Chapter Seventeen: Definition

Alex

I've lost track of how long we've been sitting here. We've watched the sun begin to set, watching the black rise over the river to the east. I know it's after five, and we should be getting to the restaurant before they get crowded. I can feel your eyes watching me in the growing darkness.

"We should go back to the car, Swagat is going to get busy quickly."

Your eyes don't leave my face as you respond, "Let's just catch a cab. We can get them to take us to the restaurant, then back to the car."

I nod, knowing you're still watching. "Can we talk more at dinner?"

I can feel you tensing next to me. Why do you always think the discussion is over just because we've both run out of things to say? Just because we run out of words doesn't mean it's resolved anything. I turn to look at you, meeting your eyes a second before you cast them down again. You nod reluctantly and I lean to kiss you, wanting you to know I'm not angry anymore. It doesn't mean I don't want to finish this, but I'm not angry. Well… not very.

I watch you in the growing shadows, your hand stuck out for a cab, and I can't help a small smile, watching the way your posture takes on that determined pose, that cop with an attitude. You are so strong, so sure of yourself. But when it comes to us you seem so small, so unsure. What is that?

We're still quiet in the cab. Why do I feel like you think it's my turn to talk? I'm not the one with the problem here. You pay the driver and take my hand as we walk into the restaurant, requesting a table in the back room, still mostly empty. We order too much food, as always, and as the waitress brings our kima nan you play with the bread, not meeting my eyes.

"Liv."

You stare at the plate in front of you.

"Olivia, talk to me."

You take a negligible bite of the lamb bread, still not meeting my eyes. What the hell is this?

"Olivia, I swear to god. I can give this ring back you know."

That does it. Your head flies up, your eyes wide with fear. It was a low blow, but I don't know how else to break whatever spell you've been under since the river.

"Lexi, no. Just… I'm just trying to find the right words."

"How about we fuck the right words and you just talk to me." I lower my voice at the word fuck, my proper breeding demanding discretion despite the empty room. "I don't care if it's not what I want to hear ok? Just talk to me."

You haven't looked away yet. That's good. We're interrupted by the appearance of our actual dinner, but I have a feeling we're going to be taking it all home with us. I watch your eyes go dark, feel myself falling into your gaze. You take a deep breath.

"All of my life I was defined by my mother's problems. I was the daughter of the drunk. And then… for awhile, I was the drunk. Then I came to the academy and I worked my ass off to be a cop. And for awhile I was the rookie. And then finally I was a detective and I got defined by my work, by what I did well, instead of by some label.

"I've always been gay, but it never defined me. But this… now…"

Olivia

I hate that look in your eyes. I don't understand why this is so important to you. Why do you suddenly want me to ascribe to some label? You've never pushed me like this before, not about this.

"All of my life I was defined by my mother's problems. I was the daughter of the drunk. And then… for a while, I was the drunk. Then I went to the academy and I worked my ass off to be a cop. And for a while I was the rookie. And then finally I was a detective and I got defined by my work, by what I did well, instead of by some label.

"I've always been gay, but it never defined me. But this… now…"

"What Olivia? This, now, what?"

I don't want to tell you this, don't want to ruin this visit, this harmony with my fears. I promised you I'd never lie, and if I tell you this… now.

You reach across the table with your hand, stretching, reaching for me. I don't reach back to hold your hand with mine. Why is this so hard? Why do we have to do this? We'd be fine if I didn't have to tell you this.

"When we get married, I can't deny it anymore. Everyone will know. Because I'll be married to you. I'll just… be gay. We'll be gay."

Oh god you're crying.

Why are you crying?

Don't cry.

"Lexi…" I glance around the restaurant, relieved that we're still relatively secluded. Our waitress begins to come over and I shake my head to discourage her.

"Lexi look, it's not you… this isn't about you."

"Yes it is Olivia." Your voice is full of venom, not just hurt… you're angry too.

"No it's not. It doesn't mean I don't want to marry you. It doesn't change the way I feel about you. I love you. I love being with you. And I know that that makes me gay. I knew I was gay a long time ago. I just… I'm not ready to --"

"To what Olivia? To have people look at you and think something that's already true? You're not gay because other people say that you are. You're gay because you love me, because I love you. How can you not see that it's not about other people? This is about us! It's always about us."

I can tell you're trying to control yourself. I hate to think what you'd be saying if we were home, away from the world. You wipe angrily at angrier tears, blushing at our public fight, our public display. I want so much to move, to go to your side of the table, to take the hand you've jerked back from beside my plate.

"Lexi…"

Your head whips up, and I flinch at the ice in your eyes. You turn and catch the eye of our waitress. I stay silent, feeling chastised as you decline boxes for our food, asking instead for the check, paying with a slash of your signature on the credit slip, and then charging away from the table, away from me-- heading outside to catch a cab back to the car. As we wait for the appearance of one of the yellows that hit this part of town during rush hour, I try again at the curb.

"Alex, please… talk to me."

Alex

"Alex, please… talk to me."

I can't help the sarcasm that drips from my lips as I laugh, usually the 'talk to me' vibe is my line. "Talk about what Olivia? About us? About me, about you? About this marriage?"

My voice is hard on that word. Do you understand now? Do you get why this is so important to me? I don't look at you, but I jerk my hand away as you try to clasp it in yours. Your wordless apologies aren't going to win me back this time. I need more.

"Alex… I'm sorry. You wanted honest, you got it. Isn't that worth anything? I'm not proud of it, and I told you it's something I'll deal with. It doesn't change the way I feel, and it doesn't diminish this at all. And it certainly doesn't mean I don't want to marry you."

"Yes well, it might mean I don't want to marry you." I do look at you this time, and when I see the flash of pain that crosses your eyes I wish I hadn't. Why do you always do this to me? I start out angry and always end up feeling like I should be the one apologizing.

As we step into the cab I see you swipe at your eyes, fighting tears, and I feel another twinge of guilt. I fight it, trying to keep my anger fresh, knowing it's the only way to make you understand. You keep your distance in the small backseat as we ride silently back to the car. As I drive home you stare out the passenger window, a statue for all intents and purposes… except when you lift a hand to brush a tear from your cheek, more than once. And every time I watch the shadow of your arm travel that path, I come closer and closer to dropping my own tears.

Olivia

Well I've done it again. Fucked everything up again. What the hell is wrong with me? Every time things are going well, every time I get my life sorted out, our life sorted out I screw it up again. I asked you to marry me, and you said yes and then I blew it all to hell again. I try to fight my tears, but my hand keeps traveling back to my cheek, wiping away traces of this fight as we drive silently in the darkness back to your home.

Inside you head to the bedroom, closing the door behind you, leaving me in the darkness of our cold living room… your cold living room. I wander back to the kitchen, opening cupboards and closing them, opening the fridge and closing it. It takes me a minute to figure out what I'm looking for. I want a drink. I grab a bottle of water, trying to pretend it's vodka, passing the weight of it from one hand to the other, carrying it with me as I sit in the living room sofa, staring at the cold black fireplace, listening to you crying in the bedroom as my own tears begin to fall. I'm leaving the day after tomorrow. I'm leaving day after tomorrow and I have no idea if I'm still engaged, I have no idea if I'm even still your friend.

In the quiet of this room, your muffled sobs from behind the closed bedroom door, I speak into the rhythm of your crying,

"Jesus… what did I do?"