AN: the list is for Endless from her prompt on the forum.
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I have grieved for only a few things in my life. My little Pug when I was growing up, hit by a car in the dead of the night. I woke to find her on the doorstep. She had crawled her way across the road with a broken back just to be close to me. That was also the first time I realised love could be unconditional. It didn't matter that I teased her with a stick, pulled her tail, dressed her in my old clothes, dangled her bone above her head until she did a trick for it. Her love was unconditional.
My mother when she died. Self-explanatory. Except in her case I started to believe love was conditional. You really only could push someone to an imaginary point before they crossed it and never came back. My mother's death taught me a lot about myself, but that's beside the point right here. The point is, I learnt that until you dealt, grieved, and let it out, that kind of agony would form a home in your heart and live there quite peacefully until something aggravated it and it all came out.
I know Gillian is grieving. Logically, clinically, I can make that deduction. But I can also see it. In her eyes mostly, but in the corners of her smile and the shadows of her heart. It's lurking through her very soul and I'm trying to do the right thing by her. She's a physical person and so I hug her. She's a private person and so I give her space. But in doing that I knocked on the door of grief in my own heart.
Grief makes you do stupid things. I saw her with Burns and grief reared his ugly little mug. It was supposed to be my turn. Grief tapped on my shoulder and reminded me that it was meant to be my turn. Grief took my thoughts and rearranged them into a new order. It pointed out a new logic, a new desperation, a new way of seeing my life. And it made me do something really, very stupid.
PJ
Shots fired. I find the nearest pub and do vodka shots, because when I want to get pissed I have to drink something I'm not all ready used to. The bar tender lets me do four successively then pours me a beer. He should have probably given me a bag of crisps. I know beer's meant to be a meal and all but that's pushing the envelope. I ask for a shot of whiskey as a chaser and he complies and while I down it I wonder at the density of some people. Now I've managed to mix four different kinds of alcohol all in one evening.
All of a sudden the room is kind of swaying around a bit and I don't like the look of the guy down the bar. He glares at me, I'm pretty sure, but when I approached and ask him what his problem is he just mutters and moves away. But I don't like that either so I follow him and I'm not even entirely sure of what I say when I'm saying it. Something about him not liking foreigners and he should get used to it because this was America! The next thing I'm aware of is the bartender's hands on my upper arms as he throws me out.
I stagger along the pavement, my boots scraping against damp concrete and my hands flailing around for something solid to hang on to. That's when I can start to feel something else. A pain in my chest. I start to choke on it and as I gasp for air crouched down behind a car on the street I finally acknowledge it for what it is. Soul shattering grief. I try to suck in air around it but it's rammed in their good and hard and I had no idea the rejection would hurt so damn much!
I never thought I would fall this hard for her and I never thought I would let myself get so emotionally vulnerable. I gag on that idea too and it manifests as bile in the back of my throat. As my father always said, better out than in, and I hurl up into the gutter, on my knees, crouching on a cold and wet street, reduced to bitter unreasonable tears and other burning sensations, brought about by the action of my stomach upending. I'm not crying.
I know whose fault this is.
I wipe my mouth, stagger to my feet again, have a hard time trying to put the key in the lock because it's dark. I get behind the wheel and peel away from the curb. I head across the city. I'm going to give her a piece of my mind. She won't get away with it. I'll make sure of it. I've always let her get away with it. She's been playing me for years. More than that. Forever. Since we met. It's not in my head that this isn't a good idea. That it will severely damage a carefully balanced world.
It's also not in my head that I can't see because I'm not wearing my glasses. And I'm driving more pissed than a fart. And the roads are wet.
PJ
Why do this now? Why not tell me after my divorce, or after Dave, or before Dave for that matter. Cal always had perfect timing for questions and quips. Why couldn't that extend to his personal life too? Why did he always decide that the worst possible moment for everyone else was in fact the best possible moment for him?
I drive home with thoughts like that racing through my head. It's not like Cal has ever been at a loss for words and the reasons why he loves me wash over me again and again, like soothing caressing waves, as if my head is trying to tell my heart that it's ok. That this is all ok. It's not ok. It's complicated beyond belief. And I swing between the hot shock and incredulity and cooling caress of his accent.
You're loyal Gill, despite every way I try you.
You have a beautiful intelligence.
You challenge me like no one else.
You anchor me so I stay on this side of the sanity.
You look stunning in red.
You keep my secrets.
You're not afraid to tell me when I'm off the mark.
You take care of me even when I think I don't need it.
Your integrity is unwavering.
You're unconditional.
'That's the best thing, you're unconditional, you're kind unconditionally, you're firm unconditionally, you're loyal unconditionally, you keep my secrets unconditionally. You're my best friend unconditionally.'
I pull into my drive, not sure I'm quite believing what my own ears heard just fifteen minutes ago.
'You look stunning red.'
I mean, I saw him looking, but I hadn't known he had been really looking. I just thought it was Cal being Cal, Cal being a male. But no, he was looking ,admiring, he loved my freckles and the colour of my eyes and my legs. It makes me feel warm inside thinking about it. It's not that I dress for him; but it doesn't hurt that he noticed!
Maybe Cal is that reason to get out of bed every day. Actually, he has been for years, especially after my divorce. But the reasons have changed over the years. At first it was because I wanted to learn from him. Then I wanted to make our business work. Then it was because we had become friends. Years later, being divorced, and knowing him too damn well, I got out of bed every day to show him I was fine. It was defiance with his name on it. He wouldn't let me see when he was hurting, I wouldn't let him see either.
'I love you.'
A shiver runs through me as I make my way inside my home and I'm back to wondering how on earth I could make it work with him. When I feel like this. When I feel... so... lost to be honest. Confused. Overwhelmed. I feel unconditional. Like I should be with him unconditionally and that his statement should have a complication free answer. But then there's Dave and he represents too many different possibilities for me to throw away so easily. I loved Dave; he's a beautiful man too. Intelligent, kind, confident but vulnerable. And Cal is those things too. So what's the difference between Cal and Dave?
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When I think back on the events that lead me to right here, I can concede that I had in fact, had more than four shots of vodka. Which probably explains the most idiotic decision I've made of my life. No really, hands down idiotic. That was over an hour ago and I'm all ready here now so a little introspection couldn't hurt me anymore could it?
I drove my drunk as a skunk arse over to Zoe's place. I thank god right now that Emily wasn't home to witness it. I said things, really terrible awful fucking things. She should have shot me. She rang the police. I screamed at her that I hated her, that she had ruined me for all other women from here until the end of time. I told her that she wasn't even half the woman Gillian was. I told her I wished we hadn't met. Give me the gun, I'll just shoot myself now.
My head kills me two fold. Far too much alcohol for one liver to process and also, the dent across my hairline and temple from the officer's baton. To be fair, I did deserve it. A lot. He should have tazered me too, maybe kicked me around a bit more. I can't feel my nose. He did me a favour and smashed that last, into the back of the cop car as he cuffed me.
As I rapidly sober minute by minute, I'm beyond disgusted with myself. Zoe, the mother of my child, who has put up with shit from me second only to Gillian, is probably grateful as sin right now that she divorced my sorry arse. And Gillian. I can only thank that deity again that I didn't have the presence of mind to drive over to her house and scream crazy shit at her. I'm sure that really would have endeared me to her.
I can feel my nose oozing again. The police have kindly given me a toilet roll to clean my bull shit up with. I wipe gently and throw another wad of bloodied goop into the loo against the wall. I can't smell jack right now but I'm pretty sure if I could I would be hanging over the edge of the rim. Drunk tanks at two am are not pleasant, no matter what county gaol you're in. There are three other bodies in here; one of them clearly homeless. There are suspicious coloured puddles on the ground. Deity, if you're listening, thank you for letting me be the only one currently conscious.
The worst thing about sobering up is thinking coherently again. Thinking about the regret of ingesting too much alcohol: never good. Thinking about the dumb shit things I've done tonight: bloody god damn fucking awful. Remembering confessing to Gillian: humiliating as old hell. Remembering her rejection: hurt like a mother fucker. The things I said to Zoe: nauseating. Having to ring Eli Bloody Loker to bail me about because I'd all ready managed to alienate the top two tiers of my phone tree in the space of two and a half hours? Just plain embarrassing.
I groan when I realise myself loathing tirade becomes a master card ad. So fucking pathetic, I tell myself. No wonder she doesn't want me. No wonder neither of them do.
There's a sudden rap of a stick on the bars and I jump back and simultaneously want to hurl and pass out from the pain. I'm allowed to go home. Eli drives me. He's surprised and he watches me and I just know he is barely containing the interrogation he has, by rights, earned on this occasion. But he does me a small mercy and keeps his trap shut. I transfer the bail money back into his account as he pulls into my drive way. I even manage to mutter a thanks before I get out. And then I go home and it's dark and the silence welcomes me in, a welcome friend at the end of what is quite possibly the longest and most complex stunt I've ever pulled.
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I'm talking to Eli and Ria when Cal comes in late the next day. It's Ria who spies him first and her mouth hangs open in her consciously displayed shock. I turn to watch Cal skirt around the edge of the break room and continue on to his office. And then my mouth hangs open.
"Did you see that?" Ria asks excitedly.
Eli quips that Cal's in a suit. Ria asks what that's all about and looks to me. "I don't know," I reply softly reaching out to put my coffee down on the nearest hard surface. Ria turns to Eli and I belatedly realise he knows something about it. Too bad I'm all ready out the door. I may as well get it from the source.
I burst into Cal's office and expect to find him at his desk but he's actually across the room lying on the couch. He glances at me and then brings his hands up to cover his face. It's not like I haven't seen him black and blue before but after last night, dread makes me close the door, cross the room and ask him what happened. What the hell had he gotten up to after he left me?
"Go away."
"Why?" I demand. "Because I told you something you didn't want to hear?"
"No, I've got a bloody headache."
He sounds pitiful and as always I feel sorry for him and I wonder when this dance will ever end. I kneel down next to him and gently pry his hand away and I can see he has two black eyes, probably a broken nose and a large gash on his forehead. I'm shocked to see the damage. He's been beaten, broken before, but not to this extent. He stares back at me with baleful hazel eyes and I realise this is probably the most emotionally empty I've seen him too. Somewhere akin to when Zoe left him but different this time. Something is different with him.
Without realising what I'm doing initially I'm caressing his hand. I like it and he seems to relax a little as we stare at each other. "Did you see a doctor?"
"Nope."
"Did you talk to the police? I assume this is someone else's handiwork?" I think about going to get ice but it seems more important to stay with him.
"This is their handiwork love."
And I'm immediately back to wondering what the hell he had gotten up to after he left me last night. Clearly he had been drinking. And clearly he had gotten himself into trouble. I wonder why I didn't get a phone call to bail him out. If the police broke his nose and smashed his head he would almost certainly have been arrested. Where was my three am phone call asking to be bailed out?
"It's all right," he tells me. He made phone calls that morning. No one's pressing charges. It goes not further than the blood that was all ready spilt. He was going to have to do more to make it right, he adds, but he will get there and suddenly I realise he's not just talking about the trouble he got himself into, he's talking to me too. A look passes between us like they orchestrate on television shows.
"I thought about last night a lot," I start.
"Well that's nice."
"Don't be snide," I smack his arm with my other hand.
"Sorry. It just falls out sometimes."
I give a little sigh, "I know."
"I really am sorry," Cal gives me an earnest expression.
"I know."
"No I mean for all of it. All of it."
His eyes bore into mine and I have no idea what he's talking about specifically but somehow I understand, if I want to, that he means for all of it. And it strikes me then what the difference between Cal and Dave is. Cal has always been there for me when I needed him; especially when I needed him so badly. He never abandoned me. No matter how rough our lives have gotten. And he was sorry. He just apologised to me. Dave never apologised about what happened between us. He was 'take me as I am, or leave me' and Cal was 'this is how I am, can you love me despite it? Please?' It was that fine line between strong and bull headed, and vulnerable and humble that was so loveable.
"Cal," I refocus the both of us. "What you told me in the car last night. Thank you for that. That was quite possibly the sweetest thing I've ever heard. But I also meant what I said. I can't do this right now. It's too soon after..." I trail off and I add 'everything' pretty lamely. I might have thought about it a lot but that didn't mean that I had come to any conclusions.
He holds my gaze. But his face remains peaceful. Not closed off but not exactly open. He gives my hand a slight squeeze and I think he might have nodded but I'm not sure. "You got any Advil love? My head is killing me."
I smile and I get up and say that I do. I go to my purse and I come back with water and everyone in the building is miraculously busy with something else. He takes the little white pills from my hand and sips the water.
"Cal?" I want to be clear.
"Yes love?" He winces.
"Just... hold on ok?"
He looks up at me for a long time and then this time, I'm sure of it, he does nod. And just like that we're back to waiting an indeterminate amount of time for a deadline assigned by no one.
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AN: this was a collaboration piece with Muse. The initial idea was Cloe's and I came to Muse and asked her what she thought of the brief story outline I had hashed out in my head. She tweaked it here and there and of course, read as I went along, came up with the summary, and some gold, and here we are. Thank you Muse. Love you xxx
