The Awakening (12 through 14/15)
Title: La fine di un sogno (or the Awakening) (12 through 14)
Author: Spooky85
Pairing: Erica/Callie
Rating: R
Summary: What happens when someone bursts your little bubble and you're left missing blonde hair?
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. Not mine.
*Chapter 12*
The first time I kissed somebody, I was fourteen. Way older than any of my friends were when they first felt another's lips on theirs. And I remember I would listen to their tales, captivated by this magic, this churning of their stomachs, these mad butterflies in their bellies.
A boy from school. One of my classmates. My first boyfriend.
I was so happy when he first asked me on a date, after class. I went to my girlfriends and they started fretting over me, putting make up on my face, combing my hair, giving me tips on how to do it correctly.
We went to the arcade. We played some. I was so happy. I had never been on a date before and I had no idea what it was supposed to be like. We were comfortable around each other, he wouldn't treat me like a girl, he wouldn't let me win at games just to get a chance with me. He was my friend.
And I started thinking that maybe it wasn't so bad, that I wasn't so bad at it, that I was just like everybody else, like all my girlfriends. It had only taken me longer than them to grow up, but I had. I was out on a date and I was enjoying it. There was nothing wrong with me.
Then we went for an ice cream. And it happened. His lips were on mine. I just stood there. Pursed lips, unmoving. I didn't know the first thing about kissing somebody, but I soon got a hint as to what it entailed. His tongue pushed inside my mouth, parting my lips, cutting off my air. I only remember he tasted like chocolate and some other mixed flavor I couldn't identify.
I felt no butterflies, there was no shock going up and down my spine, no buckling knees giving out, no head spinning. Just a clumsy tongue in my mouth, sticky fingers on my hip and a strange flavor to analyze.
I wasn't like them at all.
After the 'date' he brought me back in front of the school, where he'd left his bicycle, like the good little self appointed boyfriend that he was. The day after I had a tale to tell my friends, of how I had felt all the magic everybody did in a kiss, all the poetry they had all shared in their time.
Only in my case it wasn't real.
I couldn't face them, their expecting eyes and simply tell them that I hadn't felt a thing. And so I lied. But inside I started thinking that maybe, maybe they were lying too. That maybe there was no magic, no poetry, no nothing. Only a lie we had to pretend was real.
Growing up I started changing guys with the frequency one would change clothes. It was fine, nice even. I was a rebel and I would do anything to piss my parents off, and I knew that hanging out with that kind of guys would make them mad. I think part of my fascination with them came from the game I kept playing against my family more that it had to do with the guys themselves.
The sex was good. It seemed to give them what they wanted and it gave me a chance to clear my head, free of all the questions and doubts I had about me. Free of all the feelings of being inadequate, retarded, different than anybody else. Where it had been my weakness growing up, I soon learned to use my body and curves to attract people. They wanted me, and it gave my overworking mind and self doubt some respite.
Then I met George. My first kiss with him was.. nice. Nicer than any other kiss I had shared with anyone up to that point, and I started thinking that maybe, maybe, if I focused hard enough, maybe, I could feel the shiver, I could feel the fluttery wings inside of me. He was sweet. Way sweeter than any other man I had been with. He seemed attracted to me for more than my body, so much that I made myself believe I was in love with him, and I told him so. And it scared him to the point of running away from me.
The first time I kissed Erica was different. Different than any of those other kisses.
My mind shut down, my eyes closed by themselves, my heart stopped for a second in my chest, my breath caught in my lungs. And then I felt her lips on mine, so soft, like velvet, so right. And her hand cradling my face, and her thumb caressing my cheek. And I was burning and trembling all at once, and I couldn't hear or think or feel anything that wasn't her. And it was an instant, I know it was, but in my heart it felt like forever.
We parted, her hand never leaving my face, so warm and comforting, and scalding and electrifying. I heard her say something. To Mark. I couldn't hear what. All I could focus on was the rushing of blood in my ears, the mad dance of my heart. My head was light, my lungs heavy with a breath I was still holding, my eyes open in shocked disbelief, darkened with the wave of instant arousal that had washed over me.
I walked out of that elevator, onto the lobby. A choice. Go right and follow the lead of the butterflies that had taken over my stomach for the first time in my whole life, or go left and follow the screaming of my brain that was slowly regaining its command over my senses and body.
I don't remember following Mark, or taking off my clothes, or lying on one of those beds with him. I only remember how her lips had felt on mine, how Mark's harsh, passion inflamed kisses couldn't even come close to turning me on the way her soft one had.
But that wasn't the only life altering kiss I shared with her, no. The second kiss we shared was my kiss. It was me, staking my claim, making sure for me and for her that all those longed for feelings I had felt the first time with her, had been real. And so I kissed her. It was a kiss as unexpected and unplanned as our first one had been. And it was just as magical. Only this time longer, and more purposeful.
Where the first one had been hot, this one was sweet. Maybe it was because we both knew it meant more than the first, maybe it was because for the first time we were really facing that thing between us we had both felt for so long, maybe it was because this one was just for us, without any Mark to shock or tease.
We shared many kisses, always alike, always different. Once they'd be full of love and tenderness, once they'd be burning with passion, once light with carefree happiness.
But this kiss we are sharing now, this one is new.
It's different. Bittersweet.
Never before had I felt her tears wetting my face, never before the quiver in her shoulders had been born out of hurt and pain and not laughter.
Never had I trembled with the fear she might draw back.
We stand here, unmoving. Lips pressed firmly together. They speak of longing, of need, of passion, of hurt. She doesn't move and neither do I, for fear of scaring her, of making her stop, shut me out, run away.
Her hold on my top lightens, and so does the crushing pressure of her lips on mine. I feel her tremble with a fear I know only too well.
And I want to hold her, to caress her face, cradle it in my hands and never let her go. I want to stop the world here, I'll live off her kisses, off her breath, off her.
My need is strong, and I fight against myself to keep still, one moment yet. Before she realizes the mistake she's making, before she pulls back, tells me to go.
And a second stretches into a lifetime of uncertainty as I feel her hesitate, her lips barely on mine, her hands limp against my shirt. And she could kiss me again and that would mean we'd try to make this, make us, work, or she could pull back, deem it too late, too little.
I hold my breath and I feel her tremble.
Her right hand comes up to caress the side of my face, her forehead on mine, the hard pants off her mouth that tickle my lips.
She bends her head forward and I close my eyes. My hands stay balled at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I wait for her.
The whisper of a touch. Against my lips. A little pained moan from deep inside of her. Another touch, this time more firm, like a caress. My stomach can't stop trembling, my head can't stop spinning.
I feel her retreat and my head moves to follow hers, before I can control it, before I can stop myself.
Air leaves her lungs, her lips press on mine, her tongue slips inside my mouth.
Her tears wet her face, bold and heavy, making her tremble all over again. Only this time is different. This time, as they mingle in our kiss, they taste of freedom, of letting go, of hope.
And we cling to each other like there's nothing else that could keep us alive. And I believe there isn't. Nothing else. No one. We have only us. We need each other. With a strength we didn't even think was possible. We need each other, to be, to exist, to go on.
We've walked alone, crippled, all our life. And now we've found each other to lean on to, to help us through.
And we hold each other so tight none of us can breathe, but it doesn't matter.
And her hand on my face moves to the back of my neck, deepening our kiss still.
My right arm tightens its hold around her waist, pulling her to me, until there's no room between us anymore.
The fingers of her right hand intertwine with mine, and I've missed the feel of her holding my hand more than any other feeling. It always made me feel cherished and protected. I felt so alone without it.
I bring our linked hands up to our hearts, so that I can feel hers beating wildly in her chest and she can feel my heart mirroring it in mine. Together. One beat.
The pace is not frantic anymore. Linked like this we have no fear to be left alone. Languid now. A kiss that feels like coming home, familiar and sweet. Longed for.
"Callie" she whispers as I break our contact, briefly.
I kiss her cheek, her closed eyelids, her nose. All of her. She's here. With me. She's here and I'm not even sure I believe it. I need to make sure.
That she's real, that we're really here. That last month wasn't the beginning of the end, that I'm still alive. That I didn't die in that parking lot, that my heart didn't walk out on me that night. That I didn't lose her. That she's mine, still. She's mine.
I run my hand across her cheek, down the curve of her nose, her lips. I follow it with my mouth. A brief kiss this time.
"Callie" is the only thing she can plead.
And I smile. She's so beautiful.
I feel wetness on my face once again and for a moment my eyes search hers for any sign of tears, fearing it to be too much, too right, fearing she might have changed her mind. But there's no trace of them on her cheeks, on the lashes of her closed eyelids.
Mine. I'm the one crying, and I hadn't even realized it.
'Cause I've been dead for this past month. Dead without her. To love me. To mend my heart.
Dead like I've been all my life before her.
And now she's in front of me, and my name on her lips feels sweet. Her needing me, her wanting me.
And it feels like the World tilted on its axis, resumed its motion, started spinning again.
It sure feels like it's spinning in my brain.
I can breathe her, taste her, touch her. At least in this moment once again. She's here and she's mine.
And she looks so small and fragile, precious.
Erica. My Erica.
My porcelain doll, my baby.
My baby.
And the room starts spinning once again, but this time it makes me sick.
The skin of her face suddenly burns my hand and I pull back.
She might not be mine anymore.
*Chapter 13*
My heart and mind had shut that thought out. It's funny how a simple word has the power to change my whole life.
Because there is someone out there, someone who had the right to call my Erica, hers. Some woman that was in her life while I wasn't. Maybe still is.
And the simple thought hurts so much it cuts my air off.
"Callie? Are.. Are you ok?" her arms come up around my waist, to hold me up. I hate this. I hate being so fucking fragile, it feels like I'm breaking all the time. And I hate being so fucking weak that even as I fear I've just been made the other woman, I cherish her touch. But I have to know. I have to know who this woman is, what's her place in her life, whether she's always had one and I just didn't know, or whether I meant so little to her that she was able to get over me so quickly. I can't believe I let it get this far without knowing.
I had forgotten. Pushed it so far back inside my mind that I was blind to it. Everything. Every sign of it. But now I see them. They seem to be screaming out at me, to look at them, at the smiling face in a picture of a woman with her arms around Erica, at the light blinking red on her voicemail, at the million little things that are so not Erica but that mingle nauseatingly well with the things I know from her old apartment.
Does she live here? Is she so much a part of her life that she lives in her own home? Or maybe this isn't even Erica's house, maybe she's the one who moved in with this woman. Maybe they've always known each other, maybe she moved all the way out here to be with her.
I feel like fainting, and it's only an instant, her arms are still around me and her voice and worried face still asking me if I want to sit or lie down for a bit. But I have to know.
I shake her arms free and move purposefully towards the shelf with the picture frames. I watch them. I know them. All of them. The loving face of Erica's grandma. The stern looks of Erica's socialite parents. A couple of pictured faces of friends made during the course of her life. I know these pictures. All but one. And I pick it up.
The scene in this is one of happiness, of joy. Maybe even love. They're in a park, sitting on the grass, her with her arms around Erica's waist as they laugh at the camera. Erica looks so beautiful. Her eyes sparkle with the joy she must have been feeling right then, the short curls in her hair still framing her beautiful face.
But my eyes are fixed on the woman behind her. The one laughing with her. The one who's there instead of me.
Her black hair so short they'd look like a man's if it wasn't for the soft lines of her face and her heart shaped lips. Her eyes the brightest shade of green I've ever seen. Her skin as pale as Erica's. She's strikingly beautiful. Disgustingly so.
I don't say a word, I simply raise my head from the picture frame and look at her. A question in my eyes. Who's this woman?
And she knows.
"A friend."
I nod, slowly. "A new friend."
I know I have no right to judge or even to ask. We've been apart for a month and whatever she's done in that month is none of my business. A mistake in the course of our lives, I can live with that. What I can't live with right now is the doubt around my heart that not the woman but me and this moment, these might be the mistakes in the course of their life that she's made.
We have only kissed. I know that. But it wasn't just that. Everything. This past month, this past year. All of it ends now. One way or the other. And I thought I knew where it was going until she came in the picture. I hadn't planned on her.
"A new friend, yes." She sits on the sofa but I don't, I just pick up my glass of wine form the coffee table, never relinquishing my hold on the proof of my misery.
"A.. good friend?" I ask half heartedly as I take a sip. I feel like I'm gonna need it.
"Yes. A very good friend" her eyes are sparkling with a hint of anger, or maybe traces of the tears she's just shed. I'm so caught up in my own brain right now I can't even tell.
"And you've known her for long?" It came out a little more accusatory than I intended for it to sound like.
"Why do you want to know, Callie?" Straight to the point.
"What's wrong with me asking?" I reply, as if hers was not an answer that feels like it could change my whole life.
I can sense her confusion as it mixes with anger. I feel the temperature in the room lower considerably as her icy eyes lock onto mine, the tightening of her jaw making me swallow audibly. She's measuring her words. It's never a good sign.
"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with you asking. I just want to know why you want to know, right this very minute."
"Well, I think I'm entitled to know."
Her half disbelieving look hurts my eyes and I flinch inside.
"You're entitled to know.. Very well. So what is it exactly that you want to know?"
She's looking me, straight in the eyes, and I feel like a kid, being scolded by a stern teacher. I feel like pacing but I have to look sure of myself, not back down in any way. Alright, here goes nothing.
"How long have you known her?"
"Since I moved here." She answers immediately. So quickly and assuredly in fact that I'm left silent for a second.
"How?"
She laughs a small little offended laugh, but nods and answers anyway.
"I came here to work at UCLA. She was the first person I was introduced to. She works there also."
"She's a surgeon too?"
I could see that, just now, in my mind. Them, working together, stealing glances at each other over their scrub masks. And I know this image, it's the same one Mark conjured up for me that one time when it was all beginning, when I still thought I knew myself, my life, and the direction it would be going. Only now I'm not the one across from her, throwing her scrub cap to the ground, taking a handful of those blond hair, kissing her. Now it's this other woman, and I am left watching helplessly, chest open for the world to see on the slab between them.
"She waits tables at the cafeteria on campus. She's 29."
I don't know what to say. I don't know why but I don't know what to say. Erica Hahn and.. what, a waitress? Somehow it makes me feel even more stupid.
I can't believe it. I've been trying for a year to live up to her, to be worthy enough of her friendship, her heart. I've felt too stupid, and too young. Too unsophisticated for her. And now a waitress? A 29 year old waitress?!
I laugh at me and how stupid I feel right now.
But of course she thinks I'm laughing at her and her new 'very good friend'.
"Is there anything else?" her jaw clenches tightly as she waits for my reply.
Ok. Now she's full on mad at me.
Good, because I'm full on mad too. At me? At her? At that girl? I don't know. All I know is I'm mad.
"You didn't waste any time, did you" I feel the glass on the photo give under my fingers as I tighten my hold on it, almost to punish it for causing again another rift and another shouting match between us.
"I'm sorry?!" disbelief lacing her words.
"Oh, you know what I mean"
"I seriously don't think you're in any position to ask anything about what I might or might not have been.."
"Are you two fucking?" Out of line, out of order, just simply out. I shouldn't ask, not unless I want the fight that's coming my way but if I leave now I'm never going to speak to her again and this grain of doubt will always be in my mind and if I have to forget about her I want to do that completely, no reminder, no little scar to pull whenever I lower my guard.
But I really don't need to wait for words. I know she's not gonna answer my question, not with sound and thought anyway. Her face, the one I've spent so many hours studying, the way her nostrils flare, the way her eyes get just that bit wider, the way her neck colors with a red so hot it almost looks like it's been eaten alive by flames, I know. I know everything her tightened lips are not saying, everything her cold stance is trying to cover up for.
"Is she good?"
"Callie.."
I'm crossing the line. What am I saying, I've jumped with both feet and now the line is so far back I can't even see it anymore. So I jump some more. And I move to kill.
"I hope you got what you wanted out of it" I move to walk away from her, from this home of theirs, this night, this chapter of my life.
"How can you stand here, in my home, and talk to me like this!?" the barely contained rage and affront in her voce are enough to stop any of my attempts to walk away from this.
I'm done being the victim.
"How can YOU stand there and be all fragile and soft and kiss me like that and make me think everything was going to be alright when all this time you've had this picture up!?" I slam the frame so hard on the coffee table that's standing between us I'm almost certain I've cracked the glass on it. Good.
"You think I planned for any of that to happen?! You think I expected to see you again?"
"You should have waited! You should have known!"
"What?! How could have I known?!? For all I knew my going away had been the cue to push you and Sloan finally together!"
"There's never ever been anything between me and Mark! How many times have I gotta tell you that?" I feel like we're talking in circles, endless loops that never solve anything.
"You'd say that but then you'd run back to him whenever I got too close or too emotional or too much for you to handle! For all I know I was always the one in the middle between the two of you!"
"There was no two of us, no two, no us! Just you and me!"
"I didn't know that!" Arms wide, she screams at me, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like it's all my fault that I never taught her that with more than words, that I've said time and again that I wanted to be with her but then I've always gone and done the opposite. And what if she's right? Do I have to pay for it for the rest of my life? Do I have to apologize forever for what was then?
"And now? Now there is this woman with you and you can't go on kissing people like that if there is your fuck buddy in between!"
"Fuck buddy! Look who's talking! You're the queen of fuck buddies! First Mark, then me, then Mark again. Was there another after I left?"
I pause for a second, I flinch for just an instant as a face with blonde hair and blue eyes flashes before me, nameless. But she can read me so well she can answer her own question.
"So there was, were they good? Did you get what you wanted out of it?"
And now she's the one striking the killing blow, and smirking in victory and pain as she does so.
It's just too much. One thing after the other, and every time I think I have it all, the complete picture, it all comes crashing down.
I'm exhausted, I feel completely drained. I can't take the fight anymore. I'm done fighting.
"Did you even cry, Erica? Did you even miss me?" She must be able to see the sadness, the complete and utter defeat in my eyes, because her anger disappears in an instant, replaced by a look I know only too well.
"I did.. I do. Callie, I do. Believe me. I.." she's in front of me now, her head bent to be level with my eyes that are trying to look at anything but her.
"I.. look at me. I do. I missed you. You don't know how much. How many times I just wished I could go back. Wished I could call you and just talk with you. I miss you. But I couldn't.. I just.. I couldn't go on like that."
My shoulders tremble with the tears that are always just under the surface when I'm around her.
"I'm sorry" I manage to whisper.
"It doesn't matter now."
That hurt. I shy away from her.
But her arms are quick around me, to keep me from turning away, from trying to get out of here again.
"I mean, that I can't keep making you pay for it and you can't keep saying you're sorry. It won't get us anywhere. You're here now. That's what matters."
Out of the corner of my eye I see her reassuring smile and it sparks some hope inside my heart.
If it weren't for one thing.
"You're with her now. Me being here won't change that."
Her forehead scrunches up in a frown, her eyes lost, in search of meaning.
"Callie, I'm not in a relationship with her."
I laugh at this, at her arms around me, at her excuses, her ability to play me for the fool I am.
"I swear.. I'm not!"
"Baby, Erica. She calls you Baby."
"How.." her hands on me loosen their hold and I take that opportunity to take a step towards the coffee table and her picture.
"Addie heard you two. Remember? When you two met on the street, and you had your 'little chat', this woman was with you" I say pointing at the picture once again in my hand. "And she called you Baby."
She's silent for a moment. She's been so sure and fierce in her rebuttal all night, and now.. now she's at a loss for words.
"Are you sure you don't want to take that last part back? I thought you could at least have been honest with me."
I move towards the door. I don't know where I'm going, she drove us here. I'll just walk outside for a bit, I have no idea. But I can't be here with her, knowing she was planning on lying to me, knowing she's not mine. Not anymore. Not ever.
I came here. To talk to her. To explain. To make her understand. But maybe it's me the one who needs to understand. I need to understand how she could lie to me, how she could make me forget this woman in her life and have her picture up. How she could have spent this last month laughing and loving this woman when I wasn't even able to live, to function. When I went on on auto pilot. When all I saw around me was a stabbing reminder of her through my heart.
I can't take this anymore. This has to stop. This trip will be the last I ever think of her, I have to believe it. I have to convince and force me to believe. I have to force my life back on track. A new life. Barren of all things Erica. If there is one good thing about that God forsaken hospital is that as busy as the gossip mill is, it's also very fickle. Give it another month and nobody in there will ever even think about Erica. Not me, that's for sure.
And I guess it's ironic that as I walk down this corridor, down the steps of her patio, down that crocked homey pathway in her crocked homey garden, I feel like I should be leaving something of me behind, so that the next month of suffering and not coming home at night to escape long lost trapped ghosts in it will be on her.
I chuckle bitterly as I look around me, all this plants, all this freshly potted flowers, all this, maybe it's not even Erica. I've never known her for being much of a gardener. Maybe this is all for her, for the waitress' benefit. And I suddenly feel like breaking something, smashing a pot, squishing a flower or two under my shoe.
But I cannot give her this satisfaction. I won't be the childish one. I don't want to imagine her coming home tonight and finding her shitty little plants destroyed and running into Erica's arms to be comforted after the attack of the crazy ex.
I don't want to be Toxic Torres once again.
I get as far as the sidewalk before the thud of her bare feet catches up with me and her hand on my shoulder makes me turn around. I turn so fast her hand looses contact with my body altogether and I'm glad, for her touch, if I'm supposed to forget about her forever, her touch I cannot stand.
"Stop fucking running away from me"
She demands with a red face and shaking all over and I don't know if it's because she's angry, desperate, or just plain cold. I shake my head, cold, that had to be it. Barefooted, save only for cotton socks, in the middle of the street in December. After all why would she feel anything for me at this point? She was ready to lie to me, kiss me and make me believe everything was going to be alright, all the while that woman was looking at us, them together, laughing at the fool I was making of myself.
"This is not about running away and you know it."
"No I don't know it!" and if possible she gets even redder in the neck. I don't think I've ever seen her so furious in all the time I thought I knew her.
"How can it not be running away? You think and you assume and you decide and you leave, you always do that, and I'm always just fucking standing there being swayed back and forth as you decide what to do with me!"
I feel it now. Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. And I don't hold back. There's no reason anymore, is there.
And I thought I would scream at her, again, and I thought I would wake the whole street with my voice, I never thought I would speak the last words I ever intended to ever say to her this calmly. Something has changed inside me, I know it. I'm done with this.
"I'm letting you go now. You can sway back to your new little friend."
A stand still. I expect her to sigh and turn and walk down the street back into her house. Or maybe part of me hopes she'll start to cry and crawl back either to or from me. Her face is blank, mine too, we could be frozen for eternity in this same spot and I wouldn't be able to decipher her eyes any better.
*Chapter 14*
Screaming. We always do that. Whenever two people fight they scream. Is it because we need to get our message through? Then maybe screaming isn't the best choice, maybe it's because of that, that fighting never solved anything. Your anger increases, adrenaline is being pumped into your system with a vengeance, your head swims, you feel weak, detached from your own body, your thoughts get mashed up and mingled and you don't even know what you thought of so clearly before the shouting began.
Or maybe it's because you need to reach the other person, one normally so near you that the distance between you in that moment of anger seems incredibly vast, and you're never quite sure if you'll ever get them close to you again. So you scream, across the mountains around you, over the oceans between you, you scream and hope your voice will carry you a little bit closer to them.
The main cause of loud voices and hash words in my life has not been jealousy or greed, not freedom or respect, it's been about betrayal.
The first time was with my parents. I was a free spirited, wide eyed girl even back then, but there was one thing I would not tolerate. And that was lies.
As every child in the World I too believed in Saint Nick. I believed there to be an old nice man, a grandpa of sorts to all the kids in the whole wide World who would take time, once a year, to think of me and me alone. For the one moment he set foot into my house, to the one he left he would be there solely for me.
I knew, or I thought I knew, that he would stop in every house on Earth but I felt special anyway. That's why I always made the extra effort the night before. For days I would pester the maids to let me into the kitchen, without my mother knowing, to bake cookies, just for Santa.
Every year I left him a little plate with my fresh cookies on top, a glass of milk and a note, saying thanks for stopping by and, would you please eat something before leaving?
Every year the first thing in the morning for me wouldn't be to run for the presents, but for his breakfast, to make sure my mother wouldn't find the half eaten cookie on the table and a note with 'thank you' scribbled on it in red ink.
I treasured those little notes, every year, and every year I felt special, like Santa was a bit more real for me than for other kids, who just used him to get more presents.
There was one year however, when I woke up in the middle of the night, by the sound of glass smashing. I put on my little slippers and ran downstairs, to the kitchen, from where the sound had come from. And I saw it. My father crouched on the floor, picking up pieces of broken glass, a cookie still between his teeth, mumbling around it words I could only imagine were the kind nice kids weren't supposed to ever hear.
I didn't talk to them for an entire week, not when my favorite maid tried to explain or my mother scolded me for being so stubborn. I would hold my breath every time they tried to get me to talk. I refused to celebrate Christmas the year after that and I still feel the pang of betrayal every time I think about it.
I've never been good at letting things slide.
The second time I was ever betrayed was of course by George. Not even him. By Stevens. She was for me the greedy little Grinch stealing my Christmas away from me. I had it all planned. A life with him, to have and raise his babies, to buy a house together, to be with him forever and ever. And then she came between us. His friend turned lover, turned thingy on the side of his quickly dissolving marriage.
She had betrayed me, a woman just like me. Not only had she betrayed the sacred vows we took that day in the chapel, not only had she felt the cold metal of his wedding ring on her skin every time they slept together, but she had betrayed another woman, her whole gender, for what turned out to be a two weeks relationship even for them.
In a way it would have been better for me if the betrayal had been for something true and pure, I would have hated them anyway but maybe less, maybe for less time, if I could just believe that their union was really meant to be, unlike George and me. What I could never get over was the sting of having being even less than a two weeks relationship for him.
With Erica, I never fought, well until the last time I saw her. A part of me never even thought her capable of fighting. I had seen her take down Mark and even cut Christina down for size, I'd seen her scream at residents, and I had even seen her stand up to the Chief. But I had never seen her do that to me. Every time I threw something new against her she always kind of looked broken. Shy tears, lost eyes.
So now as Erica, inflamed face and eyes, screams at me that I'm running away, that I always do this, that I move her around like a prop, that I, I, I... I cannot think.
Like I couldn't think back that day. I can just stay here, frozen.
My mind screams something at me. She is lying to me, and not only that. She's lying to some other woman, the one who calls her baby, too.
But there is something behind her eyes, beyond the anger, and the resentment. Something that I thought I knew was there for me, something that I can still catch a glimpse of, something of a plea, for me, to listen. To just stop. Stop everything I've ever done, everything I'm setting my mind to do. Begging me to give her a chance, to unclench my fists and not hold my breath.
She trembles again, and I give in, one final time. My eyes must have granted her permission, for she breathes a little easier, a little deeper.
"Could we please just go back inside?"
But I won't do that, my face shows it. I never want to see that picture of the two of them again, the one that burst my little bubble not five minutes ago.
"Ok" she acknowledges that if we are to do this, we are to do this right here, right now.
"I wasn't lying to you, Callie. What happened in there.. I wouldn't do that if it wasn't important for me. If you weren't important to me. Anne is.. I don't know what she is. She's my friend, good friend" I snort "not only that, she's become.. more. She was there when I first got here, she was sweet and kind and she didn't pressure me into even speaking if I didn't feel like it. She was honest and open and it's just, I don't know, easy with her."
I don't need to hear this. I really don't. I thought I did, but I don't. Easy, sweet, honest. All the things I couldn't be for her. It's like this woman is so much better than me. And I feel the sting of tears fresh in my eyes again. I won't have her last words to me be about her new.. lover.
"Stop, please. Just, stop"
"I can't, not now"
"I don't want to know about your perfect new life!" I plead in an exasperated shout.
"But it isn't, don't you get it? For as sweet as she is, and as understanding and honest, there's never been one single moment that I haven't spent wishing it was you instead of her!"
My blood rushes to my ears. Did she really say that? Did she really admit her life has been as miserable as mine? For all the time I have been in her presence today, she never once said that before. I know. I know her. I know how hard it is for her all of this. The being open and honest stuff. And I can see it in her eyes that she is, at least, trying to be.
A cold wind makes me shake to the bone, or maybe it's the jolt of my heart being set once again into motion for the night. I really can't take much more strain, I know this. One more time and I'll crash. Machines will be turned off and they'll call my time of death.
I see her tremble too, her teeth chattering. I put a hand on her arm, to guide her back into her own home and I feel her cold flesh under my fingertips. She's freezing to death.
"Come on let's get you inside"
As we make our way into her house, again, I keep my eyes trained on the floor under my feet. I won't give that woman the satisfaction of laughing at my face, for coming back in.
What was her name? What had she called her? I cannot remember and I don't try very hard to. Hearing it once from her has been enough, and if I never have to hear it again I'll be more than happy.
"I don't think I want to talk about the picture anymore"
But of course I'll have to. Of course. What else could go just a bit wrong tonight?
"I think we both need to."
I lower my eyes in defeat. This is the part, I know, that will be the source of many of my thoughts from now on, thoughts spent imagining her living her life with, with..
"Anne.."
Anne. That name on her lips is like a shot to my head. Anne.
"Anne is.. we are.. I'm.. sleeping with her."
There it is. The truth, lying out in the open. And I feel like throwing up all over again.
"The night I left Seattle Grace, when we.." Hesitation breaks her voice.
"When we broke up" I offer. And I don't know why I'm trying to help her, make it easier on her. She's sleeping with the thing.
"Yes. I went straight to my apartment and started writing my resignation letter. A week after that I was already moving in this house." A pause. She looks around herself like she's seeing the place for the first time all over again, like she hasn't been making a life in here.
"I didn't know anybody or anything. I wanted a clean slate. Only that's not me, Callie. I've never done anything on impulse, anything without thinking it through more than necessary. But that night, that night really hurt me. That night you took what strength I had left and you crushed it, and I just couldn't be around you anymore."
I swallow the bitter taste of her words. Of her truth. I keep silent and she keeps on.
"I came here, barren. First day in I was shown around by my new Boss when he insisted I try the cafeteria at least once. Kind of an initiation he said. So I did it and I met her. We ended up talking after her shift, and then every day after my shift I'd stop by and we'd go someplace together." I can feel her smile in her voice and it stings a bit more to realize she has a connection to this woman. Maybe it would have been better if she was sleeping with all of Los Angeles, at least I'd have known her heart was still mine. But this, this torture I'm going through and can't find the power in me to stop, this is something that makes her smile, and my stomach turns a little more.
I want to scream at her to stop talking, to just stake her final blow to my heart and slay me, but I won't. I'll let her talk and then, with all my answers I so hotly demanded only half an hour ago, I'll leave.
"Why?" and she knows exactly what I want to know.
A whisper brings me her quivering voice and the dawning of our truth.
"Because she said she wanted me."
And I never did. I get it now. I do. I pushed her away and I made her feel like she was nothing to me, if not a test subject. I used her without ever meaning to, but I did. I would take her and then I would throw her away or worse yet, just leave her alone, and run to do my research some more.
This woman, this Anne, she wanted her, told her so. And why wouldn't she. Even now with her eyes red and tired, her voice raw from all the previous shouting, her hair unkempt, her cheeks a faint pink, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and yes, maybe I'm biased but I wouldn't change anything about her if they just told me I could get her back.
But there is no they and I'll never get her back, because this woman wants her, and has her, and makes her smile in pictures we never took because I was too afraid somebody might see them and guess.
And what would they have had to guess was that she was the love of my life and that I was destroying her brick by little brick.
I can't stand myself right now. I'm my worst enemy right now, and I need to get away from me. Right now. So I pick up the glass of wine she had poured for me when I had first sat here hoping to save things and still hadn't truly realized that there was nothing to save.
I down it and I pour another. Her hand on mine stops me from gulping this one down too. I don't want to look into her eyes, but the pull of that, the hold she has on me is stronger than my willpower alone, so I do turn around and I can see she's not finished with her tale. And I can see I'm not sure I'll survive the night.
"It's not. It's not what I want. What I want is" I can see the tears at the corner of her eye, but I don't think there are anymore tears to shed in either of us "What I want is for you to say it"
It's a whisper. I'm not even sure I've heard it. I feel lightheaded again and I'm sure I'll faint at some point. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest and I realize I'm holding my breath. Eyes wide I search hers for confirmation and when I see it, in an instant my lips are on hers again, and this time I do not care if there is a woman laughing at me from a picture frame somewhere in the room, because she's here with me now, and she's here smiling at me as I repeat over and over "I do. I do. I do."
Author: Spooky85
Pairing: Erica/Callie
Rating: R
Summary: What happens when someone bursts your little bubble and you're left missing blonde hair?
Disclaimer: All characters are property of Shonda Rhimes and ABC. Not mine.
*Chapter 12*
The first time I kissed somebody, I was fourteen. Way older than any of my friends were when they first felt another's lips on theirs. And I remember I would listen to their tales, captivated by this magic, this churning of their stomachs, these mad butterflies in their bellies.
A boy from school. One of my classmates. My first boyfriend.
I was so happy when he first asked me on a date, after class. I went to my girlfriends and they started fretting over me, putting make up on my face, combing my hair, giving me tips on how to do it correctly.
We went to the arcade. We played some. I was so happy. I had never been on a date before and I had no idea what it was supposed to be like. We were comfortable around each other, he wouldn't treat me like a girl, he wouldn't let me win at games just to get a chance with me. He was my friend.
And I started thinking that maybe it wasn't so bad, that I wasn't so bad at it, that I was just like everybody else, like all my girlfriends. It had only taken me longer than them to grow up, but I had. I was out on a date and I was enjoying it. There was nothing wrong with me.
Then we went for an ice cream. And it happened. His lips were on mine. I just stood there. Pursed lips, unmoving. I didn't know the first thing about kissing somebody, but I soon got a hint as to what it entailed. His tongue pushed inside my mouth, parting my lips, cutting off my air. I only remember he tasted like chocolate and some other mixed flavor I couldn't identify.
I felt no butterflies, there was no shock going up and down my spine, no buckling knees giving out, no head spinning. Just a clumsy tongue in my mouth, sticky fingers on my hip and a strange flavor to analyze.
I wasn't like them at all.
After the 'date' he brought me back in front of the school, where he'd left his bicycle, like the good little self appointed boyfriend that he was. The day after I had a tale to tell my friends, of how I had felt all the magic everybody did in a kiss, all the poetry they had all shared in their time.
Only in my case it wasn't real.
I couldn't face them, their expecting eyes and simply tell them that I hadn't felt a thing. And so I lied. But inside I started thinking that maybe, maybe they were lying too. That maybe there was no magic, no poetry, no nothing. Only a lie we had to pretend was real.
Growing up I started changing guys with the frequency one would change clothes. It was fine, nice even. I was a rebel and I would do anything to piss my parents off, and I knew that hanging out with that kind of guys would make them mad. I think part of my fascination with them came from the game I kept playing against my family more that it had to do with the guys themselves.
The sex was good. It seemed to give them what they wanted and it gave me a chance to clear my head, free of all the questions and doubts I had about me. Free of all the feelings of being inadequate, retarded, different than anybody else. Where it had been my weakness growing up, I soon learned to use my body and curves to attract people. They wanted me, and it gave my overworking mind and self doubt some respite.
Then I met George. My first kiss with him was.. nice. Nicer than any other kiss I had shared with anyone up to that point, and I started thinking that maybe, maybe, if I focused hard enough, maybe, I could feel the shiver, I could feel the fluttery wings inside of me. He was sweet. Way sweeter than any other man I had been with. He seemed attracted to me for more than my body, so much that I made myself believe I was in love with him, and I told him so. And it scared him to the point of running away from me.
The first time I kissed Erica was different. Different than any of those other kisses.
My mind shut down, my eyes closed by themselves, my heart stopped for a second in my chest, my breath caught in my lungs. And then I felt her lips on mine, so soft, like velvet, so right. And her hand cradling my face, and her thumb caressing my cheek. And I was burning and trembling all at once, and I couldn't hear or think or feel anything that wasn't her. And it was an instant, I know it was, but in my heart it felt like forever.
We parted, her hand never leaving my face, so warm and comforting, and scalding and electrifying. I heard her say something. To Mark. I couldn't hear what. All I could focus on was the rushing of blood in my ears, the mad dance of my heart. My head was light, my lungs heavy with a breath I was still holding, my eyes open in shocked disbelief, darkened with the wave of instant arousal that had washed over me.
I walked out of that elevator, onto the lobby. A choice. Go right and follow the lead of the butterflies that had taken over my stomach for the first time in my whole life, or go left and follow the screaming of my brain that was slowly regaining its command over my senses and body.
I don't remember following Mark, or taking off my clothes, or lying on one of those beds with him. I only remember how her lips had felt on mine, how Mark's harsh, passion inflamed kisses couldn't even come close to turning me on the way her soft one had.
But that wasn't the only life altering kiss I shared with her, no. The second kiss we shared was my kiss. It was me, staking my claim, making sure for me and for her that all those longed for feelings I had felt the first time with her, had been real. And so I kissed her. It was a kiss as unexpected and unplanned as our first one had been. And it was just as magical. Only this time longer, and more purposeful.
Where the first one had been hot, this one was sweet. Maybe it was because we both knew it meant more than the first, maybe it was because for the first time we were really facing that thing between us we had both felt for so long, maybe it was because this one was just for us, without any Mark to shock or tease.
We shared many kisses, always alike, always different. Once they'd be full of love and tenderness, once they'd be burning with passion, once light with carefree happiness.
But this kiss we are sharing now, this one is new.
It's different. Bittersweet.
Never before had I felt her tears wetting my face, never before the quiver in her shoulders had been born out of hurt and pain and not laughter.
Never had I trembled with the fear she might draw back.
We stand here, unmoving. Lips pressed firmly together. They speak of longing, of need, of passion, of hurt. She doesn't move and neither do I, for fear of scaring her, of making her stop, shut me out, run away.
Her hold on my top lightens, and so does the crushing pressure of her lips on mine. I feel her tremble with a fear I know only too well.
And I want to hold her, to caress her face, cradle it in my hands and never let her go. I want to stop the world here, I'll live off her kisses, off her breath, off her.
My need is strong, and I fight against myself to keep still, one moment yet. Before she realizes the mistake she's making, before she pulls back, tells me to go.
And a second stretches into a lifetime of uncertainty as I feel her hesitate, her lips barely on mine, her hands limp against my shirt. And she could kiss me again and that would mean we'd try to make this, make us, work, or she could pull back, deem it too late, too little.
I hold my breath and I feel her tremble.
Her right hand comes up to caress the side of my face, her forehead on mine, the hard pants off her mouth that tickle my lips.
She bends her head forward and I close my eyes. My hands stay balled at my sides, nails digging into my palms as I wait for her.
The whisper of a touch. Against my lips. A little pained moan from deep inside of her. Another touch, this time more firm, like a caress. My stomach can't stop trembling, my head can't stop spinning.
I feel her retreat and my head moves to follow hers, before I can control it, before I can stop myself.
Air leaves her lungs, her lips press on mine, her tongue slips inside my mouth.
Her tears wet her face, bold and heavy, making her tremble all over again. Only this time is different. This time, as they mingle in our kiss, they taste of freedom, of letting go, of hope.
And we cling to each other like there's nothing else that could keep us alive. And I believe there isn't. Nothing else. No one. We have only us. We need each other. With a strength we didn't even think was possible. We need each other, to be, to exist, to go on.
We've walked alone, crippled, all our life. And now we've found each other to lean on to, to help us through.
And we hold each other so tight none of us can breathe, but it doesn't matter.
And her hand on my face moves to the back of my neck, deepening our kiss still.
My right arm tightens its hold around her waist, pulling her to me, until there's no room between us anymore.
The fingers of her right hand intertwine with mine, and I've missed the feel of her holding my hand more than any other feeling. It always made me feel cherished and protected. I felt so alone without it.
I bring our linked hands up to our hearts, so that I can feel hers beating wildly in her chest and she can feel my heart mirroring it in mine. Together. One beat.
The pace is not frantic anymore. Linked like this we have no fear to be left alone. Languid now. A kiss that feels like coming home, familiar and sweet. Longed for.
"Callie" she whispers as I break our contact, briefly.
I kiss her cheek, her closed eyelids, her nose. All of her. She's here. With me. She's here and I'm not even sure I believe it. I need to make sure.
That she's real, that we're really here. That last month wasn't the beginning of the end, that I'm still alive. That I didn't die in that parking lot, that my heart didn't walk out on me that night. That I didn't lose her. That she's mine, still. She's mine.
I run my hand across her cheek, down the curve of her nose, her lips. I follow it with my mouth. A brief kiss this time.
"Callie" is the only thing she can plead.
And I smile. She's so beautiful.
I feel wetness on my face once again and for a moment my eyes search hers for any sign of tears, fearing it to be too much, too right, fearing she might have changed her mind. But there's no trace of them on her cheeks, on the lashes of her closed eyelids.
Mine. I'm the one crying, and I hadn't even realized it.
'Cause I've been dead for this past month. Dead without her. To love me. To mend my heart.
Dead like I've been all my life before her.
And now she's in front of me, and my name on her lips feels sweet. Her needing me, her wanting me.
And it feels like the World tilted on its axis, resumed its motion, started spinning again.
It sure feels like it's spinning in my brain.
I can breathe her, taste her, touch her. At least in this moment once again. She's here and she's mine.
And she looks so small and fragile, precious.
Erica. My Erica.
My porcelain doll, my baby.
My baby.
And the room starts spinning once again, but this time it makes me sick.
The skin of her face suddenly burns my hand and I pull back.
She might not be mine anymore.
*Chapter 13*
My heart and mind had shut that thought out. It's funny how a simple word has the power to change my whole life.
Because there is someone out there, someone who had the right to call my Erica, hers. Some woman that was in her life while I wasn't. Maybe still is.
And the simple thought hurts so much it cuts my air off.
"Callie? Are.. Are you ok?" her arms come up around my waist, to hold me up. I hate this. I hate being so fucking fragile, it feels like I'm breaking all the time. And I hate being so fucking weak that even as I fear I've just been made the other woman, I cherish her touch. But I have to know. I have to know who this woman is, what's her place in her life, whether she's always had one and I just didn't know, or whether I meant so little to her that she was able to get over me so quickly. I can't believe I let it get this far without knowing.
I had forgotten. Pushed it so far back inside my mind that I was blind to it. Everything. Every sign of it. But now I see them. They seem to be screaming out at me, to look at them, at the smiling face in a picture of a woman with her arms around Erica, at the light blinking red on her voicemail, at the million little things that are so not Erica but that mingle nauseatingly well with the things I know from her old apartment.
Does she live here? Is she so much a part of her life that she lives in her own home? Or maybe this isn't even Erica's house, maybe she's the one who moved in with this woman. Maybe they've always known each other, maybe she moved all the way out here to be with her.
I feel like fainting, and it's only an instant, her arms are still around me and her voice and worried face still asking me if I want to sit or lie down for a bit. But I have to know.
I shake her arms free and move purposefully towards the shelf with the picture frames. I watch them. I know them. All of them. The loving face of Erica's grandma. The stern looks of Erica's socialite parents. A couple of pictured faces of friends made during the course of her life. I know these pictures. All but one. And I pick it up.
The scene in this is one of happiness, of joy. Maybe even love. They're in a park, sitting on the grass, her with her arms around Erica's waist as they laugh at the camera. Erica looks so beautiful. Her eyes sparkle with the joy she must have been feeling right then, the short curls in her hair still framing her beautiful face.
But my eyes are fixed on the woman behind her. The one laughing with her. The one who's there instead of me.
Her black hair so short they'd look like a man's if it wasn't for the soft lines of her face and her heart shaped lips. Her eyes the brightest shade of green I've ever seen. Her skin as pale as Erica's. She's strikingly beautiful. Disgustingly so.
I don't say a word, I simply raise my head from the picture frame and look at her. A question in my eyes. Who's this woman?
And she knows.
"A friend."
I nod, slowly. "A new friend."
I know I have no right to judge or even to ask. We've been apart for a month and whatever she's done in that month is none of my business. A mistake in the course of our lives, I can live with that. What I can't live with right now is the doubt around my heart that not the woman but me and this moment, these might be the mistakes in the course of their life that she's made.
We have only kissed. I know that. But it wasn't just that. Everything. This past month, this past year. All of it ends now. One way or the other. And I thought I knew where it was going until she came in the picture. I hadn't planned on her.
"A new friend, yes." She sits on the sofa but I don't, I just pick up my glass of wine form the coffee table, never relinquishing my hold on the proof of my misery.
"A.. good friend?" I ask half heartedly as I take a sip. I feel like I'm gonna need it.
"Yes. A very good friend" her eyes are sparkling with a hint of anger, or maybe traces of the tears she's just shed. I'm so caught up in my own brain right now I can't even tell.
"And you've known her for long?" It came out a little more accusatory than I intended for it to sound like.
"Why do you want to know, Callie?" Straight to the point.
"What's wrong with me asking?" I reply, as if hers was not an answer that feels like it could change my whole life.
I can sense her confusion as it mixes with anger. I feel the temperature in the room lower considerably as her icy eyes lock onto mine, the tightening of her jaw making me swallow audibly. She's measuring her words. It's never a good sign.
"Nothing. There's nothing wrong with you asking. I just want to know why you want to know, right this very minute."
"Well, I think I'm entitled to know."
Her half disbelieving look hurts my eyes and I flinch inside.
"You're entitled to know.. Very well. So what is it exactly that you want to know?"
She's looking me, straight in the eyes, and I feel like a kid, being scolded by a stern teacher. I feel like pacing but I have to look sure of myself, not back down in any way. Alright, here goes nothing.
"How long have you known her?"
"Since I moved here." She answers immediately. So quickly and assuredly in fact that I'm left silent for a second.
"How?"
She laughs a small little offended laugh, but nods and answers anyway.
"I came here to work at UCLA. She was the first person I was introduced to. She works there also."
"She's a surgeon too?"
I could see that, just now, in my mind. Them, working together, stealing glances at each other over their scrub masks. And I know this image, it's the same one Mark conjured up for me that one time when it was all beginning, when I still thought I knew myself, my life, and the direction it would be going. Only now I'm not the one across from her, throwing her scrub cap to the ground, taking a handful of those blond hair, kissing her. Now it's this other woman, and I am left watching helplessly, chest open for the world to see on the slab between them.
"She waits tables at the cafeteria on campus. She's 29."
I don't know what to say. I don't know why but I don't know what to say. Erica Hahn and.. what, a waitress? Somehow it makes me feel even more stupid.
I can't believe it. I've been trying for a year to live up to her, to be worthy enough of her friendship, her heart. I've felt too stupid, and too young. Too unsophisticated for her. And now a waitress? A 29 year old waitress?!
I laugh at me and how stupid I feel right now.
But of course she thinks I'm laughing at her and her new 'very good friend'.
"Is there anything else?" her jaw clenches tightly as she waits for my reply.
Ok. Now she's full on mad at me.
Good, because I'm full on mad too. At me? At her? At that girl? I don't know. All I know is I'm mad.
"You didn't waste any time, did you" I feel the glass on the photo give under my fingers as I tighten my hold on it, almost to punish it for causing again another rift and another shouting match between us.
"I'm sorry?!" disbelief lacing her words.
"Oh, you know what I mean"
"I seriously don't think you're in any position to ask anything about what I might or might not have been.."
"Are you two fucking?" Out of line, out of order, just simply out. I shouldn't ask, not unless I want the fight that's coming my way but if I leave now I'm never going to speak to her again and this grain of doubt will always be in my mind and if I have to forget about her I want to do that completely, no reminder, no little scar to pull whenever I lower my guard.
But I really don't need to wait for words. I know she's not gonna answer my question, not with sound and thought anyway. Her face, the one I've spent so many hours studying, the way her nostrils flare, the way her eyes get just that bit wider, the way her neck colors with a red so hot it almost looks like it's been eaten alive by flames, I know. I know everything her tightened lips are not saying, everything her cold stance is trying to cover up for.
"Is she good?"
"Callie.."
I'm crossing the line. What am I saying, I've jumped with both feet and now the line is so far back I can't even see it anymore. So I jump some more. And I move to kill.
"I hope you got what you wanted out of it" I move to walk away from her, from this home of theirs, this night, this chapter of my life.
"How can you stand here, in my home, and talk to me like this!?" the barely contained rage and affront in her voce are enough to stop any of my attempts to walk away from this.
I'm done being the victim.
"How can YOU stand there and be all fragile and soft and kiss me like that and make me think everything was going to be alright when all this time you've had this picture up!?" I slam the frame so hard on the coffee table that's standing between us I'm almost certain I've cracked the glass on it. Good.
"You think I planned for any of that to happen?! You think I expected to see you again?"
"You should have waited! You should have known!"
"What?! How could have I known?!? For all I knew my going away had been the cue to push you and Sloan finally together!"
"There's never ever been anything between me and Mark! How many times have I gotta tell you that?" I feel like we're talking in circles, endless loops that never solve anything.
"You'd say that but then you'd run back to him whenever I got too close or too emotional or too much for you to handle! For all I know I was always the one in the middle between the two of you!"
"There was no two of us, no two, no us! Just you and me!"
"I didn't know that!" Arms wide, she screams at me, like it's the most obvious thing in the world, like it's all my fault that I never taught her that with more than words, that I've said time and again that I wanted to be with her but then I've always gone and done the opposite. And what if she's right? Do I have to pay for it for the rest of my life? Do I have to apologize forever for what was then?
"And now? Now there is this woman with you and you can't go on kissing people like that if there is your fuck buddy in between!"
"Fuck buddy! Look who's talking! You're the queen of fuck buddies! First Mark, then me, then Mark again. Was there another after I left?"
I pause for a second, I flinch for just an instant as a face with blonde hair and blue eyes flashes before me, nameless. But she can read me so well she can answer her own question.
"So there was, were they good? Did you get what you wanted out of it?"
And now she's the one striking the killing blow, and smirking in victory and pain as she does so.
It's just too much. One thing after the other, and every time I think I have it all, the complete picture, it all comes crashing down.
I'm exhausted, I feel completely drained. I can't take the fight anymore. I'm done fighting.
"Did you even cry, Erica? Did you even miss me?" She must be able to see the sadness, the complete and utter defeat in my eyes, because her anger disappears in an instant, replaced by a look I know only too well.
"I did.. I do. Callie, I do. Believe me. I.." she's in front of me now, her head bent to be level with my eyes that are trying to look at anything but her.
"I.. look at me. I do. I missed you. You don't know how much. How many times I just wished I could go back. Wished I could call you and just talk with you. I miss you. But I couldn't.. I just.. I couldn't go on like that."
My shoulders tremble with the tears that are always just under the surface when I'm around her.
"I'm sorry" I manage to whisper.
"It doesn't matter now."
That hurt. I shy away from her.
But her arms are quick around me, to keep me from turning away, from trying to get out of here again.
"I mean, that I can't keep making you pay for it and you can't keep saying you're sorry. It won't get us anywhere. You're here now. That's what matters."
Out of the corner of my eye I see her reassuring smile and it sparks some hope inside my heart.
If it weren't for one thing.
"You're with her now. Me being here won't change that."
Her forehead scrunches up in a frown, her eyes lost, in search of meaning.
"Callie, I'm not in a relationship with her."
I laugh at this, at her arms around me, at her excuses, her ability to play me for the fool I am.
"I swear.. I'm not!"
"Baby, Erica. She calls you Baby."
"How.." her hands on me loosen their hold and I take that opportunity to take a step towards the coffee table and her picture.
"Addie heard you two. Remember? When you two met on the street, and you had your 'little chat', this woman was with you" I say pointing at the picture once again in my hand. "And she called you Baby."
She's silent for a moment. She's been so sure and fierce in her rebuttal all night, and now.. now she's at a loss for words.
"Are you sure you don't want to take that last part back? I thought you could at least have been honest with me."
I move towards the door. I don't know where I'm going, she drove us here. I'll just walk outside for a bit, I have no idea. But I can't be here with her, knowing she was planning on lying to me, knowing she's not mine. Not anymore. Not ever.
I came here. To talk to her. To explain. To make her understand. But maybe it's me the one who needs to understand. I need to understand how she could lie to me, how she could make me forget this woman in her life and have her picture up. How she could have spent this last month laughing and loving this woman when I wasn't even able to live, to function. When I went on on auto pilot. When all I saw around me was a stabbing reminder of her through my heart.
I can't take this anymore. This has to stop. This trip will be the last I ever think of her, I have to believe it. I have to convince and force me to believe. I have to force my life back on track. A new life. Barren of all things Erica. If there is one good thing about that God forsaken hospital is that as busy as the gossip mill is, it's also very fickle. Give it another month and nobody in there will ever even think about Erica. Not me, that's for sure.
And I guess it's ironic that as I walk down this corridor, down the steps of her patio, down that crocked homey pathway in her crocked homey garden, I feel like I should be leaving something of me behind, so that the next month of suffering and not coming home at night to escape long lost trapped ghosts in it will be on her.
I chuckle bitterly as I look around me, all this plants, all this freshly potted flowers, all this, maybe it's not even Erica. I've never known her for being much of a gardener. Maybe this is all for her, for the waitress' benefit. And I suddenly feel like breaking something, smashing a pot, squishing a flower or two under my shoe.
But I cannot give her this satisfaction. I won't be the childish one. I don't want to imagine her coming home tonight and finding her shitty little plants destroyed and running into Erica's arms to be comforted after the attack of the crazy ex.
I don't want to be Toxic Torres once again.
I get as far as the sidewalk before the thud of her bare feet catches up with me and her hand on my shoulder makes me turn around. I turn so fast her hand looses contact with my body altogether and I'm glad, for her touch, if I'm supposed to forget about her forever, her touch I cannot stand.
"Stop fucking running away from me"
She demands with a red face and shaking all over and I don't know if it's because she's angry, desperate, or just plain cold. I shake my head, cold, that had to be it. Barefooted, save only for cotton socks, in the middle of the street in December. After all why would she feel anything for me at this point? She was ready to lie to me, kiss me and make me believe everything was going to be alright, all the while that woman was looking at us, them together, laughing at the fool I was making of myself.
"This is not about running away and you know it."
"No I don't know it!" and if possible she gets even redder in the neck. I don't think I've ever seen her so furious in all the time I thought I knew her.
"How can it not be running away? You think and you assume and you decide and you leave, you always do that, and I'm always just fucking standing there being swayed back and forth as you decide what to do with me!"
I feel it now. Rage. Pure, unadulterated rage. And I don't hold back. There's no reason anymore, is there.
And I thought I would scream at her, again, and I thought I would wake the whole street with my voice, I never thought I would speak the last words I ever intended to ever say to her this calmly. Something has changed inside me, I know it. I'm done with this.
"I'm letting you go now. You can sway back to your new little friend."
A stand still. I expect her to sigh and turn and walk down the street back into her house. Or maybe part of me hopes she'll start to cry and crawl back either to or from me. Her face is blank, mine too, we could be frozen for eternity in this same spot and I wouldn't be able to decipher her eyes any better.
*Chapter 14*
Screaming. We always do that. Whenever two people fight they scream. Is it because we need to get our message through? Then maybe screaming isn't the best choice, maybe it's because of that, that fighting never solved anything. Your anger increases, adrenaline is being pumped into your system with a vengeance, your head swims, you feel weak, detached from your own body, your thoughts get mashed up and mingled and you don't even know what you thought of so clearly before the shouting began.
Or maybe it's because you need to reach the other person, one normally so near you that the distance between you in that moment of anger seems incredibly vast, and you're never quite sure if you'll ever get them close to you again. So you scream, across the mountains around you, over the oceans between you, you scream and hope your voice will carry you a little bit closer to them.
The main cause of loud voices and hash words in my life has not been jealousy or greed, not freedom or respect, it's been about betrayal.
The first time was with my parents. I was a free spirited, wide eyed girl even back then, but there was one thing I would not tolerate. And that was lies.
As every child in the World I too believed in Saint Nick. I believed there to be an old nice man, a grandpa of sorts to all the kids in the whole wide World who would take time, once a year, to think of me and me alone. For the one moment he set foot into my house, to the one he left he would be there solely for me.
I knew, or I thought I knew, that he would stop in every house on Earth but I felt special anyway. That's why I always made the extra effort the night before. For days I would pester the maids to let me into the kitchen, without my mother knowing, to bake cookies, just for Santa.
Every year I left him a little plate with my fresh cookies on top, a glass of milk and a note, saying thanks for stopping by and, would you please eat something before leaving?
Every year the first thing in the morning for me wouldn't be to run for the presents, but for his breakfast, to make sure my mother wouldn't find the half eaten cookie on the table and a note with 'thank you' scribbled on it in red ink.
I treasured those little notes, every year, and every year I felt special, like Santa was a bit more real for me than for other kids, who just used him to get more presents.
There was one year however, when I woke up in the middle of the night, by the sound of glass smashing. I put on my little slippers and ran downstairs, to the kitchen, from where the sound had come from. And I saw it. My father crouched on the floor, picking up pieces of broken glass, a cookie still between his teeth, mumbling around it words I could only imagine were the kind nice kids weren't supposed to ever hear.
I didn't talk to them for an entire week, not when my favorite maid tried to explain or my mother scolded me for being so stubborn. I would hold my breath every time they tried to get me to talk. I refused to celebrate Christmas the year after that and I still feel the pang of betrayal every time I think about it.
I've never been good at letting things slide.
The second time I was ever betrayed was of course by George. Not even him. By Stevens. She was for me the greedy little Grinch stealing my Christmas away from me. I had it all planned. A life with him, to have and raise his babies, to buy a house together, to be with him forever and ever. And then she came between us. His friend turned lover, turned thingy on the side of his quickly dissolving marriage.
She had betrayed me, a woman just like me. Not only had she betrayed the sacred vows we took that day in the chapel, not only had she felt the cold metal of his wedding ring on her skin every time they slept together, but she had betrayed another woman, her whole gender, for what turned out to be a two weeks relationship even for them.
In a way it would have been better for me if the betrayal had been for something true and pure, I would have hated them anyway but maybe less, maybe for less time, if I could just believe that their union was really meant to be, unlike George and me. What I could never get over was the sting of having being even less than a two weeks relationship for him.
With Erica, I never fought, well until the last time I saw her. A part of me never even thought her capable of fighting. I had seen her take down Mark and even cut Christina down for size, I'd seen her scream at residents, and I had even seen her stand up to the Chief. But I had never seen her do that to me. Every time I threw something new against her she always kind of looked broken. Shy tears, lost eyes.
So now as Erica, inflamed face and eyes, screams at me that I'm running away, that I always do this, that I move her around like a prop, that I, I, I... I cannot think.
Like I couldn't think back that day. I can just stay here, frozen.
My mind screams something at me. She is lying to me, and not only that. She's lying to some other woman, the one who calls her baby, too.
But there is something behind her eyes, beyond the anger, and the resentment. Something that I thought I knew was there for me, something that I can still catch a glimpse of, something of a plea, for me, to listen. To just stop. Stop everything I've ever done, everything I'm setting my mind to do. Begging me to give her a chance, to unclench my fists and not hold my breath.
She trembles again, and I give in, one final time. My eyes must have granted her permission, for she breathes a little easier, a little deeper.
"Could we please just go back inside?"
But I won't do that, my face shows it. I never want to see that picture of the two of them again, the one that burst my little bubble not five minutes ago.
"Ok" she acknowledges that if we are to do this, we are to do this right here, right now.
"I wasn't lying to you, Callie. What happened in there.. I wouldn't do that if it wasn't important for me. If you weren't important to me. Anne is.. I don't know what she is. She's my friend, good friend" I snort "not only that, she's become.. more. She was there when I first got here, she was sweet and kind and she didn't pressure me into even speaking if I didn't feel like it. She was honest and open and it's just, I don't know, easy with her."
I don't need to hear this. I really don't. I thought I did, but I don't. Easy, sweet, honest. All the things I couldn't be for her. It's like this woman is so much better than me. And I feel the sting of tears fresh in my eyes again. I won't have her last words to me be about her new.. lover.
"Stop, please. Just, stop"
"I can't, not now"
"I don't want to know about your perfect new life!" I plead in an exasperated shout.
"But it isn't, don't you get it? For as sweet as she is, and as understanding and honest, there's never been one single moment that I haven't spent wishing it was you instead of her!"
My blood rushes to my ears. Did she really say that? Did she really admit her life has been as miserable as mine? For all the time I have been in her presence today, she never once said that before. I know. I know her. I know how hard it is for her all of this. The being open and honest stuff. And I can see it in her eyes that she is, at least, trying to be.
A cold wind makes me shake to the bone, or maybe it's the jolt of my heart being set once again into motion for the night. I really can't take much more strain, I know this. One more time and I'll crash. Machines will be turned off and they'll call my time of death.
I see her tremble too, her teeth chattering. I put a hand on her arm, to guide her back into her own home and I feel her cold flesh under my fingertips. She's freezing to death.
"Come on let's get you inside"
As we make our way into her house, again, I keep my eyes trained on the floor under my feet. I won't give that woman the satisfaction of laughing at my face, for coming back in.
What was her name? What had she called her? I cannot remember and I don't try very hard to. Hearing it once from her has been enough, and if I never have to hear it again I'll be more than happy.
"I don't think I want to talk about the picture anymore"
But of course I'll have to. Of course. What else could go just a bit wrong tonight?
"I think we both need to."
I lower my eyes in defeat. This is the part, I know, that will be the source of many of my thoughts from now on, thoughts spent imagining her living her life with, with..
"Anne.."
Anne. That name on her lips is like a shot to my head. Anne.
"Anne is.. we are.. I'm.. sleeping with her."
There it is. The truth, lying out in the open. And I feel like throwing up all over again.
"The night I left Seattle Grace, when we.." Hesitation breaks her voice.
"When we broke up" I offer. And I don't know why I'm trying to help her, make it easier on her. She's sleeping with the thing.
"Yes. I went straight to my apartment and started writing my resignation letter. A week after that I was already moving in this house." A pause. She looks around herself like she's seeing the place for the first time all over again, like she hasn't been making a life in here.
"I didn't know anybody or anything. I wanted a clean slate. Only that's not me, Callie. I've never done anything on impulse, anything without thinking it through more than necessary. But that night, that night really hurt me. That night you took what strength I had left and you crushed it, and I just couldn't be around you anymore."
I swallow the bitter taste of her words. Of her truth. I keep silent and she keeps on.
"I came here, barren. First day in I was shown around by my new Boss when he insisted I try the cafeteria at least once. Kind of an initiation he said. So I did it and I met her. We ended up talking after her shift, and then every day after my shift I'd stop by and we'd go someplace together." I can feel her smile in her voice and it stings a bit more to realize she has a connection to this woman. Maybe it would have been better if she was sleeping with all of Los Angeles, at least I'd have known her heart was still mine. But this, this torture I'm going through and can't find the power in me to stop, this is something that makes her smile, and my stomach turns a little more.
I want to scream at her to stop talking, to just stake her final blow to my heart and slay me, but I won't. I'll let her talk and then, with all my answers I so hotly demanded only half an hour ago, I'll leave.
"Why?" and she knows exactly what I want to know.
A whisper brings me her quivering voice and the dawning of our truth.
"Because she said she wanted me."
And I never did. I get it now. I do. I pushed her away and I made her feel like she was nothing to me, if not a test subject. I used her without ever meaning to, but I did. I would take her and then I would throw her away or worse yet, just leave her alone, and run to do my research some more.
This woman, this Anne, she wanted her, told her so. And why wouldn't she. Even now with her eyes red and tired, her voice raw from all the previous shouting, her hair unkempt, her cheeks a faint pink, she is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen and yes, maybe I'm biased but I wouldn't change anything about her if they just told me I could get her back.
But there is no they and I'll never get her back, because this woman wants her, and has her, and makes her smile in pictures we never took because I was too afraid somebody might see them and guess.
And what would they have had to guess was that she was the love of my life and that I was destroying her brick by little brick.
I can't stand myself right now. I'm my worst enemy right now, and I need to get away from me. Right now. So I pick up the glass of wine she had poured for me when I had first sat here hoping to save things and still hadn't truly realized that there was nothing to save.
I down it and I pour another. Her hand on mine stops me from gulping this one down too. I don't want to look into her eyes, but the pull of that, the hold she has on me is stronger than my willpower alone, so I do turn around and I can see she's not finished with her tale. And I can see I'm not sure I'll survive the night.
"It's not. It's not what I want. What I want is" I can see the tears at the corner of her eye, but I don't think there are anymore tears to shed in either of us "What I want is for you to say it"
It's a whisper. I'm not even sure I've heard it. I feel lightheaded again and I'm sure I'll faint at some point. I can hear my heart pounding in my chest and I realize I'm holding my breath. Eyes wide I search hers for confirmation and when I see it, in an instant my lips are on hers again, and this time I do not care if there is a woman laughing at me from a picture frame somewhere in the room, because she's here with me now, and she's here smiling at me as I repeat over and over "I do. I do. I do."