Title: I Don't Love You, and I Always Will (1/1)

Authors: don'tknowcan'tsay

Rating: K

Character/Pairing: Arizona Robbins; references to Callie/Arizona

Disclaimer: I own nothing. I'm just borrowing, having a little fun, and do not intend to profit from writing and posting this story.

Summary: Immediately post 7x7 ("That's Me Trying"). Arizona's used to cutting ties.

"We are standing in the middle of an airport, screaming at each other. We're already over."

You feel your own words like daggers in your heart. You turn on your heel and the last thing you see is Callie's initial, desperate anger melting into shock and hurt. Then you're facing forward, putting one foot in front of the other and somehow making it through the gate and onto the plane, even though the world is nothing but blurred prisms through your hot tears.

You're ten years old again and sweet Samantha, her golden hair in long braids, is standing at your doorstep. She's in tears, grasping at your shoulders and pulling you towards her.

"Why didn't you tell me you were leaving?" she asks, and you're starting to cry too.

You don't know what to say. You think about Ben last summer, and Alice two summers before that. You remember what you said to them, and how you'd promised yourself you wouldn't say it again. But Samantha is the best friend you've ever had and when she holds you close like that, you don't know why, but can't deny her anything.

So you wrap your arms around her and whisper in her ear. "It's okay, we'll see each other again. I promise."

The years ahead prove your words to be a lie, but it's the last one like that you'll ever tell. You learn to cut your ties when you leave, and to convince yourself that you're all the happier for it.

You wake up and you're on the plane. Seat 24A. You're by the window and even though the sky outside is dark, you stare straight on out, desperate to ignore the seat beside you—the empty seat, where Callie should be sitting with her hand in your lap and her head against your shoulder. You're choking back a sob when you hear a sniffle from two seats down. You press a hand to your lips, take a breath, and sneak a look at the girl in the aisle.

She's maybe seventeen or eighteen, and she's crying pitifully into a copy of Us Weekly. "Sorry." She wipes at her nose. "I didn't mean to wake you."

"You didn't," you assure her, and reach into your purse. "Here." You hand her a tissue.

"Thanks." She smiles through her tears and blows her nose. "I'm so sorry. I just—I, my boyfriend, and…" Her shoulders start to shake in dry heaves and you reach over to touch her reassuringly on the shoulder.

"I know," you say. "It's hard. I know." Then your eyes are stinging and you squeeze them shut, but like closing them against the fumes of a freshly cut onion, this only makes it worse.

Some weeks later you're on the phone with Teddy. She's babbling on about something but you don't know what because all you can think about is Callie. Her name is always on the tip of your tongue but can't ever manage to actually say it, and Teddy never brings her up.

But in the omission she's always there and you imagine that both you and Teddy feel her pressing in on the conversation.

"Arizona?" Teddy's voice is sharp. "Are you even listening to me?"

"I, uh, yeah," you say. You both know this is a lie. Teddy is silent on the other end. You feel like you should say something, but you're exhausted and your voice is probably hoarse from all the crying anyway. Not that you'd admit it to Teddy.

She must be fed up with your hedging because she goes ahead and breaks your unspoken rule. "Callie asked about you. Well, she asked me if you'd asked about her."

You swallow against the lump in your throat. "What did you say?" It's a whisper.

"I told her the truth." Teddy sighs. "Damn it, Arizona. You're an idiot."

"Teddy—"

"No, Arizona. You and Callie—you were my aspirational couple. And now she's a mess, and you're a mess and you need to call her. This clearly isn't working out for either of you, and I know break ups never do—ha, that's the point!—but I don't know…maybe you need to reconsider."

"It's three years, Teddy! Three years. She would have been miserable here for three years, and she would have been miserable waiting there for three years."

"So, what? You 'set her free'? Oh, how humane, Arizona."

You hang up on Teddy, which is terrible and you regret it immediately. But the sting of Teddy's words is like a slap across the face. Laying in bed that night, you wonder where it all went wrong. You thought you had a system, one tried and tested through years of moving around as a kid and later as an ambitious young surgeon. Cut your ties and set everyone free from the burden of expectations, or promises that are never kept and hopes that inevitably fade away. And you're always free to move on, to give your affections—and maybe even your heart—to another.

And there it is. There's the variable that screwed with the entire equation: the moment your heart had known Calliope Torres, it had ceased to be your own to give.