Chapter 15: The Thanksgiving Disaster P 1 of 7
Monica Geller stood in the community room, apron blindingly white against the scuffed floor, the sharp scent of bleach stinging her nostrils and coating her dry throat. Her clipboard, strapped to her wrist like a lifeline, bore the laminated chart—Geller-Mosby Thanksgiving: A Structural Masterpiece—its edges curling slightly from her grip. Thanksgiving loomed two days away, a deadline pressing on her chest, the faint hum of the overhead lights a reminder of her ticking control. This isn't a holiday. It's a fortress I have to defend, or I'm nothing. Every flaw is a crack in my foundation.
"Okay, Ted, we're at T-minus forty-eight hours," Monica said, voice tight, finger trembling as she pointed at the chart, her dark brown eyes scanning every line. "The turkey brine is perfect, the seating chart is locked, and the ambient jazz playlist is set to a non-offensive 64 decibels."
Ted looked up, blueprint in hand, brown eyes gleaming with that damn half-smile, the scratch of his pen a soft rhythm. "Monica, you're building a cathedral, not a dinner. And I love it. We are the ultimate power couple of holiday perfection." He ran a hand through his hair, hope radiating off him.
The door swung open, and Rachel Green stumbled in, arms laden with boxes, the rustle of brown paper a discordant note in Monica's pristine symphony. "Ta-da!" she announced, dropping them onto a table, a plume of golden glitter exploding like shrapnel, settling on the steamed white tablecloth. "My contribution! Centerpieces!"
Monica's breath caught, a hot tightness blooming behind her sternum, her fingers whitening on the clipboard. She stared at the glitter-dusted fabric, then the boxes—twigs wrapped in orange ribbon, their gnarled forms a visual assault. "Oh. My. God. Rachel. What. Are. Those?" she whispered, voice breaking, a lump choking her.
"Twigs!" Rachel said proudly, selecting a spindly specimen and placing it center stage, her green eyes bright. "They're rustic! And they symbolize our new, organic friendship. I got them half-off at a craft fair!"
"They look like they were gathered from a ditch and spray-painted with old highway line-marker," Robin snarked, leaning against the doorframe, leather jacket creaking, blue eyes cold as she sipped her coffee. "Seriously, twigs aren't chic, Green. They're what squirrels use for bedding."
The tension hit like a wave, Monica's fingers trembling as she adjusted her necklace, the gold cool against her skin. This is sabotage. She's unraveling my lines with every speck of glitter. Across the room, Ross squirmed, sweater cuffs twisting, brown eyes on Rachel's mess, hand rubbing his neck as fear gnawed at him. Her taste could ruin everything. One wrong move, and it's all dust.
The room teetered, Ross clutching his satchel, jaw tight. "Dave from the museum finally got back to me. About my Bigfoot exhibit."
He paused, voice cracking. "He said it was 'too niche' for the 'Family Fun' wing. Too niche? It's a compelling look at the cultural anthropology of cryptozoology!"
Marshall entered, flannel dropping, voice booming as he clapped Ross's back. "Ross, man, Bigfoot is real! Dave is just a hater! You want niche? I'll tell you about the time I presented a paper on the mating calls of the Minnesota Wild Man!"
He laughed, a contagious sound, but Ross's face darkened, hands clenching.
Rachel grabbed her keys, stung. "Fine. If one twig isn't enough to symbolize the organic complexity of my artistic vision, I will get more twigs." She stomped out, glitter settling.
Phoebe arrived, cookie dough tin in hand, eyes dreamy. "Lily and I are making cosmic cookies!"
"Lily clapped, jacket jingling. "I'm using a tiny, mystical star-shaped cutter!"
Chandler sighed, hand on his stomach. "Cosmic indigestion?"
"The chaos is growing. I can feel it turning my insides into a slipknot."
Monica stared at the chart, clipboard thudding to the table, the glitter a mocking sheen. A perfect meal is a controlled variable. This... this is an uncontrolled chemical reaction. The stone in her chest hardened, knuckles white. She marched to the kitchen, shoes clicking, determined to reclaim control.
Later, Monica sat with Phoebe, the room's hum faint, the taste of a pretzel gritty on her tongue. Phoebe hummed softly, and their silence stretched, a fragile peace. Her necklace glinted, mind racing to salvage order, the faint scent of dough lingering.
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