Chapter 3
It's quiet. Almost eerily so. It's well past midnight when Olivia finally makes it home to her cold, empty apartment. The ever present feeling of loneliness somehow more pronounced in the darkness. She flicks the light switch to her left which gives the space a faint glow, though no warmth.
She drops her keys on the table next to the door. She stands there, leans against the door, lets it hold her up because she is so tired. Exhausted. It's only a few moments she allows herself to just "be" before forcing one foot in front of the other and walking further inside.
Her eyes are drawn to the new vase she purchased. Red. In fact, there are several new things throughout, pops of color she thought would inspire her. Make her feel a little more alive than the earthy colors she's known for, the whites and the browns. She was wrong.
Olivia Pope is a creature of habit; her routines keep her from completely breaking down and drowning in her own sadness. She spends her days making tough decisions for clients, staying strong for her Gladiators, ignoring her own pain, so when she comes home, she doesn't want to think about where to put her coat or what to eat or what wine to drink. Her life at home is one of routines, the mundane, the predictable.
First, she hangs her coat in the closet, puts her purse on the bench and removes both of the cell phones she now carries. Although the one she affectionaly refers to as the "Fitz phone" rarely rings anymore, she carries it with her, fully charged, hoping. There was a mutual understanding while he was running for re-election, they kept their distance and communicated mostly through Cyrus about the campaign. Every now and then, they were able to find time to talk, time that usually lasted for several hours. It kept them going during the long separation.
Next, she sits down and practices her deep breathing exercises. Her way of unwinding. Her way of bringing herself back from the brink, slowly.
Olivia is thirty-six. Single. In love with a married man. When she was a child, she read all of the classics she could get her hands on. Believed in fairytales and everylasting love. Hoped to one day find her prince and she swore that if she did, she would never let him go. Somewhere along the way, life had beaten her down so much, she lost the youthful optimism of a child and replaced it with the cynicism that comes with age and experience.
She smirks as she opens a bottle of wine, her third action of every night. She sits on her sofa and thinks about that little girl with the glasses and unquenchable thirst for knowledge. The child who would get lost in her imagination, whose parents often admonished her to "pay attention" and forget about her "silly imagination" because those kinds of dreams, they don't come true for someone like her. Instead, she should expend her energy on becoming better than everyone else. Twice as good, at least.
Her parents. She takes a long swig from the bottle. It's been that kind of day and for some reason, her mind has been filled with thoughts of them. Would they be proud? Has she exceeded all of their expectations? Has she even met her own?
It's thoughts like this that explain why she works as hard and as often as she does. If she moves fast enough and often enough, her thoughts won't be able to catch up with her and make her question all of her decisions and who she is as a woman. Work is almost enough, but she cannot forgot the thing she most wants to forget; the thing she most needs – him.
She misses him, but they still have that connection. If she closes her eyes, she can see him in the Oval Office, tie loosened, feet propped on his desk, scotch in his tumbler, reading some sort of briefing. He has a meeting in the morning with his national security team. She smiles, knowing she has a better handle on his schedule than he. They'd gotten into the habit of sharing their schedules with one another, a small thing, but something to keep them connected.
Her fourth action is to check her e-mail from her phone. She's almost disappointed when there's nothing urgent calling for her attention. So she drinks some more; drinks until she's mellow. Until the thoughts in her head are incoherent and jumbled because then, she knows she'll be able to sleep. Pass out is more accurate, but it's the only way she knows she'll make it through the night.
There will be no fifth action on this night. No popcorn or news. Tonight, she will curl into a ball on her sofa, cradling a bottle, dreaming of the life she so desperately wants.
While many of his classmates went on to build upon their already great wealth, Fitz was always drawn to the people who built their lives from nothing. In college and law school, he fit in with the legacy crowd, but felt most at home with the kids who struggled, and it's those he's kept in touch with most over the years.
He met Melissa Scott in the law library during his first year of law school. He'd seen her there almost every night at the same table, hunched over a book and whispering to herself, some sort of memorization technique she'd mastered. He also noticed her coat that was too thin for the harsh New England weather, her scarf that was tattered, her shoes which were worn.
While he was studying her, she looked up and their eyes connected. She looked away quickly, pulling her scarf more tightly around her neck. He approached, sat, and opened his book. They studied for the rest of the night without saying anything.
This routine continued for the next few weeks, neither saying anything. Then, in the wee hours of a Saturday morning when the library was mostly empty, her stomach growled. Loudly.
"Oh, excuse me." She covered her stomach with her hand, as though it would stop it from making the sounds it continued to make for the next several minutes.
He closed his books and extended his hand, "Come on."
"Where?"
"I'll buy you a late dinner or early breakfast. Your choice."
That was the beginning of their friendship, the frequent coffee breaks and occasional meals. She wasn't very open and trust wasn't something she gave freely. Over time, she opened up.
She was from Chicago, the South Side. The only child left of a family that once had three, the other two were killed during a robbery that went wrong. She decided at a young age that she would escape and bring her family with her. Harvard Law School was her ticket out.
She's gone on to become one of the best lawyers in her field and when thinking of her, Fitz can't help admiring who she was then, and who she is now. Though both live in DC, she's always avoided the political scene, calling it a neverending "dog and pony" show; lots of pomp and circumstance, little action.
Fitz knows her phone number by heart and he also knows that even though it's well past midnight, she's still at the office. He doesn't give himself time to talk himself out of calling her as he picks up the phone and dials.
"This is Melissa Scott."
"Ms. Scott."
"Fitzgerald Thomas Grant the Third. Don't you have a country to run?"
"Don't you have some high profile marriages to dissolve?"
"I do. So, to what do I owe this call?"
"Still don't like to do small talk, do you?"
"I'm a busy woman."
Melissa was known for two things: discretion and winning. Despite the reputation of some divorce lawyers as sharks, sliming the opposition, then squeezing them for every dime they could get, Melissa is in some ways the opposite and equally successful. She is usually the smartest person in the room with all the cards to play because she doesn't just take any case. She used to brag about how well she could read people, and demonstrated her gift one night by telling Fitz his life story just by observing him and listening to his voice. She never takes cases from people she doesn't believe in. She represents clients who are usually the underdog, the scorned wife, for example, and calmly and rationally beats the other side into submission. The records are always sealed and she walks away with a hefty payday, and another chapter in her book of legendary victories.
"Fitz?"
"Do you know a good divorce lawyer?"
He can hear the sharp intake of breath and knows she's thinking of their latenight conversation, shortly after she'd met Mellie. It would never work, she said. Mellie wasn't his type, which he knew. She wasn't her own person. She would cling, Melissa warned. Suffocate. She wouldn't love because she'd never seen it, never experienced it. She was raised as a prize mare, groomed for a singular purpose: to find the perfect man to continue her family's blue bloodline.
All things Fitz knew, but for reasons she could never quite understand, he thought he could live with her. The alternative, disappoinging Big Gerry and dealing with his wrath was just too much. By then, she suspected Fitz had given up hope for any true happiness of his own.
She asked him, the day before he proposed to Mellie, if he could live with it? If he could really live the rest of his life unloved, unloving, just getting by?
His answer, "What choice do I have?"
She will never forget the look of total dejection on his face as he left her that night, or the pure agony that's been there ever since. Except for a few moments here and there when he's been genuinely happy.
"Melissa."
"I never thought I'd see the day. I'd hoped. What was the final straw?"
"I fell in love."
"Ah, yes, Olivia Pope. You're finally going to make a honest woman out of her?"
"How did you-"
"I have eyes, Fitz. When she was working on your campaign, there was a change in you. Not the candidate – you. You forget I know your real smile. Even your first State of the Union address felt different." She pauses, "Plus, Olivia and I go way back – and no, she didn't tell me anything, but I know my friend."
"You know people."
"That's right. So tell me, why now?"
"First, will you help me?"
"Is that even a question?"
Fitz and Melissa speak for at least two more hours. Mostly Fitz.
From the moment he saw Olivia, he knew she would change his life forever. Standing in front of him in a room full of "yes" men and women, and telling him the truth about himself, he knew he'd found the woman who would challenge him to be a better man. And he would rise to that occasion. It was never about the thrill of the chase of getting the young, brilliant, attractive woman who was out of his league in so many ways, it was about being with the woman who was meant for him.
Melissa listened patiently as he told her about the many times they'd broken each other's heart, only to come together again with more empty promises. She cried as she listened to him talk of his youngest child's conception; a child born for optics and not out of love. He had to imagine it was Olivia's body beneath him and no matter how hard he squeezed his eyes shut, it felt so wrong; he was betraying her. He cried while he had sex with his wife, his heart breaking all over again. Mellie simply complained when his tears landed on her shoulders and rolled off, soaking the sheets.
He needs to do this, to be the first sitting President to divorces his wife while still in office. Olivia would tell him to wait, that there's a time for them to be together and it's only four more years. She would say it in her sweet, gentle way where she wouldn't blame him. But he would hear the pain in her voice and see the tears she tried to hide.
She's never truly believed that he loves her as much as he says he does. If he did, he'd fight harder. He would sacrifice something. Instead, they somehow end up with more time slipping away and more distance between them.
So, this is his way of proving to her that she is the most important person in his life. Words mean nothing given all the times they've said they love each other, then separated at the slightest hint of trouble. He will go through with this divorce, and he will make Olivia fall in love with him again.
"You know you'll have to stay away from her until the divorce is final."
"That's not possible."
"Fitz-"
"Melissa, you don't know what it's like being without her. I'll be fair with Mellie, I'll be more than fair, but Olivia's waited long enough."
He can practically hear the wheels turning through the telephone. This is messier work than she likes. But she remembers the curly-haired young man who bought her meals when she needed them, provided friendship when she wanted it, and believed in her when no one else would.
"Can you carve out a couple hours for me tomorrow around noon?"
"Done. Melissa, thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. I'll see you tomorrow."
At nearly three o'clock in the morning, a jolt of energy surges through Olivia's body, causing her to sit straight up in bed. She's used to nightmares waking her in the middle of the night. This time, it's different. It's not fear she's feeling. It's serenity.
She wants to question it, let her gut provide the answer and if she wasn't so tired, she would let her brain run through all the possible reasons until it landed on the right one. Tonight, her gut tells her to relax. So she leans against her pillow and falls into the deepest sleep she's had in a very, very long time.