A/N: Once again, it has been a pleasure to read your reviews... Thank you so much! For the record: I too am ready for Sam to "go see about a girl." And no, I don't think we've seen the last of Jerry's handiwork...
Without further ado, here's Andy.
DISCLAIMER: I own neither Rookie Blue nor the lyrics of Florence + the Machine.
Chapter Four: [and I've been a fool and I've been blind, I can never leave the past behind]
Week three.
(She wonders when she'll stop using that night as a reference point. Before and after. A salute to time and space, really.)
She's settled into a semblance of routine. From an outsider's perspective, it seems like progress. Structure gives her a sense of purpose. Structure will allow her to flourish.
(Objectives and goals: What any driven, motivated copper should have, right?)
She could laugh at the irony: How ETF, a desirable career goal, led to the structural collapse of her relationship.
(Well, maybe that's not fair. It was simply the trigger. The gun was already loaded.)
She feels tired. Exhausted by pretense and worn down by skirting the issues.
He hasn't sought her out. Hasn't looked at her in weeks. It makes her heart ache in the worst possible way.
The week ends with Traci dragging her into the vacant D's office and studying her for a long moment. With a murmur of apology, she pulls her close and promises to stop by her apartment tonight.
The decisiveness of Traci's response – sorting and labeling paperwork as she dials her mom; asking if Mrs. Nash can watch Leo for the night – it's a nice reassurance.
(She feels a strange sense of relief, surrendering her mask.)
All the world's a stage, and all the men and women merely players...
The charade has taken its toll, and she doesn't want to pretend anymore.
It's draining: Physically. Mentally. Emotionally.
Retreating into herself hasn't helped, that's for sure.
She wonders what it's like on the other side.
Wonders if talking to Traci is the first step.
Wonders, briefly, if he has moved to greener pastures.
She misses the ease of laughter, the time with her friends, drinks at the Penny and jokes in the cruiser.
She misses the laugh lines around his eyes. The gravelly timbre of his voice on sleepy, lazy mornings. The way he drummed the steering wheel nervously when he took her out to dinner for the first time. His jacket and running shoes by the front door, his god-awful taste in music, and that stupid, teasing smirk when she'd catch him staring.
Mostly, she misses him.
Watching her best friend bustle around the tiny kitchen, she's never been more grateful for Traci's maternal side. Calm, collected, pressing a cup of tea into her hand like it's the most natural thing in the world. Both of them have early shifts tomorrow, so the wine is in the cabinet, a glass for another day.
(She doesn't miss it. She knows what self-medication and a bottle look like: The memories are enough to keep a firm grip on her coffee mug.)
Observing Traci, she wonders what it's like for most girls. Calling their moms after break-ups; seeking advice and warm, reassuring words. She dwells briefly on the novelty, dismissing it quickly for her own peace of mind.
"So let me see if I have this straight," Traci begins. "For the past two and a half weeks you've let me blather on about Leo's allergies and science projects and you haven't said anything?"
Traci's tone is sympathetic, not accusatory, and her worried expression slices through Andy's heart.
"God, I really am a rookie detective," Traci mutters, leaning against the couch cushions and propping her feet up on the coffee table. "My best friend goes through a break-up and I don't have the decency to notice..."
She laughs bleakly in response, Traci's words striking a chord. "Trust me, Trace, you are not the one at fault here. I mean, I've had my share of screw-ups, but I think this one takes the cake."
(She feels a slight twinge of guilt for keeping Traci in the dark, and for that, she's sorry.)
The real reason she's avoided this conversation? Talking about it makes the whole scenario...
Real.
Her conversation with Traci opens old wounds, but Traci's patience is a balm. She bears with Andy's halting, hesitant speech. Doesn't interrupt or push. Offers advice, wrapped in firm but gentle encouragement, when the time is right.
(Does everything, in short, that a good friend would do.)
"Andy," Traci begins gently, resting her palms on Andy's knees and crouching before her. She pauses, considering her words. "If you can't see the way that man looks at you..."
"I said awful things," she interrupts, the tears falling freely now. "And then I took my stuff and walked out. What kind of message does that send?"
"We all say stupid things when we're upset," Traci maintains, her voice soft. She offers Andy a small smile, squeezing her knee. "Last week? Leo called me a jerkface."
"Don't ask me to explain when kids got so fresh, but that point aside... We all say things we don't mean. Eight, twenty-eight... It's the same, usually. Just different – stronger – vocabulary. It's easy to fall back on something that's going to cut, to hurt, in the moment."
Traci spreads her thumb and forefinger a centimeter apart, her smile growing. "I was probably this close to washing Leo's mouth out with soap, but I sent him to his room instead. Told him to think about what he had said."
Traci arcs an eyebrow in her direction, silently asking if she gets where this is going.
"You've spent enough time thinking about what you said. Punishing yourself," Traci says calmly, her expression serious. "Now you need to talk to Sam."
Her heart wrenches in her chest at his name, and she swallows hard.
"You need closure, sweetie – Good, bad, or indifferent as his response may be. You want acceptance? You want to make your way through grief and anger, and finally get back to some semblance of normal? You need to talk to him," she repeats. "You can't play this game, replay after bitter replay of everything the two of you have ever said."
She feels lighter after Traci's departure – not better, per se – but lighter. Like some of the burden has been lifted. Realization dawns as it often does in the face of a good friend: She knows now why she's been reluctant to talk.
(She may have used Chris and Dov to justify her silence, but that excuse is piss-poor.)
The answer is simple, really.
With Luke, she didn't want people to know because she didn't want to be pitied. Didn't want to be that naïve young rookie whose fiancé slept with someone else. A victim. The poor girl who couldn't keep her life together and her man happy.
(She nearly barks out a laugh, the absurdity of the situation striking her.)
With Sam...
With Sam, pity wasn't even on her radar. Yes, she wanted to avoid gossip, but it wasn't pity she was afraid of.
If she started talking about it, then she would have to accept it.
And she...
She can't.
She can't pretend like she doesn't want Sam to be a part of her life.
It's a monumental realization, one that causes her to close her eyes and bury her face in her hands. Everything is quiet and still in her apartment, and she feels... Defeated.
The silence stretches: It's a reminder of her mistakes. A reminder of his absence.
(She messed up. Her biggest mistake wasn't walking out the door. Her biggest mistake was not going back. The next hour, the next day, the next week...)
Her eyes fill with tears, and she fists a hand against her mouth, swallowing a sob.
Her conscience continues to prickle, a week and change later: Talk to him. Talk to him. Talk to him.
At some point, she should probably buy a clue.
The idea terrifies her; the fear nearly paralyzing. What if this is the two percent, the situation that – try as she might – she can't talk her way out of?
(What if she tries, and that's it?)
Ninety-eight percent of the time, her mouth is her best weapon.
(It's always his words that resonate, try as she might to block them...)
The missing gap? That's where Sam comes in.
(Where he's always come in. Missing gap, for god's sake...)
Her conscience is definitely attune to her heart.
It takes a warm, sunny day and her worst shift in months to kickstart the motions.
She's paired with Dov and is suitably pleased: Dov can keep conversation flowing with little trouble, and he usually lets her drive.
(She'll take her small victories, thank you.)
When they're dispatched to High Park, part of a manhunt for a teenage boy, she doesn't anticipate the gravity of the situation. She should have known better, known to prepare herself, especially because he was a kid...
She didn't expect to be the person who would find him.
Her throat closes up, thinking about it. How her problems – her complaints – are small in number and form, compared to those of a grieving family.
(Reality has a way of elbowing into a cop's perspective, subtlety be damned.)
The universe has a twisted sense of humor, and naturally, Sam is the first senior officer to reach the scene. She's worked crime scenes with Sam before, and limited eye contact notwithstanding, they've been professional. She sucks in a breath as he approaches but releases it just as quickly. They've been doing this for a month now, and they can do it again: Specimens of protocol in each other's company, coloring inside the lines, his and her manuals...
(She isn't prepared for the physical contact, not by a long shot.)
She knows it was unintentional, the slightest graze of her torso. He was merely nudging her aside so he could examine the scene, but his hands...
They burn, warm and familiar.
She can't help the sharp gasp that escapes.
Their eyes meet, and he takes several steps to the left. His gaze swings to Epstein, and he asks for a rundown of the scene.
Dov is in full copper mode, grave stance and a solemn, assured tone as he recounts the details.
(If the scene weren't so troubling, she might tease him. She swears Dov drops his voice half an octave whenever he addresses Sam, honestly.)
She focuses on the wet earth beneath her feet, tries to concentrate on Dov's words. She hears her name, and suddenly, Sam's eyes return to her face, scrutinizing and assessing.
She holds his gaze, the seconds ticking by. She reads the concern in his expression; notes the unfamiliar creases around his brow and the tiredness in his eyes.
(He looks as resigned as she feels.)
She wonders how much of it is the job.
How much of it is them.
(This life is too short, that's one thing she has always known. To spend your days unhappy...)
She's tired. Tired of this self-made circus, evasion and avoidance, misery as its ringmaster.
Not for the first time, she wonders how you can miss someone so powerfully when they're standing right next to you.
It's a strange dichotomy. How one individual can go from being the person who knows you best - the person who challenges you to be your best - to being a complete stranger.
It's a romantic break-up, sure, a physical split, but it's also the end of a partnership and a friendship and the lean slice of normalcy in her chaotic life.
She supposes that's why it hurts so much.
Sam didn't humor her or tolerate her: He understood her. Took the time to sift through layers of emotional baggage and figure her out.
He was invested.
She wonders why she's only seeing that now.
She needs to apologize.
She also needs to make Sam hear her. Really hear her.
(She can't play this game anymore, second-guessing what he's thinking and where they're going and if it's all worth it.)
She wants him to trust her. She knows now she has to trust herself.
(She wants him to want her to stay, that's the thing, and if she has to ask him a hundred times over...)
Hanging her uniform up, she changes into her civvies. She wishes she had more than a brush to run through her hair, but such is life: She may lose her nerve if she waits, and she hasn't come this far to give up now.
A text from Traci and a point in the right direction from Chris, and she finds herself in the alleyway of the Penny, pacing back and forth. He's inside with Jerry, that much she has figured out. It's almost enough to make her head home. If ever there were a place she didn't want to confront him, it's the division bar.
(Although, places that would be worse: Emergency Care. Her dad's dinner table. TPS Internal Affairs. The universe has had a good laugh at her expense, so she supposes if she can finagle a meeting at the Penny, it might actually be a blessing in disguise. She can always suggest they move somewhere else.)
Her stomach is doing flips, airplane turbulence and a flutter of butterflies inside. Wringing her hands, she steps back before stepping forward with renewed purpose.
Now or never, McNally.
She doesn't see him at first, the glare of bar lights clouding her vision. The usual ruckus greets her, off-duty cops and a few college kids, badge bunnies in tight-knit groups and a crowd of old men in the corner, heckling each other at the dart board.
She stands in the doorway, her eyes narrowed as she scans the bar.
He's on his normal barstool, but...
No.
(Blonde is bad, the proximity is worse, but it's his smile that's the ultimate blow.)
She catches his eye and drops her gaze immediately. Her body is on autopilot, and through no recollection of her own, she finds herself standing underneath the outdoor awning of the Penny, gulping lungfuls of air.
Every nerve ending in her body is awake. She feels like someone doused her with cold water, head spinning and hands trembling.
Too late.
(It's a long walk to the bus stop: Humiliation measured in meters and regret her closest companion.)