All Good Things: The Final Fanfiction Saga

Chapter Seven: Twist of Fate

A few days later

"Don't worry, Mom, I'm sure he's just running a little late," Emma assured, glancing at her watch and squinting into the parking lot, where cars and station wagons were rapidly filling the spaces.

"Maybe your father and I should go on in, then," Helen Ko replied, clutching her leather purse in one hand and taking her husband's elbow with the other. "We'll see you inside. This sun isn't good for Dad."

"Quit worrying about me," Stephen Ko joked as he gave one more glance toward the parking lot. "I'm sure he'll turn up soon, honey," he said with a wink to his daughter.

As her parents headed inside the church, Emma straightened her skirt and tried not to look anxious. The Easter service was about to start, and J.C. was supposed to meet them 45 minutes ago, during the coffee-and-doughnut reception. But the opportunity to chat with his future in-laws had come and gone, and now Emma was standing in a full parking lot, wondering where her fiancé was.

She hadn't spoken to J.C. in a couple days; Emma had been with her parents since Good Friday at the cabin her father time-shared near Bear Valley. She needed a break from a flurry of wedding planning, and the place where she spent her vacations as a young girl was just the spot. J.C. was helping a deejay remix a track into a dance version in Los Angeles, and would take the first flight Sunday morning to spend Easter with Emma's family.

Surely he remembers that it's Easter, she thought. Maybe his flight was delayed.

She thought twice about calling him, but decided he was late enough, and pulled out her cell phone. After four rings his voice came on, and Emma hung up the phone without a message.

I bet he's still in the air, she decided, turning on her heel and going inside. Those unreliable planes.

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It took J.C. a few minutes to get his bearings straight. Raising his head and rubbing the sleep from his eyes, he became aware of the buttons in front of him that left painful impressions in his cheeks. He winced as he raised one arm, then the other, examining the red welts made from leaning on plastic dials for hours.

Rubbing the stiffness out of his neck, J.C. yawned and looked around him. The sunlight was visible through the orange curtain hung in the studio room, telling him it was daylight. He looked down and saw the rumpled clothes he'd donned the night before, when he tore into the room to hurl himself into work.

But several hours later, after he'd finished his remixing project, J.C. stayed on his stool, fiddling with dials and playing some of 'N Sync's old songs instead. He turned down a treble here, cranked up the percussion there, and pretended he was creating everything for the first time.

It was the place J.C. could say he found the most satisfaction. When the others had gone home long ago, he would still be found hovering over the control boards, fussing over balance with perfectionism or playing the piano in the darkness. He liked it best when every technician had left, leaving him to lock up, and he could unleash his emotions privately, freely, onto the keyboard.

It was his sanctuary.

The night Chris dropped the bomb on him, it suddenly occurred to J.C. the full weight of what he'd be missing. When he visualized a break, he saw less flying, less autograph signings, 850 less choruses of "Tearin' Up My Heart." It seemed like a good idea at the time.

But as he dawdled at the mixing board, thinking up any excuse to stay a little longer, J.C. found himself wistfully visualizing himself and the others six feet away in the booth, headphones over ears and microphones in front, working out harmonies. He saw himself conducting each phrase in the air, punctuating downbeats with his fist.