Friday, December 19th, 2003
West Manhattan Obstetrics and Gynecology
9:18 AM
Olivia Benson
Fate is a story written by an anonymous writer.
I can't help but stare at one of the many supposed motivational posters canvased on the wall of the OB/GYN's office, almost as if it, too, is staring back at me, mockingme in such a devious way. I've been dreading this appointment for the last week, and in my internal fit of rage and panic, my mind focuses on whether or not this stupid poster was laughing back at me, telling me, how stupid can you be for not being more careful?
You made your bed; now lie in it.
In my defense, it was one of the hundreds of other times it had happened. One goddamn time the two of us weren't foolproof in avoiding what we knew could happen. And because of that, I now sit here, half exposed on an exam room table, a piece of white crinkle paper sticking to my sweating thighs.
I had all the symptoms that any 28-year-old woman in a committed, long-term relationship should have. My OB, Dr. Norris, had rattled them off to me like he was reading the ingredients on the back of a cereal box.
Nausea? Yes, but only in the evening. When I get home from work, I may as well camp in the bathroom for the remainder of the night. For three or four nights, I've laid on the cold tile floor, wishing my stomach would settle long enough to keep down even a glass of water.
Swollen, tender breasts? The worst. I cannot stand to wear a bra for more than a few hours at a time. It's even becoming a struggle to clasp them all of the way. I've only noticed that as of this morning. I've been the same cup size since my senior year of high school.
Food aversions? Without a doubt. Though, my lifestyle has never allowed me to eat 3 square meals a day properly.
Exhaustion? Sure. What member of the NYPD isn't burnt out? That's part of the job. We accept that when we sign up.
Headaches? Unbearable. Even the fluorescent lights inside the squad room trigger a migraine. Heartburn? Mhm. I've been eating Tums like Halloween candy. Hot flashes? No, I seem to be a lot colder now than I ever have been before. Spotting? Cramping? Yes, and yes. That's why I didn't even pay much attention to this at first; I thought the pain that I was experiencing was my oncoming period. They've been unkind to me since I was a teenager.
The next question is when everything began to feel real.
Missed period?
"Yes," I admit, once I settle the battle in my head that the spotting and cramping were just symptoms of this newfound theory and, indeed, was not my period. I bury my head in my hands, feeling so ashamed and embarrassed. I couldn't believe that I was here, answering questions like this. I was trying my best to hold it together, as my phone kept buzzing in the pocket of my black dress pants that I had folded up and stuck on the chair in the corner of the exam room. The chair that is reserved for a supportive spouse, but you don't have one of those, do you?
No one loves you. That's why you're going through this alone.
"How many days late are you?" My mind wanders back to Dr. Norris, the bleak expression on his face, clipboard in one hand, pen in the other.
"3 weeks and four days, to be exact." I've done the math a thousand times to ensure it was as accurate as possible. We slept together the night of the policeman's ball, in hopes of reconciling. Damn, he looked good. He could wear the hell out of a tuxedo. I felt beautiful that evening. All night, we resisted the temptation to rip our clothes off each other. In a fit of love, hurry, and passion, so much goddamn passion, we had somehow forgotten to use a condom. It was an honest mistake.
I promise, doctor if you tell me that I'm not pregnant, I will never have unprotected sex again.
"Olivia, have you taken a home pregnancy test?" He raises a brow, concern growing across his face. He fumbles through my lengthy medical history attached to the clipboard before him. How could you be so sure? Maybe it's just stress. You're making a bigger deal out of this than you need to. And on today, of all days? You should be ashamed of yourself.
I bite down on my bottom lip. "No, I haven't. I didn't want my mom to find it accidentally."
"I thought you and your, uh, boyfriend were living together? That's what you said at your last exam."
I ignore his question. "I meant to take one a few days ago, but I never got around to it."
"Is the supposed father the only man you've slept with?"
"Yes." But you're not the only girl he's slept with, isn't that right, Liv? You were responsible for pushing him into the arms of another woman. That's what you do best. You push people away.
"Is he planning on being in the picture?" My face falls flat at his question. My mouth curls, and an unwelcoming lump forms in my throat. "Does he even know you're here this morning?"
And that's when the tears begin to flow. I had tried my best to heed them, but it was unavoidable as I started thinking about how different my life had become in the past few weeks without him by my side. The man that I knew, the man that I fell in love with, would have been so excited to accompany me to this appointment today. Up until I walked into the exam room this morning, I wasn't even sure that I had wanted children. Brian used to tell me that we would buy a big house one day, far away from the hustle and bustle of life in the city, with like four or five bedrooms. We would get so sick of seeing all of them sit empty that we would have no choice but to fill them with children. Enough to field a baseball team was the exact quote that he used.
But not yet. Not at 28 years old.
And certainly not after I caught him cheating.
It was a blessing in disguise, I reasoned with myself, that I walked in on him sleeping with her. Though he said he was ready for everything I wanted — marriage, raising a family — he wanted to live in the moment and enjoy each day as it passed and not worry about what was to come. Maybe it was just a cop thing. We could be killed in the line of duty at any time. It was better not to think long-term if you were an officer of the NYPD. Me, I was always the person thinking long term. I had this notion that I was invincible. Nothing was ever going to happen to me.
Brian Cassidy was my future; with him went three years of my life. Three years of hard work, three years of promises, memories, hopes, dreams, and love, so much love that we had shared. I'll never escape the way that I used to feel about the man that I thought I knew inside out. This was my doing, not his. I drove him away. What other excuse did he have to fuck some blonde Barbie Doll bimbo in the bed that we had shared?
I pushed him away. I nagged too much, hoped too much, and wished too much. I was focused on my career too much. I expected too much out of him.
He wanted to get caught. He wanted me to walk in on them. He wanted to give me a big fuck you for trying to change him into a man that he wasn't.
I hated him, but I loved him, all in the same breath.
"I'm such an idiot," I choke out those words inaudibly through heavy sobs, the kind that makes you use your entire chest, the kind that can break anyone's heart. Pull yourself together, Olivia. You're a detective, for God's sake. Don't let him see you weak. You have worked too hard on your image for it to fall by the wayside here, of all places. "I'm so sorry."
"You have nothing to apologize for," he reminds me empathetically. "And you're not an idiot. You are exactly where you need to be." He scribbles a few more notes on the paper on his clipboard. "Try to relax for me, okay? I have the lab running your samples right now. If everything lines up timeline-wise with how you're telling me it does, we will be doing a vaginal ultrasound…."
I remember absorbing all of the words as he was saying them, looking on at me in pity. He felt sorry for me, which is more than what I felt for myself. I didn't feel anything for myself except regret and anger. I honestly got what I deserved.
You're getting what you want. Why are you angry?
When you're in high school, everyone tells you that you should have your life together by age 25. I remember sitting in my senior seminar class back then, thinking that 25 was old. Twenty-five had come and went, like seasons changing, and then 27 hit me like a wave crashing against a rock during a summer downpour, and now that I was 28, I didn't have anything together. The older I got, the more everything was falling apart.
What they don't prepare you for in high school, amongst other things, is that the world isn't ending if you don't have your shit figured out by a certain age. They don't teach you that putting such expectations on yourself is unrealistic. They don't prepare you for the stuck feeling that you experience as you watch all of your other friends move on with their lives; loving partners, stable careers, beautiful houses, a 401K, a dog out in the yard, all of the things that supposedly make you an adult. They don't prepare you to watch from the sidelines and cheer them on as each monumental life event occurs. They don't prepare you for the feeling that you feel while watching life pass you by, the feeling of being trapped in quicksand while you try to break free and rescue yourself from oblivion. Sooner or later, it begins to feel like life has gotten away from you, and you never have the same grasp on it as you had before. It's not fair.
I deserved good things. I deserved to be more than just the cheerleader. I deserved love and happiness. I deserved someone that loved me just as much as I loved them.
What was so hard about that? What was so hard about not letting me be happy?
Maybe being a mom wouldn't be the worst thing in the world. So what if I did something out of order? People do things out of order all of the time. Maybe I'll still have people around me that will love me and accept me and support me as a single mom.
"Olivia?" I hear a soft voice ask outside the exam room door, interrupting my inner monologue. She knocks once before I give her the okay to come inside. I'm panic-stricken when I see her dressed in cartoon character print scrubs, ultrasound machine in tow.
Holy shit. I was right. I am pregnant.
My life is over.
What is Cassidy going to say? I probably should call him…
"Hi," I parrot back in the same soft-spoken tone. I wipe a stray tear away from the corner of my eye.
"My name is Rachel, and I am going to be your ultrasound technician." She allows herself a few moments to sanitize her hands. "How are you feeling?"
I shrug. "Okay, I guess."
"I'm so sorry you had to wait so long. We're pretty backed up today," Rachel explains. "This is going to be a straightforward process. You're going to feel a bit of pressure…."
"Am I going to be able to hear a heartbeat today?"
Rachel smiles. "Why don't we just wait for Dr. Norris, okay?"
"Sure," I tell her. And then it hits me.
I don't even see him come in; I'm back to being in my world, overthinking all of my thoughts, going through the motions of laying down on the exam table, and having the lubricated wand stuck inside my body. As he looks at the screen on the ultrasound machine, he hangs his head and walks quickly to his small, leather stool in front of the block computer screen.
"Olivia," he speaks incoherently at first. He sighs heavily and turns his head to look into my eyes. Go ahead. Tell me what I already know you're going to say. As his eyes diverge from mine, I bring his attention back by making a noise of discomfort. I was hoping you could look me in the eyes when you took something away from me that I didn't even know I wanted.
Just fucking say it.
"I'm afraid I have some bad news."
Friday, December 19th, 2003
St. Michael Roman Catholic Church
Manhattan, New York
3:11 PM
Olivia Benson
It would take every ounce of strength to walk into the church this afternoon.
After my doctor's appointment, I slipped into the squad room without as much as a peep from my mouth. By the looks of it, the morning had been relatively quiet. I had played my absence off casually, and seeing the rows of empty desks from the other detectives who decided to take today and Monday off, my captain Donald Cragen, had urged me to do the same. I declined at first; my goal was to push paper around for at least a few hours to rid my mind of the series of events that had just unfolded in the OB's office.
Nearly 20 years later, I can still hear Dr. Norris' voice ringing in my ears, remembering clearly the words that he told me, ending a dream of mine that I had had since I was a little girl.
I'm so sorry, Olivia, but you're not pregnant. Based on the symptoms that you're experiencing, we think you are having something known as a hysterical pregnancy. It's prevalent in women your age, especially when they are under a great deal of stress. Sometimes, this is your body telling you to slow down. We did find a few things on your ultrasound, however, that we would like to discuss with you.
There is no easy way for me to say this, but not only are you not pregnant, Olivia, but I'm also afraid that you can't have children.
You have something that is called endometriosis. It's a common disease — about 40% of all women have it — but unfortunately, there is no cure. I can prescribe you birth control to alleviate the symptoms that you experience when you're menstruating, but that is all that we can do.
You have to be extremely careful even if you were to get pregnant, whether on accident or purpose; it would be tough for you to carry a child to full term.
I replay the words repeatedly in my head like a broken record as I feel my entire soul leave my body. I have tried to bury them away in the back of my mind like a dog buries its favorite bone, but the truth is, I was devastated.
As humans, we always want the things that we cannot have.
I knew deep down I would look back on this day as the day that changed my life. I had vowed in the cab ride down to the 1-6 that I would begin living my life for and only for me. I didn't need children, and I sure didn't need a man to make me happy. If and when either of those things did find their way into the story of my life, I would welcome the additions with open arms. You only get one life, and I would make the most of mine.
"Go home, Olivia. You have an important role to play these next few days. Amanda needs you — this is the last place you need to be."
So that's what I did. For the first time in nearly six years, I didn't put up an argument. I just went home.
Moving home with my mom was not anywhere in my 10-year plan. When we were going through the initial stages of our breakup, I told Cassidy I would be the one to leave. Though technically, both of our names were on the lease, and I was the one that paid the majority of the rent. I couldn't stomach coming home from work every day to a bed once soiled with what's-her-name's perfectly toned ass. Despite my mom's heavy handle on the bottle, I was safe from the embarrassment I knew I would feel each time I walked through that door. On the days that she was sober and put in some effort to be the mother I needed during my childhood, I was at least loved. And, on the days she wasn't, I would stay at work late and find shelter inside the station house cribs. Most days, my mom does not have the strength to put the bottle down, and I don't care much to spend time with her, so I end up working the most overtime of anyone on the squad; though, if I'm being honest, I had worked the same amount of overtime as I did when I was in a relationship with Brian. I had nothing to be ashamed of for wanting to move up the ladder in my department. I loved helping people. I love advocating for them — for the people who didn't have a voice. I found my true calling when I joined Special Victims Unit.
Quite frankly, the people in my squad were more of a family to me than my flesh and blood.
Walking through the threshold of our Manhattan sky-rise apartment, I could see the days of destruction left behind by my mother. Dishes were piled high in the sink, the garbage can overflowed, and empty bottles of vodka were strewn about haphazardly on the kitchen counter and inside the living room. My mother, Serena, was passed out upright in one of the reclining chairs, wearing what appeared to be the same outfit I'd seen her in when I left for work Tuesday morning. On the end table beside her laid an empty rocks glass with sticky remnants of leftover alcohol and a half-smoked pack of Misty cigarettes. I did my best to straighten up the kitchen without waking her, frantically scrubbing dishes and wiping off countertops, and taking out the garbage, trying to silence the clinking of the bottles as I carried the bags from the kitchen to the dumpster in the back of our building. I made a light lunch, and though I threw most of the contents away, I could stomach more than I had been days prior.
"Olivia darling, is that you?" Her voice is groggy from her deep slumber, and the execution is slurred. "Why aren't you at work? Is everything okay?"
I nod from a distance. "Everything is fine. Cragen gave us the afternoon off for Amanda and Sonny's wedding rehearsal."
"I forgot that was today." She smiles. "Do you need my help with anything? Do you want to borrow any jewelry? Any makeup? I could help you do your hair."
My mother was a complicated person. Our relationship had always been strained. I don't put the blame directly on either of us; she's always hated me, and most days, the feeling was mutual. My mom had fallen into wealth she had inherited from her parents after each had passed many years prior. She had spent most of her life as an English professor at Hudson University, devoting her years to enriching the minds of young adults. At home, however, she was a completely different person; manipulative, controlling, selfish, and abusive — both mentally and physically. Serena was raped in her early 20s, and I was the product of the unfortunate circumstance. Back then, abortion was illegal, and she had no choice but to try to raise me. She did her best to remind me daily that I was the worst thing that had ever happened to her and that she never truly loved me the way that a mother should love their daughter. She had her moments, but those good moments didn't excuse the other times that I would spend in my room feeling so alone.
My mom and her story — the tragic story of the rich girl that got everything she ever wanted in life but went through something that no one should ever have to face — is the reason that I became a sex crimes detective.
"I think I'm all set. Thanks, though," I tell her as I continue to my room. "I'm going to hop in the shower. I have to be at the church in a few hours, and I'm already running behind."
"Is Cassidy coming to pick you up?" I hear Serena get up from her chair and enter the kitchen. I ignore her question and enjoy the few moments that I have to myself, letting the scalding water hit my body in all of the places that ached. When I stir from the bathroom, a towel is wrapped around my body, and my hair hangs in my face, leaving a path of small water puddles behind me. "Olivia, did you hear what I asked?" I nod my head. "What time is Cassidy coming to pick you up?"
I had told her weeks ago that my impromptu stay was due to our recent breakup. Apartments were hard to come by in Manhattan, and with a job that took up most of my time, I didn't have the availability to shop around the city, trying to find a place that felt more like home than the place I'd spent my entire adolescence in. I'm sad that her brain doesn't remember all it used to, due to years of alcohol abuse. I place my hand on my hip and breathe a low, "Mother, Cassidy and I broke up almost eight weeks ago."
She shakes her head and reclines back in her chair. "Such a shame. I don't know what you did this time, Olivia. I liked him."
So did I. "We just wanted different things. That's all."
"If that's your story," she says in a sing-song voice. "Good luck ever finding someone that loves you enough to put up with your shit."
I stomp down the hall and retreat to my back bedroom, slamming the door obnoxiously behind me.
Olivia Benson, if you slam that door again, you won't have a door!
That was always her favorite thing to say to me as a teenager. But I was 28 now. And I was a police officer.
She couldn't touch me if she tried.
I lock the door to give myself some much-needed privacy. I learned to block out her drunk comments, and hateful spews a long time ago, but today, her words stung differently. They hurt.
I didn't need this shit from her today, especially given the morning that I'd had.
I take my time getting ready; I dry and curl my hair, styling the brunette locks to frame my face. In the academy, I had to keep it short, so this was the first time since I was 22 that it fell past my shoulders. I completed my everyday makeup routine — modest for the church, I remember Amanda telling me late yesterday evening. Noticing the time on my watch next to me on my vanity, I dressed hastily in a black romper purchased months ago in some swanky boutique uptown. It was made of satin material and had a halter neckline, with a matching belt tied around my waist. I paired the jumpsuit with my favorite black pumps and small gold hoop earrings. I did a quick surveillance around my bedroom to ensure I had everything I needed for this weekend. Maid of honor dress, heels, robe, pajamas, two changes of clothes, makeup, curling iron, phone charger, hairbrush, toiletries… I'd said the list over and over again in my head to make sure that I wasn't missing anything.
Emerging from my room, I slowly walk past my mom, walking on the tips of my shoes, not wanting to wake her up and deal with her bullshit again. "You look like you're going to a goddamn funeral," were the words she left me with that afternoon, returning immediately to her half-drunken slumber.
It's unfair that the most terrible women can become mothers, and the decent people longing for children have the most difficulty achieving that dream.
Today was not the day to throw a pity party for me. I knew I would eventually forget about this ordeal and be ready to move on. Hell, I probably wouldn't even tell Amanda until well after her signature was dried on her marriage certificate.
Approaching the altar and focusing on something other than Serena Benson and the sound of Dr. Norris' voice, I see her standing in disarray. Her face reads excitement, but her body screams, I'm on the verge of a panic attack. My best friend, the woman that had been my partner literally and figuratively for the better half of 5 years, looks stunning. She wears bride well, standing in a white, satin, spaghetti strap dress with a slit up the right side of her leg and her exposed, open back. Modest. Sure. Carisi was going to have a heart attack when he saw her. Though I am glad for her and have been since they announced their impending nuptials in the squad room to all of us nearly two years ago, I can't help but feel a twinge of jealousy. Amanda Rollins was the last person that I ever thought would get married, and now that that day was almost here, I can't help but feel like I'm losing my best friend in this weird kind of way. I've lost so much these past few weeks, and now, I was losing her too.
"I'm so sorry I'm late!" I exclaim as I shove my coat and purse into the empty pew next to where I stand. "Put me to work. How can I help?" Amanda finishes tying an emerald green bow on the end of the pew next to where she stands, some-odd feet away from me, ignoring my offer. "I am more than happy to control some of the chaos."
"Oh, thank God. Liv," she announces, turning her body towards me. "I am so happy you're here." Amanda throws her arms around me and wraps me into a tight hug. "I was starting to freak out when I didn't see you at work this morning. Is everything okay?"
You have no idea.
"Absolutely," I tell her, fighting the voice that wants to tell her the truth. "I just had a few things to take care of." I can feel a lump form in my throat, and I swallow hard. Everything wasn't okay, but I didn't mind pretending for her. "Cragen ended up sending me home anyway."
"Yeah, tell me about it. I had paperwork to finish from the Ramirez case, and he sent me home almost immediately after they were finished," she chuckles. "I can't believe you listened. No offense, but I thought you would be the last one here."
"See, the thing is," I tell her, scratching the top of my head. "I am trying this new thing where I actually listen to other people's advice."
"Only took five years," she smiles. "You'll always be stubborn. That's what I love about you."
"Yeah, yeah," I say as I wrap my arm around her waist and pull her in for an awkward side hug.
"So, where were you this morning?" Silence. "Please don't tell me you were playing house with Brian Cassidy the morning of my wedding rehearsal."
I shudder at the thought. "I'm sorry, I think I just threw up a bit in my mouth." I wave her off as she ties another bow on one of the pews. "You, go… sit down or something. It's the day before your wedding. You shouldn't be lifting a finger."
"I can't help it!" She squeals in delight. "I want to make sure everything is perfect. The church is Carisi's dream, and I want to make sure it's beautiful."
The church didn't need much to make it any more beautiful than it already was. The architecture and years of wear and tear added so much character already. "I know, but sit down or something, Rollins. You're making me antsy, and I'm not even the one getting married tomorrow."
She lets a beaming smile escape her lips. "I can't believe it's happening." She reminds me of a child on Christmas morning. There's so much wonder in her eyes, and containing her excitement is next to impossible.
"It's finally here," I smile back as she subtly kicks the half-empty Rubbermaid container full of the remaining pew bows and a slew of altar candles toward me. She sits in one of the open pews and turns her entire body to face me. She places both hands on the back of the pew and crosses them, carefully resting her chin on top. "I am so happy for you two."
"I wouldn't have survived these past 18 months without you," she reminds me. "Seriously, Liv. You're the best best friend a girl could ever hope for and a kick-ass maid of honor."
"I hated you the first time I met you." I don't know where those words came from or why they decided to roll off of my tongue at that exact moment, as naturally as they had done. It's not a lie — I couldn't stand her the first time I met her. She was so pompous, always ready to pick a fight with the other detectives, was so relentless in her approach to each case, and put up a wall 50 feet high as a defense mechanism that none of us could break down. Amanda Rollins, back then, thought that she knew everything. It took me putting her in her place one day outside of the interrogation room at the precinct for her to finally get the hint that her bad bitch act wouldn't fly in the 1-6. I told her she had to keep her nose clean, follow procedures to the letter to avoid repeated offenses, and let one of us in. I didn't care who she let her guard down to — but on days like today, I was glad it was me. She's been on a better path ever since. Much like myself, however, she was so passionate about her job that she would go to the extreme to get justice for our victims. Going back to her old habits was sometimes unavoidable, and I learned long ago that sometimes, you had to bend the rules just a little. Amanda had let me into the parts of her life that made her feel most vulnerable — things she tucked away when she moved to New York and the details of her story that she found embarrassing. By letting me in, it made way for her to eventually allow Carisi in and call the parts of herself that she found ugly, beautiful. She'd evolved so much over these past few years, and I was lucky to call her my partner.
She and Carisi met when Cragen brought him in from Staten Island's homicide unit. Special Victims Unit, or sex crimes, as other members of the NYPD call our division, was done voluntarily. Carisi had been having problems with a few of his former squad members, and Cragen accepted the transfer with open arms. Carisi — Dominick is his real name, but most people call him Sonny — he is a fantastic detective, but unlike myself and Amanda, he didn't see this panning out long term for him. He dreams of practicing law and, one day, becoming an assistant district attorney. To lose him, too, would be a tragedy, but we knew that it would only be a matter of time before he finished up night classes at NYU and passed the bar. I could picture him in a courtroom more than I could be sitting behind Cragen's desk.
Amanda is five years his junior. A love affair that they tried to keep quiet at first; the two had been head over heels for one another since we all gathered around the whiteboard in the bullpen of the squad room, sharing the information from a new case that we had been assigned nearly four years ago. The two complement each other so well and have since the first time they told us they were indeed dating. Carisi doesn't mind the age difference, and the cradle robbing jokes had fallen to the wayside pending their upcoming union. Sonny Carisi and Amanda Rollins were the best people the universe had ever placed in my life. I'm thankful for them each day.
And now we were less than 24 hours away from their wedding.
Amanda bites her lip. "I know you did," she murmurs. "I didn't give you many reasons to like me. I gave you about a hundred reasons not to trust me."
"Look at us now," I tell her, glancing over my shoulder and offering a small smile. "Who would have thought?"
"Not me," she breaks into a fit of laughter, crossing her right leg over her left and smoothing out her dress. "I never thought that you and I would develop the relationship that we have. I'm so thankful for it. I owe you so much." She smiles. "You are the one that introduced me to the love of my life after all."
"I remember it like it was yesterday." I sigh. Time is a thief. "Besides, that's what partners do for each other."
"I'm blessed to have the best one," she says, placing the heel of her Christian Louboutin pumps on the hardwood floor of the church. After a few moments of silence between us, she softly mumbles, "…your bow is a little…crooked."
"Oh, please don't start," I beg her. "This is not going to be another ribbon-tying fiasco." I think back to that night at Amanda recruited Cassidy and me to pull an all-nighter at her and Carisi's apartment to tie gold ribbons around cellophane bags filled to the brim with chocolate-covered Oreos for her bridal shower. My fingers had blisters for a few days following that escapade. "I'm not crafty."
"Fair enough," she reasons, letting out a small huff. "Have you talked to Carisi today? He wasn't at the precinct when I was there this morning…, and I know you got there much later than I did…."
"Amanda," I warn.
"What? I'm just nervous, that's all. It's my anxiety getting the best of me. You know I'm not normally like this."
I sigh. "Yeah, I saw him, but only for a moment in passing," I say, hoping that answer would suffice. When it doesn't, I tell her, "he and Amaro were finishing prepping for their cross with Alex. They wanted to get it out of the way since it's the day after you guys get back from your honeymoon." Amanda shakes her head. "Why… haven't you talked to him?"
"Briefly this afternoon," she says.
"He'll be here," I reassure her. "I promise."
We continue to banter back and forth for about 15 minutes until various family members and wedding party members begin to arrive. Carisi's mom, Serafina, and sisters Bella, Gina, and Theresa promptly take over the pew bow task. Amanda asks them several times if they've heard from our missing groom, to which his mom replies that he called her 20 or so minutes ago to tell her that he and his best man were finishing up at the cigar lounge. Amanda wasn't too happy once she heard that, though in some twisted way, she understood their need to bond. After Carisi and Amanda not-so-politely decided to kick Cassidy out of the wedding party, Carisi had to scramble to find a replacement best man at the last minute. One of his old Marine buddies and his former partner from the homicide unit that he kept in contact with was happy to accept the position and stand next to him on his wedding day. He was like a brother to me are the exact words that he told Amanda when she asked who would be filling in for the man that had been his partner for close to half a decade. He and the replacement hadn't seen each other in almost three years; they'd kept in touch when Carisi left homicide, but after 9/11, his friend re-enlisted in the Marines. They had a lot of catching up to do. Weddings, rehearsals, and all of the planning that goes into making sure this day lived up to the hype are overly stressful. I watch as Amanda paces back and forth down the aisle of the church, with a worrisome look on her face as the time creeps closer to 4 o'clock.
"Don't do this to me today, please," I hear her mumble. Her voice sounds shaky, as if, at any moment, she would break down and cry and cancel this entire thing.
As more members of Carisi's family begin to arrive, I attempt to pre-occupy her and bring her to the back of the church to brief her soon-to-be niece, Mia, on the ever-important task of being the flower girl. Her only job tomorrow was to make it down the aisle. I'd spent enough time with her to know that she's testy and likes to pout, and I made a mental note in the back of my mind to bring candy in case it needed to be used as a bargaining tool. Amanda insisted that she practice with fake flower petals this evening, and I began to stuff them into the small satin basket as members of our squad began to arrive.
"Still no groom, huh?" I hear Nick Amaro ask as his wife and young daughter walk ahead of him and sit in one of the open pews near the front of the altar.
"He's 'on his way'," I say sarcastically, using air quotes as needed.
"How's Rollins doing?"
"She's a mess," I tell him, glancing over at her and Mia, who now embrace each other in loving words. "I don't know why he had to do this today, of all days."
"Cross was.. brutal… today, and you know. It's a complicated case, Liv. He's lost a lot of sleep over this one. That, and the stress leading up to all of this. It's like oil and water. Doesn't mix well."
By this point, the priest has made his way out of the sacristy and has joined in on the worry. There are a few last-minute details that they have to go over by the time that rehearsal is set to begin, and with Amanda not being raised Catholic, she doesn't know the correct answer for any of them.
Do you want parents and grandparents to be seated 5 minutes before the wedding party processional begins? It's standard. That's what most couples do. I don't know.
Will you be visiting the Blessed Mother? I have no idea.
We are still serving communion, yes? If that's what Sonny wants, sure. Let me ask him. Oh, wait. I can't. He's not here yet. And frankly, Father, I don't know if he will ever be here.
As I hear him continue to ask her question after question, fumbling through their marriage certificate and other important documents that he placed in front of her, I sit in a vacant pew behind the members of SVU.
"These things never start on time." Cragen is the first to speak amongst all of us.
"Yeah, but because of guests, not because of the groom," Fin replies. "Carisi doesn't know his way out of a Cracker Jack box half the time."
Are your readers here? I hear Father Anthony ask her.
"I don't know, Father, but I do know that my fiancé who made me convert religions for this is not."
When the questioning ends, Amanda retreats to the pew in which I'm seated, as the priest advises everyone to hang out for a bit while we figure out our next steps until Carisi and his best man show up. It's a few minutes past 4, and Amanda is growing more anxious by the second. With dinner reservations being at 5:30, I'm afraid we will never make it on time. Those of us with cell phones are frantically leaving voicemail after voicemail to a phone that only rings twice and rapidly sending $0.12 text messages. Amanda looks ready to bolt, and I'm standing at this point, prepared to do damage control, when John Munch, of all people, speaks up.
"Carisi says he is stuck in traffic. He will be here in the next few minutes."
Amanda lets out a sigh of relief. I know, on the surface, that she would forgive him the moment he walks through those doors. Knowing her, though, she will never let him live this down. "I am going to kill Elliot," she says, closing her eyes and rubbing her fingers on her temples. "I should have never let him pick Carisi up."
"That's the replacement best man, right?"
"Yeah," Amanda scoffs, placing her hand on her hip. "The replacement best man. You know," she tells me, shaking her head, "he always pictured Cassidy standing next to him at the altar." I take her words as a jab to the heart. I couldn't help that he cheated on me. Carisi and Cassidy had worked side by side on hundreds of cases and bonded over everything from their Italian heritage to the New York Knicks. The only reason I ever went out with Cassidy was because Carisi vouched for him and told me to give him a chance because he was a great guy. What a fucking lie that was.
"Well, I'm glad he was available then," I mumble. "How well do you know him? Elliot, I mean."
"Well enough to know that he's trouble. I swear to God; they always do this shit when they're together."
"He's not a good person?" I ask, watching as her frustration grows.
"What's it matter, Liv? Are you going to sleep with this guy too?"
Another jab. I keep telling myself she's just frustrated and doesn't mean any hateful words spewing from her mouth. She and I do a few breathing exercises together, trying with all of my might to calm her down.
I replay the words over again in my head. What's it matter, Liv? It matters because this guy — this Elliot character — is supposed to be my second in command tomorrow to help me ensure everything goes smoothly.
Trouble, I can do. Unreliable, I cannot.
"What can I do to help, Amanda?" I ask, throwing my hands and letting them fall at my side. "Can I do anything?"
"Can you just… I don't even know." She's at a loss for words. "Can you call the restaurant and tell them we may be late? It took weeks for me to get that reservation, and I don't want them to cancel it."
"Sure," I say, nodding my head. "But uh, I'm going to need to borrow your phone. Mine is out of minutes."
"Jesus Christ, Olivia," she tells me. "Get your shit together."
"I'm trying." And I mean it. As she hands me her cell phone, I reassure her several times that it will all be okay and that he will be here soon. This will be a story that we will look back on in a couple of years and laugh at. She doesn't buy it, and I retreat to the back of the church, away from the commotion of the side-bar conversations everyone finds themselves in. No sooner do I begin to dial the number on the business card from the event planner that Amanda had handed me that I see one of the bulky, double doors open. Carisi and the man I'm assuming is this infamous Elliot, barge through, considerably out of breath. "Rollins is going to kill you!" I whisper loudly to him as he kisses me on the cheek. He reeks of leftover cigar smoke, and the residue on my cheek has a slight hint of bourbon.
"I know, Benson. I already know what else you're going to say to me. Save it, okay? I'm sorry." Both men make the sign of the cross before they move further into the nave. I hang up the phone after letting it ring a few times and escort Carisi and Elliot over to where the rest of the wedding party and family members are seated.
"Baby, hey, I'm so sorry," he says, kissing Amanda on the forehead. "You look beautiful," he growls in her ear. "Incredibly sexy."
"It's okay," she smiles, the worry beginning to melt from her face. "I was so scared… I am so glad you're here."
"Of course," he chuckles. "Why wouldn't I be, silly girl? I love you, and I can't wait to marry you… Mrs. Carisi."
She smiles softly at his loving re-affirmations as I sit in the first row of pews. The stranger slides in next to me and slips his jacket over the edge of the pew.
"There are a few things that Father Anthony wants to go over with us before we start." Carisi nods and takes his fiancé by the hand, escorting her up the altar steps. I lean back in my seat and let out an exaggerated sigh, closing my eyes and taking a few deep breaths.
"It's all my fault. I'm so sorry," I hear the stranger say to me. "Dominick and I haven't seen each other in years, and I thought it might be a good idea to let him have some fun before the craziness begins."
I open my eyes at his voice and notice that he is tucked in considerably closer to me. I scoot to give myself a bit of personal space and fish around my purse for a claw clip. My nerves have worked my body into a pool of sweat, and my once-styled hair is clinging to the sides of my face. I wave him off as I clip my hair into a low bun. "No worries."
Upon first glance, Elliot takes my breath away. My chest suddenly feels closed in, and my heart rate is elevated. His deep cerulean eyes begin to dance over my body, giving me a once over. My first impression is that he's handsome — a very well-put-together man. His brunette hair is cut into a high and tight style, and he wears a charcoal gray colored button-up dress shirt and black dress pants. The shirt masks his broad shoulders and large biceps — more defined, as he clinches his hands on the back of the pew before him, allowing them to fade white. A wide smile is plastered on his face, highlighting his high cheekbones and structured jawline. It's not often that I get butterflies, but they were making a one-night-onlyappearance, doing cartwheels in the pit of my stomach.
"I'm Elliot Stabler," he tells me, extending his hand across his chest for me to shake.
Elliot Stabler. I liked how his name rolled off my tongue as I said it back in my head. "Olivia Benson," I tell him, exchanging a firm handshake. I was taken aback by the empty spot on his left ring finger where a wedding band would lay.
"You're Amanda's maid of honor, right?" he asks as I run my hands down the side of my romper, ridding away the remnants of sweat.
"I am," I gulp, breathing in the scent of the leftover cigar, the bourbon, and his strong designer cologne. "You're Carisi's best man, huh?"
"Yes," he tells me, diverting his attention to the altar. "We served in the Marines together. In Kuwait. He was my partner when we were in homicide together too."
"Cool."
Cool? That was the only word that I let flow from my mouth. I couldn't believe it. I was humiliated.
But why did it matter? Once tomorrow was over, I'd never have to see this guy again. Why does it matter so much that I wanted to make a good first impression? That I wanted him to like me? Why did I care what he thought of me?
The long answer? It mattered because Carisi spoke so highly of him and had even referred to him as a brother. He was the best friend of one of my very dear friends. And, Carisi had been like a brother to me ever since he started at SVU. Carisi knows that come tomorrow, when he marries Amanda, he is marrying me too. We're a package deal. Maybe that's how he felt about Elliot. Maybe Elliot is his Amanda. It mattered because I loved both of them — Sonny Carisi and Amanda Rollins — and I wanted to make sure that his friend felt welcomed with all of us and that he fit, even if only for this weekend, into our little family: the people that felt the same way I did about Carisi and Rollins.
The short answer? Elliot Stabler was hot, had no wedding ring, and would make the perfect rebound.