Chapter Text
In upstate New York, there is a little lakeside town where nothing ever changes.
When they were kids, Ross and Monica would roll their eyes every time their father waxed nostalgic about the town’s timelessness. Every year, he repeated that everything in Bearstooth looked the same as it did when he was a kid, that all the buildings were still there, and that all the same families lived on the little lakefront properties.
Ross was only twenty-seven, but he was starting to understand what his father meant.
This year, Ross didn’t roll his eyes when his father marveled at the fact that he could go to the same ice cream shop that he had when he was a teenager, that he could reconnect with the neighbor he’d met when he was only seven years old.
This year, Ross understood. He almost couldn’t believe it, couldn’t believe that this little town looked the exact same when everything else in his life was so drastically different.
He was divorced. His life, his whole future as he knew it, was completely altered, shattered. And yet, here was Bearstooth. Still the same, entirely intact, just as it was when he was a kid and his biggest worries revolved around Monica knocking down his sandcastles. It didn’t seem like it should be possible.
“Maybe I should just move here,” Ross grumbled.
Monica rolled her eyes, unpacking her suitcase. “I’m pretty sure no one lives here in the winter.”
“Maybe I should just become a hermit, then.”
“Well, the rest of the world wouldn’t be missing out on much.” Ross pouted at Monica’s quip, and she softened up. “Look, I know it’s been a hard year for you. But you’re on vacation! The point is to forget everything else. We’re in paradise; at least try to enjoy it.”
Ross nodded and tried to channel the version of himself from years back, the one who had built empires in the shallows out of rocks and sand. “Yeah, I guess.” He didn’t relish the idea of trying to rebuild his empire–Ant Island, he had called it as a kid. He had conceptualized a safe haven for all the town’s bugs, a little island protected by water where the ants could thrive. What he had actually created was a constantly flooding death trap for the pitiable ants he would steal from the shore.
And what did adults do while on vacation? He couldn’t remember. He remembered drinking too much with Carol and talking her into sex on his childhood bed. But that was out of the question now. He had plenty of memories of beach fun with Monica, but wasn’t he too old now to be playing in the lake with his sister?
“I know what we can do.” Monica smirked as she shut her drawer and made her way into the kitschy sea-themed Jack-and-Jill bathroom they shared.
Ross knew what she was going for before she got the chance to grab it. This was exactly the kind of thing he had been remembering.
“Don’t you think we’re a little old to be playing Rag Tag?”
Monica knelt to the cabinet under the sink and produced an old blue rag. Grinning confidently as she tossed it around in her hands like a ball, Monica said, “Maybe you’re too old to play. I’m still young and nimble. Spry like a cat.”
Ross was not amused. “That’s obviously not what I meant.”
Monica snorted. “I know that’s not what you meant.” Ross started to say thank you, but Monica continued. “You meant that you’re afraid you’ll lose to me again, and so you’re pretending you’re above it.”
“You can’t really ‘lose’ at tag, you know.”
“I can’t. You demonstrably can!”
When Ross rolled his eyes and started to walk away, Monica persisted. “Come on! I’ll give you a head start.”
Ross considered this. He wasn’t sure what else there was to do at the cabin as an adult.
“Come on, ” Monica repeated. “Would you rather sit here alone, moping about Carol?” She tossed the rag into his hands.
Yes.
“No,” Ross mumbled, fiddling with the rag.
“Then, I guess the only explanation is that you’re chicken,” Monica said with a flourish. Even after so many years, something about the way Monica said it was identical to the way she would have as a kid.
It was so nostalgic that Ross had no choice but to chuckle and toss the rag back to Monica in surrender.
Ross had an abundance of delightful childhood memories playing Rag Tag on the raft that floats in the bay of Bearstooth near their lake house. But he was starting to suspect that they were only happy because his parents had been there as a buffer, so he wasn’t spending the entire game getting mercilessly clobbered by Monica.
Even as an adult, he was stunned by the brutal pain a simple washcloth could induce when it was heavy with water and thrown at full force at his face by an arm as strong as Monica’s.
The raft was equipped with a ladder for easy access, a diving board, a high-dive platform, and even a slide. And Monica was finding a way to make every feature of the raft hell for him.
He let out a miserable gurgling sound as he was clobbered in the side of the face by the rag, knocking him off of the high-dive in a panic and flailing into the lake, swallowing water.
He hit the surface hard, squarely on his back, and had to take a moment to recover as the stinging subsided.
Monica laughed from atop the raft, where she had snuck up on him by forgoing the ladder entirely and hauling herself two feet out of the water, over the oil canisters that kept the raft afloat. Ross had felt clever, monitoring the ladder from the high-dive for an easy escape, trying to be tactical about his play, but it was obvious that Monica now felt cleverer. She stared at him as he floated helplessly, waving with a self-satisfied smirk.
She is so not going to get away with this.
She got away with it.
The one part of the raft that Ross had never found very fun was the underside: a row of gaps in the oil canisters created tunnels where a person could swim right under the raft and hide in the dark, in the algae, and hang on the chain that kept it tethered to the bottom of the lake.
Of course, that was where Monica hid out when Ross was It. He wasn’t about to admit that it still gave him the creeps, though, so he summoned his courage and swam under.
Monica flashed him another smug smile and disappeared, swimming right underneath the barrels. The next thing he knew, he was hearing Monica’s feet padding across the raft above.
When the game had started, he had foolishly believed that Monica would tire herself out, and he would be able to wallop her hard in the second half of their game.
It seemed that Monica did not get tired, and he himself was aching at the very thought of having to swim out and climb back onto the raft. Thoroughly defeated, Ross started the slow swim back to the house. Monica followed, still inexhaustible, and she quickly surpassed him.
He had asserted earlier that there really wasn’t any losing in tag, but that was now obviously untrue. It wasn’t that he’d spent the most time as It–functionally, they were pretty evenly matched. It was the fact that he was going home exhausted and sore while Monica was swimming back like an undaunted Olympian, basking in her apparent victory.
“Good game,” Ross grumbled as he heaved himself up onto the dock. He tossed the rag to the ground, not bothering to unfurl it so it could dry.
Monica’s gloating grin fell. “That… was supposed to cheer you up.”
Ross shrugged.
“Hey, you know the deal,” Monica said, bouncing as she made her way towards the house, walking backwards to talk to him. “You lost, so you’re buying ice cream tonight.”
That was a tradition from their teenage years, but Ross didn’t protest. He was now resigned to the timelessness of Bearstooth. He obviously wasn’t an adult.
Monica had been looking forward to this trip for months. Of course, she always looked forward to the annual trip to Bearstooth, but this year, she was especially excited.
Although she would never say it out loud–she felt guilty just for thinking it–part of her was glad that this year, Carol wouldn’t be joining them.
It wasn’t that Monica disliked Carol. In fact, she had liked her quite a lot and relished having a sister for the first time. Of course, that was before she cheated on her brother and left him a broken mess.
But as much as she had liked Carol, the sad fact was that her presence made Monica feel inadequate. Going on their annual family trip with Ross’s wife only served as a reminder that Monica was still alone. She hated being a fifth wheel to the rest of her family, her mom making constant jabs about how she might never get married herself. Monica had never even brought a boyfriend to Bearstooth. She had been planning on bringing Kip last year, but he broke up with her shortly before the trip. Just her luck.
As selfish as it was, Monica had been glad that this year, she wouldn’t be the only single person in the family. Even better, the divorce might take golden boy Ross down a peg or two in their parents’ eyes.
Now that they were here, though, all of that was forgotten. Everywhere they went, Ross was dragging his feet, and Monica just wished she could make him feel better.
The sun was just beginning to set as Monica and Ross made their way down Main Street, their hair still dripping with lake water. The little vacation town of Bearstooth was small enough that pretty much everything was a short walking distance from the Geller’s cabin, including the ice cream shop.
“I don’t even like ice cream,” Ross muttered, shoving his hands into his pockets.
“Too bad, loser,” Monica laughed, giving him a playful shove. “You owe me.”
“It’s too cold,” Ross protested. “It hurts my teeth.”
“So get it with hot fudge,” Monica suggested. “Besides, going to Graber’s is a tradition.”
Ross gave a relenting shrug. “That’s true.”
Graber’s Ice Cream Shop was a staple of any visit to Bearstooth Lake. Ross and Monica’s dad had gone there when he was a kid, as had their grandfather before him. Founded in the 1920s by Theodore Graber, it was one of the oldest establishments in town. Every year, Monica looked forward to freshly baked waffle cones, ice cream sodas, and hot fudge sundaes. Combined with the antique charm of the shop, it was almost Monica’s perfect location.
Almost. There was one little problem, and that was Irene Graber. Daughter of Theodore Graber and current owner of Graber’s, she was older than the shop itself but not nearly as sweet.
Ms. Graber had never been a pleasant woman. In 1952, she caught Jack’s cousin Rose loosening the tops of the salt shakers as a prank. Rose was now fifty-five years old, and she was still banned from the shop.
Monica wasn’t looking forward to seeing the old woman. She was known for scolding children who touched her antiques, ran in the shop, or even spoke just a little too loudly. For Monica though, it was personal. Ms. Graber had never missed an opportunity to make snide remarks about Monica’s weight.
And yet, despite the psychological torture she suffered there, Monica insisted on an annual visit to the ice cream shop. Encounters with Ms. Graber were a small price to pay in exchange for a beautiful family tradition and delicious ice cream.
When Monica and Ross pushed their way through the door, they were greeted by the familiar tinkle of the entryway bell and the smell of freshly-baked waffle cones. They made their way to the counter and gazed through the ancient glass case at the ice cream flavors.
“What are you going to get?” Monica asked, feeling like a kid again as she stood on her toes to get a good look at all the flavors.
“Nothing,” Ross grumbled. “I don’t like ice cream.”
“You’ve gotta get something,” Monica insisted. “You need cheering up.”
“Hm,” said Ross noncommittally.
“Don’t stand so close to the glass!” The sharp voice caused both Ross and Monica to look up. Ms. Graber entered from the back room. “You’ll fog it up,” she muttered.
“Sorry,” said Ross and Monica.
“What’ll it be?” grunted Ms. Graber.
Monica considered her options. “A scoop of the Pirate’s Treasure in a waffle cone for me, please,” she said finally. She glanced at Ross, waiting for him to make his order, but he just shook his head. “And one scoop of vanilla in a cup with hot fudge for my brother,” she added, ignoring his protests.
Ms. Graber narrowed her eyes and fixed Monica with an unpleasant stare. “Alright,” she growled as she began scooping their ice cream.
“Shouldn’t have asked for the fudge,” Ross told her under his breath. “You know how she hates special orders.”
“Something you want to share with the class?” snapped Ms. Graber.
“No, ma’am,” Ross said quickly. “Just… admiring the ice cream.”
They waited in silence while Ms. Graber finished preparing their orders. Ross paid for the treats–cash, as Ms. Graber loathed new technology such as credit cards.
“One Pirate’s Treasure and one vanilla with hot fudge for the special little prince,” the old woman said, wrinkling her nose as she handed their ice cream over the counter.
“Um… thanks,” said Ross.
He and Monica quickly stepped away from the counter and slid into a booth, which still looked exactly as it had in the twenties. Ross ran his fingers over the hand-carved wood and sighed.
“How are you doing?” Monica asked.
Ross shrugged. “Eh.”
“Talk to me,” Monica said.
Ross sighed again, more dramatically this time, and poked at his sundae with his spoon. Monica couldn’t understand what was getting him down. Obviously the sadness was rooted in his divorce, but it had been finalized nearly a year ago. He and Carol had been separated for even longer. Over the past several months, Ross seemed to have been doing better. He had a pet monkey to keep him company at his new apartment–and at Monica’s, much to her annoyance. He had even been on a few dates. It seemed as if Bearstooth Lake, which the Gellers had always considered the greatest place in the world, had erased all his progress.
“I know you miss Carol,” she prompted him when he still said nothing, “but it seems like it’s more than that.”
Ice cream was beginning to drip down onto Monica’s hand, but she would have felt bad licking her cone in this moment. She wished she would have gotten her ice cream in a cup.
“It’s like… it’s like I moved backwards,” Ross mumbled.
“What do you mean?” asked Monica.
“Last year when we were here, I was married,” he sighed. “The future looked good. I was where I wanted to be. And now… it’s like I have to start all over. It’s exactly like when I came here seven years ago, before Carol.”
Monica let out a little snort of laughter, and Ross looked up from his moping to glare at her.
“I’m sorry!” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s just… that’s how I feel every year.”
“Oh, sure,” Ross scoffed. “Every year you feel like you’ve been divorced. You must know exactly how I feel.”
“What I mean is,” said Monica, “every year we come here and I see you and Carol together. I see you engaged, then married, and I’m still single, coming out of another bad breakup. I get it. This place reminds me of being a kid, and it reminds me of how little things have changed. How little I’ve changed.”
Ross pushed his ice cream around with his spoon. “Oh.”
“You’re going to be fine,” Monica said, more gently this time. “Sure, it’s a little step backward in the relationship department, but that doesn’t mean you’re moving backwards. I mean, next year you’re going to have a son! And who knows what else will be different. Maybe you’ll have a new girlfriend. Maybe I’ll have a boyfriend.”
“Maybe,” said Ross.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t say much else. But he did take a tentative spoonful of his ice cream.
They had left Graber’s in a rush; Mrs. Graber had yelled at them and insisted that she was closing the store when she thought they were breathing a little too close to her precious antiques.
“Why have them on display if she hates for people to get close to them?” Ross asked as they stepped out of the shop, Mrs. Graber thrashing the Open sign to Closed as soon as they were out the door, an hour and a half earlier than the hours posted on the door indicated.
Monica threw her hands up in confusion, laughing at Mrs. Graber’s extreme response to the perceived offense. Just as when they were kids, the woman made no sense. It was dark outside now, but they felt safe at Bearstooth, no matter how late it got. They spent the walk home finishing off the melty remains of their ice cream and reminding each other of past horrors they’d endured at Graber’s.
Ross suddenly found it easier to laugh, to reminisce about the past without feeling trapped in it. He felt guilty for even thinking it, but he was secretly glad that Monica was as miserable as he was. She had made him feel a little less behind, as though what he was going through was normal.
The next day, the rest of the Geller family would arrive. Monica would make her famous fried bread dough, a staple of Bearstooth trips since their grandfather taught her the recipe over a decade ago.
Ross had thought that it would be hard to suffer through all the family merriment, all the relatives asking him what had happened with Carol, how they planned to parent a child between their two households, if he was seeing anyone new…
Those questions did come, but Ross found he was able to tolerate them. Every time another relative asked him a question he’d rather not answer, he’d cast a glance across the room at Monica, kneading and frying the dough ever so carefully for her family while their mom criticized her. They would exchange a knowing glance–comrades in this dreadful trial–and Ross would answer the questions as they came.
By noon, he was heavy with bread dough and exhausted from questions. Monica was sprawled out on the couch, tired herself and covered in powdered sugar, but still smiling. The family was beginning to clean up, and Monica was dozing off when Ross was approached by his dad.
“Let’s take a little walk,” Jack said.
Ross was tempted to close his eyes, too, but he sensed he should walk off the bread dough, and he wasn’t about to deny an excuse to get away from the rest of the family. Outside, it was hot and sticky, but they walked in the shade of the trees, and for a long time, Jack didn’t say anything. After the bombardment of questions earlier, Ross relished the silence.
“I know it annoys you when I say this,” Jack said after they had walked out far enough to see the cabin from the other side of the lake, “but it really is wonderful how nothing ever changes here.”
They stared out at the cabin across the lake, looking just as it had decades ago. Inside, the Geller family was no doubt still bustling about, but from this distance, it looked quiet and still.
Ross tried not to roll his eyes at his father. Wonderful was not the word he would use. “Sure, Dad.” He picked up a rock and tried to skip it across the water.
The rock sank with a plonk.
“I know you don’t get it now,” Jack said, sounding oddly wizened, “but you will soon.” He, too, picked up a rock and tried to skip it. It skipped once, then sank just as Ross’s had.
They stood there for a while, trying and failing to skip rocks, Jack trying to teach Ross just as he had when Ross was little.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever get it,” Ross sighed as he watched his last stone sink into the depths.
“You will,” Jack assured him, clapping his son on the back. “Just think… in just a couple years, you’ll be teaching your own son to skip rocks here.”