I was going to wait until after the next two episodes to post this...but popular demand and my own nagging brain wouldn't let me.
.Every time she saw a small, bright twinkle of light, she thought of the ring.
For the first day or so after 'it' happened, she didn't have time to think about what had happened. She had been so busy wrapping up the details and paperwork – she had gotten her desk clean the day before, and wasn't about to let anything even start to pile up – that she had left both incidents suspended. Both incidents… the first on the morning they'd started the case, and second on the evening they solved the case… both encounters haunted her. It seemed that every time she wasn't fully concentrating on something, any chance her mind had to wander, she re-lived those moments. And every time, she berated herself for not being fast enough.
That's what their whole relationship had been. Slow. She'd known some people who had met, dated, had sex, got married and had children in the same amount of time she'd known Woody. Jordan had always known she'd never be one of those people. She'd known it since she was a little girl that her mother's murder and her father's subsequent, though subtle, withdrawal would make it hard for her to trust anyone. And so she'd only gotten close enough where she could have comfortable camaraderie. If anyone tried to get closer, she'd push them back with the standard "I'm not ready for that level of intimacy" line. Her good friends – Lily, Bug, Nigel, Garret, a few others – had stayed at the friendship level, and had never tried to push her further. And she loved them for that.
Woody on the other hand… He'd been the only one who'd ever expressed interest in her as a woman, then – when she'd shot him down – settled into the friendship area. They'd never talked about it per se, but she got the impression that he'd always want to be her friend, regardless of if it ever went further. But they'd circled around each other for years, ever since she first met him and commented on that stupid, ugly tie. It was only after that night, the night he gave up, that she realized why.
She had never given him a definitive answer. She'd never made a decision.
For years, he had played the roles of friend and confidant and potential lover, but she'd never categorized him as any of those things. And it was, she knew now, because she was never quite sure how she felt about him. He wasn't really her type. She had always involved herself with tough, A-type personality men, usually ones who were her own age or older. And here was Woodrow Hoyt, a good-hearted, accommodating man, who, although only two years her junior, looked younger than his own age. He definitely wasn't her type. But every time she was around him, his good nature and understanding (even when he was mad!) had chipped away at her and she quickly realized how easily she could fall for him. And she really didn't want to. Men like that were the ones who took care of those they loved, but they were also the ones who demanded commitment and true partnership. It was much easier to get involved with the men who were more "my way or the highway." With men like that, it was easy to break up and separate when the going got tough.
But then, like the old saying, nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Something about that night, that case, Nigel's words, the recollection of how he had turned to her for comfort when he found out that his brother was pawn for the Albanian mob, had made her want to step up to the plate. Had made her want to jump out of the plane and hope to God that her parachute deployed.
But she had waited too long. She had inadvertently crushed the hopes of the most patient man she had ever known. That night, he had thrown her own words back at her. "We're better off as friends." She couldn't help but remember how many times she had said that to him. And then when she'd asked him if he really believed they'd really kill each other within a week of hooking up… She'd always remember the tone of his voice, his expression as he valiantly tried to convince both her and himself that he was fine… "No," he had said. "But if I keep telling myself that…"
She envied him sometimes… being able to show his emotions so easily. She knew he didn't like that part of himself, and that it made his job more difficult, but that simple trait had managed to endear him to her. She always knew what he was feeling, what he meant. There was no hiding, no deception, and no way to hurt her that way.
Too bad she was just realizing how rare that was. And too bad she never felt it anymore. In the nearly two months since the case with the pregnant nun, the number of times she'd seen him had plummeted. Sure, she still saw him in the field, as the precinct, in the morgue. But it was always business. He' still put his hand on the small of her back when escorting her into a room, or grasp her hand to pull her to safety, but it felt different. She wanted to say it felt colder, but something inside her always warmer when he was around. But the number of times they'd been in each other's presence had diminished, and – maybe it was psychosomatic – she'd found herself wearing long pants and long sleeved tops, even though the weather was getting warmer. There was no more hanging out in the morgue imaging the grandiose crimes that the boring evidence could point to. No more going out for chimichangas for lunch together. No more stealing his coffee in the morning. She missed it. She missed him. There had been a couple times she had actively looked for him. She'd stopped by his preferred coffee shop in the mornings, hoping to run into him; she'd stopped by his office after work a couple times, hoping to find him working hard on a case and getting upset with her 'interfering.' But he was always gone.
Now it almost felt like her life didn't fit anymore. It wasn't comfortable to wear. All she had wanted was a comfortable relationship, and she had found herself waiting for just the right fit. But it turned out that some things just needed a little stretching, just needed to be worn once or twice before they fit perfectly and forever. She knew that now, and it was a hard lesson.
One learned from a simple silver ring.
