It looks like it could rain but the little weather button on her smartphone says there's only a five percent chance of precipitation so she decides to haul herself out of bed and go for a run. In Georgia, if it looked like rain you could bet it was sure as hell gonna rain, but here in L.A. where the water is needed desperately, it so rarely does.
She walks to the park happy enough to see the sun behind clouds. She can get a few extra laps in if she isn't burning alive in the barren desert. She stops at a bench to stretch, to straighten the strap of her sports bra that is folded over a little - she'd hurried getting dressed, forcing it over her head, afraid if she took too long there'd be time enough to talk herself out of it. She puts a foot up on the seat of the bench and stretches out her hamstring and then does the other side.
She's just about ready when she sees Sharon walking toward her across the grass.
"Sorry I missed last week," she says instead of a normal person greeting like 'hello' or 'how are you'.
Brenda stares at her, confused.
"We had a murder," Sharon says.
"Okay," Brenda says.
"You ready? I warmed up on the way," Sharon says. No glasses again and all her long dark tied back with a black elastic, one of the very skinny ones - the kind that always slip out of Brenda's hair. Sharon is wearing a light jacket this time and long running pants, not the capri kind that Brenda favors. Brenda just has a dingy old t-shirt on over her sports bra and Sharon looks like something from a catalog. Lean lines and soft curves and Brenda thinks she's wearing foundation because no one's skin looks that good this early.
"Sure," Brenda says.
This is a thing they're doing now, apparently. Call a truce and get a running buddy. It's tempting to ask her what the hell is happening but then Brenda thinks, no. Better not. Better just to try and match her stride - see if she can keep up without getting a stitch in her side.
For most of the first lap they're quiet, respectful of each other's space and the people around them. During the second lap, though, Sharon says, "Rusty thinks it's funny that we're neighbors."
Brenda glances over but Sharon doesn't look at her, doesn't break her stride. It's hard to talk and run and Brenda is surprised, frankly, that Sharon is making an effort.
"Why?" she says. It's not like they're down the hall - they're not even in the same building or on the same block.
"I don't know," Sharon says. "I think he thinks we're already very similar."
"Ha," Brenda says. "I bet you set him straight."
Sharon is quiet for a moment as they round the bend and navigate around another, slower runner.
"I think we have a very different approach to certain things," Sharon hedges.
"That's awfully diplomatic," Brenda says.
"But he's right, you know. We do have a lot in common," Sharon says. "It's just hard to notice because when we're together-"
"We're always fighting," Brenda finishes.
"I'm the only female department head now that you're gone," Sharon says. "The only other woman I spend any amount of time with is Detective Sykes."
"Let's walk for a bit," Brenda says, slowing down a little, breathing hard. It's too difficult to run and talk at the same time; she's just not that coordinated.
"My work hours are too unpredictable to rely on church or any other sort of organized community gathering," Sharon pushes on. "And the majority of my family lives anywhere from several hours away to several states away."
"It's an isolating line of work," Brenda says, feeling a tiny bit sympathetic.
"How did you do it?" Sharon asks.
"Well," Brenda says. "I mean, I guess I didn't."
"You didn't?" Sharon asks.
"I had Fritz," Brenda amends. "But he wasn't exactly separate from work, really. And I had my parents but they almost always had to come to visit me and not the other way 'round. But I just worked all the time. I mean, I still do. I just work." She shrugs.
"I see."
"So I guess you've solved the mystery of my failed marriage," Brenda offers.
"Yes, I'm a regular Nancy Drew," Sharon says with a sour looking smirk. "I don't know why suddenly the idea of having friends seems important except for the fact that I can't figure out how to do it."
"Clearly I'm not one to give you advice on the matter," Brenda says.
"Well," Sharon says. "But that's what… Rusty saying that you and I…"
"Oh," Brenda says. "You and me."
"Right," Sharon says.
"Friends," Brenda adds unnecessarily.
"Because we do have things in common," Sharon says. "Law enforcement, for one."
"Is there another?" Brenda wonders.
"Running," Sharon says dryly. "Though I usually give up outside running around now. It gets too hot."
"What do you do instead?" Brenda wonders. "I can't stand the treadmill, it makes me go crazy with boredom."
"There is a gym in my building and I can use the treadmill, but I prefer to swim," Sharon says.
"Your building has a pool?" Brenda asks.
"It does," Sharon confirms.
"But it lacks character, I bet," Brenda says and Sharon guffaws.
"Perhaps," she says. "Okay, you ready to run again?"
"I guess," Brenda says.
When they finish their laps and they are sitting for a moment on the grass, Sharon says, "You could come to dinner."
"Come to dinner? Where?" she asks, confused.
"My place," Sharon says. "In the spirit of friendship."
"God, you're serious about all of this," Brenda says.
"This isn't easy for me," Sharon snaps, her eyes narrowing. "So if you're not, then I'd appreciate if you'd say so."
Brenda holds up a hand. "I'm not sayin' that!"
"I don't want to waste my time!" Sharon says. It's that same tone she uses when she's really losing her temper, when she's going to forcefully demand that Brenda relent so she can once more go first.
"Sharon," Brenda says. "Calm down. Jesus."
Sharon scrunches up her nose a bit and leans back on one hand, her fingers pale against the green grass of spring. Soon most of the green will fade from the landscape, turn brown and wilt in the heat and sun. They'll be left with scrubby bushes and the only pure green will be sod lawns continually doused in water so they survive.
"I'm just-" Sharon says and then shakes her head. "I told you I was bad at this."
"It's nice to know you're bad at something," Brenda says softly. "It's reassuring."
Sharon's glance cuts over at her suspiciously but Brenda isn't trying to be mean, she's trying to be honest. "You make me nervous, too."
"Good," Sharon says sourly.
"I could come to dinner," Brenda says. "If that's what Rusty wants."
"It was his idea," Sharon is quick to say.
"Do you still have my cell phone number?" Brenda asks.
"Have you changed it?" Sharon says.
"No." Brenda has to will her blood pressure to stay low, to let Sharon's snarky tone just graze across her bow. Not a direct hit, not anymore.
"Then I have it," Sharon says.
Brenda stands up. "Text me about dinner," she says. "And if this week isn't good, I'll see you here next week?"
"Maybe," Sharon says. "If I don't have to work. And if it's not too hot."
Brenda rolls her eyes. "Well I'll be here, anyway," she says and turns to walk away. She glances over her shoulder - Sharon is still watching her, sitting on the grass, her face pinched with effort. The funny thing is, Brenda thinks being friends with Sharon could actually be kind of nice. She likes the woman - she'd won Brenda over the hard way with solid work and determination and loyalty. It's not something you forget, that kind of consistent effort. Sharon is smart and sharp and Brenda is perfectly happy to go to dinner or run side by side. It just doesn't seem like that's what Sharon wants. The whole exercise seems to leave a bad taste in Sharon's mouth so what's in it for her, exactly?
Maybe she's just doing it for Rusty. Maybe that's a good enough reason.
She feels Sharon's eyes on her until she gets to the corner but she doesn't look back and doesn't relax until she turns and moves out of sight.
oooo
Brenda doesn't hear from Sharon and maybe it's just as well. She spends most of the work week in committee meetings and it's tedious enough that's she's grateful for the one day she has to spend in court instead. By the end of the work week she's actually looking forward to the weekend out of the office and the only people who have called or texted her phone outside of work are her daddy and Fritz.
She and Fritz are certainly on speaking terms and if she'd had to describe their split to anyone she'd use the word amicable but it's still tense. Mostly they text about finding a time that works for them both to meet with their lawyers or about money - about him switching to LAPD's health care plan and coming off of hers, about keeping the cars on the same insurance plan because it saves so much money. Same thing with the cell phones but he's going to cancel her American Express.
Fine, she texts. Not trying to be passive aggressive, but not wanting to engage in anything longer. Longer talks, especially face to face ones, always devolved into him saying, "Well you could just come home."
But she can't. He's not her home, anymore.
I don't understand you, Brenda Leigh. You're never going to find another man as good as Fritz, her mother's warbling voice says.
"I don't want another man, mama," she complains into the quiet of her office as she's packing up for the night. A few files into her purse, her phone, her keys. She's still got her sweater on because it's cool inside but it'll be warm out of doors.
The idea of dating again is hilariously terrifying. And what would the point be? She's clearly not cut out for marriage, she has proven that time and again. The elevator is empty as she rides down, down to the underground parking garage. It's almost an hour past the end of the work day. She likes to let the place clear out - she always gets the most work done at the very end of the day when the building is quiet and the phones stop ringing.
Marriage is easy if you find the right person, her mother says and Brenda's hand balls up into a fist at her side.
"Well which is it, mama? Either I'm never going to do better than Fritz or he wasn't right for me! You can't have it both ways!"
Her voice echoes through the parking garage and she looks around, embarrassed, but doesn't see anyone so she hurries to her car. Her mother chooses not to respond.
Her phone buzzes while she's driving home but she doesn't look at it until she pulls into her parking spot and turns the car off. It'll be Fritz again or maybe David inviting her out to a pity dinner. The last time she'd accepted, there'd been three other investigators there with him and not only had she been the fifth wheel, but she was everyone's boss and it had made them visibly uncomfortable. David had been surprised - Brenda hadn't always gone out with the squad but when she had, it had always been comfortable, like family. But she's not Deputy Chief Johnson anymore and she isn't running a tight ship, she's running an ocean liner. A little distance in this case is a good thing.
But it's not Fritz or David. It's Sharon. She's still listed in Brenda's phone as Capt. Raydor and the picture that pops up under her name is one Tao had programmed in and it looks like a pair of legs with ruby slippers on coming out from under a house.
She'll have to change that, probably.
The message says, Dinner tomorrow evening?
She slides the bar and considers her answer. A Saturday night dinner is fine, though not much notice. She could pretend to have another engagement but she's not sure Sharon would buy that and she doesn't have anything planned except for take out and Netflix and she'd been thinking about buying an entire cake and spending the whole week eating it.
Okay, she sends back and then adds. See you at the park in the AM?
It takes awhile for Sharon to respond and Brenda sits in her car staring at her phone until the three little dots pop up to indicate that Sharon is typing her message back.
Supposed to be in the 90s tomorrow
Brenda frowns. It's been warm but it won't be that hot at seven in the morning!
Suit yourself, she sends back and then tucks her phone away.
oooo
Okay, it's warm, but she puts on her capri running pants and a tank-top anyway and leaves her jacket on the rocking chair. She's about to head out the door when her phone blips from the hidden pocket in her waistband. She pulls it out and it's Sharon again.
Too hot for me. Skip the run and come to dinner early. We'll swim laps.
Well isn't that just so presumptuous, Brenda can hardly stand it. Like somehow because they've run together one time, Sharon is now in charge!
It's called being friendly. I know you have trouble recognizing it because it's not in your nature - her mother's voice is stern and tinged with just a hint of disappointment and it does the trick because Brenda feels badly, then and wonders if her knee-jerk reactions aren't just as bad as Sharon's snotty tone. Brenda reacts badly because she expects that Sharon will be snotty and Sharon is snotty because she braces for Brenda's poor reactions.
"What could go wrong with that?" Brenda mutters but she texts back, What time?
She changes her clothes, puts on jeans and a tank top that is clean and bright. Somewhere in one of the drawers of her new bureau is her swimming suit. She has only one - she'd bought it for the honeymoon and has never worn it again, but when she pulls both pieces out she realizes that while the bottoms are fine, the top doesn't even have shoulder straps and will never work for swimming laps. Plus she's not really comfortable walking around in a bikini in front of Sharon or her teenage ward.
Bathing suit shopping is something you'd do with a girlfriend.
Brenda considers actually calling Sharon for about half a second before scoffing at herself and driving to the nearest mall alone. She buys the first all black one piece she can find in her size and then hits a Starbucks with a drive thru on her way home and orders one of those chocolate chip blended coffee drinks with chocolate sauce drizzled all over the top.
You best not show up to that woman's home empty-handed, Brenda Leigh.
"Yes, mama," she says and stops at the grocery store on her way home. She's not sure what to buy so she gets wine and chocolate cake, looking at it longingly on the conveyor belt. So much for eating it all by herself. Maybe Sharon will send her home with the leftovers. She doesn't seem like the type of woman who indulges. Not in chocolate, anyway.
She thinks about canceling only every 45 seconds or so throughout the day but she doesn't do it. If it were just Sharon, she wouldn't think twice but she remembers how genuinely happy Rusty had seemed to see her in the grocery store, how he'd said "See you later" like he would actually see her again. She wants to make good on that for him. After all, they're neighbors now. Sort of.
She walks over with the cake box and the bottle of wine in her purse. It's still warm and so she hustles so the icing doesn't melt too badly and by the time she gets to the front doors of the imposingly tall building of luxury condominiums, she's sweating. She realizes she doesn't even know the unit number but the glass doors are locked anyway and she stands for a moment, looking at the column of names before finding S. Raydor and pushing the buzzer.
"Yes?" Sharon's voice is gravelly through the speaker.
"It's Brenda," she says. "Johnson." She winces.
"Come on up, Chief."
The door clicks.
It is a nice building, but too modern for her taste, too sterile. She feels out of place in the lobby, nervous in the elevator holding her cake. She counts down numbers until she finds the right door but it's the only one that's open just a crack.
She knocks on the door frame before pushing it open.
"Come in," Sharon calls. Brenda steps in, clicks the door closed behind her and stands there hesitantly until Sharon appears. She looks more like Sharon from the park, not Captain Raydor. She's obviously dressed for the pool under her soft looking pants and loosely fitted blouse. She looks at the box in Brenda's hands with rising eyebrows and plasters a smile on her face. "What's all this?"
"Oh I brought dessert," Brenda says. "I don't know if you - well, my mama always said not to show up empty-handed."
Sharon takes the box, peers inside. "Your mother was a wise woman," she says gently. "Thank you."
"Where's Rusty?" she says looking around as she follows Sharon deeper inside. It's darker than she expected. Dark walls, rust colored furniture, slick tiles. It suits Sharon but it feels like a cave. Maybe the light comes in in the mornings, maybe it's not always like this.
"Oh, he's not home from school yet," she says. "But he'll be here for dinner."
"What are we having?" she asks.
"Saturday nights are Rusty's choice," Sharon says. "So… you know."
"Pizza?" Brenda asks.
"Probably," Sharon says. "Is that okay? I should've asked."
"It's fine," Brenda says. "I'll eat anything."
Sharon smiles a tight-lipped smile. "I know."
Brenda decides right then to keep the wine for herself.
She has to change into her suit, stowed in the bottom of her bag. There's a surreal moment where she's completely naked in Sharon's guest bathroom before she steps into the suit and pulls it up. She has to reach into the crotch to pull off the plastic liner and she balls it up and drops it in the little trash can next to the sink. Shoves her bra and panties into her purse and pulls back on her skirt and her t-shirt.
"Can't remember the last time I was in a pool," Brenda says in the elevator on the way back down. Sharon stands beside her holding an armful of towels.
"Mostly the people who live in this building are single and older so it's usually kid free," she says.
"You fit right in," Brenda says and then realizes it wasn't probably a very nice thing to say. "I mean…"
"I know what you mean," Sharon says but she doesn't look angry. "I used to run marathons, you know."
"Really?"
"It's hell on the knees. Now I can only do short distances, like at the park. But swimming is very gentle and just as good for you."
"I haven't been running all that long," Brenda says. "Not seriously."
"It's a good way to eat up time if you have time to spare," Sharon says knowingly. The elevator stops and they exit. It's the floor above the lobby and she leads them down another hallway and out toward the back of the building. The pool isn't huge but it's plenty big enough for the two of them. And it's empty. Sharon uses a key to unlock the gate and it slams loudly behind them, a metal clang that resonates.
Brenda puts her hair into a ponytail, kicks off her shoes. Sharon is fearless because she strips right down to her suit and leaves her clothes folded neatly on one of the chairs. Her suit is blue and cut like an athlete's, high at the hip and tight at her shoulders. She's all leg - Brenda can't help but stare. They just go on and on.
"You can swim, can't you?" Sharon asks.
"Yes," Brenda says, working not to sound petulant while pushing her skirt down and pulling off her top. Her suit fits well enough but it scoops much lower in the back than Sharon's does and she hopes the force of the water won't push the straps out of place. She'll take it easy. She has nothing to prove.
Sharon walks right to the edge and dives in. Brenda has always been the type to ease herself in, one toe at a time. Acclimate to the water. She doesn't like the shock to her system but apparently Sharon is half mermaid with her perfect form and legs meant for greater things. Brenda isn't a diver though so she sits at the edge and puts her feet in.
It's cold. It's not freezing but it's not warm like the pool her mama used to do water aerobics in at the senior center back home. That pool always felt practically like bath water. People don't have heated pools in California - they just have the relentless sunshine.
Sharon is already swimming laps, is clearly not the kind of friend that is into easing someone into a new situation. Brenda gets lulled into watching her, the rhythm of her breast stroke, the way she slices through the water and disappears briefly at the end of the pool only to reemerge going the other direction.
She must notice, at some point, that Brenda is not swimming because she bobs up and wipes the water out of her eyes. It occurs to Brenda that Sharon is what her mama would've called a beauty queen. She used to say it all the time when Brenda was younger, when she brought home high school friends or when they saw a movie with a glamorous female lead. "That girl is a beauty queen!"
It's easy to look good with makeup and styled hair and the right clothes and high heels and good lighting but to look pretty coming up out of a pool like a drowned rat is something else entirely. Brenda isn't even sure if her mascara is waterproof. She's going to come up like a drowned raccoon more like. If she ever gets in.
"What's the matter?" Sharon calls across the water. Brenda knows her time is up and she pushes herself into the pool, cold and all.
"Nothin'," she says. "Just gettin' acquainted with the water."
It's good enough for Sharon who goes back to her laps. Brenda can swim though she's not as strong as a swimmer as Sharon is. She swims a few lazy laps and doesn't bother to try to keep up and then after about four, decides to hell with it and just floats on her back for awhile, her ears below the surface of the water, blocking out most of the noise. She can hear Sharon splashing but it's muted and distant.
Why is it that someone like Sharon, the type of girl who wouldn't have given Brenda the time of day back in high school, is having trouble making friends now? Brenda knows the answer, of course. Because by spending the majority of her career in Internal Affairs, she'd cut herself off at the knees as far as making friends at work was concerned and now all she ever has time for is work. She can be friendly with her squad but not too close and now that Brenda herself is gone, the next high ranking female officer is probably Commander McGinnis in Fritz's division and she just doesn't seem like Sharon's type.
Is that what Brenda is? Sharon's type?
Brenda's mama would never admit that her own daughter wasn't the most beautiful girl on the planet, but Brenda is no beauty queen, not like how her mama had used the expression. No, the best Brenda's mama had ever said about her was that she knew how to use what God gave her. Blonde hair and big boobs and the ability to lie her way out of anything. That last one was worth more than a pretty face any day of the week.
Sharon's pretty face appears in Brenda's view, leaning over her with furrowed brow.
"You really gave it your all out there," she says dryly when Brenda flounders above surface, trying not to be startled and failing. "I'm impressed."
"Shut up," Brenda says. "This is your thing, not mine. At least I tried it out."
Sharon's mouth twitches. "Perhaps we'll have to find something that we both like."
"Does that mean we can get out now?" Brenda asks. The sun has moved behind the building so the pool is cast in shadow and she's starting to get cold.
"Yes," Sharon says. She pushes herself up over the edge of the pool and out. Brenda swims to the little ladder and watches Sharon dripping on to the cement, squeezing the excess water out of her hair. She hands Brenda one of the towels and Brenda presses it to her chest and neck. It smells clean and like the inside of Sharon's condo.
Brenda stands there sniffing it, a little puddle of pool water forming underneath her feet. When she looks up at Sharon, Sharon is watching her, her face twisted into concern.
oooo
Rusty brings home burgers, not pizza.
"What if Brenda doesn't like burgers?" Sharon says. "This isn't what you said you were going to bring."
"Who doesn't like burgers?" Brenda says, holding the towel more tightly around her. Sharon spins, looks at her with narrow eyes. "I like burgers."
"Literally everyone likes burgers," Rusty says. "Don't be weird, Sharon."
"What if Brenda was a vegetarian?" Sharon says.
"She's from the south," Rusty says. "I don't think they allow that down there."
"They do not," Brenda confirms.
"I'm going to change," Sharon says and turns again, stalks into her bedroom and closes the door.
"Sorry," Rusty says.
"Is she always like this?" Brenda asks.
"You make her nervous," Rusty says. "Don't tell her I told you that."
"She already has," Brenda says, picking up her bag. "But I'm on my best behavior, I really am! I'm trying to be nice."
Rusty shrugs. "I'm glad you came," he says. "Do you want something to drink?"
"Oh," she says. "I think I'll go change, first."
"Right," he says.
She takes her purse back to the guest bathroom, hurrying past Sharon's closed bedroom door. The suit is harder to take off all wet and clingy and she's cold enough that goosebumps form on her damp skin and her nipples tighten in the open air. She rubs herself briskly with the towel and then puts it and her suit over the shower rod to dry. Pulls on her panties and her bra which drags uncomfortably across her clammy skin as she tries to straighten it into place. She feels better with clothes on but her hair is wet and smells like chemicals and she doesn't have a brush so she just braids it as best she can. It looks dark and ratty. She'd kept her face out of the water for the most part, so that's something.
When she emerges, Sharon and Rusty are already seated at the dining room table, their burgers and fries on real plates. There's a plate for her too. Sharon is wearing fresh clothes, not wrinkled ones pulled from the bottom of a purse and has dried her hair. She even has on lipstick. Brenda is getting real tired of feeling like the ugly step-sister.
"I got you a glass of water," Rusty says.
"That's fine," Brenda says, slipping into her seat.
"Sharon doesn't like soda with dinner," Rusty says.
"Rots your teeth," Sharon says primly, though it all seems like a big act between them.
"I'm not much of a coke drinker," Brenda says.
"No," Sharon saws, drawing the word out. "You get your fix in other ways."
Brenda narrows her eyes.
"Nothin' wrong with a little indulgence now and then," she says.
Sharon guffaws, her mouth and her eyes opening wide. "Now and then?"
"I don't know what we're talking about," Rusty announces.
"The inside of my desk is going to smell like Willy Wonka's factory until the end of time," Sharon says.
"I just broke it in for you, that's all," Brenda says. "And a little sugar might sweeten you right up."
"I can be sweet," Sharon says.
"Um," Rusty interjects. "What's happening here?"
"Sweet as mud," Brenda says. "People are never going to confess to someone who's looking at them like they're gum on the bottom of a shoe."
"I'm not interested in confessions," Sharon hisses. "I'm interested in convictions."
"Why on earth would you choose to wheel and deal with murderers when you could send them to death row where they belong?" Brenda demands.
"Because I can't do what you do! Brenda!" Sharon shouts, pushing up from the table, her chair screeching out from beneath her. "No one else can!"
Brenda sits back, surprised and mad and breathing hard and, honestly, a little embarrassed that their one attempt at doing something social and normal had immediately turned into another shouting match. Brenda looks down at her burger, cold now, and smooths her trembling hands across her lap.
"That's not true," she says, glancing at Rusty. He's staring at Sharon with wide eyes and he looks terrified. Sharon looks over at him too, shaking her head a little. "I was just trained for it, Sharon, that's all."
"Rusty, I'm sorry," Sharon says. "I didn't mean to get upset."
"Just sit down," Brenda says, feeling nervous, feeling like she's lost too much control of this situation. Like barking orders might help restore the balance of things. "I can just go home."
"You didn't even eat," Sharon says. "You should eat." But Sharon sits and Rusty picks up a french fry and shoves it into his mouth, his eyes darting between them.
"Fine," Brenda says. "Fine."
"And it's not just training," Sharon adds.
Brenda rolls her eyes and then reaches out to touch Rusty's arms. "As you can see, we're still working out the kinks."
"I thought you guys already had," he says. "I thought you liked each other."
"Oh, we do!" Sharon says.
"Sort of," Brenda says and when Sharon glares at her she adds, "No, we do, we do."
Brenda takes a bite of her cold burger just so she can't say anymore words.
"Why don't you tell Brenda about your classes," Sharon says. "And Badge of Justice."
It's easy to listen to Rusty and Sharon does soften considerably when he's the one talking. It's gratifying to hear that he's doing so well and she knows Sharon is a big part of it, that the sternness and structure that she projects - the very thing that Brenda had bristled so hard against - is really good for Rusty. Maybe it could be good for her, too? To have organized outings, to see movies, to be ladies who lunch. Maybe she doesn't flat out like Sharon, but she certainly admires her.
Brenda carries her own dishes to the kitchen and thinks about how to broach the subject of going home.
But Sharon pulls out the cake from the refrigerator. It's still in it's little bakery box and Rusty says, "No way, cake!" So she knows she has to stay at least through that.
"Can you cut the cake, Rusty?" Sharon asks, handing him a large knife from the wooden block on the counter.
"I guess," he says.
"And you," Sharon says, turning on Brenda. She resists the urge to wilt against the wall. "How would you like some wine?"
"Oh," Brenda says with some relief. "Yes, please."
"Good," Sharon says and pulls a bottle of white wine from the fridge. It's not Brenda's absolute number one drink of choice but she'll take white wine over beer or most hard liquor. Sharon looks like she expects a complaint and says, "All right with you?"
"Perfect," Brenda says sweetly. She won't let Sharon pick any more fights. Not tonight, not in front of Rusty who is hacking away at the cake.
"How are you supposed to get it onto the little plates?" he asks.
"The first piece always looks ugly," Brenda says. "That one you eat alone in the kitchen before going back out to serve your guests."
Sharon snorts.
"Or you keep it for yourself and hope no one notices," Brenda says. She shows him how to slide the flat side of the knife under the wedge and lift, holding it steady with her thumb. She may be helpless in the kitchen but she knows a thing or two about cake. The wedge flops sideways onto the dessert plate and while it isn't pristine, it looks good enough. Brenda sticks her thumb into her mouth and licks it clean. Sighs a little with happiness. "I love chocolate," she says.
"She really does," Sharon says. She's tugging at the wine opener and the cork comes free with a little pop.
"Here, gimme that one," Brenda says to the first piece. "My thumb was already in it anyway."
While the burgers were a strangely formal affair, they sit in the living room for cake. Brenda and Rusty sit on the sofa and Sharon in one of the swiveling armchairs, slightly distant with her wine and her half slice of cake.
"Just a tiny one for me," she'd said and Brenda always hates women like that. She'd bitten back any number of snide remarks but she did roll her eyes a little at Rusty when Sharon's back was turned and he'd grinned.
"What's your new job like?" Rusty asks now.
It doesn't feel like a new job anymore, but it still feels like she's doing someone else's job. Like it's temporary, like someone is gonna walk in at any time and say, "Thanks, you can go now." And she'll be grateful when it happens.
"It's good," Brenda says. "It's a lot of work."
"Do you like it?" This is from Sharon, not Rusty and Brenda wants to say yes, of course, what kind of question is that, who stays in a job they hate?
"No," she can hear herself say instead.
Sharon's fork lowers to her plate with a clink.
"Oh," Rusty says.
"I mean," Brenda says. "I mean it ain't bad but it's just… kind of dull."
"No one shooting at you, though," Rusty says. "That's good right?"
Brenda makes herself laugh and says, "It is good."
Boring, but good. What Fritz wanted, right? Better?
"Andrea says that you're very well-liked at the D.A.'s office," Sharon offers. Brenda wonders if that's even true or if she's just throwing Brenda some sort of bone out of pity.
"Oh, I am," Brenda says. "Though to be honest, I don't have a great deal of interaction with the D.D.A.'s, in fact, I think I saw D.D.A. Hobbs more when I was a LAPD officer."
"Well what kind of stuff do you do?" Rusty asks. "Do you still make people tell you stuff?"
"Sometimes," Brenda says. "But we don't generally have to investigate murders. I supervise investigations mostly and write policy and-" She can see Rusty's eyes glazing over a little. "-appear in court." She finishes.
"It's a very prestigious job," Sharon says, too kindly. It is a good job for Brenda. She's qualified for it and good at it and though she doesn't often think about it, she knows that the longer she stays in this job doing quality work, the more her reputation in this city will recover.
"I guess no one really ever loves their job," Rusty says. "Work is work."
Brenda glances at Sharon who is looking right back at her. "I guess not," Brenda says.
Sharon's looks like she wants to apologize but doesn't know how.
oooo
Brenda runs alone the next Saturday, getting up at six instead of seven to avoid the heat.
Sharon texts late that morning, well after her shower, when she's sitting in a towel on her bed eating a bowl of cereal and reading The Huffington Post on her phone. Just the headlines.
How about a movie?
Brenda frowns, surprised. Their dinner last week had ended on a positive enough note but the majority had been rocky and she didn't think Sharon would be so quick to get back together.
Today? Brenda sends back.
Matinees are the most economical, Sharon writes which is just such a Sharon thing to say that Brenda wants to hurl her phone right into the wall. And then, Rusty suggested an activity where we don't have to talk.
At least that makes good sense.
I like popcorn, Brenda sends back. Sharon probably is the type of person who sneaks her own snacks into the theater to save money or worse yet, doesn't even like to have snacks. Brenda can't remember the last movie she saw - something with Fritz, probably - but certainly she had popcorn. Oh actually, she does remember the last time she'd gone to the movies. Not the film but that she'd been called out with a murder and she'd left Fritz alone in the theater. David had come and picked her up.
I will pick you up at 2:00, Sharon sends.
Brenda finishes her cereal. She'll have to wear more than a towel. She's fallen into the habit of wearing exercise clothes or jeans on the weekends. It's more comfortable not living life on call but she always feels sloppy when she sees Sharon, especially on the weekend. So she begrudgingly gets up, hangs her towel on the rod and pulls the one off her hair and hangs that, too. She has enough time to do her hair - product and then the blow dryer with the diffuser on the end to make her curls bouncy and light. She puts on her bra and underwear before doing her makeup - dark eyeliner but gloss instead of lipstick and then she puts on a dress and pulls the matching sweater to bring along in case the theater is cold.
But when Sharon arrives, knocking on her door, she's in tight jeans and an oxford shirt that's tailored to nip in at the waist. She's even got flats on, little navy ballet flats that are disgustingly adorable and half of her hair is swept back in a barrette. It looks effortless yet sophisticated - from her simple makeup to her rolled up sleeves.
Brenda now feels overdressed and weird about it even though Sharon doesn't say anything except, "Are you ready?"
Brenda shoves the sweater into her purse and says, "I guess."
She doesn't even know what they're going to see, not that it matters. It's hard to have a preference either way when she has no idea what's out right now. She keeps thinking about buying a television but streaming things on her computer works just as well and so she misses the majority of the advertising that commercials offer. They ride in Sharon's unmarked and it's one of the older models - with the radio not built into the dashboard. It sits awkwardly between them, the sound turned all the way down.
"I have a personal vehicle but Rusty uses it," she says.
"I didn't ask," Brenda says.
"You were looking around," Sharon accuses.
Brenda slumps down in the seat and says, "My mistake."
Sharon's hands tighten on the wheel. They go to one of the huge theater complexes, park and walk together toward the massive building. It, like most buildings in L.A., is the color of sand and seems moderately busy for this early in the day but it is a weekend, after all and she sees a lot of kids and teenagers. When they get to the windows, Sharon stops to look up at the digital screen scrolling the showtimes.
"We have some choices," Sharon says.
"Whatever you want," Brenda says, easily enough. This doesn't appear to be the right answer though because Sharon's mouth tightens and she glances at her watch like she's ready for the silent part of this outing to begin immediately.
"The next thing that starts is in five minutes - it's that buddy comedy with the pudgy kid and Channing Tatum." Sharon shrugs. "But the romantic comedy with that girl from Glee starts at 2:35."
"What's that one, the 2:40?" Brenda asks.
"An action movie, I think," Sharon says. "About… cars? Rusty saw it."
"Eh," Brenda says. "Fat kid or chick flick?"
"Hmm," Sharon says. "Rom Com it is."
They pay for their tickets separately and then it's early enough that Brenda says, "Popcorn?"
"I already had lunch, but go right ahead," Sharon says.
She knew it! Still, she says, "I'll get a big one in case you change your mind. We can share." She walks away feeling awfully benevolent, even if Sharon would never admit it.
Sharon goes to the restroom while Brenda waits in line. She gets a large popcorn and a box of Junior Mints. It's nice to have the sweet to cut through all the salty when the popcorn is gone. Sharon is waiting for her outside of the door to their theater and she pulls it open and lets Brenda go in first.
She's not in the mood to quibble about seating so she just picks a row and says, "Here?"
"Fine."
They sit, arranging their purses to hang off the end of the armrests, Brenda has her popcorn in her lap. Sharon makes a big show of pulling out her cell phone and flicking the switch on the side to send it to silent. She slips it into the breast pocket of her shirt so she can feel it if it goes off. Brenda silences hers too, nearly upsetting her popcorn, and then tosses it haphazardly back into her bag. Who is gonna call her? No one that can't wait and hour and a half, that's for sure.
She munches through her popcorn slowly, tipping the box toward Sharon who just shakes her head.
They watch the commercials that come on before the previews and then once the lights dim, Sharon leans over and says, "Thank you for coming today, Brenda."
"Oh," Brenda says, surprised and confused. It's like they're just doing each other little favors. Like being together is a concession from both sides, but actually Brenda feels kind of nice sitting in the cool theater and it's nice that she has someone to sit next to who isn't related to her. "You're very welcome."
Well into the movie, Brenda tips the half empty popcorn box toward Sharon again and she reaches in to take a handful and it's something. A little bit of progress. She carries it around with her the rest of the day, warm in her chest - Sharon's face illuminated by the big screen, her little conciliatory smile, her hand coming out of the box with more than just one piece.