A/N: Timeframe: Just before Elliot and Kathy take a road trip to Splitsville.
The party is already in full, glorious swing when I coast slowly past the house. I'm secretly hoping I won't find a place to park and I'll have to go home. I put off showing up until the last possible second, hoping to talk myself out of attending. Damn. There's a spot. I am still trying to change my mind even as I am parking the car, opening the door, slamming it shut, shoving my keys deep into my jacket pocket, gripping the small, silvery-wrapped present in my sweaty hand.
Why don't you just turn around and go home? It's not too late. I talk to herself as I make my way up the well-manicured walkway to the front door. No one will notice if you bail. Monday morning tell them, him, that you: Got a wicked headache and fell asleep on the couch/Got lost/Got a better offer.
The windows of the house are all fully lit and wide open, even though the night air is cool. I'm sure, with all those people crammed inside, it's oppressively hot. I start to feel a bit claustrophobic just thinking about it. All. Those. People.
Just make an appearance, say Hello, give him the present, walk out. See? You can manage that.
It's so simple, this plan. I wonder, much later, how it got so completely fucked up.
I caress the door handle, smooth, cool brass under my fingertips. How many times has he gripped this same handle, I think, home from work, another day, into the loving embrace of his wife and kids. I take a deep, steadying breath and push open, into, the crowd of well-wishers of family, friends and co-workers gathered to celebrate Elliot Stabler's 40th birthday.
I receive a few semi-interested glances as I enter, but no one approaches and I recognize no one yet. Oh wait – she looks familiar. That redhead in the corner whispering into that guy's ear. Darla? Darlene? Computer crimes, maybe. She's dressed to kill in a low-cut emerald green blouse and tight black pants. The guy is loving it, chuckling and rubbing her hip. So it's gonna be that kind of party, I think. Great.
Feeling strangely self-conscious, I wind my way through the partygoers, my head slightly bowed, the present clutched to my chest. First order of business: Find and consume several units of alcohol. There – that looks promising. A table in the kitchen loaded with booze. God, there are so many people here. I help myself to a beer, down it so quickly I barely taste it, grab another and head out into the throng again. Isn't there anyone here I actually know.
"Olivia."
I know that voice, all too well – the only one I actually didn't want to hear until I was much drunker.
"You're here." He says it like he doesn't quite believe what he sees. Perhaps he thinks I don't exist outside his frame of work reference. He doesn't sound unhappy.
"Hey, El." I hesitate for only a moment before I lean up, kiss his cheek lightly. I mean, it's only appropriate, right? Friends kiss each other's cheeks. He smells like soap and aftershave. He smells so fucking sexy. "Happy Birthday."
"Thanks." He takes a sip of his beer, studies me appraisingly. I am conscious of my outfit, my somewhat low-cut and clingy red shirt, the snug black pants. Even though it's 200 degrees in here, I pull my jacket closer around me, hold my bottle up.
"Here's to 40 more."
"Beers or birthdays?" he grins.
"Hopefully both." Ha ha.
He smiles at me warmly, his blue blue eyes never once wavering from my face. The heat of the room, the alcohol and the intensity of his gaze all combine to make me feel suddenly very woozy. I close my eyes. Whoops. Big mistake.
"Whoa, whoa." Elliot catches my arm, steadies me, his expression a mixture of concern and amusement. "You all right?"
"Yeah. I just have to sit down for a minute."
He leads me to a couch crammed with people.
"Do you actually know all these people?" I ask. I hate thinking who would attend my fortieth birthday. Casey. Elliot and the guys. Willy the pizza delivery boy.
"Hey, Frank, move your ass, willya? Got a woozy partner here," he playfully shoves some guy out of the way and I sink down gratefully. I look up at him, about to say Thanks, when he's attacked by at least six different people, all slapping him on the back, yelling Happy Birthday, Old Man, and dragging him off somewhere. He almost breaks his neck twisting around for a last look in my direction, but we barely make eye contact before he disappears. I sigh, questioning once again my decision to attend this shindig.
Five more minutes, I promise myself. A few deep breaths, stand up, walk out.
I take a minute to collect my thoughts, wondering why the hell I don't know a single person here, why I didn't ask Casey to carpool with me so I could have had one "friend" by my side. I finish the rest of my beer and decide I need one more before I make my grand exit. Irresponsible? Probably. Necessary? Definitely.
Drink in hand, I finally start to relax. A bit. I can feel the week's tension knots in my shoulders start to untie themselves. People's faces look a little friendlier now, a little more open. I smile at a few of them and they smile back. I wander through the Stabler family household, feeling all but invisible, and everyone knows the trouble invisible people can get themselves into.
Family photos. Everywhere. Framed, beautiful images of Elliot and Kathy and their children at every conceivable age and place in their lives. Birthdays. Outings. Vacations. Christmas. Colour. Black and white. Sepia. Good God. I find myself standing in front of a particularly attractive photo of Elliot and Kathy. She's leaning back into him, hair loose and flowing. They both look happy and relaxed, completely in love—
"That's one of my favourites, too," a voice, low, over my shoulder. If I wasn't a tiny bit drunk, I would jump. Instead, I allow myself to smile.
"Hi, Kathy," I say, turning my head to her, as she seems not inclined to move into my field of vision.
"Hello, Olivia. I'm really glad you could make it." She looks very much like the woman in the photo before me. A bit older, perhaps, definitely wiser. She actually looks very attractive tonight, in a light purple blouse and short black skirt. Is she looking for Elliot's attention, I wonder, or will any male do?
I nod, because I don't trust my voice right now. I'm afraid I might say something stupid, something revealing, like, Yeah, I didn't think I could make it through the weekend without seeing Elliot. I wanted to make sure he got his 40 birthday kisses, with one to grow on.
"This is quite the impressive turnout," I say instead, taking another sip of my drink.
"Lots of family, lots of old friends," she says, stepping a bit closer. "Not too many workmates."
God, did she just call me a workmate? I think. Yes, yes she did. Lovely.
"Did you want me to take that for you?" she asks politely, the perfect hostess, and I realize I'm still clutching the damn present. My security blanket. Well, it was my security until I grabbed my Friend the Beer. Still, I'm reluctant to hand it over. I want to give it to Elliot myself. I think. "You really didn't have to, you know. It was best wishes only."
"Oh," I say, because it's the only word that comes to me. "Well. It's nothing, really."
There is a small, tense standoff between Kathy and me; we form our own tight, silent circle, the eye of the storm as the party whirls and rages around us. She is staring at me, her lips taut like her teeth are biting back whatever words are trying to squeeze out. She is a polite, well-bred woman, though; I wonder if she's ever cussed. Ever said Fuck, ever said, Fuck me, Elliot, fuck me--
OK, just stop that right now. I dig my fingernails into the palm of my hand until my eyes sting. Kathy relaxes her mouth, rearranges it into something resembling a smile.
"Go mingle," she says. "There are lots of available men here."
She slips into the crowd and I down the rest of my beer, letting the glass clink against my front teeth. Well, after that little speech all my good intentions have taken a sharp detour south. I've never been anything but completely… respectable around Elliot. I've never led him on, never given him even an inkling of my true feelings for him. Anything he may have brought home with him and shared with his wife are figments of his own fucking imagination. Suddenly I am sick and tired of feeling ashamed when I have done nothing to earn that woman's scorn and bitter diatribes. She can go to hell.
The ultimate Catholic insult. I'll probably go to hell just for thinking it.
I pass a framed mirror on the wall. I stop, fiddle with my hair, smooth my lipstick. I slip Elliot's gift into my coat pocket. I'll give it to him. Eventually.
All right, Kathy. Where are all these available men?
tbc