A fair warning: this chapter is pretty upsetting. I changed my mind, so the fallout will be in the next one, and this one is about Olivia. Basically, her past. This is one of the reasons I wanted to write the prequel, because I feel like this explains a lot of her choices in Another Chance, especially not asking Fitz to stay, and how protective she is of Zoey. So this has been in my mind for a while, but it was still really difficult to write it down. And, again, thank you for all of your support - it means the world to me.
Her words are ringing in her ears, "I'm broken. I'm damaged goods." She's never said it. She'd felt it, she'd thought it, but she'd never said it. There's a realization that follows admissions like that, an emptiness that comes from saying things we bury deep, from assigning words to feelings. There's a quiet resignation; recognition of an ending; giving in to the named feelings, instead of fighting them; no, now there's no need – they're out in the open; she can finally let herself be broken. She tries to pinpoint the moment; the moment when she realized she was broken. It wasn't the blood, all that blood; no, she was already gone then; it wasn't the first time, either, even then she was gone. She can't remember a time when she wasn't trying to escape, to be something more, somebody else. Tears are streaming down her face, and she doesn't know why. She doesn't understand that she's grieving the loss of herself, and not the loss of Him. Not anymore. She looks down at her feet, as they speed up on the concrete; along the darkness. She remembers flying, flying and seeing the sky beneath her feet; the light.
"Livvy." He says with a wide smile, the same one she has; but his, his was rare. He takes the sides of the swing and pushes her forward, pushes her up, towards the sky. The little girl laughs, her hands gripping the rope tight.
"Higher." She demands, turning her head to look at him, batting her eyelashes. "Higher, daddy." He pushes again; and she swings her feet, trying to gain speed. She feels she's so close; only one more and she'll defy gravity; she'll stay up in the air, floating. "Higher." He doesn't push again. No, instead, he wraps his arms around her from the back, and places her on his shoulders.
"Is that high enough?" She just laughs wrapping her hands around his neck and laying a soft kiss on his head. "You're so silly, daddy."
She doesn't have a lot of childhood memories with him; at least not memories like this; memories she likes to keep. Looking back, re-living it; even the happy – it's always bittersweet. She pulls out a feedback sheet from her backpack, as she collapses onto the bed – the perfect grade. She doesn't smile in satisfaction; no pat on the back – she tosses it aside, unaware that things could be any other way.
She comes home from school, her head hanging low; her shoulders slouched. She sees her feet touching the doorway, and she stares at them for a moment, she's stalling. She got her first B that day. It was a difficult test and B was the highest grade, but that doesn't matter, not to her anyway. She's eight, and already she feels like she's not good enough, like somehow she's failing. She feels like maybe if she played more sports, or played them better, if she scored a goal, he would smile – he would stand in the bleachers and wave at her, smiling. Maybe is she had more friends, or won more debates it would make a difference; maybe it would give him more good days. Maybe. It's her maybe-dream; because lately; there were too many days he spent alone, away, staring into the space. She'd watch him sometimes and wonder what he thought about; if he fantasized about a different life. She never understood he fantasized about a different mind, one that would let him feel the happiness, the happiness he knew was there. She never understood it was him, and not them; that there was nothing that would have made a difference.
Her little hand turns the handle. She tiptoes across the floor and up the stairs, trying to get to her room; to hide in her B-induced-shame. She sits at her desk and practices writing. Hours later she still sees the imperfections, all she sees are flaws, the failures.
"Olivia." Her mom yells from the kitchen; her voice strained, exhausted. "Can you please get your father, he's taking a nap. Dinner's ready."
"Sure, mom." She sits for another moment though. Just looking at the scattered pages of neat writing. She picks up the last one she did; lines and lines of "I love you daddy." She'll give it to him and then, maybe, he won't care about the B; maybe he'll see she can do better than that; maybe he'll see that she's willing to work hard to be good enough.
Her parents' bedroom is dark; the sun has long set letting in the long winter night. She finds her way to his side of the bed, and softly calls out his name. She doesn't want to wake him; he looks happy, or at least the closest thing to happy she's ever seen. He doesn't move, and she calls out again; a little louder, but still soft – so much love in the girl's voice. He still doesn't stir, he just sleeps; peaceful. She touches his cheek, softly; warm skin on warm skin. Nothing. She nudges him lightly, but he's still sleeping. Still happy. She tries to shake him; her little hands wrapping tightly around his arms, but as soon as she stills; he stills too.
"Mom, I can't wake him up." She says, with a subtle whine. Her mom drops a pan; loudness of metal crashing against the tile, rings in her mind. The only thing that filters through is her mom's voice, high-pitched and panicked, yelling as she runs up the stairs, "Call 911, Olivia!" And she does.
She remembers the lights, colors flashing before her eyes, and the sound of sirens as they sped away. She remembers the hospital; the way her mom just sat there quietly, waiting, stroking her hair absentmindedly. She remembers the moment he opened his eyes, how they were filled with regret, or maybe it was disappointment? Her mom brought the sheet with neat lines of "I love you's" and he smiled; his hand shaking as he held up the paper; a silent tear rolling down his cheek.
She never got another B.
She shivers, suddenly cold – frozen in her thoughts. She reaches for her sweater, but then changes her mind; reaching instead for the sweatshirt that she neatly folds every morning; intending to return it. But, come evening she puts it on, she snuggles in it – it's the only thing that she can sleep in. She pulls it over her head and closes her eyes. If she focuses hard enough; she can almost pretend that the heavy textile is his hands traveling down her body; that the rim is his arms resting loosely on her hips. She reaches for the book on her nightstand; she needs to finish it before she can start another one, the one from him. She pulls out the bookmark, and for the first time in a while, really looks at it. For the first time in a while she doesn't avoid the smiling faces, she lets them in, lets the memory in.
She's eating her breakfast and flipping through the Harvard prospectus she got in the envelope with her early admission acceptance.
"I thought we could go to the fair today?" She looks up surprised; startled almost by the proposal. "To celebrate." He smiles, amused by her face. "You did so great."
She just stares at him for a moment, chewing, but not tasting anything. She nods her head before she speaks, "You sure you're up for it?"
"Nothing I'd rather do today, Livvy." He scoots over to where she's sitting and looks at the prospectus, eyes darting between the polished pages and the happiness on her face. "I stayed here." He points to a photo of an impressive-looking building, "And here, this is where your mom and I had our first kiss." His finger points to a tall elm tree near the library.
"How classy." She says with a chuckle, teasing. She loves days like this, but they're few and far between. And the happiness, the mood, it always bursts so suddenly.
It's freezing outside, but she doesn't mind. Their breaths turn into steam as soon as they leave their lips, a trail of visible reminders that they're alive, breathing. It's crowded, children running around everywhere, but she doesn't mind. It's loud; they have to yell, but it's fine. It's perfect. Everything is perfect, because he's there, holding her hand and carrying a massive teddy bear. He's there, and there are brief moments, moments when the sadness seems almost completely gone; when his eyes flicker with the palest light. And those moments, fleeting as they are, are enough.
The photo booth is his idea. He gets himself a Santa beard; and he buys her antlers and a flashing red nose. The first flash goes off before they're ready – their eyes are half-closed, their mouths open; the second one they have polite smiles; the third one her eyes are closed, mouth open again, she's laughing – her head falling back; he's just looking at her in awe. The last one, the last one they're hugging; or he's hugging her really. His eyes are closed, his lips stretched in an unmistakable smile. There's a tear glistering on his cheek. He is happy; in that moment he is as happy as he could ever be.
She shoves the bookmark between the back cover and the last page, wiping her lone tear away. It got stuck, in the corner of her smile. Bittersweet. Bittersweet memories. She gets up. She's done. She's done crying. She's done feeling all of this.
She splashes cold water on her face; once, twice, three times – she keeps repeating the motion until her bones hurt from the cold. She puts her palms on the sides of the sink, holding herself up; looking into a pair of sad, brown eyes. The sadness in them not apparent; no, it's in the traces of gold that take the light in, but don't reflect it; it's her eyelids, the way they're never open completely, they're always hovering, ready to shut, to stop the tears from rolling out. She's seen those eyes look at her before; across the kitchen table, or when he kissed her goodnight; she saw them become empty, before they fell shut.
She was going to wait until the weekend, but she has no classes today. She promises Abby she'll bring some of her mom's lasagna back; she throws too many books into her bag, and heads out. She doesn't even know why she's going home. It's her gut. Her gut has been telling her something's off. Her mom sounded fine, she said he was fine too, but she could tell that wasn't the whole truth. It's an unplanned trip and she felt guilty leaving, despite all her work being finished; but now, driving down I-90, music blasting; she's actually glad. They can play cards, they do that every time, and sometimes winning even brings him a smile; and they can have a family meal, because at home, she's learned to think of silence as soothing, as a blessing.
She pulls into the driveway. His car is there, so she calls out as she comes inside. No reply. He must be taking a nap, she decides. She heads up, to drop off her stuff. Her foot on the top step, she hears a loud noise in the bathroom; the sound of falling; clinking against the tiles and a loud thump. She knocks gingerly, then calls out, terrified, "Dad?"
"Livvy, I'm fine." But she knows, instantly, that something is off. His voice, the voice that always sounded damaged, broken even; now sounds weak, light, almost relieved. She stands there for a moment and then she pushes the door in.
Blood. So much blood. The red travelling between the tiles; travelling away from him. She drops to her knees, grabbing his wrists, pressing in. But he's still bleeding; the crimson liquid leaving his body quickly, too quickly. She takes off her scarf and wraps it around one arm, above the cut; wrapping the other one in her shirt. She turns to get up, to call 911, but he grabs her hand, his grip weak.
"Livvy, you shouldn't be here. You shouldn't see this." His words are breathy, each drawn out, each one sounds like it might be his last.
"It's OK dad." She doesn't recognize her voice.
"I'm sorry Livvy." Tears stream down his cheeks. She bends down on her knees again and kisses him.
"I'll get help." And with that she gets up and leaves.
The rest, the rest is all a blur. A blur of people and sounds, questions and answers. They pronounce him dead on arrival; he's lost too much blood. She doesn't cry and neither does her mom. They just sit in the waiting room, no longer waiting for him; instead waiting for it to sink in. She just stares at her hands, blood on them. Maybe if she hadn't stopped for coffee on her way; or if she didn't hesitate to open the door; maybe if she didn't come back, if she hadn't kissed him then; maybe he'd still be breathing. They let them see him; he looks at peace, almost serene; he looks free.
She doesn't remember when, or how they get home. All she remembers is her bloody palm-print on the phone. She remembers her mom scrubbing the bathroom floor furiously. She remembers kneeling down to help; her jeans leaving a red trail. She remembers the horror she felt; she remembers ripping her clothes off; shaking uncontrollably – crying. She remembers her mom showering her; the water running red. She remembers the awful guilt that followed her to bed.
Her gaze falls to the letters on her chest, and a weak smile reaches her eyes as she looks up. They look different now. Less broken, less sad – a soft twinkle in the gold specks. And in that moment, finally, it all clicks, her whole life, suddenly – clear. She's punishing herself. She still blames herself for his death. More importantly she blames herself for his illness. She blames the little girl for wanting to get away, for not getting that A; she blames herself for failing to wake him up, for failing to cheer him up; for failing to be enough. She blames herself for his sadness; she attributes it to her brokenness. Maybe if she were perfect; maybe.
But Fitz, he told her she was everything. He told her and she didn't hear him. She didn't hear she makes him happy; she didn't hear that she helped him. She didn't hear any of it; she couldn't process it – all she could think was how much she'll damage him.
She runs her fingers across the embroidery, smiling as her fingertips trail the stitching. She makes him happy. She says it out loud. There's a realization that follows admissions like that, a lightness that comes from saying things we bury deep, from assigning words to feelings. There's a quiet resignation; recognition of an ending; giving in to the named feelings, instead of fighting them; no, now there's no need – they're out in the open; she can finally let herself heal.
She heads to her room, her mind racing. She wants him. She wants to be happy. And he, he makes her so happy. She wants him. She wants him to leave Mellie. But she wants him to do it for him. Her father, he lived for her. She understands that now. She's not the reason he died; she's the reason he held on for so long. He lived for her; but really, she was living for him; she was being for him. And that, that nearly broke her; it damaged her, maybe for good. She closes their apartment door, leaving all the noise of the hallway, all the messiness outside, letting the quiet in; letting it clear her mind.
A knock. She knows it's him, instantly. She can just tell. There's something about the rhythm of his steps, something about energy, it changes when he's near. She hesitates. For a moment she pauses. She wants him, but it has to be his choice, she has to be what he wants.
She opens the door and he looks lost in thought. She needs to break him out, she needs to know; she can't do this back and forth anymore. She wants him, but she also wants to heal, to mend the broken pieces.
"What are you doing here?"
"I did it for me." A smile, bright, triumphant, spreads across his face. There's something in his eyes, something aside from happiness – he looks relieved, he looks free.
A tear rolls down her cheek; her eyelids no longer hovering, ready to shut; her eyes finally completely alight.
A flash of panic across his face, "Livvy?" And that's it. The way he says her name. The way it rolls of his tongue, without a hint of brokenness, without a hint of sadness; the way he does it gives her some of her long-lost innocence back. The way he says her name makes her believe in happiness, it makes her believe that some loves can overcome everything; it makes her believe that her life is worth living. She steps towards him, wrapping her arms around his neck, propping herself up on her toes and she kisses him. Nothing about it friendly.
She pulls him inside, peeling his jacket off, dropping it to the floor. Abby chimes, "About time!" from her doorway, before disappearing inside, and they just laugh; their kiss becoming a wide smile. They stumble into her room and she lies down on her bed, pulling him down with her. Their kisses deep, yet tender; their hands slowly exploring. This, this isn't rushed – it's not a dirty, little, secret – they have time. All this time. Time for love. He pulls her shirt over her head, and then peppers light kisses down her body, as she arches her back. He stops just below her waist. She lifts her head, and opens her eyes, looking at him, questioning.
"We don't have to, not if you're not ready."
"I want to. I want you." She reaches down and brings his lips to hers, kissing him deeply, as her hands travel down his body, unbuckling his belt.
They lie in her single bed; a bundle of sweaty, lifeless limbs. She's lying on top of him, her head on his chest – his heart beating slowly; his breathing deep – he's asleep. She's falling asleep too. And for the first time since that night, she doesn't feel guilt.
One day she'll tell him. About the swing; the flying; the sky beneath her feet. One day she'll tell him. About the bad times and the good ones. And he'll understand. He'll understand how her dad could smile and cry at the same time; how he could love her and yet scar her. He'll understand, and with him, so will she. She will tell him. Because with him, happy is no longer bittersweet.