Who am I trying to kid?
Why do I think that she'd ever be interested in me at all, when she has him for a partner? Stronger, younger, and (yes, I'll admit it), more good-looking than me, he's exactly what she needs. Sure, he's a little damaged from his divorce, but at least he hasn't been through it four times. There's still enough in him worth loving—worth salvaging. I, on the other hand, strongly suspect that I'm beyond repair. I might as well accept that fact that I've had my chance: four of them, for crissakes, and each time I blew it.
God damn it. God damn her. I was getting to the point where I was beginning to accept my fate. In any case, I was getting used to it. I'd resigned myself to the fact that I was going to spend the rest of my life alone. I was at the point where, while it was still depressing as hell, I was accustomed to it. I guess it'd become my security blanket, even: it kept me from even trying to get close to anyone else. It kept me from getting hurt.
But then she had to walk past my desk, with that walk of hers and that faint, untraceable scent. I hadn't known it then—wouldn't know it for several more years, even—but she'd ripped that away from me. The comfort of knowing my future has disappeared in smoke, because of her.
I still remember the day that I realized that what I felt for her wasn't just gentlemanly protectiveness. She and Elliot had just finished coaxing a confession out of some girl who'd been murdering elderly women in some crazy retaliation for the way her own mother had treated her. The girl had long since been taken away, off to central booking or wherever it was that our perps disappeared to when we were done proving they'd committed their crimes, but I still hadn't seen Olivia come out of the room. So I went to check on her: I'd deluded myself into believing that I was only worried about her because she was a woman surrounded by men. Looking back, I don't quite understand my logic there: I never thought such things about Jeffries. But she was sitting at the table, head inclined slightly, staring at the grooves in the wood. She sniffled as I sat, then looked up at me with surprisingly watery eyes. Neither of us said anything—hell: neither of us moved—but we didn't feel the need to. I did reach out to take her hand, expecting her to pull away as I'd seen her do to so many others. Her fingers tightened around mine as though I were her only connection to…something. She finally swiped at her tears with her other hand, and it was understood that I'd say nothing about this.
Then her partner had returned, grimly triumphant, as we all are when we've nailed a perp without really saving any of his victims, and leaned in the doorway. Whatever understanding, whatever connection had stretched tenuously between us, immediately wavered as she straightened in her seat, doubly unwilling to let her male partner see her in her moment of weakness.
Everyone in the squad room had heard the things he'd been saying to her: but then, we all knew why he was saying them. I knew that what they were doing was pretend, but there was still that tension there: the same tension that had been stretching out between the partners for a long time. I still played the office pool as to when they would finally just say that they were sleeping together, but it'd been with much less enthusiasm lately. I don't want to know. Ever.
And I hate that I care.
My so-called cynicism had been my defense mechanism, as any shrink could tell you. They'd also say that I don't want anyone to get close anymore, because that's how you get hurt. So I make jokes, to make sure no one ever sees exactly what I am: a pathetic excuse for a human being.
Everyone else in the office is always saying (after making sure that neither Elliot nor Olivia are in earshot, of course) that they'd be good for each other. I wonder if it's my jealousy talking here, but I don't see it. What do they have in common, besides their occupation? How is it that he's so much better for her than I am? His wife left him. Her mother was raped. Where's the thread that leads people to assume that they'd be so damn therapeutic for each other? Then again, it gives me a headache to picture them together for too long, so maybe it's something that only occurs to someone after many hours of consideration.
Which then makes me wonder about the sanity of my other coworkers, and whether they really have nothing better to do than play matchmaker in the office.
Shit, I'm staring again. She's looked up and realized that I'm not actually working, as I pretend to be. At least I have my sunglasses on: plausible deniability. Why, no, Olivia, of course I wasn't staring at you. I was looking out the window. Geez, what do you think, I'm in love with you or something?
Hate that word.
She looks away, having decided that I really am looking out the window, and I see him glance up at her. Hardly surreptitious, though I know I'm not one to be talking. She jumps, so I can only assume he's initiated a game of footsie. Let's hear it for professionalism, boys and girls. For "keeping it out of the workplace." I'm going to be sick. Closing my files as carefully as I can, I rise and mumble some explanation about the roof to my partner, whose eyes I feel on the back of my head as I put my coat on and stalk out of the pen.
I'm only given a few minutes of solitude before I hear the door open quietly behind me. I don't even need to turn around, but not because I have some sixth sense or anything so sappy. I just know that, out of my three coworkers, she's the one most likely to come up to the roof. The other two find other ways to get rid of whatever it is they're feeling.
We don't even glance at each other as she stands next to me. The wind is blowing softly, the way it always seems to do on the roof, and she's standing so close that a strand of her hair blows into my face. As she tries in vain to tame it, I realize that the scent I'm never able to place is her shampoo. I fight back a groan as I try to remain composed. The wind finally passes, and I sigh, leaning forward.
I feel a soft touch on the back of my hand, and nearly jump as I look down, half-expecting a butterfly. Anything seemed more possible than what has actually alighted there. I steal a glance at her face: she's incredibly focused on the people on the street below, even as her hand maneuvers between the two of mine. I suppose it's her own brand of plausible deniability.
No, John, I wasn't trying to hold your hand. You had a bee on the back of your hand: I was just trying to keep you from getting stung. Geez, what do you think, I actually like you or something?
The thought stabs me, but I decide to ignore it, just this one time. When I'm wrong, I'll go back to being alone. But for now, I'm content to just stand up here with her, our fingers entwined, watching the people on the street below.