She twists the platinum band around her finger absentmindedly. The gorgeous solitaire twinkles when the moon filters in through the ivory drapes, and she tries to remember just what it was about him that she couldn't seem to refuse.
It comes easy and in spades—everything about the relationship that's inherently wrong. But then again, she's not with him. Her thoughts aren't interrupted by the twinkle in his eye, or the onslaught of his lips against her neck.
The night he proposed, she'd made every effort to be present. They made love sweetly, but with deliberation. It was a beautiful juxtaposition, the way he drove into her with such passion, as she met each thrust of his hips with her own. She held his gaze as she came undone beneath him, and kissed him gently on the cheek as he found his release inside her. He slid the ring onto her finger, and she gathered the sheets around her body, draping her fingers across his cheeks, and kissing him.
When she thinks about it, she remembers the smell of his soap. She'd joined him in the shower earlier in the evening, before moving to the bedroom. Wet hair, damp skin against skin, and rumpled sheets. Cornflower blue, like his eyes in morning sun. Like the sheets she'd been between when she fell into bed with David mere hours ago. She can't choose between her career and the man she loves. Just thinking about it makes her sick to her stomach.
On the one hand, her job has been her livelihood. It's the only constant she's ever had, and she couldn't just walk away from that. But Elliot… Elliot was a game-changer. He was thoughtful, and passionate, and oh how he loved her. Their chemistry was off-the-charts, and he walked in step with her through life, completing all that she lacked. First as partners, then as lovers, and now…
She slides the ring off her finger, and places it on her nightstand. These decisions could wait. She couldn't very well make up her mind without properly assessing all the ramifications of what she'd done in a moment of utter panic. She's still sore from her tryst with David, and heady from the bottle of wine she'd opened in lieu of dinner. She needs to find a way to talk to him.
She can't seem to think straight—although that's hardly new. Perhaps it's just further manifestation of what's developed over the course of her career. When you're up against it, don't think; pull the trigger. She's become reactionary in all areas of her life. Elliot wanted a wife, not a career woman—especially not a career woman whose ambitions could have potentially life-threatening consequences. Olivia was never interested in a desk job. But she also never counted on falling in love. Elliot would never understand.
Reaching for the wire to plug her phone in, she fumbles with it for a moment or so. She finally succeeds, and celebrates her small victory with another swig of wine; this time straight from the bottle. May as well just lean into it. Her vision is blurry, and any semblance of clarity—if there was ever any—is completely gone.
She glances over at her nightstand, looking past the ring, and the empty glass, and her phone illuminates. Dammit.
He promised to call earlier in the day, but she was absolutely in no shape to talk to him now.
Bad timing. Bad fucking timing.
She grabs the phone and taps the "dismiss" the option, but to her surprise, the timer atop the screen begins to tick.
"Liv?"
Fuck. She knows better than to trust herself with a phone when she's been drinking. Especially tonight.
"Olivia?"
The voice on the other end of the receiver is faint, but she realizes it's too late to ignore his call. She hadn't planned on talking to him tonight. Or even tomorrow. There's too much to sort through, and she can't possibly begin to when he's in her peripheral.
She takes a breath, and puts the phone to her ear.
"Heyyyyyy!"
Her overcompensation is entirely too apparent in this moment.
"Have you been drinking?"
"Just a little," she makes a conscious effort to enunciate.
He sighs. "Well, it's broken."
"Ahh—huh?"
"My nose." He deadpans.
"Oh! Right."
"Liv, what's going on?"
"Nothing! I swear!" She lies.
For a detective, she's remarkably bad at it.. …Or maybe it's just because she's been drinking. Either way, Elliot isn't buying it.
"Olivia. What's wrong."
It isn't a question this time.
She sighs. "I slept with David."
He doesn't respond. She waits for what feels like an eternity before she speaks again.
"El?"
And the line goes dead.
