It's too much work, divorce, and too expensive and she sees now why Sharon and Jack wallowed for two decades putting it off until it couldn't be ignored anymore. She tries to ignore Fritz but he calls all the time, emails her, shows up at her office to tell her to stop putting off appointments with the lawyers.
He should be imposing, standing in his uniform, those stars on his collar, but he's in her huge office with floor to ceiling windows and she's sitting at her desk and when she looks at him, he just seems tired and old.
"You feelin' all right?" she asks before she can think better of it.
"No, Brenda," he says. "I am feeling frustrated. You're the one who wants this divorce but you are the one dragging your feet! I don't want to spend another year doing this with you. If you don't want a divorce then you can come home today but if you do, will you please keep your appointments."
She certainly doesn't miss Fritz telling her what to do.
"Fritz, I can't always control when I get called into court, you know that," she says. "You're the one who tries to make these appointments without asking me first and then when I say no, that won't work, I look like the bad guy!"
"Because you ignore my emails about sending me dates that will work for you!" Fritz says, his voice rising into a bellow, his face bright red.
"Hush up and calm down," she hisses.
"I am calm," he says, taking a deep breath.
"I don't understand why we have to do all this mediation anyway," she says. "I told you to just take whatever."
"I don't want you to give me things out of pity, I want to divide things up fairly and that takes time," he says.
It's frustrating to hear, but reassuring in some strange way. She can never do anything right according to Fritz. She can't even divorce him right.
"Fine," she says.
"I emailed you three dates," Fritz says. "Please choose one. Today. And don't cancel or forget."
"I will," Brenda says. Her phone rings, the one on her desk and she can see by which phone line it is that her assistant is calling from the desk. She snatches the phone from the cradle without apology and says, "Yes?"
"Your next appointment is here, ma'am."
"Thank you, we're almost done here," she says. She hangs up the phone, stands and smooths her skirt. "My next appointment is here."
"Okay," he says. "I mean, Brenda, I don't want to have to come down here every time I want to see you. There's got to be a better way."
"I promise to pick an appointment and keep it," she says. She doesn't want him to feel like he can drop in and see her any old time but she also doesn't want him to show up at her office.
He raises his hands in defeat. "Fine. Thank you."
When he opens the door, he stops and hesitates. Brenda knows why. She knows exactly who has shown up at her outer office when most of the workforce is out getting lunch.
She hears the awkward exchange. "Chief Howard."
"Captain Raydor," Fritz says and then moves again, walking past her. Brenda can see Sharon through the door, her hand in her pocket, her hip leaning against the empty desk - her assistant has left for lunch. Good. Sharon walks in, a bag on her arm, and closes the office door.
"Everything okay?" Sharon asks.
Brenda rolls her eyes and shrugs. "We don't have to talk about it."
"Well no, but we could. If you wanted to," Sharon offers.
"Maybe later," Brenda says. "When there's booze."
Sharon smirks and Brenda has to look away from how mirth lights up her face, how her eyes crinkle up at the corners.
They don't get time to talk about anything though because someone knocks and then pushes open the door. It's Rusty.
"What did you bring me?" he says, eying the bag on Sharon's arm.
"Hi to you too," Sharon says.
"Sorry," he says. "Hi. Hi, Chief Investigator Johnson." He flashes her a big cheesy grin - she's told him a hundred times that she doesn't care if he calls her Brenda, but he won't do it at the office. He's in slacks and a wrinkled button down shirt, the world's skinniest tie hanging around his neck. He looks exactly his age, young and ambitious, trying but not too hard. It's been nice having him around. He doesn't interact with her much in any official capacity but she sees him around and if they lock eyes while she's sitting in some meeting in the large conference room with glass walls, he always makes a silly face and she has to work not to laugh. Seeing him makes her think of Sharon which is better than thinking about work or being stressed out or this divorce that seems to be dragging on for all time.
"Hi," Brenda says.
"I brought sandwiches and some of the leftover pasta stuff from last night," Sharon says. "Which would you rather?"
"What kind of sandwich?" he asks.
"Turkey avocado or Roast Beef," she says.
"Do you even have to ask?" Rusty says. She reaches into the bag and hands him a sandwich. "Thank you. You ladies have fun, now."
"What?" Brenda says. "You aren't stayin'?"
"Uhhh," Rusty says. "I mean. I could but I could also not stay?"
"Just go," Sharon says, dismissing him. "I'll see you at home."
"Thank you," he says. "Bye."
He closes the office door behind him.
"I think," Sharon says carefully, "he was worried he wouldn't make friends, but he has so he'd rather eat with them."
"I'm glad he likes it," Brenda says. "I'll try not to take it personally."
"Pasta or sandwich?" Sharon asks and then rolls her eyes. "I don't know why I asked." She pulls out the tupperware with the pasta and hands it across the desk.
"There's a vending machine down the hall if you want me to get drinks," Brenda offers.
"No, I have them," she says, pulling out a water and then, surprisingly, a can of Diet Coke for Brenda.
"What happened to no coke with meals?" Brenda asks, delighted to have the caffeine fix. She takes it too, pops the tab. There's something about the sound of a can of soda pop opening that just makes her feel better, like a pavlovian response.
"That's with dinner," Sharon says. "And anyway, you're not my kid."
They've started having lunch together during the work week, usually on Wednesdays if neither of them are too busy. It bridges the gap between weekends, anyway, where they usually do something more frivolous. See a movie, take Rusty to dinner. Last weekend, Sharon had been working so Brenda had wandered over to the condo by herself, unannounced, to find Rusty sitting on the floor in front of the television playing a video game about shooting zombies.
"I wanted to buy something cool with my paycheck," Rusty had said. "Sharon went for it!"
Of course she did, Brenda had thought. Sharon went for things that made Rusty happy and carefree, when she could.
Rusty had also given her a key to the condo. "We finally got this back from Jack. Sharon said give it to you if I saw you."
She watches Sharon now, inhaling her sandwich. These lunches are always quick bursts because Sharon always has to get back. Maybe it would be kinder for Brenda to go to her instead of the other way around but neither of them suggest it. There's no history here in Brenda's office. They can chit chat, they can sit quietly. None of it has to mean anything.
"You have the long weekend off?" Brenda asks.
"Theoretically," Sharon says. "Probably. I don't know who'd have to die for Pope to authorize all of us on a Sunday and a paid holiday."
"The mayor," Brenda says. "Pope himself."
"Ha," Sharon says.
"We could do something," Brenda says. She shrugs as she says it hoping she's coming across as casual, disinterested even. Like she is the one throwing Sharon a bone, not the half-starved beast.
"Oh!" Sharon says. "You could finally buy a television!"
"My life is fine without a TV," Brenda says.
"There's always good sales over holiday weekends," Sharon says. "I'll go with you."
"I was thinking more like…" Brenda stops. "Okay, well I hadn't made a plan or anything, but I was gonna come up with something."
"Don't be one of those people, Brenda. Don't be the kind of person who says in large groups of people 'I don't even own a television' because everyone else always hates that person," Sharon says. "The kind of person who drives an electric car, who always remembers to bring their canvas bags grocery shopping."
"Vegans," Brenda adds.
"Right. I don't want to be friends with that person."
"I don't even remember to go grocery shopping," Brenda says. "Let alone bring in the bags. I think you're safe."
"Good," Sharon says, balling up her trash. She looks at Brenda's mostly empty container of pasta. "You can wash that and bring it over on Saturday."
"Yes, boss," Brenda says. Sharon smirks.
"Oh, I like the sound of that," she grins.
Brenda waves as Sharon lets herself out. And she knows that Sharon was joking but she likes the fact that she isn't Sharon's superior anymore, that no one has a professional upper hand. It's eased a lot of the tension between them and Brenda likes the view from a more level playing field.
Her phone starts to ring and she sighs, setting her fork down. Lunch time is over.
oooo
Brenda wakes up with a headache in no mood to go out and purchase electronics. She's tired of summer, tired of heat, tired of her little apartment, tired of this strange, small life.
She calls Sharon from her bed and says, "I don't wanna go. I don't feel well."
"Okay," Sharon says. "Maybe tomorrow."
She didn't expect to be let off the hook and when they hang up, Brenda feels kind of let down that Sharon didn't fight harder for her company. Which is ridiculous. She knows she's being ridiculous.
At least you know, her mama says and Brenda rolls her eyes, pushes out of bed. She'll make some coffee, she'll run a bath and sit in the tub until the caffeine eats away at the pain behind her eyes. She runs the bath while the coffee drips into the pot but when she pours it into a mug and sweetens it up, she finds she doesn't really want to drink it. And when she sips it anyway, it makes her stomach turn.
She eases herself into the tub and sits in the hot water feeling achy and desolate. She knows she's not herself because she finds herself thinking about Fritz. He was always so nice to her when she was sick - which didn't happen very often. He always stayed in the bed with her watching some trashy movie on the television while she felt sorry for herself.
She'd seen Fritz last at the office of his lawyer. She'd kept her appointment, they'd talked for an hour and a half about assets. They owned two cars, no property. She makes more money than him and though she'd instructed her lawyer to give in on any alimony demands, Fritz didn't ask for spousal support and so that was a non-issue. No children, Fritz already had the cat.
"Congratulations, Ms. Johnson," her lawyer had said afterwards. "In six to eight weeks, you'll be divorced officially."
She doesn't really want Fritz now, she just longs for the idea of someone fussing over her because she feels sick. The idea of going back to Fritz, of moving back into the duplex, of sharing a life - well, she just can't do it. She won't. Maybe her life is small now, a little sad and a lot lonely but it's hers and she's not afraid of coming home and that's worth something. A little loneliness. Her mother's voice in her head.
The bath doesn't cure her headache but it helps a little. She's tired again when she gets out, pulls on a clean pair of underwear and a tank top and crawls back into bed with wet hair and falls asleep again.
She wakes up because someone is touching her with cool fingers on her forehead.
"Stop it, mama," she says. "I'm tryin' to sleep."
But even as she says it, she knows it's not right. That while her mama keeps her company sometimes, the way the needle of a compass always longs for true north, she's still gone and in the ground.
"Brenda," she hears. "Sit up a little. You have a fever. You need to take something to get it down."
Not her mama, then, but someone's mama.
She opens her eyes and the world takes a moment to reorient to two hands, one holding a pink cup of water and the other two little brown pills.
"What are you doin' here?" Brenda asks.
Sharon's face is awash in sympathy. She looks at Brenda with a crease between her eyebrows and the lines at the corners of her eyes fanning out across her temples. She waves the hand with the pills and Brenda opens her own hand so that Sharon can let the pills fall into her open palm. Brenda puts them in her mouth and takes the water, too, drinking enough to swallow the pills.
"More," Sharon says. "As much as you can get down."
So Brenda takes another three swallows and then hands it back, shaking her head.
"Okay," Sharon says, taking the water back and setting it on the nightstand next to the abandoned coffee and Brenda's cellphone. "I called but you didn't answer."
"I was asleep," Brenda says.
"I rang the bell, too," Sharon says.
Brenda lies back again, a little more awake now. Sharon is sitting on the edge of her bed, watching Brenda intently.
"I just have a headache," Brenda says. "I'm okay."
"And a fever," Sharon says. "What else hurts?"
"Nothin'," Brenda says. "Probably just a little bug. A couple people were out this last week at the office. David was out for two days. I probably got it from him."
"Hmm," Sharon says.
"Don't you get it too, Captain," Brenda says.
Sharon winks at her, stands up. "Have you eaten?"
"I'm not hungry," Brenda says.
"It's past noon," Sharon says. "Did you eat breakfast?"
Brenda shakes her head.
"If I make you something, will you try and eat it?" Sharon asks. Brenda is going to say no but then, she was just longing for someone to come take care of her and here Sharon is, like an answer to her siren song.
"I'll try," Brenda says.
"Good," Sharon says pleased. "Maybe put on a bra first, huh?" As she walks out of the bedroom, Brenda looks down and realizes that the lavender tank she'd put on is flimsy and see through.
She crosses her arms and huffs. No sense in being embarrassed, Sharon was the one who let herself in.
"And pants!" Sharon calls.
Brenda skips the bra, sticking out her tongue at the open door but she does pull on another shirt and a pair of sweatpants. She brushes her teeth and wrangles her hair back out of her face. She's tired by the time she shuffles out of her bedroom and into the kitchen. Sharon is standing at the stove, pushing eggs around in a pan - a pan that Brenda knows she'd had to wash first. In fact, the whole kitchen looks cleaner than she'd left it.
"How long have you been here?" Brenda asks, sinking tiredly into one of the chairs.
"I let you sleep for a while," Sharon says. "But when you didn't wake up even though I was making a racket, I got worried."
"One day I'm gonna sneak into your place and change a bunch of stuff," Brenda says, feeling sullen and out of sorts. Sharon just laughs and bangs the spatula on the side of the pan before setting it down and leaning over to turn off the burner.
"I live with a teenager," Sharon says. "Nothing is ever where it's supposed to be anymore."
"I don't know why I feel so tired," Brenda says, hiding a yawn behind her hand.
"You'll feel better when you eat something," Sharon says. The toast pops up from the toaster and Sharon puts it onto a plate, buttering it lightly from a tub of margarine. She seems as comfortable in Brenda's kitchen as her own. The eggs go on next and then Sharon sets the plate in front of Brenda. "You want some ketchup?"
Brenda looks up at her, horrified. "No!"
"Hmm, that might be a California thing," Sharon says. "My kids wouldn't eat scrambled eggs without ketchup."
"Like ranch dressing on pizza," Brenda says. "I never saw that till I moved here."
"It's good though," Sharon says.
"Yeah," Brenda agrees. "That one I can get behind but ketchup? My mama would've banned me from the table."
"But gravy on everything was fine," Sharon says with a snort.
"Of course," Brenda says. She picks up a piece of toast and eats one corner and doesn't feel sick, so she eats a little more and by the end, when her plate is clear, she does feel better. The advil kicking in has helped, too. "You don't have to check up on me like I'm one of your ducklings," she says.
"You're welcome," Sharon says dryly, picking up the plate and carrying it to the sink. She rinses it and puts it in the dishwasher. Show off.
"Thank you," Brenda manages. "But you know what I mean."
Sharon puts her hands on her hips. Today she's in those tight jeans and what looks to be a cotton t-shirt. She's wearing sandals and Brenda tries to think if she's ever seen Sharon in open toe shoes. The shirt is simple but it fits well and is a pretty teal color. She likes casual Sharon. Her beauty becomes an asset, not something that intimidates Brenda. She just gets to enjoy looking at her without feeling like she's gotta sprint to keep up.
"You've never canceled on me before," Sharon says. "I wanted to make sure you were okay. That you weren't upset with me."
"Why on earth-?" Brenda says. "You haven't done anything to upset me."
"Maybe you really didn't want a TV, I don't know," Sharon says.
"I worked sixty five hours last week," Brenda says. "I think I just got tired."
"I'll let you get some rest," Sharon says.
"No, I wasn't kicking you out!" Brenda complains. "You could-"
Sharon's phone starts to ring. She pulls it out of her pocket and looks at it. "Andy." She swipes and says, "Hello?"
Brenda knows this phone call. She sees the way her face changes, the way she straightens out her spine.
"A body," Brenda says when she hangs up.
"Four," Sharon says. "A family. I have to-"
"Yeah," Brenda says. "Call me later, if you want."
"Feel better," Sharon says, but her mind is already whirling and then her body is out the door, too. Brenda is alone, clean kitchen, full tummy, long weekend stretching endlessly ahead.
oooo
What do you think you are doin'?
Her mama's voice is stern and shocked and appalled. Brenda is barreling down the sidewalk like a woman on a warpath, holding her jacket tightly around her. It's cooled off a lot tonight and it's late, after ten, but she doesn't care.
"I am goin' to Sharon's," she says.
It is late! You are goin' without an invitation, with nothing in your hands! You are gonna embarrass yourself, Brenda Leigh. Turn around.
"I'm sorry, mama," Brenda says. "But I don't care about being rude tonight."
The key Rusty had given her opens the glass doors and the elevator is sitting in the lobby, waiting for someone to call it so the doors part right away. And even though she still has the key when she exits again, she knocks on the door.
Waits a moment and knocks again, harder. Finally she hears movement, the lock turning and then Rusty opens the door, rubbing his eyes in plaid pajama pants and a ratty old t-shirt.
"Brenda?"
"Oh," Brenda says. "Sorry. I didn't mean to wake you up."
"It's okay," he says. "Come in. What's wrong?"
"I came to see Sharon," Brenda says. But he's shaking his head.
"She's not home yet," he says.
"She have a case?"
"No," he says. "She went on a date. She didn't tell you?"
A date? "A date?" she demands. "With who?"
"I dunno, some guy," Rusty says. "She'll be home soon. You could wait?"
She's certainly not going to wait around for Sharon to come home from a date with some guy and how could Brenda not know that Sharon was dating, that she wanted to date, even? She'd never said anything about it before. Brenda feels a rush of anger, betrayal, and fear.
"No, absolutely not," Brenda says. "Go back to bed. I can let myself out."
"Wait a minute, why did you come in the first place?" Rusty asks.
Brenda thinks about her day, all fourteen hours of it, the court case gone wrong, the condescending tone of the communications director, worried more about how the media is portraying one of their investigations and less about finding the truth. She hates being dressed down, especially by pompous men who don't know a thing about running an investigation for something entirely out of her control. The investigation goes the way it goes and she can't be concerned with what the press says, that's a lesson she'd learned a long time ago.
She'd thought about Sharon showing up at her house, crying or pissed and she'd thought, I had a bad day, maybe it's my turn! But she hadn't expected Sharon not to be here.
"I just wanted to talk to her, that's all," Brenda says.
And that's still the truth. It might be charitable of her to stay. If it turns out to be a bad date, she can listen to Sharon complain about the bad food and the worse conversation. And if it's a good date and Sharon is glowing and rosy and excited, well, she can stick around for that too.
"Okay, well, whatever," he says. "I'm going to drive out to see my real mom in the morning so I have to go to sleep."
"Goodnight, kiddo," she says. She waits until his bedroom door closes and then she sits for a moment, looking around the dark, empty condo.
The one lamp that is lit, the humming of the stainless steel refrigerator, how the little red light is glowing on the cable box because something is recording.
She realizes that she absolutely cannot stay here and wait for Sharon because that would literally be crazy and she picks up her purse and slings it over her shoulder. She locks the door behind her, makes it all the way to the end of the hall where the elevator is. She pushes the button, says, "Come on, come on."
The doors slide open and Sharon is inside, leaning against the wall, her head tipped back and her eyes closed.
If there were somewhere to hide, Brenda would absolutely do it. She'd dive behind a dusty ficus, crawl under a table, slip behind a sofa, no questions asked. But there's nowhere. Even the door to the stairwell is several yards away and she'd never make it, so here they are. Sharon opens her eyes and her mouth forms a perfect circle of surprise.
"Hi," she says.
"Hello," Brenda replies. "I was just leaving."
Sharon nods like this is normal. Brenda had expected her to come home disappointed or excited but this is nothing. She's so neutral, so blank. She regards Brenda for a moment and then walks out of the elevator, holding her arm across the threshold so it doesn't close.
"Do you want to stay for awhile?" Sharon says.
No, Brenda thinks, I'd rather do anything else.
"Okay," she says. She doesn't want to hear about the date, doesn't want to picture Sharon in some cozy little restaurant with some handsome yet faceless probably wealthy man, sharing a bottle of wine, eating cake off the same fork, laughing about how good they've got it. How easy it is not to be alone.
"You okay?" Sharon asks as they make their way down the hall. She's already got her keys in her hand. Brenda eyes them, the gold of the house key, the big keys that say 'DO NOT DUPLICATE' that belong to the city building that houses Major Crimes, a little keychain in the shape of an angel.
"Yeah," Brenda says. "You?"
Sharon tilts her head and hums a little before unlocking the door.
Back inside, Brenda holds her purse close to her side, tries to make herself smaller. Rusty's bedroom door opens again and Sharon meets him halfway in the dark hall. She can hear Sharon murmur something and then, "Goodnight, sweetheart."
Sharon seems surprised to find Brenda still standing in the foyer, awkwardly holding her bag, right where she'd left her.
"Well have a seat," she says.
Brenda lets her purse slide down her arm where it stops at her elbow, jerking Brenda's whole body. She sets it by the table in the foyer and takes a few steps into the living room. She always sits on the couch but tonight she folds herself into the armchair. Sharon looks at her for a long moment and then says, "Okay," under her breath, stretching both syllables out into a weary sigh.
Sharon's hair is down, styled to be sleek and straight. It's beautiful, it always is, but especially now, gleaming from the recessed lighting that shines down on her when she flips the light switch in the kitchen, but Brenda prefers it with a little more body. Curled at the ends. She's also wearing a dress - Brenda has seen the dress before so it's something Sharon wears to work, but instead of a structured blazer to make it professional, her arms are bare and there's a silver bangle on one wrist. She's wearing heels that pair nicely with the thin belt around her trim waist.
"You look nice," Brenda says, though it comes out sounding like an accusation and that's not quite what Brenda meant to do. She freezes for a moment, mortified. Sharon's back had been to her and she spins slowly to look at Brenda.
"Thank you, I think," she says. "What's with you?"
"What's with you?" Brenda says. "Where were you?"
"I was out," Sharon says. "Didn't Rusty tell you?"
"You sure didn't," Brenda complains. Sharon's eyebrows climb slowly, up, up, up until it breaks Brenda and she says, "Who with?"
Sharon's mouth opens and then closes again and she changes tactics. "What are you doing here anyway?"
"I came to see you!" Brenda says hotly, defensively. She can make murderers spill their secrets, she's reduced more people to tears during interrogations than she cares to remember but when faced with Sharon Raydor she just goes hot at the collar, all pulsating blood and buzzing in her ears.
"Why?" Sharon asks.
"I just… I just thought," Brenda says, shaking her head. "I just had a bad day, that's all. I just thought you'd be here."
It's different, Brenda understands now, when Sharon drops by Brenda's apartment unannounced. It's different because that's the kind of person Brenda is, for one. Casual and desperate for friendship but Sharon has a well-structured life, she has a teenager she cares for, she goes on dates. She's not a mess, like Brenda, so it matters to call ahead. She has a life where things matter and Brenda doesn't. Brenda doesn't care about anything in her life. She does her job because what else would she do but if she were fired tomorrow, it'd be no real loss. She doesn't have any family in the area, doesn't want to live closer to the family she does have. She doesn't have hobbies, she doesn't even have a cat anymore.
The only thing that she remotely even looks forward to is seeing Sharon and now that she's here, Sharon is looking at her like she's thirty seconds away from kicking Brenda out and barring her for life. Brenda brings a hand up to her mouth and says, "I'm sorry," through her fingers.
"Don't be," Sharon says. "I had a bad day too."
The tips of Brenda's fingers slip between her lips, nails against teeth - a soft click against the enamel that she feels more than hears. "You did?" she says around them, through her clenched jaw.
Sharon comes around, sits on the sofa where Brenda usually does, tucks her hands between her bare knees. The bracelet on her wrist sits against the delicate bone there, gleaming in the lamp light. Brenda stares at it a moment until Sharon says, "Being married was a good excuse to turn down anyone who asked me on a date."
Brenda nods, pulls her fingers down and mirror's Sharon's pose, her hands jammed between her thighs.
"Now that I'm divorced… well that's what people do right? Try again? And I did turn him down but he was persistent and he asked me to name one good reason why I shouldn't give him a try and I couldn't come up with anything so I went." She lifts one shoulder limply.
"Not wanting to go is a good enough reason," Brenda says.
Sharon face breaks into a slow, surprised smile and she says, "Yes, it is."
"Who was he?" she asks, though she hates herself as she does, just loathes herself for asking or caring. For the tight feeling in her chest, for the way she already knows that whatever the answer is, she's not going to like it.
"Someone who goes to my church," Sharon says. "I tried it and it was a disaster, lesson learned."
Brenda finds it strange, somehow, the idea of Sharon at church. She knows she's Catholic but she thought it was more cultural than anything else. If asked, Brenda is perfectly happy admitting to being Southern Baptist but she hasn't set foot in a church on a Sunday morning in years and years. She does this too much, assumes that Sharon will be just like her only to be surprised when she's different. When she's better.
"You'll find someone," Brenda offers and Sharon hums a little.
"That's certainly what you're supposed to say," she says. "Now. Please. Tell me about your day." She leans in and Brenda can see the skin at her chest wrinkle a little, just at the top of her cleavage. Brenda starts to feel a little panicky, like she's stitched together too loosely and there's a real chance things are going to start spilling out.
Honey, her mother says, and she sounds worried too. Go home!
"I have to leave," Brenda says, standing up. "I just remembered."
Sharon frowns. "Are you certain you're feeling okay?"
"Yep," Brenda says, trying to sound bright. "I just… I just have to go. But I'll talk to you later, okay?"
She tries to bolt, makes it to the door, has her hand around the handles of her bag, but Sharon is hot on her heels and when she straightens up, Sharon does yet one more thing that catches Brenda off guard.
Sharon's arms are around her before she even realizes it.
"I'm glad I saw you tonight, Brenda," Sharon says softly, right into her ear.
Brenda sighs, melts against her. Slowly lifts the hand not holding her bag and rests it against Sharon's lower back, right at the curve of her spine. She closes her eyes just for a moment.
But then it's over, Sharon pulling back, giving her a warm smile, opening the door for her.
"Goodnight."
"Goodnight," Brenda echoes faintly.
She makes it to the end of the hall but she walks past the elevator and into the stairwell. She's never been in here before and it's dark for a moment before lights flicker on, buzzing and yellow. She sits on the top step and takes a few deep breaths, so deep that after a moment she makes herself dizzy.
But Brenda, her mother says. Why on earth should you be jealous because your friend Sharon went out with a man?
"I don't know, mama," Brenda moans, pressing her cold fingers to her hot cheeks. "I don't know."
oooo
Brenda only ever cleans after two am unless someone is coming over and maybe not even then. But tonight she stays awake and cleans the tub in the bathroom with powdered cleaner. She adds just enough water to make a paste and the scrubs and scrubs until the muscles in her arms are burning.
It's not that she isn't tired, it's not that she she wouldn't fall asleep if she just got into bed. It's that falling asleep is dangerous. She's been having these dreams and-
She reaches up and turns on the water, wipes and rinses until everything is white and clean and her hands are burning around her nail beds where the skin is thin. She does the sink next, making sure to scrub around the drain so there's no toothpaste residue, no sprinkle of loose powder from a makeup brush, no slyly coiled blonde strand of hair hiding under the porcelain lip.
She wonders if it's too late to mop. Will she make it through mopping? Should she just do the bathroom and kitchen or the entire apartment, hardwood floors and all? It's not that much more square footage wise. She can even mop around the area rug in the living room.
Brenda is leaving for Atlanta in less than 24 hours and Sharon's kids are coming to Los Angeles for the holiday.
"I just don't have room for them all, even with the air mattress," Sharon had said, fretting.
"I'm going to be in Atlanta," Brenda had offered. "Let one of them stay at my place."
"They don't even know you!" Sharon had said.
"You do," Brenda had pointed out. "And you already have a key."
So now she's got to get it up to Sharon's standard of clean. Is that even possible?
She'd thought about staying home for Thanksgiving but her father had been insistent about her coming home to Atlanta and anyway, Fritz had been sniffing around, trying to figure out her plans.
"Go see your sister," Brenda had told him, trying not to be unkind. Didn't he understand that the whole point of getting divorced was not to spend holidays together anymore? He'd given her so much grief about working too much and not having a social life that he'd never noticed he was exactly the same way. He probably blamed that on her, too. How he'd wanted to change her and she'd changed him instead.
She makes every appliance in the kitchen gleam before throwing in the towel, hoping that she's tired enough to fall asleep and not dream. Or at least, at the very, very least, not remember any of her dreams.
She's been having these dreams and the last time she'd woken up with her fingers between her legs, for heaven's sake, and it's embarrassing to wake up like she's fifteen-years-old again, pumped full of hormones and shame.
She won't even be able to look at Sharon when she comes over.
She's mad at herself, anyway, because it's disrespectful and bizarre. She doesn't really want to do those types of things with Sharon, she's just starved for sex and Sharon is the only person she spends any meaningful amount of time with.
You don't have deviant dreams about your friend David, or about Rusty, either, her mother finds it important to point out.
Maybe she should be going out on dates too. Or to bars alone, just to bring someone home to scratch her itch. But even as she thinks it, she knows that she's not up for that. She's never been one for meaningless sex. She needs the connection and not just in her bed, but in her life. Even in the interrogation room, she always found some way to connect before getting them to talk. Otherwise it just didn't work.
She climbs into her bed, arranges the sheets around her. In the morning she'll changes them, put on a fresh set for Sharon. She closes her eyes, sighs. Thinks about whether Sharon is gonna like her bed, if the pillow top is going to be too soft for her. Brenda likes a soft bed - Fritz never did.
She thinks about whether Sharon will be too warm or too cold - if she should put an extra blanket on the bed or if Sharon is the type of person who, like Brenda, will overheat and kick off pajamas in their sleep and wake up wondering what happened to her pants and how did her shirt get all the way over there?
No, Brenda thinks, don't think about that. Don't think about what she's gonna wear or not wear, don't think about her hair spread out across the pillowcase.
Brenda always does this. When she likes someone, when she wants someone desperately to like her in return, she always gets overly attached and then things start to get… confusing. She did it when she was a girl, falling into infatuation with her second grade teacher, a kind woman with dark hair and bright blue eyes. Brenda had brought her an apple every day for a week and then had picked all the flowers out of her mama's garden to bring to school with her. Her mama, of course, had been livid and her daddy had spanked her good and when he'd asked her why she'd done it, Brenda had admitted through her tears that they'd been for her teacher because Brenda just loved her so much.
In high school, she'd joined the cheerleading squad because her friends did and though Brenda is not a particularly coordinated person and was even less so during puberty, she'd wanted so much to be a part of that beautiful group of girls in their pleated skirts and white tennis shoes. She'd used to love when they all did each other's makeup - her friend Alison had always been the best at doing someone else's makeup and she'd had this beautiful mouth, shaped like a little heart, and Brenda had fallen in love with those lips, staring at them dreamily while getting done up.
Her mentor in the C.I.A., the woman who'd taught her every good thing she knew about interrogations, had the most beautiful hands, delicate fingers, soft skin, a princess cut diamond ring that always slipped just a little off-center and Brenda had fallen for the hands first and then the rest of her and she'd been determined, then, to be the best. To rise to the top and so she had.
And Will. Jesus, she still burns with shame a little thinking about it. She'd undo it if she could, knowing what she knows now, but at the time, she'd wanted nothing more than to have him entirely to herself. And for the first time, her overwhelming affection and infatuation had been returned. They'd fallen into bed and that had been it. She'd been hooked.
She'd thought she'd learned her lesson after that but now that old familiar feeling creeps up again. Sharon's reluctant smiles, her thick glossy hair, the soft curve of her calves when she's in heels. It all makes Brenda want to fall over herself to please Sharon, to make Sharon like her just as much in return. But she knows better this time. She knows that wanting all of someone isn't healthy, that anything that leads to the mess she'd gotten into with Will can't be good.
She falls asleep fretting and has a fragmented, confusing dream about the murder room - the old one in Parker Center, not the new one which is strange because Sharon is there but Brenda knows they hadn't crossed paths until after the move. Brenda is leaning against Provenza's old wooden desk, looking at her whiteboard and Sharon is there, too, in the green dress she wore to the luncheon. She walks between the whiteboard and Brenda, reaches out to take Brenda's hand, presses it against her chest, hard between her breasts and says, "Show me."
Brenda doesn't know what it means, but Sharon's skin is warm and it all feels so real, the muted light, the smell of dry erase marker and stale coffee, the way Brenda nods, wanting to give Sharon whatever it is that she desires, the phone on the desk ringing and ringing and ringing.
Brenda wakes up.
Her phone is ringing. She reaches for it blindly, hits the green circle to accept the and manages to say, "Johnson."
"Oh, I woke you!" Sharon's voice comes clear through the connection.
"It's okay," Brenda says. "What time is it?"
"8:30," Sharon says. It's the day before Thanksgiving, and in a few hours, Brenda will be on a plane. "I was going to go for a run before the kids get here. I just called to see if you wanted to come."
"A run," Brenda says.
"At the park," Sharon says. "Never mind, get some more sleep."
"Gimme fifteen minutes," Brenda says.
She hangs up and tosses the phone down on the bed beside her, rubs her face and tries to shake off her tiredness. What had she gotten, four hours? It'll have to be enough.
She sits up, puts her bare feet on the cold floor and wonders just exactly what she'd been supposed to show Sharon anyway.