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"Holly, Holly Stewart." She corrected you in the car after the fourth time you called her Lunchbox, eyes twinkling and lips curled into a gentle lopsided smile.
"Holly, I don't think we're in Cambridge anymore…" You had deadpanned, as you pulled into the morgue on Albany St., in Boston.
She shot you a look as if to say you weren't nearly as funny as you thought you were.
You spent the afternoon stationed behind her desk, jovially insulting her, only to have your comments thrown back at you with far more whit and charm than you could ever muster. She had finally coaxed you out, throwing a pair of purple exam gloves your way and giving you a lesson in anatomy, in identifying bones and the signs of impact trauma. By the time the day was over, you realized you were enjoying her company and didn't want it to end. You found yourself making some convoluted analogy about being a cat in a tree, in an attempt to make a connection with her. For some strange reason, the thought of Holly becoming just another person you randomly saw every so often during the course of your job made you sad. You were really bad at this, but it worked much to your surprise. She was looking at you with a somewhat serious puzzled expression until you, for some reason, confessed that you suck at relationships. You had expected some non-committal quip, or some pointed snarky comment, but instead she had taken you seriously, and ended up coming out to you as a lesbian. You covered up the unexpected jolt to your solar plexus that accompanied her confession under a generous helping of snark and swagger, with an off-handed comment about how you just hate people. You could hear her laughter as you walked away, and were genuinely surprised when she caught up to you and asked if you were hungry.
"Holly," you stated seriously, "I'm always hungry."
And there it was again, the lopsided smile, and that twinkle in her eye.
You ended up at a Chinese restaurant in Central Square, that was much bigger and better than it had appeared from the street, talking late into the night. As it turned out, she was Canadian too, from Victoria, having come here to get her degree at Harvard Medical School, and then landing a coveted internship at Mass General Hospital. Her job as a lab tech at the morgue suddenly turned into something else after she graduated at the top of her class.
You marvel at how suddenly the evening turned to midnight and you are the last two people in the place. It has never been this easy, not with anyone. You are hard, and mean and closed off, and yet somehow this chick that you just met knows more about you than people who have known you for years. How did she do that? You blame your stupid hormones, because you can. After Perrick, you have been reluctant to let anyone know where you live, but you even let her drive you home to the tall apartment building by the river that houses a mixture of Harvard and MIT graduate students, along with some staff, like yourself. Yes, it must be the damn hormones, you decide.
In the morning you awake to a dull pain in your head and an urgent need to run for the toilet. Unfortunately, as the days go by, morning sickness has turned into afternoon sickness, has turned into evening sickness, and so on. Just catching a whiff of the wrong scent at the wrong time can send you running to empty your guts out at any time, any place. It's so fucking annoying! You have also been more emotional over nothing lately, much to your chagrin. God, you're such a mess! Just last night, after you got home, you burst into tears while watching a dog food commercial on the Weather Channel. Who does that?! You have six and a half more months before you stop sharing your body with this alien creature, and you have no idea how you are going to get through it!
Later, riding with Bobby, you lose your lunch in the nearest trashcan of the men's locker room as you were supposed to be investigation allegations of a possible hazing incident. You leave him there to interview a couple of witnesses and run for the men's room. How embarrassing.
"Someone had a late night." Bobby comments, when you finally emerge from the attached restroom. "You should really get that stomach condition of yours checked out." He continues with an all-knowing, slightly wry expression.
"Bobby, " You counter, giving him your best icy Peck glare, "We're in the men's locker room. Just because you never bathe doesn't mean other people have lost their sense of smell, and aren't effected by the disgusting rank odor in here."
Bobby simply raises an eyebrow at you, shrugs and finishes writing up his notes.
"I'll be talking to the victim outside." You tell him, leaving as quickly as possible, trying to ignore the remaining queasiness you are feeling in the pit of your stomach.
The young man is waiting for you on a bench by the field, and you wonder if he is really old enough to be in collage. You sigh and ask him gently to recount the numerous acts of bullying his dorm mates have inflicted on him, and when exactly it began.
Why do you want to bring another child into this world again? You have one more week before it's too late to easily terminate this pregnancy. You toy with the idea, but you know that you won't do it. You shake your head to clear it, and hand the young man your card.
"Don't worry," You tell him, "Call me for any reason. Officers will be picking those guys up after their afternoon class, right about now. They shouldn't bother you again!"
Bobby is waiting in the car as you return to slump gratefully in your seat. He doesn't say a word, but the concerned look on his face makes you wary.
"What." You roll your eyes at him.
"You do know Peck, that we're partners, right?" He says, and there is a slight edge to his voice.
"Yeah. So?" You really don't want to be having this discussion with him right now.
"So, you know I got your back." Bobby is glancing sideways at you as he puts the car in drive.
"Yeah." You answer warily. Sometimes he makes you think, this might be Chris when he grows up. You hate to admit it, but you miss him too.
"So, I just want you to know that you can tell me anything, and I got you." Bobby persists.
"Thanks Bobby." You lean back and close your eyes, clearly not wanting to talk.
"Ok then." He responds, and brings his eyes back to the road.
You drive back to HQ in silence. Bobby doesn't try to prod you into talking to him again, and you finish your paperwork in relative peace and quiet. As your shift is ending your phone buzzes.
Traci: Your brother asked me out again.
You smile as you type. Traci is the closest thing you have to a friend who totally gets you. Even though you've been exiled to this far away place, you still text with her almost every day.
Prettier Peck: Now that I'm not there to be scarred for life by you doing PDA with him in front of me, you should totally go for it!
Traci: Gail… that's kind of…
Prettier Peck: You keep telling me to get back up on the horse. Why don't you make your horse my brother?
Traci: IDK what if I'm not ready?
You find yourself fighting off a wave of guilty tears. Leaning heavily onto your desk, you press the heels of your hands hard into your eyes and will the flood of emotion to stop. This is ridiculous! You finally get up and scurry off to the locker room, hoping no one has noticed. You sit on a bench before getting in the shower and reply.
Prettier Peck: He really likes you.
Your phone is blinking at you as you get out of the shower. You pick it up expecting it to be Traci, but it is someone else instead.
Lunchbox: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof is playing at the Brattle Theatre tonight. Want to go?
She must have entered her contact info into your phone while you were in the bathroom last night. Normally you would think that was creepy, but you are strangely flattered and amused that she has entered herself under the name Lunchbox.
Officer Sunshine: Are you stalking me?
Officer Sunshine? Really?
Lunchbox: You're the one who said you were bored with sitting around by yourself and playing World of Warcraft on line with your friends back home.
Officer Sunshine: Cat on a Hot Tin Roof? The one with Liz Taylor?
Lunchbox: I knew that Maggie was your kind of girl, Kitten.
Officer Sunshine: You did not just call me Kitten.
Lunchbox: You're the one who called yourself a cat ;)
You groan and roll your eyes.
Officer Sunshine: OK, but you're paying.
Lunchbox: Meet me there at 7
You find yourself singing quietly to yourself as you lace up your boots. You haven't felt this good, this hopeful, in a long time you realize with a small jolt of surprise. Weird. Well, if you don't hurry to catch the bus, you are going to be late. You smile and wave at Bobby as you dash out the door. Who knows? Maybe things are starting to look up.