033.
Too Much.
"You have one new message."
Brenda leaned wearily against the counter, taking a large swallow of merlot as the message played.
"Brenda, it's Fritz. You're not answering your cell phone. I'm just calling to make sure everything was okay. Call me back."
"Make me," she muttered defiantly, slapping at the 'stop' button on the machine even as she realized how ridiculous she was being. He was her boyfriend and she hadn't spoken to him in two days. Of course he wanted her to call. She couldn't help feeling trapped, though. He'd left messages on her cell phone, her home phone, and even at the squad room. He'd shown up in the squad room looking for her, for heaven's sake. She'd been out at the crime scene with Gabriel, so Provenza had promised to tell her that Fritz had been by, and then he and Flynn had proceeded to spend the rest of the afternoon making jokes about the FBI agent's lovesick obsession with her.
She'd tried to ignore them, since that was the only tactic that worked when the two of them got going, but it was substantially more difficult to ignore their jests when part of her agreed with them. She liked Fritz – maybe even more than liked him – but she couldn't shake the feeling that he needed more than she could give him.
The phone rang, interrupting her thoughts. She let the machine pick it up, and winced at the familiar voice coming through the little speaker.
"Brenda, it's Fritz." He paused. "Look, Brenda, I'm sorry. I know I've been…persistent, lately. I don't want to crowd you. I just…I miss you. But I get the feeling that maybe all of this is just too much for you, so…" He sighed. "So I'm going to stop. You can call me, or not. You know how to reach me."
The click that signaled the end of the message sounded impossibly loud to her, and the phone was actually in her hand before she realized what she was doing. If she called him now and apologized, she'd be simply reacting to a choice he'd already made, and sacrificing her own ability to choose in the process. She'd done the same thing throughout her relationship with Will. If she wanted this relationship to be different, then she'd have to start making her own choices. Fritz was right; this was too much for her. She needed to do this on her own terms.
"Tomorrow," she declared aloud, testing the idea. "I'll call him tomorrow and ask him to dinner."
It sounded good. It sounded like a choice; like an action, not a reaction. And while it wasn't a very big step, it was, she realized, at least a step in the right direction.