Title: But You're Still Alive - Prologue
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not miiiine.
Notes: This chapter is from Jing-Mei's POV.
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The first thing I notice when I step off the El is that the night air smells like rain.
Usually in this town, one doesn't notice trivialities like the weather. After a certain point in time, it's simply Cold or Very Cold, and whatever falls from the sky may as well be frogs or feathers for all the attention we put into it. Water, ice, snow - it all blends together, serving only as an annoyance to further complicate the day.
Tonight, however, I notice that the cold wind that wisps around me lacks the tinge of frost that always precedes snow; instead it slithers around my bare neck like an icy snake, whispering that rain is on the way. I've lived here long enough to know the difference, I suppose, to the point where the spark in my step is subdued at the thought of rain. I can at least brush snow off the shoulders of my thick parka before they melt and seep into my sweater beneath. Snow has the lovely whimsical feeling of childhood, and I find myself constantly wanting to stick my tongue in the air to catch a lilting snowflake as it wafts through the night air.
But it's not snow weather tonight. Tonight it will rain. And the thought of trudging through the rain, back up the iron steps of the El station that I'm currently descending, is depressing beyond all imaginable thought.
A gleeful voice in the back of my head reminds me that by the time I'm coming back up these stairs, the rain clouds will have vanished and the morning sunlight will be busy rubbing the forearms of the children Earth has been busy freezing. "It has to be warmer in the morning when you wake up in John Carter's arms," the voice proclaims gleefully. "Blue skies, sunshine . . ."
I wrinkle my nose against a particularly biting wind as I breeze onto the city streets. That's true, I realize. Though I've never had the pleasure of being in John's bed I know that there must be something different about it - if the feeling that shines inside of me when we're merely standing together is any indication, then the world must positively glow after we make love.
"You'll find out tonight," the voice exclaims with a little dance. "As long as you don't turn around and get back on that train like every other time."
I wait until I reach a crosswalk before I contemplate this. Arguing with myself always serves so little purpose, but it does get the job done. I'm entirely too smart not to listen to someone like me. "I can do this," I finally murmur out loud, to the confusion of absolutely no one around me. The people of Chicago know better than to venture out at one in the morning when rain is on the way. It doesn't matter anyway - my voice is swallowed by the thick, chilling air, and I dig my hands even farther into the pockets of my parka.
"Damn right you can," the voice informs me, and I envy its confidence. "He wants you there. He asked you to come, and you know Abby's working late."
Abby, I scoff in reply. He and Abby aren't serious, just like any other woman he's been with. I'm not arrogant enough to assume that he's biding his time before he makes a move for me, but there certainly have been a lot of nameless women in his past - and accordingly, a lot of nameless men in mine. The only one that matters is John Carter, and I know that I am the only one that matters to him. The way he looks at me, holds me . . . Jesus, it's enough to make a girl fall in love.
I shake myself out of the small trance I've worked myself into and stare at the burning sign ahead of me, trying to manipulate the red letters spelling "Don't walk" into the friendly little green walking guy. It's not working. But there's no rush at this point . He's the one who invited me over - as ambiguous as "Come by after your shift" tends to be, I have to assume that he'll be expecting me.
And the thrill I feel at this revelation is enough to send a warm shiver down my spine. John Carter is finally expecting *me* - he's sitting on his couch, twiddling his thumbs, watching the clock, waiting for me . . . just like I've waited for him all these years. I close my eyes in bliss - the wait is over.
A drop of freezing water lands on my nose, and like an idiot I raise my head to stare up at the black sky. Not a star nor a drop of rain in sight. Still I gaze up at the dark canopy, blinking against the night air as if it would freeze my eyelids open. I hope I get there before it starts to rain. Rain isn't like snow in the fun, cocoa-drinking, let's-all-snuggle-under-a- blanket way. Rain is sharp. Like bullets from an unseen battle, the aim of raindrops is careful and deliberate, to bring me down using as little ammunition as possible. It's not like I'm made of sugar - I can take a little sprinkling during the winter. But too much and I'm soaked straight through, as if I've been rinsed like a thin sweater in the wash. Rain can destroy an entire day. It slices through the cold air and tries to get to me, cut me through the thick clothes, until drops of water dribble through my hair and my scarf, down my neck, bleeding down my back until I'm completely penetrated. Yes, I hope I can get to his house before it starts to rain.
It occurs to me that the little green man has been waiting patiently for me to cross the street, and that he has given up this time around - the red block letters flash irritably at me. I dash across the street and duck my head to ignore the car to my right, which had been ready to make a turn directly through me. The driver is probably yelling something at me, but my ears are ice and I can't hear him anyway.
"Let's try to get there in one piece," the voice advises. "Not even a doctor would want to sleep with a corpse."
That thought strikes me as bizarre, and I smile slightly as I step down the street, The cold wind immediately sticks to my teeth and unconsciously I lick my lips to lubricate my mouth. They taste of icy strawberry and my fingers graze the general shape of lip gloss in my padded pocket - I make a mental note to apply more before I reach his door.
His door . . . it's not one of these, is it? I stop, and squint through frosty eyelashes to see the address on the fancy brick apartment building before me. No. There aren't roses outside his building. I remember this because on several occasions I've wanted to ask him what the name of the purple flowers on the bush outside his building were called. But the question has always died as soon as I call up for him to ring me in, and I've never found out. I haven't been to his place since the summer - the purple flowers are probably dead by now.
And how do these people keep roses in the winter, I ponder as I make my way down the street. Don't roses die in the cold? Or are they one of the plants that thrive in cold weather, like evergreen or something? Although evergreen trees usually live all year round, I think. Until you cut them down and put them in the living room during Christmas time. I wonder when I should get my Christmas tree. Two weeks before Christmas should do it, unless the selection is shitty, in which case I should probably get it earlier. Will it last longer than two weeks if I water it? I wonder where I'll put it in my place?
I wonder if John and I will share a tree this year.
The mere thought of the two of us hauling in a Christmas tree makes my heart flutter. "You're such a dweeb," the voice remarks, but there's a fondness underneath it that makes me even happier. I can't help it. I'm completely in love with the man. This game we've been playing for so long now - eight years, I marvel - has been fun, worth a sly smile and a flirtatious giggle, but every game must end sooner or later. The attraction at the beginning was more than evident. The innocent friendship, the playful competition, the silly teasing, the nervous innuendoes, the sexual tension, our eyes, his hands, his chest . . .
But for whatever reason, or probably a hundred tiny reasons, we never made anything official. There was this unspoken agreement between us back then, this silent betrothal that made the whole relationship beautiful and secret and mysterious. We would be together eventually - the look in his eyes was enough to let me silently promise myself to him.
Yet being bound to John Carter was not easy. He really is an incredibly attractive man, and I was certainly not the only one to notice this. I watched other women mentally undress him, I saw doctors and nurses and patients and sisters of patients gaze at him with intense lust. Yet at such a young age, I hadn't fully developed the lasers in my eyes and could only absorb the hurt of not having him, instead of directing it at the women around him.
After a while it became too much for me. I couldn't even concentrate on my work anymore; my love for him had grown so overwhelming that the simplest of tasks in the job I loved most proved daunting. One day I made a mistake with a patient; in retrospect, was completely understandable, but it gave me the perfect reason to flee the effect he was having on me. It was cowardly, of course - especially when he came to comfort me, my God, I melted into the carpet - but I couldn't bear the "barely there" love we shared. I was too shy to voice my feelings and too sure that there was a good reason why he'd never said anything either.
It took me five years to gather my strength and see him again. Five years before I'd grown into a woman ready to field his love instead of a girl aching for it - I came back completely unafraid. I even had a new name. And we fell into common roles, picking up where we had left off . . . though the sexuality of it all was brimming below the surface, waiting to be tapped. For a while, anyway.
When he was stabbed, everything changed. Suddenly the high school antics weren't enough to be close to him - he was needy, stripped emotionally raw, completely vulnerable . . . against my better judgements I took it upon myself to care for him. But not directly; in true Jing-Mei form, I worked behind the scenes to show my undying love for him. Seeing him so close to death had stirred something inside me, had shown me that life was too short for games. Now that the sexual aspect of our silent relationship had died off, it was almost painful to discover how much I loved him, how much he needed me . . . and how much I needed him.
After he left for Atlanta, there was no meaning to life. I'd tried to help him, warning others of his destructive behavior that only I could see, but in the end, he stung me worse than I ever thought possible and then left. For three months. And I still had several loose ends to finish up that I hadn't even thought about when John was around.
One of them got me pregnant.
I like to believe that my family was the reason I gave the baby up for adoption. I like to think back on that time and realize that my career would have been at stake if I'd kept him. Sometimes I ponder about how terrible a mother I would have been at the time, and assure myself that it was for the best. But I know better. I know that I couldn't be a decent mother to a child I would always secretly resent. I would love him as my son, of course, but deep down I would see him as what had destroyed my chances of being with John. Giving birth to him was the most painful thing I had ever done, and I have absolutely no recollection of the labor itself. I had all the pieces of my life there, all in that room, but they were all so miserably disjointed. John wasn't my husband. The baby wasn't our son. And they were both gone by the time the sun came up the very next day.
The honk of a car horn makes me look up quickly. Damn it, I've gone and stepped into the street, completely blinded by my internal rambling and now by the car's bright headlights. "Nice one," the voice in the back of my head quips. "Wouldn't hurt you to pay attention once in a while."
I'm suddenly too weary to answer back as I trot across the street. Thinking of him is lovely - thinking of eight years of wasted time is tiresome.
I look around for some indication as to where I am or how far from his apartment I am, and I notice that there is an unfamiliar light from somewhere above. Curious, I look up - and recognize his bedroom window, the light from which spills over me. I smile with relief. He's waited up for me.
It's not until I'm safely underneath the overhang of his apartment building that I must have been wrong about the imminent rain; the air is crisp and moist, but the sidewalk is dry. I pick up the phone outside the building and with a quick glance at the list of names next to it, dial a few numbers and listen to it ring.
There's a man inside the apartment lobby who's pretending to be checking his mailbox, but he sneaks glances at me through the clear glass doors. He's mildly attractive in a leather jacket and neat hair, which suggests he's recently returned from a date but didn't have sex. I'm ashamed to find myself considering the man to be a prude.
"Hey you," a husky voice chuckles though the phone, and it startles me to hear John's gentle voice tickle my ear in such a way. "Took you long enough."
I glance away from the man by the mailbox and stare at the street as a slow smile spreads across my face. "I got held up at work," I begin to explain in an equally sultry tone, but the loud buzzing of the door drowns me out and cautiously, I hand up the phone and step through the door.
A blast of warm air embraces me as the door shuts with an unnecessarily loud slam. The noise attracts the attention of the security guard across the lobby, but his eyes glaze over me and his stare returns to normal. The mailbox man is eye-raping me as I step over to the elevator, and I grace him with a simpering smile once I've pushed the button with the arrow pointing up. He shuts his mailbox and makes his way over to me, and silently I pray that the elevator will beat him here.
"Going down?" he asks with a suggestive grin, shifting the mail under his arm.
I purse my lips as I cross my arms over my chest. "You wish."
He snickers as the elevator arrives, and I suddenly opt to take the stairs, not waiting for his reply. On another occasion I would enjoy the sexual banter of a stranger in an elevator, but I'm on my way to Carter's tonight. I want to save all my energy for him.
I somehow gloss over the journey up the stairs, which isn't difficult considering it's only a few flights up. Though I suppose it could have been a hundred flights, and I still would have flown up the stairs without breaking a sweat. There's soft jazz floating through his hall and as I step down the regal red carpet, I smile when I realize the music is coming from behind his door. Apparently he's getting ready for our date as much as I have been.
I move to open the door but pause, and knock gently. For one terrifying moment there is no audible movement behind the door and I'm tempted to turn around and run away as fast as I can. But suddenly I hear a small noise, and my heart begins to beat again, rapidly.
"Ow - shit!" I hear him hiss from behind the door, followed a loud clang of a pan. "Owww*wwww*!"
I raise an eyebrow and take a step closer to the door. "You all right?" I call, but my voice is mostly likely drowned out by the sound of breaking glass. "John?"
"Just . . . come on in, the door's open," I heard him call, and warily I open the door and step into his apartment. "You're early . . ."
I'm immediately greeted by the jazz music coming from his stereo, and with a shy smile I see that the apartment is dimmed, save for a few flickering candles from the draped table in the living room. He's just as tired of waiting as I am . . .
Yet the fond moment is broken when I hear him shout a few more obscenities from the kitchen. "John?"
"Yeah, just a second," he calls over the sound of running water. "Just a little burn . . . nothing too serious."
I peek into the kitchen and my breath is momentarily caught in my throat. Dear God, the man is wearing a tuxedo. "Oh."
He's bent over the sink and doesn't look up as he investigates his hand underneath the cold water. "This is going to scar," he complains.
I would reply, but I'm a little transfixed by the sight of him - and by the delicious aromas that are slowly rising to my consciousness. "Oh," is all I can muster once again. Slowly I slide out of my coat and take a gentle step closer, as if pulled by a force beyond my control. I just want to feel his arms around me, his lips against my skin, his voice in my ear . . .
"I told you, I don't belong in the kitchen," he remarks, shaking his head ruefully. "The scars I endure for you, I swear to God. And since when do you knock?"
I want to reply but I've forgotten how to speak. Slowly I wrap my arms around him from behind and rest my forehead against the sleek fabric of his tuxedo jacket - he's like a magnetic pull, and he immediately rests in my embrace. It makes my heart flutter to see how receptive he is to my touch. "Hard day?" he asks softly.
I nod against his back, though the day really wasn't that hard. "This is a wonderful way to end it," I murmur, tightening my embrace slightly.
Yet I can't help but notice that he immediately stiffens in my embrace, and not in the good way - his entire back has gone rigid. The poor man is nervous, and I can certainly sympathize; after all, it was only minutes ago that I was reeling over the entire situation in my mind. So I take his hand, and press a kiss to his knuckles. "I know," I whisper. "I know how you feel . . . but we've waited too long to be nervous, don't you think? . . ."
Slowly, as if in a trance, he turns around. His eyes immediately come to rest on me and I bask in his gaze. With a soft smile, I bring a hand to his cheek. "I've wanted this for long," I muse, my thumb barely brushing his bottom lip. "And I should have told you such a long time ago . . ."
He moves his lips as if to kiss my thumb, but instead a single syllable spills from them. "Deb?"
I allow a slow smile to pour onto my face. "John."
"What are you doing here?"
And suddenly the world is ice, and my heart has frozen over. The pleasant glaze in his eyes is really befuddlement; the pulse I feel racing against my palm is not a lover's nerves, but a stranger's terrified confusion. "You told me to come," I manage to whisper, though my voice is wavering so uncertainly that I can't even hear my own words.
John tilts his head and holds my stare, but suddenly I wish he would look away. My cheeks are burning yet all I feel is the chill of utter shock; I can only manage to drop my hand a few inches from his face where it rests on his chest. "I thought you were working tonight," he tells me softly. "I figured you'd come by in the morning . . . I had some research ready for your article in the Wilkes journal."
It's the answer I really didn't want to hear, but probably should have seen coming on some level. "Then all this . . ."
"For Abby." His voice is kinder than I would like it to be. "I thought you were her."
I think I nod at this, but the apartment is swirling around me so quickly that it's really difficult to gauge my own movements. "I should go," I decide, and I neither know nor care if I've said it out loud.
"Deb," he protests, but I'm not sure why and I don't want to stick around long enough to find out. Part of me is stepping rapidly across his apartment and part of me is kissing the hell out of him - the fact that he's still able to speak suggests that the former is true. "Deb, wait . . ."
"No, really, I have to go," I tell him, and if I sound half as rushed as I feel then the words must be a blur to him - my head is throbbing as the sting of rejection begins to set in. But I can't let myself think about that now or I might actually faint to the ground.
"Come on, Deb, let's talk about this," Carter insists, taking my wrist before I reach the door.
"It's fine, really," I inform him, and I yank my wrist out of his grip. "I'm . . . drunk, I don't know what I'm doing."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. "Deb . . ."
"Jo-hn," I scoff in an exaggerated mockery of his tone. "Come on, I'm fine."
But I'm not fine, and I know it - and I know John knows it. So it startles me to hear him sigh "Okay . . . if you're sure. I'll see you at work tomorrow?"
As if in slow motion I turn around and shoot him a glare that makes even me shudder. "Yup," I tell him briskly, and I try to ignore the sad smile he gives me in reply. "See ya." The door slams but I can't even feel the handle clenched in my shaking hand.
It's not until I'm halfway down the hall that I realize I'm cold - and I'm crying. I've forgotten my coat but I'm such a blubbering mess that I'm tempted to say "Fuck it" and risk pneumonia, though the thought of frozen tears upon leaving the building makes my stomach churn.
I hear an unnecessarily loud "Deb!" behind me, and I involuntarily stop in my tracks. Even my name coated in his voice is enough to hold power over me, and for the first time in my life, I fully despise him for it.
But I don't turn around as I hear him approach me; instead I hold out a hand behind my back. When I don't feel him hand me my coat after a few seconds, I wipe my eyes and turn around.
The expression in his eyes is pity. Nothing more, nothing less. I've seen it on his face a thousand times, though it's usually reserved for the family members of dying patients. I see how pathetic I have become as it is mirrored in the brown eyes that never lie . . . and I have the sudden urge to jump off a bridge. "Come talk to me," he pleads softly.
And with a sudden jolt of fury - a tremor of injustice and anger and bone-cold fire, I shake my head and snatch my coat from his hands. "Fine, let's talk," I snap, not bothering to notice how loudly my voice echoes through these walls and not caring that there are sleeping families behind every door. It wafts just above the crooning saxophone from his open apartment, and this only angers me further. "I shouldn't even be here right now. I came down here the second my shift ended because you told me to -"
"That was just a misunderstanding," he reasons. I can't tell if he's excusing himself or trying to make me feel better.
But at the moment the warm wrath in my chest feels too comforting to let him even have an inch. "That doesn't matter," I hiss. "I don't care what you said or what I heard, I thought you wanted me here so I practically fucking *ran* down here. I gave up so much for you - God, you don't even know!"
The pity in his eyes has shifted to a look of curious caution, as if I may explode at any second. Perhaps I will. "But I've never complained about it, John. I've been all alone in this. I gave my job, my child . . ." The tears have returned to my eyes and I don't bother wiping them away. "I gave up my life for you."
He cringes at this. "You don't think you're being a little melodramatic?"
Oh, sweet Jesus. He didn't just say that. I must have heard him wrong, because he can't possibly be as stupid as to call me melodramatic at a time like this. "I left County so you could be Chief Resident," I sputter, staring at him ruefully. "And I came back again because I can't live without you. I gave my child to complete strangers because you weren't his father. I've been waiting for eight years for you," my lip quivers at this, "and the only reason I can even talk myself into going to sleep at night and get out of bed in the morning is because I know you feel the same way."
My tears have since subsided, and I take a slow step towards him. "Tell me you feel the same way," I whisper desperately, swallowing a sob as I stare up at him. "Even if you have to lie."
And the face I have been able to read for nearly a decade lacks the only expression I ever longed to see. He doesn't love me and he doesn't need to say it. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.
I nod slowly, with an understanding far beyond my current emotional state. Turning around, I nearly chew a hole into my lip to prevent the words from coming, but it does no good.
"I love you. I don't care if you don't love me back."
For the first time in my life, my world doesn't hinge on his reply, since I'm down the hallway and descending the stairs by the time my own words have even sunk in. I'm not crying anymore and it feels good to feel in control of something; my face is solemn by the time I'm in the lobby.
"Well," the voice in the back of my mind comments once the cold air outside hits me like a sledgehammer. "That went well."
"Shut the hell up," I grumble at it, and it seems to serve some purpose until a violent shiver wracks my shoulders, and only when I reach the end of the block do I remember that my coat is tucked underneath my arm.
Except it's not my coat. It's white, and much less expensive than my own. Common sense tells me what's happened, and I can't tell if my next shudder is from the cold or from disgust at the prospect of Carter handing me Abby's coat. It's not even a decent coat, won't keep anyone warm or attract any stares from intrigued strangers.
But it smells like Carter. He's probably hugged her as she came home in this coat, rubbed her arms when she was cold, took her to the couch and kissed her tenderly as he slid it over her shoulders . . .
"He loves her, and not you," the voice taunts me. "You may as well forget about him."
I don't bother to respond as I stand frozen in my place on the corner, reluctant to cross the empty street. Forget about him? Right, and I'll give up breathing while I'm at it. No problem.
See? I point out silently to the increasingly annoying voice in the back of my head. I'm still thinking about him and now I know I have no reason to be.
"You can't live your life wearing someone else's coat." The voice sounds as bitter as I feel.
I know.
"I don't think you do know!" it shrieks. "Another woman is going to take your place in his bed tonight, once again, and all you can do is trudge away with your tail between your legs? You're stronger than that, Jing- Mei."
I know.
"You've lived through his abuse long enough. You confessed your love and he just stands there like an idiot. I don't even think he cares, you know that?"
I know.
"How are you going to make him care?"
I don't know.
There is a pause. "I think you do."
And as I stride across the street, I toss the white coat into the gutter, where it slaps against the sidewalk in a messy mud puddle. I don't even notice the cold around me anymore.
The rain has begun.
Rating: R
Disclaimer: Not miiiine.
Notes: This chapter is from Jing-Mei's POV.
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The first thing I notice when I step off the El is that the night air smells like rain.
Usually in this town, one doesn't notice trivialities like the weather. After a certain point in time, it's simply Cold or Very Cold, and whatever falls from the sky may as well be frogs or feathers for all the attention we put into it. Water, ice, snow - it all blends together, serving only as an annoyance to further complicate the day.
Tonight, however, I notice that the cold wind that wisps around me lacks the tinge of frost that always precedes snow; instead it slithers around my bare neck like an icy snake, whispering that rain is on the way. I've lived here long enough to know the difference, I suppose, to the point where the spark in my step is subdued at the thought of rain. I can at least brush snow off the shoulders of my thick parka before they melt and seep into my sweater beneath. Snow has the lovely whimsical feeling of childhood, and I find myself constantly wanting to stick my tongue in the air to catch a lilting snowflake as it wafts through the night air.
But it's not snow weather tonight. Tonight it will rain. And the thought of trudging through the rain, back up the iron steps of the El station that I'm currently descending, is depressing beyond all imaginable thought.
A gleeful voice in the back of my head reminds me that by the time I'm coming back up these stairs, the rain clouds will have vanished and the morning sunlight will be busy rubbing the forearms of the children Earth has been busy freezing. "It has to be warmer in the morning when you wake up in John Carter's arms," the voice proclaims gleefully. "Blue skies, sunshine . . ."
I wrinkle my nose against a particularly biting wind as I breeze onto the city streets. That's true, I realize. Though I've never had the pleasure of being in John's bed I know that there must be something different about it - if the feeling that shines inside of me when we're merely standing together is any indication, then the world must positively glow after we make love.
"You'll find out tonight," the voice exclaims with a little dance. "As long as you don't turn around and get back on that train like every other time."
I wait until I reach a crosswalk before I contemplate this. Arguing with myself always serves so little purpose, but it does get the job done. I'm entirely too smart not to listen to someone like me. "I can do this," I finally murmur out loud, to the confusion of absolutely no one around me. The people of Chicago know better than to venture out at one in the morning when rain is on the way. It doesn't matter anyway - my voice is swallowed by the thick, chilling air, and I dig my hands even farther into the pockets of my parka.
"Damn right you can," the voice informs me, and I envy its confidence. "He wants you there. He asked you to come, and you know Abby's working late."
Abby, I scoff in reply. He and Abby aren't serious, just like any other woman he's been with. I'm not arrogant enough to assume that he's biding his time before he makes a move for me, but there certainly have been a lot of nameless women in his past - and accordingly, a lot of nameless men in mine. The only one that matters is John Carter, and I know that I am the only one that matters to him. The way he looks at me, holds me . . . Jesus, it's enough to make a girl fall in love.
I shake myself out of the small trance I've worked myself into and stare at the burning sign ahead of me, trying to manipulate the red letters spelling "Don't walk" into the friendly little green walking guy. It's not working. But there's no rush at this point . He's the one who invited me over - as ambiguous as "Come by after your shift" tends to be, I have to assume that he'll be expecting me.
And the thrill I feel at this revelation is enough to send a warm shiver down my spine. John Carter is finally expecting *me* - he's sitting on his couch, twiddling his thumbs, watching the clock, waiting for me . . . just like I've waited for him all these years. I close my eyes in bliss - the wait is over.
A drop of freezing water lands on my nose, and like an idiot I raise my head to stare up at the black sky. Not a star nor a drop of rain in sight. Still I gaze up at the dark canopy, blinking against the night air as if it would freeze my eyelids open. I hope I get there before it starts to rain. Rain isn't like snow in the fun, cocoa-drinking, let's-all-snuggle-under-a- blanket way. Rain is sharp. Like bullets from an unseen battle, the aim of raindrops is careful and deliberate, to bring me down using as little ammunition as possible. It's not like I'm made of sugar - I can take a little sprinkling during the winter. But too much and I'm soaked straight through, as if I've been rinsed like a thin sweater in the wash. Rain can destroy an entire day. It slices through the cold air and tries to get to me, cut me through the thick clothes, until drops of water dribble through my hair and my scarf, down my neck, bleeding down my back until I'm completely penetrated. Yes, I hope I can get to his house before it starts to rain.
It occurs to me that the little green man has been waiting patiently for me to cross the street, and that he has given up this time around - the red block letters flash irritably at me. I dash across the street and duck my head to ignore the car to my right, which had been ready to make a turn directly through me. The driver is probably yelling something at me, but my ears are ice and I can't hear him anyway.
"Let's try to get there in one piece," the voice advises. "Not even a doctor would want to sleep with a corpse."
That thought strikes me as bizarre, and I smile slightly as I step down the street, The cold wind immediately sticks to my teeth and unconsciously I lick my lips to lubricate my mouth. They taste of icy strawberry and my fingers graze the general shape of lip gloss in my padded pocket - I make a mental note to apply more before I reach his door.
His door . . . it's not one of these, is it? I stop, and squint through frosty eyelashes to see the address on the fancy brick apartment building before me. No. There aren't roses outside his building. I remember this because on several occasions I've wanted to ask him what the name of the purple flowers on the bush outside his building were called. But the question has always died as soon as I call up for him to ring me in, and I've never found out. I haven't been to his place since the summer - the purple flowers are probably dead by now.
And how do these people keep roses in the winter, I ponder as I make my way down the street. Don't roses die in the cold? Or are they one of the plants that thrive in cold weather, like evergreen or something? Although evergreen trees usually live all year round, I think. Until you cut them down and put them in the living room during Christmas time. I wonder when I should get my Christmas tree. Two weeks before Christmas should do it, unless the selection is shitty, in which case I should probably get it earlier. Will it last longer than two weeks if I water it? I wonder where I'll put it in my place?
I wonder if John and I will share a tree this year.
The mere thought of the two of us hauling in a Christmas tree makes my heart flutter. "You're such a dweeb," the voice remarks, but there's a fondness underneath it that makes me even happier. I can't help it. I'm completely in love with the man. This game we've been playing for so long now - eight years, I marvel - has been fun, worth a sly smile and a flirtatious giggle, but every game must end sooner or later. The attraction at the beginning was more than evident. The innocent friendship, the playful competition, the silly teasing, the nervous innuendoes, the sexual tension, our eyes, his hands, his chest . . .
But for whatever reason, or probably a hundred tiny reasons, we never made anything official. There was this unspoken agreement between us back then, this silent betrothal that made the whole relationship beautiful and secret and mysterious. We would be together eventually - the look in his eyes was enough to let me silently promise myself to him.
Yet being bound to John Carter was not easy. He really is an incredibly attractive man, and I was certainly not the only one to notice this. I watched other women mentally undress him, I saw doctors and nurses and patients and sisters of patients gaze at him with intense lust. Yet at such a young age, I hadn't fully developed the lasers in my eyes and could only absorb the hurt of not having him, instead of directing it at the women around him.
After a while it became too much for me. I couldn't even concentrate on my work anymore; my love for him had grown so overwhelming that the simplest of tasks in the job I loved most proved daunting. One day I made a mistake with a patient; in retrospect, was completely understandable, but it gave me the perfect reason to flee the effect he was having on me. It was cowardly, of course - especially when he came to comfort me, my God, I melted into the carpet - but I couldn't bear the "barely there" love we shared. I was too shy to voice my feelings and too sure that there was a good reason why he'd never said anything either.
It took me five years to gather my strength and see him again. Five years before I'd grown into a woman ready to field his love instead of a girl aching for it - I came back completely unafraid. I even had a new name. And we fell into common roles, picking up where we had left off . . . though the sexuality of it all was brimming below the surface, waiting to be tapped. For a while, anyway.
When he was stabbed, everything changed. Suddenly the high school antics weren't enough to be close to him - he was needy, stripped emotionally raw, completely vulnerable . . . against my better judgements I took it upon myself to care for him. But not directly; in true Jing-Mei form, I worked behind the scenes to show my undying love for him. Seeing him so close to death had stirred something inside me, had shown me that life was too short for games. Now that the sexual aspect of our silent relationship had died off, it was almost painful to discover how much I loved him, how much he needed me . . . and how much I needed him.
After he left for Atlanta, there was no meaning to life. I'd tried to help him, warning others of his destructive behavior that only I could see, but in the end, he stung me worse than I ever thought possible and then left. For three months. And I still had several loose ends to finish up that I hadn't even thought about when John was around.
One of them got me pregnant.
I like to believe that my family was the reason I gave the baby up for adoption. I like to think back on that time and realize that my career would have been at stake if I'd kept him. Sometimes I ponder about how terrible a mother I would have been at the time, and assure myself that it was for the best. But I know better. I know that I couldn't be a decent mother to a child I would always secretly resent. I would love him as my son, of course, but deep down I would see him as what had destroyed my chances of being with John. Giving birth to him was the most painful thing I had ever done, and I have absolutely no recollection of the labor itself. I had all the pieces of my life there, all in that room, but they were all so miserably disjointed. John wasn't my husband. The baby wasn't our son. And they were both gone by the time the sun came up the very next day.
The honk of a car horn makes me look up quickly. Damn it, I've gone and stepped into the street, completely blinded by my internal rambling and now by the car's bright headlights. "Nice one," the voice in the back of my head quips. "Wouldn't hurt you to pay attention once in a while."
I'm suddenly too weary to answer back as I trot across the street. Thinking of him is lovely - thinking of eight years of wasted time is tiresome.
I look around for some indication as to where I am or how far from his apartment I am, and I notice that there is an unfamiliar light from somewhere above. Curious, I look up - and recognize his bedroom window, the light from which spills over me. I smile with relief. He's waited up for me.
It's not until I'm safely underneath the overhang of his apartment building that I must have been wrong about the imminent rain; the air is crisp and moist, but the sidewalk is dry. I pick up the phone outside the building and with a quick glance at the list of names next to it, dial a few numbers and listen to it ring.
There's a man inside the apartment lobby who's pretending to be checking his mailbox, but he sneaks glances at me through the clear glass doors. He's mildly attractive in a leather jacket and neat hair, which suggests he's recently returned from a date but didn't have sex. I'm ashamed to find myself considering the man to be a prude.
"Hey you," a husky voice chuckles though the phone, and it startles me to hear John's gentle voice tickle my ear in such a way. "Took you long enough."
I glance away from the man by the mailbox and stare at the street as a slow smile spreads across my face. "I got held up at work," I begin to explain in an equally sultry tone, but the loud buzzing of the door drowns me out and cautiously, I hand up the phone and step through the door.
A blast of warm air embraces me as the door shuts with an unnecessarily loud slam. The noise attracts the attention of the security guard across the lobby, but his eyes glaze over me and his stare returns to normal. The mailbox man is eye-raping me as I step over to the elevator, and I grace him with a simpering smile once I've pushed the button with the arrow pointing up. He shuts his mailbox and makes his way over to me, and silently I pray that the elevator will beat him here.
"Going down?" he asks with a suggestive grin, shifting the mail under his arm.
I purse my lips as I cross my arms over my chest. "You wish."
He snickers as the elevator arrives, and I suddenly opt to take the stairs, not waiting for his reply. On another occasion I would enjoy the sexual banter of a stranger in an elevator, but I'm on my way to Carter's tonight. I want to save all my energy for him.
I somehow gloss over the journey up the stairs, which isn't difficult considering it's only a few flights up. Though I suppose it could have been a hundred flights, and I still would have flown up the stairs without breaking a sweat. There's soft jazz floating through his hall and as I step down the regal red carpet, I smile when I realize the music is coming from behind his door. Apparently he's getting ready for our date as much as I have been.
I move to open the door but pause, and knock gently. For one terrifying moment there is no audible movement behind the door and I'm tempted to turn around and run away as fast as I can. But suddenly I hear a small noise, and my heart begins to beat again, rapidly.
"Ow - shit!" I hear him hiss from behind the door, followed a loud clang of a pan. "Owww*wwww*!"
I raise an eyebrow and take a step closer to the door. "You all right?" I call, but my voice is mostly likely drowned out by the sound of breaking glass. "John?"
"Just . . . come on in, the door's open," I heard him call, and warily I open the door and step into his apartment. "You're early . . ."
I'm immediately greeted by the jazz music coming from his stereo, and with a shy smile I see that the apartment is dimmed, save for a few flickering candles from the draped table in the living room. He's just as tired of waiting as I am . . .
Yet the fond moment is broken when I hear him shout a few more obscenities from the kitchen. "John?"
"Yeah, just a second," he calls over the sound of running water. "Just a little burn . . . nothing too serious."
I peek into the kitchen and my breath is momentarily caught in my throat. Dear God, the man is wearing a tuxedo. "Oh."
He's bent over the sink and doesn't look up as he investigates his hand underneath the cold water. "This is going to scar," he complains.
I would reply, but I'm a little transfixed by the sight of him - and by the delicious aromas that are slowly rising to my consciousness. "Oh," is all I can muster once again. Slowly I slide out of my coat and take a gentle step closer, as if pulled by a force beyond my control. I just want to feel his arms around me, his lips against my skin, his voice in my ear . . .
"I told you, I don't belong in the kitchen," he remarks, shaking his head ruefully. "The scars I endure for you, I swear to God. And since when do you knock?"
I want to reply but I've forgotten how to speak. Slowly I wrap my arms around him from behind and rest my forehead against the sleek fabric of his tuxedo jacket - he's like a magnetic pull, and he immediately rests in my embrace. It makes my heart flutter to see how receptive he is to my touch. "Hard day?" he asks softly.
I nod against his back, though the day really wasn't that hard. "This is a wonderful way to end it," I murmur, tightening my embrace slightly.
Yet I can't help but notice that he immediately stiffens in my embrace, and not in the good way - his entire back has gone rigid. The poor man is nervous, and I can certainly sympathize; after all, it was only minutes ago that I was reeling over the entire situation in my mind. So I take his hand, and press a kiss to his knuckles. "I know," I whisper. "I know how you feel . . . but we've waited too long to be nervous, don't you think? . . ."
Slowly, as if in a trance, he turns around. His eyes immediately come to rest on me and I bask in his gaze. With a soft smile, I bring a hand to his cheek. "I've wanted this for long," I muse, my thumb barely brushing his bottom lip. "And I should have told you such a long time ago . . ."
He moves his lips as if to kiss my thumb, but instead a single syllable spills from them. "Deb?"
I allow a slow smile to pour onto my face. "John."
"What are you doing here?"
And suddenly the world is ice, and my heart has frozen over. The pleasant glaze in his eyes is really befuddlement; the pulse I feel racing against my palm is not a lover's nerves, but a stranger's terrified confusion. "You told me to come," I manage to whisper, though my voice is wavering so uncertainly that I can't even hear my own words.
John tilts his head and holds my stare, but suddenly I wish he would look away. My cheeks are burning yet all I feel is the chill of utter shock; I can only manage to drop my hand a few inches from his face where it rests on his chest. "I thought you were working tonight," he tells me softly. "I figured you'd come by in the morning . . . I had some research ready for your article in the Wilkes journal."
It's the answer I really didn't want to hear, but probably should have seen coming on some level. "Then all this . . ."
"For Abby." His voice is kinder than I would like it to be. "I thought you were her."
I think I nod at this, but the apartment is swirling around me so quickly that it's really difficult to gauge my own movements. "I should go," I decide, and I neither know nor care if I've said it out loud.
"Deb," he protests, but I'm not sure why and I don't want to stick around long enough to find out. Part of me is stepping rapidly across his apartment and part of me is kissing the hell out of him - the fact that he's still able to speak suggests that the former is true. "Deb, wait . . ."
"No, really, I have to go," I tell him, and if I sound half as rushed as I feel then the words must be a blur to him - my head is throbbing as the sting of rejection begins to set in. But I can't let myself think about that now or I might actually faint to the ground.
"Come on, Deb, let's talk about this," Carter insists, taking my wrist before I reach the door.
"It's fine, really," I inform him, and I yank my wrist out of his grip. "I'm . . . drunk, I don't know what I'm doing."
He raises a skeptical eyebrow at me. "Deb . . ."
"Jo-hn," I scoff in an exaggerated mockery of his tone. "Come on, I'm fine."
But I'm not fine, and I know it - and I know John knows it. So it startles me to hear him sigh "Okay . . . if you're sure. I'll see you at work tomorrow?"
As if in slow motion I turn around and shoot him a glare that makes even me shudder. "Yup," I tell him briskly, and I try to ignore the sad smile he gives me in reply. "See ya." The door slams but I can't even feel the handle clenched in my shaking hand.
It's not until I'm halfway down the hall that I realize I'm cold - and I'm crying. I've forgotten my coat but I'm such a blubbering mess that I'm tempted to say "Fuck it" and risk pneumonia, though the thought of frozen tears upon leaving the building makes my stomach churn.
I hear an unnecessarily loud "Deb!" behind me, and I involuntarily stop in my tracks. Even my name coated in his voice is enough to hold power over me, and for the first time in my life, I fully despise him for it.
But I don't turn around as I hear him approach me; instead I hold out a hand behind my back. When I don't feel him hand me my coat after a few seconds, I wipe my eyes and turn around.
The expression in his eyes is pity. Nothing more, nothing less. I've seen it on his face a thousand times, though it's usually reserved for the family members of dying patients. I see how pathetic I have become as it is mirrored in the brown eyes that never lie . . . and I have the sudden urge to jump off a bridge. "Come talk to me," he pleads softly.
And with a sudden jolt of fury - a tremor of injustice and anger and bone-cold fire, I shake my head and snatch my coat from his hands. "Fine, let's talk," I snap, not bothering to notice how loudly my voice echoes through these walls and not caring that there are sleeping families behind every door. It wafts just above the crooning saxophone from his open apartment, and this only angers me further. "I shouldn't even be here right now. I came down here the second my shift ended because you told me to -"
"That was just a misunderstanding," he reasons. I can't tell if he's excusing himself or trying to make me feel better.
But at the moment the warm wrath in my chest feels too comforting to let him even have an inch. "That doesn't matter," I hiss. "I don't care what you said or what I heard, I thought you wanted me here so I practically fucking *ran* down here. I gave up so much for you - God, you don't even know!"
The pity in his eyes has shifted to a look of curious caution, as if I may explode at any second. Perhaps I will. "But I've never complained about it, John. I've been all alone in this. I gave my job, my child . . ." The tears have returned to my eyes and I don't bother wiping them away. "I gave up my life for you."
He cringes at this. "You don't think you're being a little melodramatic?"
Oh, sweet Jesus. He didn't just say that. I must have heard him wrong, because he can't possibly be as stupid as to call me melodramatic at a time like this. "I left County so you could be Chief Resident," I sputter, staring at him ruefully. "And I came back again because I can't live without you. I gave my child to complete strangers because you weren't his father. I've been waiting for eight years for you," my lip quivers at this, "and the only reason I can even talk myself into going to sleep at night and get out of bed in the morning is because I know you feel the same way."
My tears have since subsided, and I take a slow step towards him. "Tell me you feel the same way," I whisper desperately, swallowing a sob as I stare up at him. "Even if you have to lie."
And the face I have been able to read for nearly a decade lacks the only expression I ever longed to see. He doesn't love me and he doesn't need to say it. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.
I nod slowly, with an understanding far beyond my current emotional state. Turning around, I nearly chew a hole into my lip to prevent the words from coming, but it does no good.
"I love you. I don't care if you don't love me back."
For the first time in my life, my world doesn't hinge on his reply, since I'm down the hallway and descending the stairs by the time my own words have even sunk in. I'm not crying anymore and it feels good to feel in control of something; my face is solemn by the time I'm in the lobby.
"Well," the voice in the back of my mind comments once the cold air outside hits me like a sledgehammer. "That went well."
"Shut the hell up," I grumble at it, and it seems to serve some purpose until a violent shiver wracks my shoulders, and only when I reach the end of the block do I remember that my coat is tucked underneath my arm.
Except it's not my coat. It's white, and much less expensive than my own. Common sense tells me what's happened, and I can't tell if my next shudder is from the cold or from disgust at the prospect of Carter handing me Abby's coat. It's not even a decent coat, won't keep anyone warm or attract any stares from intrigued strangers.
But it smells like Carter. He's probably hugged her as she came home in this coat, rubbed her arms when she was cold, took her to the couch and kissed her tenderly as he slid it over her shoulders . . .
"He loves her, and not you," the voice taunts me. "You may as well forget about him."
I don't bother to respond as I stand frozen in my place on the corner, reluctant to cross the empty street. Forget about him? Right, and I'll give up breathing while I'm at it. No problem.
See? I point out silently to the increasingly annoying voice in the back of my head. I'm still thinking about him and now I know I have no reason to be.
"You can't live your life wearing someone else's coat." The voice sounds as bitter as I feel.
I know.
"I don't think you do know!" it shrieks. "Another woman is going to take your place in his bed tonight, once again, and all you can do is trudge away with your tail between your legs? You're stronger than that, Jing- Mei."
I know.
"You've lived through his abuse long enough. You confessed your love and he just stands there like an idiot. I don't even think he cares, you know that?"
I know.
"How are you going to make him care?"
I don't know.
There is a pause. "I think you do."
And as I stride across the street, I toss the white coat into the gutter, where it slaps against the sidewalk in a messy mud puddle. I don't even notice the cold around me anymore.
The rain has begun.