We got a few drinks from my favorite bar. Josh, the bartender, raised his eyebrows when he saw me with Olivia (as a man and two women tried to buy her drinks), and I nodded back, equally as surprised. "Well, hey," he said, chuckling. He's one of the sweetest gay men I know, and before we got to Olivia, I asked him if he'd heard the news. Mariana and I often got drinks here Friday after work, and he knew her well.

His face suddenly fell. "I hadn't heard," he whispered. "I'm so so sorry, love. She'll be incredibly missed."

I nodded. I didn't think Olivia had been listening, but she gave my hand a reassuring squeeze, and the lump in my throat lessened a modicum.

We stayed at the bar until around 12, mostly talking, dancing just a little, but keeping hands to ourselves. I wondered why I was taking it so slowly. This was nominally a gay bar, though had become much less so over the past few years, and I was certainly devastated over Mariana, though this did seem just the perfect thing to take my mind off it, and even thinking that filled me with oceans of guilt, but on the other hand throwing away my chance with Olivia seemed equally as stupid.

But around midnight, Olivia asked hesitantly, "would you like to come over to my apartment for a bit?"

I took a deep breath. "Sure."

…

Olivia's apartment reminded me of her – well-kept but not ostentatious, and it looked lived-in and comfortable. I sat down on her couch, feet curled up beneath me, clementine that Olivia had grabbed me from the fridge in my hand. we eat the sections of fruit and continue talking, Olivia filling me in on what her job entails, and me trying to explain mine without boring her with the reality that most of it is just crunching numbers.

I'm not shy about my general distrust for the police. A lot of this I've gleaned from my work, learning all of the cases in which the police have profiled, overstepped, or resorted to outright violence. To my surprise, Olivia didn't really disagree.

"I know," she says, "and I see it all the time. I won't lie and say that I didn't think this was genuinely the best way for me to get justice for rape victims, but – I get it. I mean, my own partner's been reprimanded for being a little heavy-handed with a suspect now and then…"

"Detective Stabler?" I asked. "Yeah, he seems like a real piece of work." I paused, worried I'd gone too far.

She looked down and to the side. "We've been partners for over a year now," she said, "but I have to admit: he…scares me sometimes."

I raised my eyebrows. "Did – did something happen?"

She paused. "No," she said, carefully, measured. "I think – I think he wants something to happen, but he's just too afraid his wife would find out."

"But you don't."

"It's hard for me to be with men, especially someone like him," she told me, dropping the last word as if she'd told me too much. "Never mind."

I nodded in acknowledgement, changing the topic to spare her any embarrassment. Then, she actually let me ramble on about statistics for a while, and it's a lot of fun to break things down in a simpler way – I get so used to talking to my coworkers about the gritty details that I sometimes forget about the beauty inherent in the numbers. And I thought Olivia actually got that a little, though I must have gotten carried away, because halfway through talking about what it means to perform a multiple regression, Olivia cut me off by leaning forward and pressing her lips to mine.

I straightened up in surprise, pulling back. It's not like this isn't where I'd hoped the evening would go, deep inside, but a tiny pinch of fear still sat in my chest. I think maybe it always will.

"What is it?" Olivia asked, a bit panicked. "I –"

"Don't worry," I reassured her, and immediately kissed back. The kiss remained on the surface for a moment or two before her tongue pushed its way into my mouth. She tasted like vodka and cranberry juice, and I literally couldn't kiss her fast enough. Her hands found their way to the sides of my face, her thumb stroking my cheek gently.

"Hey," she said, softly, sweetly. "Hey, hey. It's going to be okay."

Only then did I realize that I'd been crying.

"Okay," she whispered. "It's all right. We can do this another time. Hey. It's too soon, it's okay."

I took a deep breath. "Thanks, Olivia."

…

I took a cab home around two, falling asleep as soon as I got home for the first time since it happened. I woke up to a text from Detective Benson. call me, it said. it's important.

Yawning, I sat up in bed and dialed the phone.

"Hey," Detective Benson said.

"What's going on?" I asked, heart beating faster.

"It's the priest," she told me apologetically. "He changed his mind. He wants to go to trial."

"What?" I asked. "Is he fucking delusional? He killed her!"

"I know," she said, "But he's now claiming that he did it for religious reasons, saving her soul, whatever, and it got out of hand. That it was rough sex, but she agreed because she knew how important it was. And that her death was an accident."

"Olivia, that doesn't make any sense," I insisted. "She would never sleep with a man. Never. She's known since she was gay since she was twelve. She was sure about it. She was proud of it. She wouldn't try to 'fix herself' by having rough sex with a man. That's some shit I would do, when I was still coming to terms with things, but not her." The last sentence had slipped out almost without my noticing, but Olivia didn't comment.

"I get it," she said. "It's ludicrous. But his lawyer must have told him he had a chance if he took this to trial."

"So I'll have to testify."

"You'll have to testify about seeing him at her appearance and anything he said to her. I'm going to need your coworkers, too. Especially the girl that found Mariana."

"Tori," I said.

"Can you talk to her for me? I know it's tough after everything else."

"She's eighteen, Olivia."

"Please. I wouldn't be asking if we didn't have to."

"Okay. I'll talk to you soon."

I sat on my bed, breathing shallow. I thought about testifying in open court, about how the case would become even more high-profile, about how everyone would most definitely assume some things about me. I thought about Mariana and how her name would be even more dragged through the mud. I thought about all the people who would take Father Matthew's side, more hate mail delivered to our office, all of it.

And I thought about Tori.

It was Sunday, so ordinarily I wouldn't see her until the next day. She deserved better than me just springing this on her at work, though.

I dialed the phone.

"Hey, what's up?" she asked. She sounded tired.

"I wondered if you were free for coffee. My treat," I said.

"Um, okay," she agreed.

"We'll go somewhere close to your dorm," I promised, "I don't want you to have to go out of your way or anything."

We met at a café near her campus.

"What's going on?" Tori asked. "Not that, like, I don't appreciate it, but I feel like something must be up."

"I need to ask you to do something," I admitted. "I know I initially said there wasn't going to be a trial for Mariana, but things have changed, and we all need to testify."

"Okay," she said right away. "I've never testified in court before, but I'll do it."

I sat back in surprise. "Tori…"

"It's okay," she told me. "I'm okay. Of course I'd testify. Of course I want to help."

"The thing is, honey, that we're going to face some backlash. That some people are going to agree with Father Matthew, believe his side. That some people are going to try to smear us, you know. Maybe make some accusations about why we're defending her."

"Because she's our coworker," Tori said.

"Tori, what I mean is –"

She laughed a little. "I know what you mean."

"What makes you so okay with this?"

She snorted. "Who do you think opened up all that hate mail in the first place and got it to you guys? I've read my fair share of what these people think. I can handle it."

She shrugged. "Besides, I just feel like I'm used to it."

"What do you mean?"

"People used to say things to me, when I was little. I got pretty accustomed to it." She raised an eyebrow. "Mariana and I would talk about that sometimes, actually. She said the same things happened to her. Worse, probably."

My stomach sank. Mariana tried not to talk about those things with me. She almost always put a positive spin on her sexuality, an optimistic outlook. Was it all for me?

I regained a little composure. "I'm glad you were able to talk about it," I said.

"Yeah," she agreed, "and whether it's true for me or not, you know, I don't know. It doesn't really matter, I guess."

"Well, thanks for being so incredibly supportive, hon," I said. "I appreciate it a lot. You're incredible."

"Can I ask you something?" she said.

"Yeah."

"Were you in love with Mariana?"