April 16, 2014
Only a few months and I'm turning forty. I'm trying not to think about it, but the mirror on my bathroom wall reminds me greatly on how long it has been. Considering I'm a doctor, I think plastic surgery is overrated so I take a chance on an anti-aging cream imported from France. I'm not vain, but I am quite bothered with the obvious lines on my face. After all, I am not the beautiful kind. Although Jane would strongly disagree, she's my friend. A little sense of subjectivity is expected and I'm always ready to take a compliment, if only she were here.
I'm in the living room with the laptop on. I browse the usual set of shoes I've been drooling over along with my favorite glass of red wine. It's been two hours and six Jimmy Choo's & four Louboutin's failed to catch my attention, but a loud thud against my wall does. It's Seuss, my new tortoise. Bass died due to an illness last year and Jane bothered to get me a new pet as soon as possible because I was depressed. She named him Dr. Seuss. It's her favorite writer, but I'm sure the thought occurred to her after seeing the Lorax. Something about regrets, planting trees, cutting them and losing them. Anyway, Seuss is small compared to Bass. He doesn't like strawberries so I feed him blueberries instead and to my surprise, he likes Jo Friday. He's not startled by her. They would even sleep next to each other just like us—Jane and me, Jane and I. Strange animal behavior amuses me. Their relationships, even.
Seuss makes the same noise again so I pick him up and put him somewhere in the hallway. That way he won't possibly hurt himself by running into something. "Shhh… it's okay." I whisper, touching his shell.
A series of knocks echoed the room. I raise my eyebrows as I'm not expecting anyone.
My mouth falls open slightly after getting the door.
It's Jane. She is wearing a blue dress that did nothing but make my eyes widen. The fabric clings from her chest down to her hips. I wonder if she can breathe. I'm not used to seeing her this way. But then, I haven't been seeing her a lot lately. How can I complain? I don't. I can't. She looks beautiful.
"I called you three times. Is something wrong?" She steps inside almost immediately, sitting on the couch comfortably just like she used to.
"No, no. I left my phone upstairs, I'm sorry." I never leave my phone upstairs. I ask myself the same question Jane does. "I don't have beer. What would you like?" I hurry to the kitchen and found myself staring at the fridge. There's milk, cheese, nutella, orange juice and other things Jane wouldn't be interested in.
"I'll have what you're having I guess." She answers, still I'm bothered. I used to have beer.
I guess things do change. I remember a certain time when she accompanied me to a family dinner in Cambridge. We had a few glasses of Chardonnay after a bland French cuisine. She liked it very much.
I turn around to check the wooden cabinets and found a bottle—1954. I smile to myself as I poured a glass for two. Jane would remember, I know she would. "Voila," I said as I make my back into the living room. She grinned at me, taking her drink.
"Mmm! This is delicious. I think I had this before when we went to that dinner with your folks, right?" That's the reaction I got after a sip or two and I nodded. See? I told you she does, I said to myself. With my laptop closed, I sit next to her. Our arms touch briefly until she moves to properly face me. I can feel her knees nudging mine—an unconscious gesture I truly miss for no apparent reason. The silence is so deafening that I feel the need to speak.
"You haven't been here since—"
"…the engagement, I know." Jane cut me off before I could finish my sentence.
I look down, staring at my glass as memories flood back to me.
It was a night like this, except Jane was in the kitchen eating my left over pizza. I know it was pizza because it was the only time I ever dared to experiment by putting five kinds of cheese and basil leaves. And having to know me, I'm used to following everything by the book.
She was all giddy and happy like a child. She even stopped twirling her hair, which I thought was good. She asked me, 'what?' and that's how I knew something was up. If you had seen her laugh the way I did, you would definitely understand.
It was Casey. I know this for a fact because unlike me, Jane would openly talk about her 'romantic' life to her best friend who also happens to be… me. Yes, she told me about Dean too. I still cringe at the thought after what happened with Paddy Doyle, but I moved on. Of all the men Jane had been with, I would say Casey was perfect for her. He's sweet. He understood Jane and they grew up together. He's her substance.
They were pretty inseparable. It was clear to me that they were dating, but the reason why Jane had that unidentified expression on her face was not—until she grabbed my hand and I felt the coldest ring on her finger. All I heard was "He asked me to marry him. I said yes and he wants to move in." I was happy for her, but joy wasn't there. I had to hug her tightly just to hide the way I looked. Fortunately, I stopped the tears before they could fall.
That's why Jane came here. She wanted to let me know, not ask for my approval and perhaps pick up some of her belongings. Who was I to make a decision for her after all? It's not like she's eighteen, incapable of knowing what she wants or what's best for her. To make matters worse, I was right about the latter part. She did take some of her stuff back. It was mostly her clothes. She asked me where her favorite Red Sox t-shirt was and I told her the housekeeper misplaced it while doing the laundry. That was the second time I lied because I was wearing that shirt the night before, only I wasn't vasovagal. I was miserable that I didn't have the decency to ask if I could have it. So miserable that I didn't think Jane could give me anything. Given that it was just a cheap worn out shirt, I didn't think I could afford to lose it.
Everything stopped. I stopped doing the groceries for two. It didn't occur to me how much my diet had changed. The space for her beer was replaced with cartons of milk I eventually forgot to drink. I stopped eating Chinese food. I stopped watching the game. I stopped drinking at the Robber. The guestroom was barely used—Angela got a new apartment. As Jane's mother, I'm sure she was ecstatic and busy because her 'little girl' is finally walking down the aisle.
Jane's toothbrush was disposed. I had the time to clean the bathroom that day and I saw that her Irish Spring shampoo was half empty. I was going to throw it away as well but I always liked the smell of Jane's hair so I used it till the very last drop, ignoring the voices inside my head saying I was getting stranger each day. Ignoring how Jane Rizzoli made me use her bottle of shampoo.
Half of my life I've been a doctor of medicine and a forensic pathologist. I can get by than most people. I am wealthy and I chose this.
My heart sank. Physically, it would be impossible but it felt like it did—veins exploding, literally falling apart.
I started questioning myself. What? Why? When? How? It only takes a certain level of intelligence quotient to be a genius. I should know the answers, but deep down I know that being smart and being wise are two different things and so I tried sleeping on it. When it didn't work, I slept with different men who only cared what my body could give—the usual arrangement of no strings attached. Casual. Them leaving before I wake up—us getting what we both wanted: relief. I know I only did it to prove one point—that everything I was and still feeling is due to my fear of being alone and unwanted. That it was a need to feed hunger on skin.
I failed, just like I would every once in a while.
Jane and I drifted apart with each passing day. Neither wanted to talk about it because we knew if we did, it would create a bigger hole that would destroy us. And in that moment, I had a better view on why some people liked to pretend like nothing is wrong.
"I've been really busy. Ma's you know… bugging me a lot about planning the wedding. We were picking a theme the other day and I'm convinced she's color blind." Her laughter brings me back to reality.
I know, I know. I'm supposed to be the enthusiastic maid-of-honor. I'm supposed to be helping her plan everything. Well, Detective Rizzoli didn't ask. And even if she did, I would refuse—one of the many tempting buttons we don't like to push. I don't really like weddings. Other people's weddings. My agoraphobia would come back and I'd be alone. I don't bring dates on such occasions. Given the nature of my job, it is highly inappropriate to be seen with someone whom I'm not really in a relationship with because then, people would ask why this person is with another and not me. Not that I care about what people think nowadays.
I did give my word though. I told Jane I would be there—as her best friend, that is.
"Do you need a wedding planner? I know someone from Manhattan. She's easy to work with. Really creative." I hope she takes the hint that I don't want to get involved.
"No, it's okay. I actually came here to ask for something."
"You're not going to make me pick your wedding dress, are you?"
"No, not tonight. It's something else."
"Okay." What does she want?
"It's uh…vows."
"Vows?"
"Yeah, the whole cheesy speech and everything. I kinda suck at it. You're good with words so I thought I'd come to you."
"I'm not sure what you're asking from me."
"Maura, come on."
"Jane, I am not going to write your wedding vows."
"I'm serious! It's torture. It's worse than Shakespeare."
"I am not going to write promises for Casey that you're going to commit to for the rest of your life. No. Besides, I don't know him."
"Maura, it's my wedding and I am going to suck. There will be pictures and I have to live with it forever. Please do this for me."
"I'm not going to do everything. I'll… I'll help you write."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. What do you have so far?"
"I promise to love you each and every day. I… that's all I got. See?"
"Why can't you do this with your mother?"
"Really…"
"Jane, I don't know how to help you."
"Look, just pretend it's you who's getting married. What would you promise to someone you love? You're good at thinking. You can do this."
"Fine."
"Take your time."
I take a deep breath, letting my brain work accordingly.
"I promise to love you, but moreover, I promise to love you more when you least deserve it."
I close my eyes, picturing myself in a white dress.
"I promise to give trust that's made of gold rather than glass so it wouldn't break so easily and even if it did, you can burn it and mold it into something new and something stronger."
My fists clench out of nervousness but my voice remains the same—soft and sincere. Jane moves closer to me, saying she couldn't hear.
"I promise to respect your opinions and decisions in life, to take care of you, to hold you and make you feel beautiful until my dying days."
I speak louder this time, looking at anything but her.
"I promise not to fight with you and fight for you instead, no matter how many trials we may go through."
I can feel her staring at me, however, I continue with my rather sad speech.
" I promise to heal the hurt, especially when I'm the cause. I promise to forgive when you are."
God, Jane. Why am I doing this? I don't see a groom in front. I see her.
"I promise to keep bottles of beer inside our refrigerator, knowing it helps you to relax when you're having a tough day."
"I promise not to eat your fudge clusters, unless you want me to."
" I promise to let you eat junk food since you believe life is short, but I also promise I will keep you healthy because I want to grow old with you."
"And lastly, I promise to give you a part of myself so you will never have to feel alone."
She's slack jawed and teary eyed.
I choke with my last few words because it's what I've always wanted. Our faces are mere inches apart and I can't help but to close the distance between us, take a leap of faith that maybe this act of stupidity will do good. My heart is racing as I feel her lips softly brushing against mine, but before I can get a hold of the only chance to bring her closer she pulls away. Her eyes are wide open. She is stiff and in shock, like I've done the biggest mistake in my life.
"Jane, I…" I shook my head in shame, not finishing my sentence. What is there to say? That I want what I can't have? That I'm in love? I get the picture—I ruined everything.
Luckily, my body knows to make an exit even when my mind is trapped—running upstairs, thinking about locking the door. Wishing and hoping Jane would leave.
She doesn't. In fact, I can hear her calling for me. She's coming after me and by the time I reach my bedroom, she's grabbing at my arm painfully— pulling me towards her. I expect a scream… more hurtful words from her mouth perhaps. But all I can hear is the sound of her breath and mine. I feel her hand at the back of my neck, fingers running through my hair. She kisses me as soon as I shiver, taking me by surprise. Her lips are intrusive, like a sudden burst of passion and awakening. I am weak, yearning to return everything she's giving me.
None of this is planned—her ripping of my clothes instead of unbuttoning them, the rest of me welcoming the bed like I've fallen from the sky after a demanding push on my shoulders. Jane hovers at me, claiming my skin with a mouth that no longer suppresses years of hunger and affection.
All hell breaks loose, except that hell is my heaven. There isn't a 'God' or a 'church' to blame. This isn't a product of persuasion, but I know it's sinful and once again I play the bad person—taking away Casey's chance at love and happiness. And of all the oddities, the thing that's standing out is the fact that I have fallen for a woman. My colleague. My closest friend. My family.
Jane breaks my thoughts easily especially when her blue dress falls at her feet. I take her in by sight, removing what's left of her barrier with my shaking hands.
She pushes me back again once we're both vulnerable and fully undressed. She lays on top of me, kissing me, moving me. Her fingers dance along my thigh, rubbing slow circles. Slow sensual circles. My eyes close out of reflex, not letting myself be overwhelmed with the way she's touching me. I feel trapped because in a matter of seconds I can feel her inside me. Movements are fleeting but the feeling lingered.
I've thought about the possibility of me being just a release to her or the other way around—that I'm nothing but, as what people would call it, the 'good fuck'. Jane proves me wrong with the look in her eyes. It says I am more than that. It reveals that she wants me too. Badly. And a huge part of me is fulfilled.
It doesn't take long before my desire runs its course. Jane holds me against her as I'm in such a fragile state. I moan at the euphoric sensation until her lips capture mine.
I've had better sex but this definitely isn't just intercourse because I am deeply attached. Not many people made love to me and if they ever did, it wouldn't compare to Jane breaking me and making me. I'm sure of it because she's the only one holding me like this, like I could disappear any moment.
Exhaustion threatens my body for defeat but I don't surrender. What goes up comes down as Jane and I switch places although I'd give anything to be underneath her. She tenses and flexes against me— a sad way of letting me know we can't stop because if we do, someone is going to break and someone is going to run away. We're out of time.
I start taming Jane's guilt with kisses on the mouth. I moan as I taste bittersweet wine at the tip of her tongue. My hips meet hers in a slow burning pace, not hesitating to let our bodies collide.
I try not to think what Casey's doing to her especially in the middle of the night or if he's the loving kind. I try not to think of the way he would groan or move, not even the way Jane would say his name if she ever does when there is nothing but pleasure in between them.
Jane's hands move to settle on the small of my back. Her hands are big unlike mine—tracing my spine in circles, up and down. She sighs and I pull back, having the need to breathe.
She's flustered… none of those fiery looks or bedroom eyes she had when she was all over me. I remember my trip to Ethiopia where I saw a lioness hunting for a gazelle at a distance. The more I think about it, the more it becomes this scenario… Jane falling completely at my mercy. Me being predatory. I like the rush of power, but I think I like her being helpless even more just because I know she wants it too. She wants me to cease her, make her mine. And tonight I will.
Her breath becomes very audible as soon as my hands start familiarizing every inch of her skin. My so-called fun facts are suddenly disabled by a deeper desire to feel something I should've felt a long time ago. Jane is soft to touch… warm like a fireplace in mid-December. Her hair smells the same—Irish Spring.
My mouth replaces my hands, which I'm sure she finds stubborn as I ought to leave as many bruises as I can. And the harder she pulls at my hair, the harder I bite. I hear her gasp a few times, murmuring my name like it's the only word she knows.
"Why?" I whisper to her ear and let my free hand venture down and inside a liquid fire of longing. There's a tight grasp on my hips, mere seconds after she arches her back. It's turning into a little game called cause and effect.
"Why, Jane?" I ask again, finding a rhythm that leaves her breathless and moaning. Her cheeks are flushed and her pupils are dilating. She's looking right at me. I lean down to kiss her once more as I coax her to release. Every move of my hand is punctuated by words that I don't have the courage to say. I am better than him. He doesn't deserve you.
The woman I love coming apart into my very arms is no different than her getting a hold of my heart, only to break it in a way that I would seek her to make it whole. It left her more vulnerable and aching. But she's not the only one. It doesn't take long for me to realize the bigger picture—this is the first and last time I'm going to see her. First and last of touches. First and last of dreams. It overwhelms me so much that I start crying and I'm sure Jane can feel my tears against one side of her neck. Regret swallows me whole.
"Why not me?"
Daylight comes like a dying ember. I yawn and stretch out to find that Jane is gone, although the right side of the bed is still warm—meaning she just left. The blanket is draped across my chest. I sigh, convincing myself that last night wasn't a dream.
I lost the right to go through all sorts of stages of grief when I decided to cross the line. I am not Jane's partner. I can't be in denial. I can't make myself believe that she's still in the room or she's just making breakfast or buying me flowers. I can't hate her for doing this to me. And who am I to bargain? I have nothing left to offer.
Most women in this situation would still be hopeful. I think they would call Jane or talk to her in person. They would tell her to choose them instead of Casey. They would beg her. I am not most women. And if ever being a doctor taught me anything, it would be to save my god complex ridden pride. It's also my way of saying I don't know how to ask. I just take what I can get. Asking for love is different from asking for food, though both are basic needs. Love comes with a lot of complications. Love can't be bought. Love, aside from being a chemical reaction, takes voluntary responses. It is not forced.
And even though I can't ask for much, I know that the words I said to Jane last night were not vows. They were goals for a lifetime, if only she allowed me to.
I desperately want to get angry and cry, but I don't. Instead, I stare in space. Complete oblivion. I leave my bed as I put on a stone cold heart. Jane has made her choice and it's not me. There's only one option: to move on. I don't know if I can, but I have to.
The good thing about me is that I understand things quickly when I set my feelings aside. Maybe that's why I'm not mad at Jane. I understand the pressure of the society, our workplace, her family. It's hard when judgment is based on what you are and not who you are. People think they have the need to label something before acknowledging its existence. What is it that I'm doing? What is it called? People are obsessed with names and it's sickening. So I understand Jane.
Seven days have passed and I'm on my way to the airport. I already notified Cavanaugh about my vacation and I just finished packing my suitcase. She is getting married today and I'm going to Versailles. Contrary to popular belief, I am not that cruel to sleep with the bride and show up at the wedding. It's the least I could do to control the damage. I don't want to stay here in Boston, not when it's the saddest day of my life.
I need to find home and France is the closest. I miss going to the library, eating boeuf bourguignon, staring at museums.
"Que sera, sera." What a very reckless statement, I thought as the song plays on the radio. I'm a woman of control, but that's what the plan is- to let go, to keep moving forward and possibly never look back and take nothing but wisdom from mistakes. To just... let it happen.
Hours later, I smile at myself as I take out my luggage from the cab. I can already smell it... the airport, Paris, somehow. And I'm not even there yet. I just want to have this perfect fantasy of a getaway and try to forget. I look around and take one last glance and then I see Jane's car practically breaking speed limit. She gets out of the car, practically slamming it. She's running, looking for something. Looking for me.
"Maura! Maura!" She calls out and I can feel a very few people gazing at my direction. I'm a bit startled.
"Jane, what are you doing here?" I don't know what she's going to say but I'm already irked. Is she here to make me watch? Beg me to be the maid of honor? "How did you find me? Actually, no. Don't answer that. I'm leaving Jane."
"Maura..."
"I'm going to visit my hometown and you..."
"Maura."
"You should go back. You're going to get married and I'm not-"
"Will you just shut up and let me talk?"
Jane grabs my bruised arm out of instinct again. I wince, feeling a tinge of pain.
"I couldn't do the wedding without a wife."