"You slept with her."
The words lay flat in the air between them. Her voice was expressionless, matter-of-fact.
"Yes," Arizona whispered, struggling to get the admission past the lump in her throat. Her hands shook, her stomach churned. She tasted bile.
Callie swallowed, the only reaction as she absorbed the blow.
Arizona closed her eyes. "I'm sorry –" she choked out. "I'm so sorry."
Callie shook her head. She'd been the cheat, once upon a time. Not with Arizona, never with Arizona – even when her wife's anger and hatred had given way to silence and avoidance, when her marriage felt like a bad trick of karma – she'd never even been tempted. What was it about marriage to her that was so bad, she thought idly, wondering when the nausea would hit. All she felt right now was white-hot anger. The pain would come later.
"Get your things."
Arizona gulped, nodded.
"You can pick Sofia up from daycare tomorrow. We'll work out a schedule sometime, but I can't look at you right now."
She almost laughs every time she thinks of it. She's Callie Torres: lover, fighter, surgeon, mother. When did that stop being enough?
She chases her tequila shot with another, and another, and then another – just for kicks.
She'd dreamed of her wedding day since she was five years old, twirling around the church hall in her white patent shoes and bridesmaids' dress. Her elder cousin had winked as she handed her a red rose from her carnation. She'd stood on her father's shoulders to wave the happy couple off, the sun setting on their Thunderbird and cans rattling as they dragged along the pavement.
Then her wedding day actually happened; cut-off denim instead of taffeta, singing Elvis instead of the church minister, strangers instead of family. Her dad had been disappointed, her mom had ignored her existence for six months. Then Izzie Stevens happened, and Elvis was the last thing any of them had to worry about.
Fast-forward a couple of years. Taffeta, a veil, carnations. Friends on either side of the aisle her best friend had walked her down (in lieu of a father lacking the wherewithal to choose his daughter's happiness over his wife's bitter remonstrations), blue eyes and blonde hair and white dress of the angel she knew she would spend the rest of her life with.
But she'd been wrong, again.
Another shot.
She has a strategy: a shot for every mistake she'd made. George, check. Erica, check. Arizona, check check check. How many times did somebody have to break your heart before you saw what was right in front of your eyes?
It wasn't meant to be.
Callie didn't think she'd believed in destiny, but now it's all she sees: glaring red flags scattered behind her, enough that she should've stopped and taken notice. She's never been enough for anybody – nobody but Mark, and even he had little Grey, in the end. She sighs. Mark would know what to do. Mark would wipe her tears and draw up childcare schedules with Arizona so that she didn't have to, but there's no Mark, and there's no Arizona. Not anymore.
She thinks Arizona's been trying to tell her for a while. She thinks this is the one way Arizona could show her, make her see, prove to her beyond a doubt that she is not Arizona anymore. Not the Arizona she kissed, fell in love with, made plans with, married. For all her past paranoia about Callie and Mark, it's funny that Callie is the scorned woman. The spurned lover. The fool.
But she'd done what she thought was best. She'd always done what she thought was best, and it always got her into trouble. Doing what she thought was best had led her to try to forgive an indiscretion she couldn't excuse; caused Erica Hahn to turn on her heel and stride away from her; pushed her wife into fucking a woman she didn't know from Adam.
Well, she could say she knew her biblically, now. Callie smirked darkly.
She vaguely remembered something Mark had said to her once. "Fall down seven times, stand up eight." She wasn't sure whether she had the energy anymore. Her comment about being cut off at the knees had been weirdly prophetic, in a twisted way. Although she was the one with both legs still intact, she definitely wasn't the last one standing.
She shifted to gesture for another drink, or ten. Almost jumped as she realised she was still wearing her wedding ring; almost, but not quite, because nothing surprised her enough to push through the haze. Not the way she coolly dropped the ring into her empty shot glass, nor the numbness that persevered even as she pulled on her leather jacket and left the bar.
Arizona was wrong. Callie had lost her wife in that plane crash. She'd lost herself trying to get her back.