Steam permeated the air, making each breath heavier and lighter at the same time. The hot water soothed knots and tense muscles, and as she turned her face into the spray, she imagined it sluicing her thoughts, her consciousness, herself down the drain along with the grime and sweat. Until she was just an essence, a core of being. No more than that.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She focused on lathering, the physical sensation of hard soap against her skin. Soothing, quotidian. Normal.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
Routine grounded her. After many a hard case, many a day of stress and sleep-deprived turmoil, she usually found solace in the small rhythms of life, those details that went undisturbed. Today, she needed that more than anything.
But today, her mind refused to be stilled. As she washed her hair, she thought of her, her friend. Her best friend, were she honest with herself. Such a natural train of thought, that well-worn path. Now, though, she treaded it with caution, but decided to test it: the strawberry-brunette hair, the tilt of her head as she spouted facts and statistics. The quirky combination of awkward social naïveté and genius IQ. The woman who owned a turtle—no, tortoise—for a pet.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
She grabbed a razor and let her mind continue, feeling the tension in her neck relax. She thought of the furrow of her friend's brow as she analyzed an autopsy. Her warranted smugness when she deduced instead of guessed. Her laugh…and her complete inability to detect sarcasm.
She smiled and felt the rest of the tension drain from her. She'd been stupid to worry.
Breathe in—
A languid tangle of skin against skin, the warmth of arms encircling her waist. Hazel eyes, hazy with emotion. A hand, fingers laced with hers…a glow inside, where her heart should be…
Her breath hitched, and she lost the rhythm of nothingness.
No. No no no no. The razor clattered to the floor and she pressed her forehead to the wall, the chill of the tile a welcome discomfort. Focusing on the sensation, she emptied her mind of the dream. But her body remembered…
Stop, she ordered herself. Just stop. She's your friend. She swallowed, a well of emotion clogging her throat. The rush of water became loud in her ears. It pushed at her shoulders, her back—obstacles in its path to oblivion. She felt lost in the torrent.
The same way she had felt lost when she woke that morning, after that moment, that split second on the cusp of consciousness when…she wished she were still asleep.
She closed her eyes, and the caress of lips, soft and loving, ghosted through her mind. For a moment, she allowed herself to relive the sensation, and wonder how it would feel if they murmured her name…
Her throat tightened as the first tinge of fear soured her stomach.
Did all women have dreams like that? The occasional hit into left field? The foul ball that didn't count? She loved her friend, but—
That kind of love was completely different.
Her hands shook and she clenched them to contain the tremor. She had faced serial killers, rapists, psychopaths. Stared down the barrel of a gun and lived to tell the tale. But none had shaken her like this. She traced the ugly scar on her stomach. None of them.
Because none of them had threatened to undermine the very fabric of who she was, threatened a bond so essential, she couldn't imagine living without it.
Why? She made a fist and pressed the heel against the wall. Once. Twice. Why was this happening to her? Why now? Dammit. She was over thirty, for Christ's sake! This kind of thing didn't happen to women her age.
No. You're overreacting. It was just a dream. Only a dream.
She let out a long breath and ran a hand through her hair.
But a dream that now tainted something precious, a priceless friendship that could never be replaced. How fragile that friendship now felt. She couldn't deny that this…this thing already colored her every thought, every action. How can I look at her the same way after this? Laugh with her, talk with her, share secrets, eat lunch… There would always be that niggling doubt.
Disgusted, she shook herself. What the hell is wrong with me? It's just a stupid dream. Get over it!
In a burst of agitation, she twisted the nozzle off and swiped the shower curtain aside. She toweled off and wiped a clean circle in the fogged mirror.
Bracing her hands against the counter, she studied the woman who gazed back. Dark features, olive skin. Dark hair, with unruly curls already fighting gravity. Sharp face, but soft. Feminine. Curves in the right places. She found herself searching for stereotypes. She had never considered herself manly. Yes, her dress was generally slacks and a jacket, but it was a feminine cut. Comfortable. Her career as a detective demanded such. And she loved it, a career in which she excelled—a strong woman in a mostly-man's world. But so what? That didn't mean anything.
Did it?
She snorted. This was ridiculous. She grabbed her clothes and dressed, yanking a brush through her hair.
But what if—
Her motions stilled as she met troubled brown eyes again. They asked a question, and the haunted look in them, the glint of uncertainty, cut deeper than any bullet. What. If.
The sound of the lock turning was loud in the quiet apartment, and then the click of heels on linoleum. Her stomach dropped.
"Jane?"
Her eyes closed and she felt the prick of tears for the first time. I want the old me back, she thought desperately, feeling something in her close to breaking. The me who wasn't afraid to touch her. The me who wouldn't search for hidden motives behind my every word or action. She glared at herself in the mirror angrily, feeling betrayed.
She pressed her knuckles against the counter until it hurt. She had to make this right.
"In here," she called. "Almost done."
The familiar voice echoed through the cracked door, upbeat and soothing as always: "I stopped by Le Von Truk on the way here. Hope that's okay…"
She said it with a French accent. The corner of Jane's mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"…and they had the canard on sale, so I brought—oh, hey Jo! Who's a good girl? Did you miss…?"
Jane ducked her head, fighting a smile even as her insides twisted with almost physical pain. Keys jangled onto the counter, and boxes shuffled against each other. Plastic crinkled and drawers opened and closed as dinner was started. Jo's nails tip-tapped on the kitchen linoleum. The sounds of domesticity. So…normal.
And yet they never would be again.
Her shoulders hunched.
"…Jane? You okay?"
The concern in the question slashed through Jane's disquiet. She blinked and pushed away from the sink, standing to her full height. Enough.
"Coming." She straightened her shoulders and cleared her throat. Enough. Breathe in, breathe out.
"I'm coming—" She gave herself one last look, then flicked off the light and opened the door. "—Maura."