This is a little ficlet I had to write after waking up this morning and wondering what the events of 3x03 ("Double Date") meant for Cece. I dislike the cheating arc, first because it's being played as cheating. While it's clear that Schmidt genuinely does love both Elizabeth and Cece, it's also clear that he's been telling each of them that he's with her alone, and not saying that he needs more time, that he doesn't know how to handle the situation, etc. The other reason I dislike the arc is because of the strain it put on one of the founding friendships of the show - Jess and Cece. Jess had talked a good game in the earlier parts of the episode (calling Cece her "bro" and saying, "When someone I love gets hurt, I get involved"), but ultimately the show prioritized her relationship with Nick over her relationship with Cece; Jess lets her friend walk out of the restaurant alone and in tears, doesn't seem to remember that Cece's phone is on the floor of the loft when she's wondering why Cece hasn't called, and spends the denouement asserting her connection with Nick. I love Jess and Nick together, but this was a moment that Jess needed to put Cece first.
Her fervent desire to junk-punch Nick had propelled her from Schmidt's car so fast that she'd left her clutch behind, so she didn't have her little packet of tissues. Cece wiped her eyes and nose with the side of her hand, trying to stem their flow. Her phone was on the floor of Jess's living room, probably cracked, given the vehemence with which he'd tossed it. Jess would bring it around, she thought, then reconsidered - Jess hadn't come barreling out of the restaurant yet, ready to hug and comfort the way she always did. Seriously, what the fuck.
She waited, and her hand grew wetter and grosser, but not one of them came out to find her. Fuck it. She was obviously meant to be alone. Peeling herself from the shadowed wall, she strode over to the valets. One of them said he'd call a taxi for her, and another pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket. They all waited silently with her until the cab pulled up, like sentries in white polo shirts, and she let herself cry once she was speeding home.
Oh, God, maybe she wasn't alone. "Pull over," she said; "I'll be right back." Schmidt had known she hadn't been on birth control - she'd been totally upfront with him about her timeline, and he'd promised her he was excited and ready to become a father. He might very well have knocked her up.
She always kept a couple of bills in her cleavage - it was just good sense in the city, and anyway Schmidt always beamed like a boy playing pirate at discovering "treasure" when he found them and peeled them off her skin - so she didn't stop to look at prices when she ransacked the home-pregnancy-test aisle. God, please let her not be carrying a baby, a sign that she'd been idiot enough to trust a man who had just been stringing her along.
The ride home was mercifully quick, and she ran into the bathroom, ejecting Nadia, who'd been doing her eyelid exercises and blasting Olivia Newton-John. She locked the door and pulled the kit out of the sweat-sticky plastic bag. She didn't have to go, but she managed to pee enough to get a stream on the damn stick. She was supposed to wait ten minutes for the result, and she watched each minute crawl by on the little digital clock that had come with her electric toothbrush. The ninth minute ticked over and she counted backwards, trying to breathe, trying not to shake, trying to keep herself together. She wanted her best friend. She wanted not to be pregnant. She didn't want to be regretting this much of her life. And three . . . two . . . one.
As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
This same entry also appears on Dreamwidth, at http://innie-darling.dreamwidth.org/432087.html.