softens his eyes.

A brisk nod graces his neck. "You're right. Really. I need to learn how to live a little." He takes a hearty scoop of the ice cream; as soon as it's met his mouth, whipped cream and vanilla and hot chocolate drizzle and finely chopped nuts, his eyes roll skyward and his shoulders tense in the way only a foodgasm can.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows; he opens his mouth to comment, but instead chooses to stuff it with more ice cream. I watch him dig in, hardly able to remember the social etiquette of eating slowly and with restraint, and I find myself grinning like a fool at him.

"See what happens when you finally stop fighting it?" I ask. "See how wonderful it is when you give into temptation of the thing you really want, of something that you think is bad for you, but really it's the best thing you've ever tasted?"

I didn't mean to, but as soon as the words leave me, I realize that perhaps I am not just talking about ice cream. Perhaps I am talking about a matter far more significant than the calorie content of frozen sugar confections.

Jeff seems to realize this, too; his lawyer-trained brain knows the meaning of metaphors and double entendres. He slows his pace of eating and looks at me; something passes between us, something almost tangible but undefined, something that charges the air and makes us both still as statues.

Then, like a breeze – no, something more visible but equally unattainable, like a puff of smoke swirling away – the moment disappears and Jeff resumes eating his hot fudge sundae and I go back to working on my banana split.

We finish our ice creams with easy conversation, marked but his witty penchant for bantering and my giggles at his antics. We end up swapping our desserts about halfway through, wanting to switch things up a bit, and the simple action feels intimate to me in such a wonderful way, like something real couples would do.

I enjoy the decadence of his treat and he enjoys the flavor of mine, but as I watch him spoon a bite into his parted lips, I think to myself that all I really want a taste of right now is his kiss.

After we finish as much of the dessert as we can without bursting, we head out of the ice cream parlor and into his Lexus. The night is 10:30, still relatively young (though I'm not planning to stay out past midnight, since I'm not going to break my promise to Abed of reenacting the movie scene with him when I get back), and I wonder what adventures the universe has in store for us next.

"Where to now, Milady?" Jeff inquires.

I will never get tired of him calling me that. I could legally change my name to 'Milady' and have him say it to me every time he sees me or needs to ask me a question or introduce me to somebody else, and I will always feel a warm thrill at him calling me his 'Milady.'

"Surprise me," I say. "I picked the ice cream, so now it's your turn."

His fingers twirl the key in the ignition, pausing there as he considers our next option. A few moments pass until he breaks into a charming lopsided grin and turns to me. "I know the perfect place."

His hands transfer to the steering wheel, and then we are on our way out of the parking lot and toward our next great destination.

"Wow."

The word is an awed breath escaping my rounded lips, an exclamation point marking the width of my eyes.

Jeff's "perfect place" is the Greendale Park, a beautiful and serene place still filled with thousands of twinkling gold-and-silver wintertime lights and glowing paper lanterns dancing from tree branches. You would think since Christmas was last month, the ambiance of the park would have been taken down, but since it's more general winter spirit and less holiday celebration, Greendale leaves its park decorated until the end of January.

The night is cold but thankfully not windy, and we're bundled up enough to feel warm anyway. I wonder if we'll get snow soon, since it almost always snows profusely in Colorado winter, but this year has been unseasonably warm.

I'm thinking thank God I wore tights under my skirt today to help ward off the chill when Jeff once again comes around to my side of the car and opens the door for me.

I expect him to hold out his arm, but he does something even better: he offers me his hand, and I accept, my pink-mittened-fingers sliding between the gaps of his bare ones.

"It's beautiful," I say, looking around in wonder. "I hadn't gotten a chance to see it this year, and I'm glad you decided to take me here."

"Yeah, it's really something all right," he agrees, sounding just as impressed as I feel. "It's hard to believe that Greendale Community College is such a dump when there's a place as fancy as this not more than five miles away."

I nod in agreement.

We walk around the giant park for a few minutes in a companionable silence. The whole time I keep thinking: Jeff is holding my hand; Jeff is holding my HAND! And even though it does feel kind of weird to hold hands while wearing mittens, and his is so big that it swallows mine up, I feel comforted and protected.

I decide to say something. "This is really nice, Jeff. I can't remember the last time we spent so much time together, just the two of us."

"Yeah, we need to do this more often," he agrees. "Two good friends, hanging out, enjoying each other's relatively sane company."

I try not to frown at his calling us 'friends.' The word feels so plain and dull, so not special or what I really want for us.

"Yeah," I mutter, "friends."

We come across a bench and Jeff suggests we sit down for a while. I agree and we perch upon the bench, so close that the sides of us touch, thigh-to-thigh and hip-to-hip and side-to-side and shoulder-to-a-bit-below-his-taller-shoulder. My heart immediately picks up speed at his nearness, at the scent of his expensive cologne and fancy hair products.

"So," Jeff says, and even with just one word, I know I'm not going to like where he's taking this, "Britta and Troy. That's really weird, right?" The question is posed too casually, and the implication is more statement than inquiry, more of him prompting me to agree than him genuinely seeking my opinion.

"I don't think so," I say carefully, knowing this is headed down a precarious road. "I think they're cute together. And they've been friends for so long before dating that their levels of respect for each other are already high."

"Yeah, but…" Jeff hedges. "If they break up, their friendship could become awkward or even ruined. They might divide the group in half, whether wittingly or not. And, you know…she's a lot older than him."

And there it is. The dreaded bingo! of it all. I hadn't seen his point until he said that last part. Jeff doesn't really think the core of their friendship is in danger, since Troy and Britta care about each other so much that there's no way they could ever not be at least friends.

Nope, Jeff's real purpose for bringing up this topic is all with those six words: 'she's a lot older than him.' He said it's weird that 'she's a lot older than him.'

Meaning it's weird that Jeff is a lot older than me.

I have to tilt my head back to look at him; my glare shoots upward, squinted eyes and flared nostrils. He angles his chin down, allowing his unreadable blue eyes to meet the disbelieving anger surely hardening mine.

"This isn't about Troy and Britta," I say bitterly. It's not a question or a statement; it's an accusation. "This is a poorly-veiled discussion about our relationship." I yank my hand out of his grasp and fold my arms violently across my chest, not caring to apologize when one of my elbows jabs his side in the process.

Jeff starts floundering, trying to backtrack, to steer me in a false direction. "No, of course not, why would this be about us, I mean…" But he knows I'm no dummy; he quickly gives up his charade and heaves a heavy sigh that puffs a small cloud through the cold air.

"Okay, fine," he says. "I am referring to us."

"Why do you always do this, Jeff?" I demand, scooting away from him. "We're having a great night, free of any kind of awkwardness, and then you go and bring up the elephant in the room. Which, newsflash, isn't even an elephant anymore! Clearly our friends would not care if we dated, and you know how I feel. The only one standing in the way of our relationship is you." I kind of can't believe I'm saying all of this, but the words pour from my mouth without consulting my brain first. I talk fast, a tremor distorting the faux-confidence of my tone, and my hands ball into fists within my lap.

"I'm old enough to be your father!" Jeff says rather harshly, frustration barbing each syllable. "Just by me admitting that I like you as more than a friend makes me look like a pervert. I don't want to end up on the receiving end of an interview with Chris Hansen, okay?"

"God, Jeff! I'm twenty-years-old! That's both legal and mature enough to date you! It's not like I'm still a naïve eighteen-year-old who's fresh from high school with a recovering pill addiction anymore. I'm a grown-up!"

"You're not a grown-up; you're not an adult. You're still a kid, Annie. You wear headbands with little flowers on them, and you get squeamish when talking about sex, and you're not even old enough to legally drink yet! How will it look when I go into a bar with my girlfriend and can't even order her anything other than a Shirley Temple?"

"Then we won't go to bars," I say, ignoring all of his other points. "We can go to other places."

"Like where?" Jeff asks, emitting a derisive snort as he adds in a sarcastic tone, "Chuck E. Cheese?"

I glare at him.

"Yeah, we can rendezvous in the giant ball pit and then share a cheap cheese pizza while creepy animatronics sing to us from a poorly-lit stage." His words are sardonic, delivered with an extremely aggravating 'see what I mean?' look directed toward me. It cuts right to the bone, a knife piercing my chest.

"You don't have to make fun of me," I hiss. "You're the real little kid here. You're the one who's afraid."

I stand up and rummage through my purse, ducking my head down and willing myself against the sudden urge to start crying. How could such a perfect night turn into something so dark and hurtful? Why does Jeff always have to self-sabotage and ruin everything good between us? Why is he so ashamed of me?

"What are you doing?" He must see me pull out my cell phone because he quickly asks, "Who are you calling?"

I ignore him and start punching in the numbers.

He must have stood up, because suddenly he is at my side, a hesitant hand on my shoulder; I jerk away from his touch but otherwise don't pay him any attention.

"Annie, you're overreacting," he says in his best lawyer smooth-everything-over voice. "Let's sit back down and talk about this."

I have all the numbers ready to go, but I don't hit 'Send' just yet. Instead, I fix Jeff with the sharpest look I can muster. This time I want to slice right into him. It's only fair.

"I want to go home. And I don't want you to take me."

Jeff takes this exasperated breath, as if I'm a petulant kid he's babysitting. "You want me to treat you like an adult? Then stop acting like a child and we can talk about this."

I shake my head, infuriated. "I am not acting like a child! You're being mean!" I realize it is sort of a childish thing to say, the vague accusation of someone being 'mean,' the word coming out as a whine, and I hate Jeff so much for being even the slightest bit right about anything right now.

"Seriously, Jeff," I say, fighting to keep control of the quiver wanting to work its way through my voice. "Why are you so ashamed of me?" I hate how it comes out, like a broken whisper, like all of my vulnerability has just been ripped from within me and hung on display. Not at all like the defiant, disgusted, and powerful tone I'd intended. I feel almost naked, and I reflexively tighten my arms around my middle, trying to cover myself from view, to wrap myself up like my own security blanket.

There is a large lump materializing in my dried throat, and it now hurts when I swallow. I realize I am on the verge of tears, and I feel so pathetic and truly childish that it takes everything in me not to flat-out run away from him.

All of the defensive anger and irritation slips right off of Jeff's face, as if I've just scrubbed him clean with a rag: he's utterly blank. And then his lips flatten into one, and his eyes glow with a sadness and tiredness that make him appear at least five years older. Frown lines crease his forehead, splay just a tad around that mouth of his. A mouth that is always in control and always spinning things to go his way. But right now, he couldn't look anymore defeated.

I have to turn away, because it's like his vulnerability has been yanked from him by a cold fist, just like mine, and though I've often daydreamed of seeing Jeff naked (don't judge me), it's always been in the Sexy Time way. Not like this. Not this nudity, more sad than scandalous, like I'm reading his diary or stroking a finger over his very soul. It makes me feel invasive.

Since my eyes, which are – God, could this night get any worse? – blurred with tears, are cast onto the ground as if they'll burn away if I look anywhere else, I jump at sudden physical contact. Jeff's arms are slipping around me, pulling me into him, and his chin rests atop my head.

"I'm not ashamed of you," he says, so quietly, so completely devoid of his usual bravado, that I wonder if I'm imagining it at first. If maybe this whole night is a dream, a nightmare, maybe even a rendezvous I'm acting out in the Dreamatorium, crazy as that would be – it's all so surreal. But there's also the feeling of his chin, digging sort of uncomfortably into my scalp; and the warmth and strength of his arms, pressing me against him with urgency now, as if he's afraid that relaxing his grip even the tiniest bit would send me flying away on a gust of wind.

And, of course, there's the pounding of my heart, smashing right into my chest; and the way my cold tears have spilled over, landing with minute splashes upon Jeff's shoulder; and there's the frigid air seeping through my mittens, and the sound of Jeff's and my ragged breaths puffing little clouds into the crisp air. So I know that, for better or for worse, this is happening right now, and it's as real as you can get.

"I'm…I'm not ashamed of you, Annie," he repeats, and I'm glad he does, because the words didn't really register with me the first time. But now he's speaking louder, though still with an alarming lack of his trademark confidence, so I'm able to catch and hold onto every syllable. "Don't ever say that again, okay? You're…" – I feel his intake of breath all through his body, then the warmth of it as he releases, spreading across my head, containing the next word with it. – "…amazing."

For some reason, his compliment just makes me want to cry harder. But I'm able to keep the tears at bay, blinking about a thousand times in a row to do so, but I remain strong.

My arms are hanging awkwardly at my sides, unable to move too much since Jeff's are so tightly encircled around me. My cell phone is still in my hand, finger still hovering over the button, even though I no longer have any intention of hitting 'Send.'

It has been too much for one night. Too much wonderfulness and happiness in the beginning, and now too much confusion and anger and pity. And I really, really just want to go home.

"Take me home, Jeff," I say, my tone colorless and wrinkled, like something frail and old that has no swing left, no more punches. "I just want to go home…please."

I can feel Jeff nodding, chin chaffing against my hair as he does so. "Okay," he says. And it's crazy, because the second he steps away from me, taking his arms with him and leaving me with a sudden rush of cold air that chills me right to the bone, I miss him. I want him to hold me again, and maybe this time I'll even hug him back. But my homesickness is too strong for any other emotion to win out right now.

We get into Jeff's car, and I notice that he doesn't open the door for me this time. And it's stupid that it bothers me, because it really shouldn't, and I don't think I really expected him to, but it still sort of does make my heart sink a bit lower.

He starts up the car, the heater blasting, and we're on our way. The hot air is welcome at first, but soon it becomes stifling, suffocating, and my intense urge to be back in my apartment intensifies.

I look down at my phone, at the number still shining expectantly up at me, right under the contact name: 'Abed.' Complete with a picture of him dressed up as Han Solo, striking a somehow both dramatic and goofy pose, trademark finger-pistols a-blazin'. I can hear him, echoing in my head, those silly sounds: "Pew. Pew, pew, pew."

My homesickness hits a fever pitch.

I exit Jeff's car without saying good-bye. I don't even look at him, not even a nod of recognition. I'm honestly not being spiteful; I just know that it would be too awkward to acknowledge him, and the sooner I can put this night past me, the better.

I can't get up to my apartment soon enough, but finally my key is twisting in the lock…but wait, it's unlocked… Which means Troy must have gotten home early, because I know I locked up when I left, and Troy always forgets to lock up behind him. They are lucky to have me as a roommate, if for no other reason than my safety habits.

Before entering, I check my reflection in my compact mirror. Thankfully, it isn't noticeable that I cried a little, and the grin I force at myself is actually even believable. You're going to be fine, Annie, I tell myself, coming this close to patting myself on the back, but deciding against it because, really, how low can one person go in one night in terms of patheticness?

I close the door behind me, flipping the lock and even the slipping the chainlink one too, feeling a strange relish in the finality. Sealing myself in for the night, keeping away the demons that run after me with gnashing jaws and bared claws, ready to sink their teeth right into my heart and make me start crying again. And that is so not going to happen, because my mascara is waterproof and all, but I really don't feel like tonight is the right time to test its limits.

"Annie!"

I turn to Troy's excited greeting; the smile that stretches across my face may be close-lipped, but it isn't even forced.

Because seeing him and Abed sitting together on the couch, flipping through comic books, their sock-covered feet propped up on the coffee table, makes everything suddenly feel good and right with the world. Well…except for maybe the fact that their feet are on the coffee table, ugh!, even though they both know I just cleaned it earlier today.

"Hey, guys," I say, breathing this deep, soothing breath that erases any lingering negativity within me. I ignore the exhaustion from all the arguing with Jeff, and try to focus on the here and now; I feel fresher already.

"You're home early," says Abed, nodding to me in this pleased way, dark brown eyes crinkling in a both speculating and friendly manner.

"Yeah," I say. "So is Troy." I turn to the shorter boy, colorful comic spread open in his lap, a lollipop dangling like James Dean's cigarette from his lips, staining tongue and mouth a bright red.

He pops the lolli out with this dramatic sound, and there's cat-caught-the-canary attitude glittering within his chocolate-colored eyes so prevalently, that I'm almost afraid to hear what he has to say.

"Britta and I watched a movie at her place," he says too casually, triumphant smirk stamped across smug face. "We watched a movie, if you know what I mean." He waggles his eyebrows up and down, and I can't contain an epic eye roll at this.

"Troy, that's not a euphemism," I say. "It doesn't sound at all like a sexual innuendo, and just because you emphasize words, that doesn't give them a double-meaning." I take off my mittens and scarf and winter coat, hang them on the pegs of the wooden coat rack, before dangling my purse there, too. I am stripped down, white sweater and navy miniskirt and black tights, but I still feel like a turtle within her shell. And I'm not going to come out tonight. Maybe tomorrow, but not just yet.

"Yeah," Abed agrees, sending me a nod as I walk over to the armchair to the right of the couch and plop down. "That didn't sound sexual at all." And though he's speaking to Troy, his eyes remain locked on me, and I just know that he knows something happened tonight between me and Jeff. Something that did 'not at all please' me, as he would probably put it.

Troy's eyebrows crease, a cross between perplexed and agitated. "What are you guys talking about? What's a 'you-feminism?' That sounds like something Britta would be into. And an 'in-you-en-dough'…hmmm, is that like a cookie? 'Cause you know, Britta and I had cookies tonight, if you know what I mean." And he commences his celebratory eyebrow dance; I half expect them to grow hands, hold each other's, and then do the wave.

And, okay, this thought might have a genuine giggle warming me from the inside-out, and maybe my groan is a bit more affectionate than disgusted. "Please, spare us the details of your baking! I don't want to think about cookies right now, okay? Or any other kind of dessert. For my sake, please go on a sugar diet…forever."

Abed leans over and plucks the lollipop from Troy's mouth; with a careless wrist, he flicks it over his shoulder, letting it clatter onto the hardwood floor. At Troy's offended eyebrow-furrow and dropped jaw, and at my horrified wide-eyes (I just mopped earlier today, too!), Abed shrugs and returns to his comic book.

"Annie said no more sugar," he says, in a tone that implies he has just done a great service to us. "And lollipops are made of cavity-inflicting sugar."

Troy smacks the palm of his hand against his forehead. "Nooo, Abed, we don't actually mean cookies and sugar and stuff! Britta and I had – "

I interrupt him before he can finish that sentence, because my sanity can only take so much for one night. "Okay!" I clap my hands together…loudly. "So how about that detention scene?"

Nothing will take your mind off your own troubles more thoroughly than being another person.

There is something comfortingly foreign in slipping into the skin of somebody else, stripping away your tribulations the moment you take on theirs. Because problems are always easy to solve when they're not your own.

The wardrobe slides over my body like battle armor, protecting me from my own thoughts, and suddenly the world is no longer such a scary place. I take great pleasure in the reflection staring back at me from the bathroom mirror: it is my own, but it's not really me.

Short red wig with a stylish flip to the ends, pale pink blouse with roomy sleeves, and a tragically long, chocolate-brown skirt: I am no longer Annie Edison; I am Claire Standish, reporting for duty. One pivotal -turning-point movie scene coming right up.

I roll my shoulders back, lift my chin, flick the light off behind me, and step out of the bathroom.

Troy and Abed are already in full costume, sitting around the couch, on the floor of our living room that is now officially a library.

Troy comes into view first, and the sight of him brings back a flood of high school memories, a surge of emotions that make me instantly feel sixteen years old again.

He is playing Andrew Clark: his ensemble is a royal blue tank top that shows off his muscular arms, a simple pair of jeans, and white tennis shoes. But it's the Riverside High letterman jacket hanging on the arm of the couch beside him, one of the many layers Andrew strips away over the course of the movie, that reminds me of all the insecurities and self-consciousness that plagued me back then.

But it also reminds me of the ever-present hope I always felt for the vast, blank eternity of a future stretching so close yet so far in front of me, ready for me to claim it as my own and steer life in the direction I wanted it to go when I was ready. Back then, anything felt possible, no dream too crazy to reach. I wonder what High School Annie would do if she met College Annie. Would she be happy for me? Proud? Pissed off? Disappointed? I honestly don't know, and this fact leaves me greatly unsettled.

A few extra steps forward, and suddenly my eyes land on Abed, perched diagonally from Troy, at first hidden from view by the position of the couch.

And seeing him there in typical Bad Boy attire, his hair mussed and fingerless-gloves on and the red plaid of his shirt bringing out the russet tint of his skin, makes me stop mid-step.

He is looking down at his fingernails carelessly, complete boredom and criminal indifference etched all across his face, and I know that he has already transformed from Abed Nadir to John Bender, probably taking no longer than the blink of an eye, in that utterly flawless way only he can do.

Troy starts laughing good-naturedly upon seeing me in my costume. "Annie as a redhead!" he says with sheer delight, his face lighting up in that innocent, almost-childlike joy that he so often possesses. "You know, you actually kind of pull it off, girl."

Abed looks up at this, and the moment our eyes lock, I see him break character for just a second. He sits up straighter, question marks dancing in his pupils, eyebrows inching toward each other so minimally that the action is almost imperceptible.

And I can't control the shy, close-lipped grin that tugs my pink-lip-sticked mouth upward, or how my fingers shoot up to my wig, patting down the soft auburn hair.

"Don't you think Annie looks as hot as Mary Jane Watson or Cheryl Blossom?" Troy asks Abed. "Well, more like the Little Mermaid, I guess, with her big eyes and stuff."

I break eye-contact and look down at the ground, my cheeks and neck warming, surely growing redder than my wig.

"She's not Annie right now," says Abed. "Just like you are no longer Troy. She's Claire, and you're Andrew, so your question is invalid."

"Whoooaaa," Troy breathes, as if the secret to the whole universe has just been explained to him. "So, we're like a person…within a person! Dude, we're like the human versions of Inception! We're the most badass people ever!"

I have to look over at Troy's extremely thrilled face at this, unable to contain a wave of laughter. "You just described all actors then," I point out. "Or anyone who puts on a costume. Not just us. You do know that, right?"

Troy's gaze flicks to the ceiling, a small vertical line appearing between his thoughtful eyebrows. "Wait…a person within a person…" He gasps, scandalized. "So, like, that means that pregnant women were the first to do the whole 'thing-within-a-thing'… thing. Which means that Christopher Nolan totally ripped off Eve!" His gaze falls back to me and Abed, and upon registering our incredulous expressions, he adds, "You know, Eve! From Adam and Eve, the first people in the Bible?" Yeah, as if that's what we were so nonplussed about.

"Anyway," Troy waves a dismissive hand through the air, "my point is, Annie – uh, I mean, Claire – you make a smokin' hot redhead. It makes your pale skin look extra glow-y."

"Thanks." I tug at the ends of my wig, wanting to start the scene already so I can stop being Annie and finally get to be somebody else for a little bit.

"Yes, you make a very aesthetically pleasing Claire," Abed says. "Though I must say I of course prefer your natural hair color."

"Thanks," I say again, that stubborn warmth returning to my face. "You guys look really nice, too. Very stereotypical jock and bad boy, and you both pull it off very well."

Abed and Troy chime their gratitude, and then Abed switches into Director Mode, reminding us of our individual characters' motivations and secret yearnings, and then of the group's motivation and yearnings as a whole. We're short two characters – Brian and Allison – but Abed insists we can make do with a few strategic "creative maneuverings," as he puts it.

And so we get going, Abed slipping smoothly from Director to Bender, yet another role he was born to play. At first, I'm not going to lie, it's pretty awkward. I've never participated in something to this grand of a scale with the boys before – usually we stick to shadow-puppet shows, or something fun and silly, like knights and princesses and such. But now we're dealing with real human characters, who have real human emotions, and I feel pressured to get it right.

Troy and I don't have really any of the lines memorized (unlike Abed, who knows every syllable, every breath of his part), so paraphrasing is a must. I think I at least do better than Troy, who keeps breaking character by flexing his bulging muscles to the tune of his and Abed's signature Muzak that he keeps humming under his breath, apparently bored with the serious scene and its lack of Horsebot 3000. And he completely ruins Andrew's dramatic reveal because he can't stop immaturely giggling over saying the words "hairy butt." … Ugh.

But Abed never once falters from his role, and I myself find that as each line passes, I leave a piece of Annie behind and replace her with some of Claire, like swapping out one jigsaw puzzle for another, the picture completely changing its shape and colors, but the concept staying the same.

I transfer all of my pent-up emotions from the night into my acting; it makes it all feel almost therapeutic in a way. And when we get to my most dramatic part near the end of our scene, when Bender goads Claire, ripping into her every insecurity and making her façade finally crumble as tears well in her eyes, I find that though I had been dreading this part from the beginning, I end up enjoying it the most.

Sure, it reopens all of my loosely-stitched wounds from the night, makes my heart throb like a bruise, makes a barrage of tears sting my eyes like salt to a sore. But I feel I do Claire justice – I feel I do myself justice – as I cry and yell "shut up!" at Jeff. … No, I mean, at Abed-as-Bender, of course.

It's like a dam has burst, and I can't get the stupid tears to stop leaking from my eyes, as if my whole existence is one big joke, one big faulty plumbing.

"Annnnnd…cut!" Abed finally, mercifully says, clapping his hands together and dropping away John Bender as quickly as if he's letting a loose coat fall from his shoulders and onto the ground. He sheds personas as easily as he sheds clothing, and changes them just as often, wearing a new one each day, though some favorites are weekly staples.

"Great job, everyone!" he says, nodding at both Troy and me proudly, encouragingly, though his gaze does linger on mine for just a few seconds longer, seeming to soften as I swipe beneath my eyes.

"My only critique, really, is for Troy," Abed adds, all business. "It broke the dramatic, supposed-to-be-melancholic mood when you kept laughing during your monologue. That was a very vulnerable and pivotal moment for Andrew, and I felt that your constant chuckling ruined it. And your bicep-dance and humming detracted from Bender and Claire's fight, undermining the seriousness of it."

Troy threw his hands up in exasperation. "Sorry, man, but what do you expect from me? There are a few things that have been scientifically proven to be completely hilarious, like dogs in sweaters or old white people rapping on YouTube, and the words 'hairy butt' are one of them!"

"I think if you stayed connected with your character and kept your mind on the role, then you could be an amazing actor," says Abed. "I'm just trying to give my invaluable input." He shrugs, and I kind of get the feeling that he's a little bit annoyed.

"Thanks, man!" Troy says, focusing just on the 'you could be an amazing actor' part. He grins from ear to ear, oblivious as always to the bigger picture. "It was actually a lotta fun! The acting, I mean. Flawless performance from you, as always, dude. And daaammmn, Annie! You could've won an Oscar Meyer for your skills, you know? Very believable."

I can't help but giggle and smile genuinely. "Thanks, Troy, but it's just an Oscar. Oscar Meyer is a brand of hot dogs."

"Okay, well, you deserve, like, a thousand hot dogs for that and a trophy!" he insists adamantly. "Seeing you cry like that, as if it really made you sad, made me want to cry, too." He rubs his knuckles in a circle across his heart. "It hit close to home."

"Yeah, you did a great job, Annie," Abed says. "A very believable, honest performance. You're a great actress." He reaches a hand over to one of mine, rested atop my knee. He pats the back of it, and as he starts to pull away, I turn mine over, fingers curling around his, grabbing on for dear life.

Our eyes connect; all the sadness and despair and tiredness of tonight weighing down mine, while his are as unreadable and unaffected as always.

But in the moment his grasp tightens around my own, I know he could tell I hadn't really been acting at all.