Chapter 24
Arizona's POV
Title: Reese's Peanut Butter Cups
Pairing: Callie/Arizona
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own Grey's Anatomy and/or any of the characters in it. All rights belong to ABC, the producers of Grey's Anatomy and Shonda Rhimes. I do not own any rights to Reese's Peanut Butter Cups.
Made for entertainment purposes only.
A/N: This one has been a long wait, I'm very sorry. However, I've travelled over like 11 time zones in the last 2 weeks, so my head is incredible jet-lagged and today was the first day I felt lucid enough to write.
I just wanted to let you guys know, I am so, so thankful for all those amazing reviews and PMs you guys leave this story. I love it. Seriously.
I hope you all enjoy!
#
Unpacking. I do not like it.
I don't mind moving into a new place, pulling on the oldest, most worn-out pair of jeans I have and unloading labeled boxes of my stuff to decide which photo-frame goes where. In fact I even enjoy it, it's fresh and fun and crawling with fertile ground for creativity. But when it comes to unpacking overnight bags, or suitcases – I absolutely loathe it.
You zip open the thing and it's like mushed up Mac'n Cheese in there. Outfits which were once meticulously put together and dry-cleaned and ironed are now strewn around the bag in clammy, crinkly piles. I have to stick my hand into the abominable mess and fish out the little air-tight pouch meant for my hair products and body washes. Then comes the quest for my straightener, and then for the Ziploc bag of dirty underwear and so on and so forth. It's insane.
So I just mostly avoid it.
There is a special corner inside of my closet. It's dark and diabolical. It holds my luggage full of crumpled crap. I usually don't take it out or clean out the stuff until the next time I have to use that particular suitcase – which, if I manage my travel luggage perceptively – is no more than once in every 4-6 weeks. When the carrier is kicked in there and hidden behind drapes of clothes and shoes and the closet doors are shut firm and fast, it's almost impossible to tell what a frat girl I am at heart. It's quite a remarkable system.
But I messed up this time. I miscalculated.
Arms crossed against my chest, back ramrod straight and jaw clenched, I stare down at the contents of my closet. My eyes, icy and toxic, burn holes into the row of clothes rolling off the hangers with authority and coercion like only the daughter of a Navy Officer could ever muster.
I had a full roster of surgeries and a fresh batch of residents to coach within the last two weeks. Schedules in the medical profession, especially in one as rigorous as surgery, are usually jam-packed as soon as the holidays end. So, adding to my doctoral duties, the annual round of drug reps was on in full force. Juggling all of that coupled with my flitting personal life A.K.A the 'non-date-date' with Callie, my weekly work-mail check completely slipped my mind. As a result, I got the notification for the Pediatric Neurology Conference at Mt. Sinai on the morning of the actual event. At that point, I wouldn't have been able to skip out on the conference even if I wanted to since I was the only one representing SGMW. Also, the Peds. Department is always in need of a grant and I just so happen to be a master donor poacher. An MDP if you will.
The Seminar was for two days, and generally the ones that last longer than a night involve elaborate dinners, batting of the eyelashes and an unbelievable amount of rustling potential grant donors. So, only taking a couple of blazers and formal skirts along wouldn't have been enough.
Unfortunately, this thought struck me a little too late and in a mad packing frenzy, I tossed in the first fancy looking dress that came into sight. A problematic ticket booking and some intense delegation later, I finally landed in New York. I rushed into the airport bathroom stall, changed as fast as I could and took a cab directly to the hospital from there.
It wasn't until later that night, as I drudged around the city looking for any hotel vacancy I could find that I realized what my mistake was. As I was laying out my clothes for the assembly and then for Dinner á la Grant Poach at a restaurant called 'Masa' for the following day – my heart stopped. I seriously think I had a small stroke. The fancy dress I had shoved in between the tampons and the kitten-heels was not the 'sensual yet professional' Cowl necked one-piece I was planning to wear. This one left a little lesser to the imagination. It hit the sensual mark though, yup, definitely. Professional? Not so much.
I had to rush out at 11 PM and find clothing at least remotely appropriate for the banquet. Thankfully, if such a situation were to ever arise, New York City is the place you want to be in. I found a beautiful teal cocktail dress which hugged and dipped and stitched along just the right places. Did it cost me a small fortune? Sure. But was it worth the 4 funding proposals I secured at Masa? Abso-flippin-lutely.
Anyway, the point is – here I am – shooting tiny fireballs at my closet, the fateful container of this suitcase I have diligently avoided ever since I got back from New York. It's been seventy-two hours and the bag isn't due to be emptied for at the very least another 25 days.
But my schedule is all thrown off now.
Even though I had an exceptionally long day making up for the postponed surgeries from the past week, it was all worth it - because I have the next two days off. And I don't mean off like the faux-off the hospital administration always offers where you 'technically' have the whole day to yourself so long as you finish up your paperwork, sign off on all the procedures, meet your consultation quota, your M&M conferences, and are present to make all definitive, life-altering decisions for the residents. Because as an Attending, as the HOD, we have plenty of those faux-offs. This weekend though, this weekend is rare. It's singular. It's the honest politician of surgical holidays. I have absolutely nothing - nil – doctoral responsibilities this weekend. No admin work, no pages, no crying mothers, no salespeople and no cafeteria food. Don't get me wrong, surgery is my blood, but even cheesecake gets tedious when you eat too much. I was planning to exploit this unusual weekend to its absolute optimum potential - just me, bubble baths, shopping and a lot of sleep.
So naturally, all my preceding evening had entailed of was a long jog, a hot shower, takeout and a late night I love Lucy marathon on TV. Just the thought of it makes me melt.
But then Callie calls.
Just when I've taught myself to not have an internal freak-out every time I remember I haven't gotten so much as a message since our dinner about 13 days ago, Callie calls. Not that I'm counting or anything. I mean, I haven't called either. We've both been incredibly busy. We had planned to have coffee last Wednesday, but an unexpected complication came up and she had to run into surgery. And I get it, she's going through a divorce, she has to deal with her family, her daughter, a new job, I can't begin to imagine how difficult it is to manage all that. The day she was free for lunch was when I had to leave for Mt. Sinai. So we texted a bit but it hasn't gotten farther than that. A part of me wishes I had never had that bout of maturity and told her we needed to take it slow. A part of me wants to slowly bang my head against the wall and kill myself for not hauling her sexy ass up the stairs and having my way with her when I had the chance. But I tamp that part down.
However, Callie calls and that part comes storming up from inside me again. She sounded happy, tired but really happy. And I sat on the edge of my couch trying to bring myself back down to Earth for a good 7 minutes after she hung up. She told me that her divorce was finalized today. If that wasn't good enough news, she asked me, in a tone laced with – dare I say, suggestiveness – if I could come over to her place for a 'home-cooked' dinner tomorrow night. Tomorrow is good. I have the whole weekend off, so tomorrow is good for me barring a couple of errands to run, mostly involving groceries and a pedicure. There wouldn't be any surgeries or conferences or meetings or elusive trips to New York interrupting us tomorrow. In fact, tomorrow would be perfect. I said yes.
Now I'm wondering why that eagerness and certainty has dwindled into something… bitter… on the skin of my tongue.
"Jesus Robbins. How long is this going to take? I thought you were a lesbian…"
The bored voice snaps me out of my reverie. I roll my eyes at the exasperating man behind me.
"What is that supposed to mean Mark?" I'm about to turn back to the closet, when I halt and narrow my eyes at his relaxed figure making itself at home on my sheets, "And I don't recall letting you lie in my bed"
He pretends to adjust his legs, but just props himself up and rests against the pillows, crossing his ankles at the foot of the bed.
"Is that how you speak to people who dropped everything they were doing so they could come help you play Barbie for your date?"
He tosses a shimmery red blouse in my direction and I have to physically restrain myself from hurling the thing back in his face.
I'm about to mention how he is too pathetic to have exciting Friday nights anymore since he's been obsessing over Lexie Grey, but one glance at the heap of skirts and dresses and sparkly tops Mark has rejected and haphazardly thrown around my bedroom shuts me up. I have to look hot tomorrow. Like seriously, legitimately, insanely hot. And like it not, I need him for that. Not to mention Teddy is in surgery and won't be available for dress-up until at least tomorrow morning.
"How's this?" I step out of the bathroom, changing for the umpteenth time.
Mark balances on the back of his forearms as he raises his torso to look at me.
Practiced green eyes zone in on my figure. It doesn't even bother me this time when they hover over my chest longer than necessary since we've been at this for the past hour now.
An eyebrow slides up his forehead, making him look almost like a precocious little boy.
"Hot. But trying too hard"
"Wh –" I pace to the mirror in shock, scrutinizing the flowy material, "What! How is this trying too hard?"
"Too much boobage. You're tryin' too hard. Maybe save it for the 4th –ish date?" he states pragmatically, almost like a guru and lays back down, interlocking his fingers and placing them on his stomach.
"But I've worn this on plenty of dates. It's always a hit!" I protest, trying to adjust the straps so the sequined border covers my cleavage line.
"There's a reason nobody ever called you a Nun Arizona" he scoffs in a monotone, staring off into the depths of my ceiling.
My vision flashes to his reflection in the mirror and I brush off the comment as artfully as I can. He looks like he's in a burlesque show, buried in the depths of linen and surrounded with piles of flamboyant, flashy fabric. The only things missing are his leopard print corset and a feathered tail.
"Well – what about the green dress? The one with the belt?" I ask tentatively, sucking my stomach in and examining my profile in the mirror.
I hear him rustle behind me. He twists around rummaging through layers of drapery to pull out a mint green chiffon frock.
"This thing?" he holds it up like it's some hideously mangled injury.
"Yes Mark –" I set my jaw, snapping back to his form in the reflection, "Why? What's the matter with it?"
"It looks like – like one of those, you know? Those things people crochet on their pillows and th–"his thumb rubs against a well-groomed beard in legitimate thought, "- what is it called? My mom used to put it under the china when guests came over – damn, what is it?"
A childlike expression pivots to look at me in hopes that I can solve his dilemma.
I don't bother turning around but I can see him clearly in the vanity. Measuredly, the tip of my tongue runs over the inside of my lips, slow and deliberate as irritation creeps down my spine.
"A doily?" I snarl.
"That's it!" he points to me with a wide obnoxious beam splattered over his mouth, "You got it! It looks like a doily!"
Blunt nails press into the soft of my palms and I feel a pinch behind my eyes, "You know you're welcome to leave, right Mark?" I growl in a stunningly shaky voice, eyeing his image like a virus.
The grin on his face sobers only marginally as he tosses the 'doily' aside, focusing on me.
"I thought we were havin' fun" he objects obliviously, a faint crease forming between his eyes.
That's it.
"Fun!?" I whirl around on my heel, closing in on him in three large strides so rapidly he recoils, "Dammit Mark – I need you to take this seriously! You're welcome to go home if you don't want to help, but please don't sit here and waste my time being a jackass about this" I holler, unsubstantiated emotion swelling in my throat.
A salt and pepper head of hair rises up slowly from between a cloud of white down pillows, the slits of his eyes turned inward in pure bemusement. Pinpoint pupils rake over the length of my body twice before he replies.
"You really need to get laid" he states simply, scratchy voice so serious that for a moment I wonder if he's right.
I open my mouth to spit back at him but decide to keep it shut. Instead, I twist around dramatically and make my exit walking slowly into the bathroom and slamming the door shut behind me.
I know what I have to do. I know I have the perfect dress and it's in that goddamned suitcase.
I claw my fingers through a head of limp, tangled hair. I really need to condition more.
God. I just wanted to have a peaceful, relaxing evening. My eyes droop shut as I sit down on the toilet lid. I feel a bite, a small nip like an ant sting on the side of my neck. Claustrophobic. That's how I feel.
Date excitement is not supposed to be like this.
Quickly, I tuck the unsettling thought in a wooden box, lock it and toss the key away somewhere in the ocean of my mind.
In one quick motion, I push up off the toilet and stand to my feet, shaking out of my weird funk. I pull the blouse up from over my head, muttering a few expletives when strands of my hair get caught in the zipper.
"How about this?" I hear Mark's voice like it's far away from the other side of the door "I'll order something to eat. How does that Thai place on Millbrook sound?"
I swallow loudly, blowing out a warm stream of air to cool my fraying nerves.
"That sounds like the best thing you've said all night!" I answer back after a few moments of silence.
Taking a long breath in, I attempt to fight off the skin tight jeans I have on. One leg rips off and I hip-check the sink twice before the other one is even half way down my thigh.
"Don't' worry, I'll find something low sodium so you're not bloated on your big date…" I hear him announce as his footsteps fade out the bedroom.
Despite the instantaneous cringe across my face, I can't suppress the tug of a smile.
Somehow, Teddy wouldn't have gotten that. She would have given me a feminist speech about how it's demeaning when women wear Spanx or go on juice diets before their dates, and while I know she would have been right – a part of me recognizes Mark is what I need right now. He is rude, and nosey, and a bit of a manwhore, but I've come to realize he is a reliable friend. I don't feel pressured around him. He is just that kind of a person.
With that, I decide to try and be nicer. This cranky, short-tempered person is not who I am, it is not who I was raised as, and nothing – not even baseless frustration with a woman – should change that.
Pulling on yoga pants and a fleece sweatshirt, I walk out into the bedroom. I almost do a double take when I take in the sight before me. It looks like the 5th Avenue Saks blew up and exploded all over my floor. It's a massacre.
Cleaning that is going to be a bitch.
With that thought and an exhausted sigh, I snap the hair tie off my wrist and pull my hair up into a messy bun. I round the bed trudging over to the other side.
The front door of my apartment clicks open and I instinctively turn to look out my bedroom.
"Hey Arizona!" I hear Mark call my name and the way his voice carries and hollows out tells me he's standing in the threshold of my door.
"What is it?" I ask, pushing the scatters of my wardrobe off the bed in two strident moves. I fling a couple of scarves and dress pants off the floor and look under the bed. Scrabbling a pair of pantyhose out of the way, my eyes catch the rectangular cordless lying beneath the bed.
How the hell did that even get under there.
With an irritated huff, I slide up into the small space between the mattress and the floor, stretching my arm out to grab the phone.
"I'm going over to Ho Ho's Village, kay'? They aren't delivering tonight cause' of the weather. I'll be 15 minutes tops!"
I scuttle out from under my bed, phone in hand. Sitting up to my height, I instinctively peek out the window. It isn't snowing but the branches are frozen into sharp sticks of ice. Not one leaf rustles. I've lived in Seattle long enough to be able to tell what this weather means. It's the quiet before the unquiet.
"You sure you wanna' go out there?" I call out, looking toward the bedroom door left ajar, "I have some leftover pasta in the fridge!"
"Nah, I'll be fine!" with that I hear the door thud shut and heavy footsteps trek down the corridor.
I stand up to my feet, feeling the soreness of a long day make its way through my quadriceps. Stretching out my back, I throw a cursory glance to the clock hanging next to the window. Expelling any additional thought, I feel the soft of the pillow behind my knees and slink down on the bed.
I blow a solid, preparatory huff of air out through my mouth and cradle the phone with both my hands. My thumbs punch in the numbers proficiently, only once hovering between the 9 and the 7.
The receiver is hard against the cartilage of my ear and for a moment I ponder hanging up. It rings and I rub my palm down my leg to wipe away the nervous moisture.
I don't even realize I'm drumming my foot until my vision sneaks up to the wall clock and I hear the sound of my foot going quicker against the wooden floor than the small hand of the clock.
Six rings later I'm ready to hang up, but then I hear a click and my heart drops into my stomach.
"Hello?"
"Hello. Callie?" I rasp out. Wondering why I sounded so ominous, I clear my throat.
"Arizona…" I practically hear the smile spread through her words and I feel my fingers curl themselves into a sweaty fist, "What's up?"
"I – "fixing my pupils on the beige plaster of my bathroom door, I push on, " – what are you doing?"
Callie doesn't answer right away and I can tell she's distracted. There is a rainy sizzle in the background and I hear her click her tongue, like in annoyance.
"Everything ok?" I ask.
"What? Oh yeah, sorry – I was –" she chuckles and I practically hear her move around, "- I was just making some stir-fry. Julian's here and –"
I can't even help myself this time.
"Your husband's there?" And I swear I didn't mean for my chest to burn or for my voice to sound so accusatory, something is just majorly up with my mood today.
"Ah –" she starts to say something, but then stops, "Hold on"
I close my eyes and I hear her walk away from the sundry sounds behind her.
"I'm sorry Callie…" I exhale, "I – I'm sorry, it's none of my business"
"It is. It is your business now –" Callie's voice is empathetic and soft against my ear and my cheek presses into the receiver, "- he's here to pick Allegra up. He has her tomorrow night so…" and she slips into that indicative tone again, the one that makes me perk up, "… so we can be alone. For our dinner. Tomorrow"
She ends her sentence in an assertive, purposeful way and just like that I remember why I'd called in the first place.
The back of my jaw hurts from the sudden pressure of my teeth gritting against each other, my blush dissolving away.
"About that –" and I sound firm now, consumed with an emulsion of misery and pride.
There is a beat of silence and all I hear is faint babble at her end. Probably her daughter.
"What?" she asks, the amorous tinge from before wiped out completely.
"I don't think I'll be able to make it. Tomorrow" the emotionlessness in my voice frightens me.
"Why not?" the question is immediate.
I swallow, taking another breath in.
"Be – because something has come up. And – and I have to go there"
"Oh yeah?" and I wince because I know she knows I'm lying.
"Yeah" I breathe out.
"What is it?"
Fuck.
"A – um – this surgery that – that I have. That I did not have, but do, do have now"
FUCK.
"Oh. So um – you can't come a little later?"
I'm starting to say yes but instead, "Nope. It's long. A – a small bowel resection on a Crohn's patient"
"Oh"
I hear the confidence drain out of her voice and I am positive I'm going to throw up.
There is silence again and it's stubborn now.
"Um – can you give me a minute? Arizona?"
"Sure"
Callie puts me on hold.
I thrust myself back into the air and fall flat into the bed. I cover my face in humiliation with my free hand and suppress the despicable moan threatening to come out of my throat.
"You still here?" I hear from the other end and reflexively shoot up in response.
"Yeah!"
"I – I can't talk for long now, Allegra's throwing a tantrum for dinner –" she chuckles tiredly and I wish I could undo the last 5 minutes in a paroxysm of remorse for this whole charade.
"But – um – how's the day after that? Sunday evening. 7:30?"
I feel like I'm hopping, violently, playing double-dutch. My mind springs from one side to the other trying to not hit the rope and trip and fall. On the one side I want to rewind, to take it all back and the other one is where I quietly accept her offer, feign confidence and build emotional security.
"Arizona? I – please be able to make it –" her voice is small, and my mouth goes dry.
"Yeah – yeah. I can make it, definitely"
Just like that, I pick a side.
"You're sure?"
My eyelids fall shut, like regretful heavy drapes on a stage.
"A hundred percent –" I say softly.
"Good" she says finally, louder now.
"I'll see you then" even though she can't see me, I stretch my mouth into a smile until my cheeks hurt. The smile turns into a grimace and we wish each other goodnight before I hang up.
I toss the phone behind me and let out a slow breath. I open my eyes and look around my bedroom.
Then I'm ashamed for how I feel. It's a cool stream of glassy water, smooth and hesitant at first and then a torrent. Rush and ripples of cold blue liquid - control. Happiness. The roaring flames of guilt get smothered and smushed by this feeling.
Bending down on my knees, I crawl into the small space and push aside the coats hanging above me. With a strong grip on the handle, I tow the godforsaken suitcase out into the light of day. Or more aptly, into the light of Pottery Barn.
Tumbling back on my butt, I scowl at the ugly brown cabin bag. Damn. Once I go near the thing I have to unpack the entire suitcase, it's just wrong otherwise.
#
Very few times have I seen Mark Sloan speechless, but if he ever was, I think this is what it would look like – Thin lips parted, eyes dumbed down and sandy eyebrows raised high.
After my mini-outburst, I managed to finally unpack the suitcase, take my annoyance out on a very patient Plastic Surgeon and scarf down the best damn preparation of Water Spinach if there ever was one. The food was marvelous and it definitely went far to calm me down. Now it's time. Its judgment day and I'm trying on the dress I accidentally stuffed into, and then retrieved prematurely out of that bag. So, as I model before Mark, three inches higher in heels and the satin frock I chose, I suspect he's speechless.
"Yup" hands on his hips and sharp features frozen like clay, he makes his final judgment, "Jackpot"
I can't help the smile; it's like a reflex "Really?" my voice is strained but chirpy, and I feel like I may tear up with bliss.
He pretends to be disinterested but I can tell he shares in my triumph too, "Sure" he replies offhandedly, throwing a purposeful glance out into the living room.
My teeth sink into my bottom lip and slow and soft this exhilaration slithers through my veins and I feel like I'm in one of those old musicals. The thought of Callie's reaction when she sees me all dressed up fills my head. I look down at myself and feel an inundation of ecstasy course through my chest.
"YES!" I laugh suddenly, "I KNEW THIS ONE WOULD BE IT!" I shriek, my earlier irritation disappearing into thin air, I hop up and do a fist-pump.
"Damn –"Mark's voice is gruff, and the way he looks at me both, drags me back into reality, and unsettles me at the same time.
"W-What?" I breathe out self-consciously, trying to gather myself.
Mark crosses his arms across his front and I wait for an answer, my heart still beating wild in victory.
"You really like her. Torres." he says it with wonder, like it's just sinking in.
I think for the first time in my whole life, I look at him. Like really look him in the eye, and we aren't just fooling around anymore. It's like a tremor, something inside of me pulses, and I'm rendered incapable of making an answer up. I try but I can't even dance around the topic.
In that moment, standing face to face with Mark Sloan, it strikes me - nobody has asked me how I feel. How Callie makes me feel.
I have to answer.
Teddy has told me what to do and what not to do and my mom doesn't even really know what's going on. I swallow, and it's surprisingly difficult to find my voice. Tim. I would have Skyped him about Callie the moment I met her. And he would have known just what to say. I almost laugh because the mind works in such twisted ways – no he wouldn't have – he would have asked me what she looked like and wished me luck but I don't think he would have known what to say beyond that. Still, I think that much would have been enough for me.
I blink, willing away the fluttering memories. I have to get this right. I take in a cool sip of air and let myself succumb to his words.
The exhilaration from before gives way to relief and builds into this smooth, swirling sensation in the pit of my belly.
It feels so good to talk about her.
My eyes fall to the floor and my hands press down on the waist of the dress, smoothening out imaginary wrinkles. The feel of the patterned silk lace tickles my palms.
I look back up to the waiting man.
"I love her" I croak out, startling myself at how the words sound. That is not what I meant to say. Not to Mark.
A red flush drizzles my face in embarrassment and I rapidly build up a shield for the holler of a laugh about to burst out of his mouth. I steel myself for the joke or the wisecrack but nothing happens. The room is as quiet as before.
"I love Lexie too" he says, almost a whisper. A half smile graces his sculpted mouth and then it's gone.
A quiet wave of remorse skims over me for all the times I made fun of him for chasing Lexie Grey around like a schoolboy. I can't imagine how I'd feel if someone did that to me about Callie, especially when I didn't know if she even returned those feelings. I shift my weight on my feet, trying to think of something to say to cut through the awkwardness.
"It feels good, right? To be in love. I haven't really had that before so I don't have… anything to compare it with" he adds as an afterthought, "But she makes me want to be different. She makes me want to change all the bad things in me so I'm nothin' but good. I think that's love"
Mark says it is so forthrightly, like it's a fact, it makes him look like the most honorable man in that moment.
I'm so taken aback I want to say something in return but no words come out.
I wonder if Lexie will ever know how he talks about her. I hope she does. It would be incredible, to have someone talk about you like that.
And there it is – the small shard of noxiousness that has been stabbing me from the inside. My tongue feels sticky suddenly and I have to physically grab that blade of insecurity assaulting me and hide it away within the folds of my organs.
I nod in agreement, allowing myself a small smile, "It does. It feels really good"
"And scary" I offer, shrugging my shoulders.
"Right?" he exhales, grinning ear to ear and grabbing his keys, "Anyways I should get going, early morning tomorrow"
He turns around and he's almost out the door when I step forward, "Hey Mark –" I call out behind him and he looks back to me, "- if um – if you wanna' ever – ever talk about Lexie or anything…" I chew on the corner of my lip, eyes pleading for him to read my mind so I don't have to finish the clichéd sentence.
"What?" he asks.
I have to control a huff of annoyance in order to not ruin the emotion, "You can talk to me –" I enunciate, grinning wider to hide the overtness of my reply, "What else would I possibly mean Mark?"
He smirks and just like that he's back to being the old Sloan; I see the switch right before my eyes. What do the residents call him? Yeah, McSteamy. Sauntering through my living room he reaches the door. I'm about to walk back into my bedroom when, "I knew that. I just wanted to hear you say it –" he chortles, the leer wider now, his white teeth morphing into a perfect rectangle.
"Got it. Very funny Mark" I deadpan, stepping out of my heels and balancing clumsily on the ground.
"But thanks for the offer Robbins, it's kinda' weird talking about it with Derek –" he sobers up a little, "- and Addison's in L.A. most of the time these days. So I guess you're the next best thing"
I barely glance up to him, wincing from the pinch of my yet to be broken in heels, "Honored"
Tall and pompous, his gait never falters as he walks to the door and grabs the handle, "By the way –" he clears his throat, "Torres would be blind to not be all over you in that dress – your tits look unbelievable"
#
Sunday 7:26 P.M.
A castle.
That's what Callie's house looks like. I thought I was imagining it wrong from the last – very inebriated – time that I came here to drop her off. But I wasn't.
It looks like a fucking castle.
First of all, and I can't say this enough – It. Is. In the middle of frickin' nowhere.
It's 45 minutes south of Medina and then another half hour through Downtown Seattle, it feels like you're traveling through different time zones finally landing in the 1830's somewhere. So, as I get out of my Tardis A.K.A Prius and lay my eyes on the profligate edifice sprawling over miles of land, I have to work harder to grip on to the gift bag in my hand. If I wasn't slightly uncomfortable driving around the exclusive zip code already, I definitely am after taking a look at the mansion Callie lives in.
It's not so much about the exclusivity, or even the hint of pretentiousness, of the 3 acre estate as it is about how I cannot for the life of me imagine Callie living here. I can't imagine her interested in things like how many rows of rose bushes to plant or where the seasonal orchid should go. I don't see her walking over the teak garden bridge or picking out fabric swatches for the furniture under the gazebo.
I see her laughing with rainbow sprinkles on her nose and eating Chinese food on a deserted bus-stop. I see her radiant in blue scrubs as she drills into bone and is just… Calliope.
Of course, she's a designer girl and it's no secret she comes from a wealthy background, but even so – it feels like I'm entering into a formidable, unfamiliar world. Into Callie's world.
I look at my wrist. 7:28.
The sky is already showing colors of nighttime. Ripples of oranges and blues soar against each other and amalgam into a dull gold. Golden and glittery and navy blue in some spots, that's what the sky looks like. I look up into it, into light-years of atmosphere. The nippy breeze leaves my skin numb as I stare above, cumulous globes of cloud replace each other in a rapid current and the winter trees rustle in response. The world rotates around me. Time has slowed down.
The wind is colder than I first thought and it threads through my hair and strokes the tips of my ears like frozen fingers.
I'm so nervous my stomach is in knots.
"Hey Kate Winslet!"
I hear her voice from far away and a slow smile spreads over my mouth. I turn around to look at her. Far away, about 100 feet from me, I see her silhouette. It's a cutout, carefully cropped along the arches of her figure as she stands in the threshold of her front door. I can't see her face against the yellow light from her house but her hair flutters a little.
I already know she looks beautiful. Breathtaking. And like that, the huge house and the detached garage and the miles of forest around me feel warm and soft. It feels like Callie.
"Get your butt in here before you catch a cold!"
Her voice interrupts my thoughts and she steps forward onto her porch, the twinkly lights reflecting off the edges of her nose and brow. She waves at me with a huge grin on her face and I bite into the crook of my lip.
Gripping onto the lapel of my coat, I start moving toward the house. The entrance is gated with a leafy arch and a rock saying 'Brady 517'. The pathway I walk down is long; it's curvy and lined with stocky Juniper trees on either side, there is silver frost on the ends of the leaves. As the gravel crunches under my heels, the hooked lanterns light my way. As I get closer I see the scattered snow from this week heaped into wheelbarrows along the corners of the garden.
There are still vibrant flowers and specialty leaves gathered in manicured bunches and I briefly wonder how they survive this temperature.
The air smells like ice and salt and sweet agave syrup. It's the perfect scent to lead up to Callie Torres.
I pull my coat tighter against my chest, my legs are freezing by the time I reach the bottom of the steps.
Callie is smiling looking at me and I wouldn't be able to recall one thing about how I made my way through the patio and onto the porch if you held me at gunpoint. Callie is smiling. And she is all I see.
White globe lights line the porch roof, the string thrown haphazardly around the wooden pillars. Callie's fingers are curled around one of those pillars, thumb fiddling with a vine running down the wood and her other hand on her waist.
As I get closer I see the shape of her toned calves and realize she's wearing a skirt. But not one of those secretary pencil skirts she wears to work but a freer one. Its pleated and up to her knees, flowy and patterned. A V-necked blouse is tucked into the high-waist, making the curve of her hips more prominent than usual. She stands there, ankles crossed and hair loose and shoulders wide. At work, Callie is the 'elusive' yet 'sexy' Dr. Torres. Don't get me wrong, she is sexy right now too but in a much more homely way. Like she doesn't have anything to prove. Somehow, it makes her even more beautiful. For the first time ever, Callie looks like she is in her arena, other than the O.R. of course.
"Hi…" I exhale, making my way up the last step.
"Hey!" she squeals, stepping forward and closing the distance between us.
"Hey…" I breathe through a smile, and my eyes close when she wraps her arms around me. She smells like olives and her usual perfume and I can tell she's been cooking. I hug her closer.
"You look beautiful" I say, looking at her face for the first time. Her hands are still on my biceps.
Her tongue runs over her lips and I see her eyes flick to mine.
"You look…" her thumb grazes my cheek, "… stunning"
My heart leaps at the heat of her touch and my gaze falls to her mouth too. It's plump and lighter than usual, a dull red.
Before I can say anything, she bends forward presses her mouth into mine. I melt a little and lean into her, my fingers splaying over her shoulders. My heart quickens.
She steps back in what feels like a few seconds. Her eyes are dark, darker than usual and she runs her tongue over her mouth again.
"S – so you found the place alright?" Callie swallows awkwardly, stepping back and tucking a lock of hair behind her ear.
"Yeah!" I clear my throat, glancing around the porch, "I – my GPS – and I'm sure your gazebo is on Google Earth" I chuckle.
Callie rolls her eyes and snatches the bag from my hand, "You got me a gift?" she smirks.
"Hmm…" I hum, following her on the other side of the porch.
"How polite of you" she sneers playfully, sneaking a look at me before going back to the bag.
I see she's about to look into the brown gift-bag but then she decides otherwise, folding the top closed and turning around to face me. Her eyes are wide and her cheeks are burnished with strokes of red.
"Well?" I ask, "What are you waiting for?"
If I thought it wasn't possible, her eyes get even wider, and she has that look that kids do when they've broken something.
"Um... Arizona…" her fingers are netted together, my wine bottles pressed into her stomach.
"What? You're scaring me…" I offer a broken smile.
"Well – I – remember how we were supposed to do this yesterday?" her mouth is twisted in trepidation and she is definitely guilty.
Fuck. What now.
"Yeah…?" I offer cautiously.
"Well so – so I had to reschedule and then I, I told Sylvie to take a day off –" she shrugs animatedly, her hands moving around as she begins her rant, "- and she was obviously ecstatic since she was getting the weekend off since she has to travel back and forth between Julian and I – um by the way – Sylvie's our m – our housekeeper –"
"Callie –" I slip my hands into her's, squeezing her fingers, "Calm down… just tell me" I say softly, nervous and tickled with her rambling at the same time.
"Mommy! "
I hear the high-pitched, familiar voice and I drop the Callie's hands in cold fear. I whirl around to the fast approaching footsteps.
"Mom…" Allegra runs out the front-door.
I open my mouth and close it again. Rapidly, I recover and squat down to her height.
"Hey Allegra!" I shriek, "This is a surprise!"
"Um…" the little girl just stands there, she looks so different from the last time I saw her it almost startles me, "Yeah…"
"How are you?" I ask, trying not to take her surly frown personally.
Round, hazel pupils switch between Callie and I and two small arms fold against her chest.
"I'm hungry"
"Oh –" I turn to look back at Callie but little feet patter back into the house and she's gone.
I push up off the wooden porch and turn back to Callie, zoning in on her with a raised eyebrow.
"Uh – sorry…" she exhales, running a hand through her hair, "… she's been like that, since Julian moved out. And – well he was supposed to take her the whole weekend but a last minute conference came up and –" she chuckles tiredly, gesturing to the house, "- and Mommy the easiest target to take her frustration out on right now" she bites down on her lip, "This is the hardest on her, y' know?"
For a moment, I think I might throw up. I made Callie reschedule for my stupid, petty ego and she actually has legitimate problems to deal with.
"I –" Callie holds her hands up in surrender, the bag hooked around her wrist, "- I - I understand completely if you're pissed off, I – I just really wanted to see you too and it'd been so long and now I feel terrible about it. I'm sorry…" she trails off, her eyes shining with water.
"I like kids…" I offer, my voice surprisingly hoarse, "– and I like you"
Just like that, the tension strapping her features subsides and I feel a little better.
"Y – You're being a good mom. You've got nothing to be sorry about" I step forward, pecking her lips again.
Callie doesn't say anything. But she offers this smile that could like up Seattle and everything is ok again.
"Dinner?" she smiles, looking to the house.
"I'd be honored" I smirk, wrapping my arm around her waist and strolling into the mansion.
When I reach the foyer and Callie asks for my coat, realization dawns on me - Fuck. This dress is not PG-13.
#
A/N: Let me know what you guys thought. I am very excited for their dinner, a lot of progression into their relationship.
What do you guys think will happen?
