Last part.
Intermezzo – Part Three
15 days. 360hours. 21,600 minutes. Give or take. Not that I've been counting. And you know, mostly it's been OK, if you don't count the blushing at the memories that come surging into my head whenever I see him.
I've been thinking that maybe we had a lucky escape. I mean, I tried the sleeping with a friend deal with Carter and look how well that turned out. Even without the magic ingredient of passion, you'd think all the stuff we had in common would mean we'd work out, that we'd understand each other, at least be comfortable together, even if we were never going to set the sheets on fire. Instead we ended up with issues squared . He had enough issues (what did we have before we had issues?) from his childhood and the addiction without dealing with mine and it was the same for me. The worst of it is that we came scarily close to losing the friendship that started it all off, and I came scarily close to losing any friendship I had with Luka too.
Speaking of Luka, I don't have so many friends that I can afford to throw one away just because I happen to think he's hot, passion or no passion. Because I also know from experience that I suck at working friendship and romance together in the same relationship, and it would be crazy to try right?
So why is it that I'm sitting here in his car thinking all over again that he's beautiful and I want him so badly that I'd rather stick pins in my eyes than volunteer to get out? Why is that?
oOo
I know about crazy, I've done crazy, but Neela took gold in crazy today. Michael's a good man, but God, married? See she couldn't answer any of those key questions I asked her, not about the newspaper (I'm guessing Carter is driving Kem crazy with that), or the toilet (and when I think about it that was grounds for divorcing Richard right there). I guess I should give her a pass on the grilled cheese and jam as I think it's probably a Croatian thing; maybe just a Luka thing. I tried it once. I gotta tell you once was enough. Maybe I used the wrong jam. Every objection I raised was right on the money but she wasn't looking for sense, she wasn't looking for my approval, she just wanted me to be a friend and not rain on her parade, just needed my support and who could say no to that? I'd be there for her and be glad to do it, and never mind about toilet seats and newspapers and jam. Maybe I was just jealous that someone could screw all their courage up like this in one mad effort of will to believe that something would work and jump feet first into it, instead of sticking a toe in the water and running back up the beach. Then again, if it took my mind off, well, other stuff, it was all good,
Like I said it's been mostly OK with Luka. Mostly. Until today, today which had gotten started with another kind of crazy, with Luka and Vic being carpeted by Weaver. A couple of guys locking antlers in a testosterone fuelled frenzy might sound kind of hot in theory but it didn't help the frightened hinds and fawns who were waiting on the outcome. I kind of understood Luka's sense of entitlement and Vic was the pain in the ass of all pains in the ass, but yeah, take it outside guys. I know who my money would have been on.
Instead we got a kind of vaudeville act, you know like a Marx Brothers movie where it's all "after you, no, really, after you, no please, I insist" and eventually they try and get through the door together and get wedged in the doorway . . . OK, so they didn't do that last part, but you get the picture.
I was grappling with my drunken crossing lady when Luka came in to say something about an ortho consult just as Glenda cranked it up a notch, and then he was behind me, leaning right in and he was talking in my ear just quiet enough that I had to really listen to hear him over Glenda's monologue, and it was all about Weaver and him and Vic, and getting along and charming and agreeable and his cologne did what scents do and triggered a vivid and very graphic image of me and him, and I know his voice can flirt with a will all of its own, but god damn him he was flirting, out and out full on flirting, and, kill me now, I was flirting back.
What the hell was that? Not fair, that's what that was, and I was grateful to Glenda because struggling with her IV meant he couldn't see my face. When she caught us a lucky but surprisingly effective slap, it was like God was saying "Hey, snap out of it!", I snapped out of it. I may be crazy but I'm not, you know, crazy.
I knew later that Glenda wasn't right and I'd gotten Luka as far as agreeing that better safe than sorry but he hedged when Vic piped up and when he was called away he left without giving me a clear order, which meant that Vic got to tell me to do nothing. They both just about fell over themselves when the brain bleed nearly killed her and I didn't mince words when it came to what I thought of them.
So when it came to little Stuey, what my presentation of my plan lacked in charm it made up for in clarity. Alright, so I was rude, but I'd about had it and anyway I'm premenstrual so I get to kill someone and plead diminished responsibility, right? When I found out later what the poor little guy's story really was I was kind of glad I hadn't been around to deal with it, because by then I was up to my heated rollers in a "What the fuck am I going to wear?" funk and then stealing flowers from the chapel with Haleh, and frankly that was a breeze compared to dealing with little Stuey's crazy mom.
Still, Luka had managed a smile and had the good grace to be both complimentary and self deprecating, not that I was fooled by that, but he said he'd see me at the reception later because he had some mysterious things he had to clear up. Maybe he meant Maureen the infant temp with her mother's cheekbones and her father's chin. She was pretty mysterious, and not in a good way.
Neela was beyond beautiful and Gallant looked handsome and between them they made up for the thrown together tackiness of the occasion, the blue cake and the stolen flowers. I sure hadn't expected when I turned in to work that I'd be standing there with Pratt and Father Superior Markowic watching love's young dream put the rest of us cynics and our weltschmertz to shame.
Well, he had some news when he showed up. I had a new boss and he was sitting there perched on a bar stool with a beer, trying not to look too pleased with himself and managing to look, well, hot. I guess we finally knew who had the biggest antlers. I teased him but I felt ridiculously proud of him even if I couldn't quite see him being the hard ass he'd need to be in the job. Still, Chief Kovac had a nice ring to it. The fact is that what I really wanted to do was grab hold of him and kiss him well done, just like I'd wanted to hug the big idiot when he got back from Africa half dead and looking like hell, and I ached a little at the thought that there was no-one there to do that for him, and that if we really were just friends I could have done exactly that, and the fact that I couldn't and didn't told me more than I really wanted to know.
We watched as Morris did what he did best and made a complete ass of himself, and the newlyweds fed each other cake, and we drank to propriety and discretion but drew the line at maturity, and that little ache grew because it just wasn't making sense to me now. I was proud of him and the proprietorial streak that that showed up was a shock. The sadness I felt that there was no-one there who could claim that right was a shock. The little rush of excitement I felt when he stood up and suggested that we get out of there before Morris started telling wedding night jokes or stripping or something came as a shock too.
oOo
"Her name was Lola, she was a showgirl, with yellow fedders in her hair and a dress cut down to there, and I don't remember …"
It's another shock to realize that I've never heard him sing before. On a purely musical basis I don't think I've missed much but it's still fascinating, and sort of adorable. But when exactly did he get to where he felt OK doing it? And when did I get to where I felt OK laughing affectionately at him? Or even thinking the word "adorable" in connection with him? The suspicion that me being OK with him as just my friend is just so much bullshit is gaining strength with every minute that passes until it's yammering in my ears and I can't ignore it.
Passion – once that's there there's no way you're ever going to be "just friends" is there? I mean – is there?
He's waiting for me to get out of the car, lean over, give him a peck on the cheek, tell him I'll see him tomorrow and I can't move. I think I'd find it easier to get out if he was doing 60 than it is for me to open this door and get out and get myself into my apartment.
It's bullshit, it is, I'm sitting here and I'm thinking that two weeks ago when I needed someone to cry to he was my first choice, the only choice I would have made, and that has to mean something, and why would it be so crazy, maybe it makes perfect sense, you know, affection plus desire – and this desire for him is so strong that I actually feel a little faint as all the blood in my body seems to have relocated to points south – and I'm thinking about Neela who went with her crazy self and I'm hearing Baxter over and over. "Carpe diem!".
It's bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. What I'm feeling now has nothing to do with friendship and it's real. It's as real as the godawful stab of pain I felt when we heard he'd died, as real as the nightmarish grey numbness of the days after that, as real as the second stab of relief and joy and gratitude that came when we heard he was alive, as real as the connection I felt with him two weeks ago, it's as real as any of those things, and I don't know what to do with it. Help me out here, Luka, I'm about fit to bust with the need to touch you and you're just . . . waiting. And I can't work out whether you're not making eye contact with me because you're embarrassed and wish I'd move my ass so you can get home to bed or because you feel the same as me and if we actually look properly at each other we'll give too much away and be the one to wreck the friendship deal.
OK, this has to be up to me, I mean he can't really invite himself in, but I can ask if he wants a cup of coffee, I can do that, we're friends, friends can do that, and if he just, you know, drinks the coffee, even though he hates my coffee, which I know he does even though he won't say so, well, if he just drinks the coffee and leaves I haven't lost anything.
And then I remember earlier and how he was flirting with me and I think if I ask him in for coffee maybe he won't just leave, maybe what will happen is just exactly what I want to happen, and I also know it's worth taking the risk, and risk is all there is, like Maggie told me. Except what if he says nah, he should get going, it's late, he has an early shift, needs to be on time, lead by example. But what if he really is waiting for me to do something here, what if he - oh, fuck it. For once in your life Abby get a grip and make something happen. No more coulda, woulda, shoulda. Carpe diem, Abby, carpe diem, and here goes nothing.
"Would you like to – "
END.
