Episode 10: Cuz I Love You

(Flashback)

"You're good. You know things about me. But me? You don't know me."

"But I do see you."

"You should stop looking. I—"

"Look at me."

/Six years ago, early October/

"It's Ok. I've got it."

Reeling from the abrupt turn of events, Fitz valiantly tried to mitigate the detritus left in the wake of a once pregnant moment on the edge of possibility, now disemboweled. Her leaving disappeared the sun from the horizon as dusk turned blue, and with it a cold realization.

"I've still gotta come behind you and clean up, make sure there are no tiny pieces of glass about. October may have entered the chat, but people are still out here wearing open-toed shoes. So, this is a major safety hazard," Jason, one of the servers on duty that Tuesday evening, admonished. "As much as I appreciate you trying to be responsible for your mess, it's really a hindrance." His chin rested on the top of the broom, as his gazed fixed upon the squatting man in front of him. "Just let me—"

Fitz had gathered up what he could, looking down at the stained pieces in his palm, expecting answers from splinters. How did a temperate October evening shatter so unexpectedly, with a crying woman fleeing so desperately she left her suit jacket behind?

"Sure. I was… I was trying to help." Fitz moved to stand up again.

"Like I said, there's a protocol we have to follow when accidents like this happen. This isn't your mess now. Why don't you just go downstairs and get another drink."

Desolation's sound was deafening. So much so that Fitz had barely registered the words coming out of Jason's mouth, nor when he had dropped the jacket over his arm.

"Cinderella left this behind."

/Three weeks before/

"Will that be all?"

Olivia had spent just over an hour, in painstaking detail, regaling Cyrus with the third quarter outcomes and fourth quarter trajectory for Divorce and Family Law, over which she ruled. Her hands were poised to springboard her from the burgundy, tufted leather club chair. With only three days a week spent in the offices of Wannamaker & Beene, Olivia's focus was rigorous, her 16-hour schedules planned with military exactness. This meeting with Cyrus was overextended.

"Great job, Liv. More of this," said Cyrus.

Olivia returned a tight-lipped smile, finding in his phrasing a barely concealed sting. Olivia reversed course to face Cyrus, her hands parked in front of her, eyebrows raised in preparation.

"You've led DFL to be forty-three percent of our revenue, more than any of the other three departments. That Grant divorce alone…" Cyrus trailed off in brief reverence to the impressive sum. "Not to mention the business it created for us." He tapped his pen on his desk, absentmindedly looking off for a moment before returning to the fact that Liv was still in the room. "How are things? With Edison's campaign?"

"Busy. He's doing very well, of course, but it is a critical time. Many a campaign has been undone heading into October. We're being vigilant to keep things on course."

"I know. About that…"

Just as she suspected. Cyrus never paused when there was good news. She waited for Cyrus to say whatever bad news he had.

"We need you here, Liv. More. We need you here more."

"Cyrus, I… We talked about this months ago. We agreed—"

"Months ago, being the operative phrase. Weeks, I expected. When weeks turned into months—that's harder to sustain. I know the campaign draws to a close soon, but then there'll be the transition and he'll need you for more. Don't fool yourself. I worry this will snowball. DFL needs your leadership now to realize its true potential. Your true potential."

She was tired all the time. Serving in two positions—one of which was unpaid and unofficial—the fuse of Olivia's tolerance was very short, countenancing no criticism in this moment.

"You have it. A minute ago, you were all praises and in rapture over the value my team adds to this firm. I have not dropped the ball on a single case, and I know who's handling which clients and exactly how many hours they should be billed. I may only physically be here three days a week, but I am one hundred percent dedicated. That you cannot deny."

Cyrus was undeterred by her argument. "Your dedication is not in doubt. It's your presence, or lack thereof. Making partner? Your not being here is dimming your partner-track shine. Liv, you know as much as I do how important facetime is for morale, including the firm's obligations outside these walls. We need you here."

"But Edison needs me there, with him. Cyrus, seven more weeks and it's over. I thought we discussed this," Olivia persisted.

"I think you need to decide if you want to be a girlfriend-cum-political advisor, or if the ring of Wannamaker, Beene & Pope still has appeal. Time is of the essence. I'm only looking out for your best interest, Liv."

There was little use continuing the argument. Cyrus made himself plain. All Olivia could do was to show her intentions. "Duly noted." A steely film descended over her eyes, like blinds drawn for privacy. With her hands now behind her back, Olivia demanded, "Are we done?".

/Tallahassee, Florida/

"For October's debate, find a way to bring up Mathews' financial ties to private detention centers and the increase of contracts awarded for such centers during his twelve-year tenure. Now, it is a town hall-style debate, but don't forget this was the guy whose Cabinet nomination was tanked early on when the news came out about his juvenile record. Since then, he's gone all-in on investment in prisons. They didn't broach immigration this time, which means they're saving it. It's Florida. So, when that question comes up, you can pivot to his corruption. That's your October surprise."

It was mid-September. Florida's sweltering sauna gave no hint of autumn's impending cool air. With the first senatorial debate against his Republican rival under his belt, Olivia and Edison stood toe to toe devising strategy for his next round. The buzz of reporters and campaign surrogates—busy splicing the event in favor of their candidate—flooded news channels all over the state and many parts of the nation. Olivia and Edison stood amid the din. She, holding the narrow end of his lapel; He, staring down at her with appreciation and fear of loss.

"Liv, it's hard to nail Mathews on immigration reform because he isn't one of the loudmouths clammoring to reduce immigration. What people care about is his alignment with these corporate polluters. They're using Black and Latino—populated areas as industrial dumping grounds."

"Edison," Olivia stated, her eyes glaring back, incredulous that his campaign manager, Frank, had not already connected these points. She folded her arms, fearing that any gesticulation from an on-looker could be mistaken for a scolding. "Many of those same polluting corporations willingly allow ICE raids on their facilities, knowing that they are employing and exploiting undocumented workers. And where do you think they're being detained?"

Edison's fist moved to support his chin as his face awakened to Olivia's words.

"Hargrove is benefitting on both sides of this, and it is unconscionable. You want to drive home that point that you are the man who can deliver better for Florida, and that Hargrove's style of corruption is exactly what you will be fighting against in Washington." Olivia's finishing flourish found her right hand passing up and down Edison's arm.

Ending in just over six weeks, Edison's senatorial run had tested them, but Olivia found vitality in its rigour. Devising solutions neither Frank, Meena, nor Edison himself saw invigorated her. Where they wanted to fight fire with fire, Olivia would suggest baking soda as the better solution to suffocate the flame. To some on the campaign team, Olivia provided the fresh oxygen of new, bold ideas. For others, her influence felt more threatening.

"Are you my campaign manager, or are you my girlfriend?" Edison asked, not for the first time.

"You have made it very clear that you didn't want me as the former."

"Olivia, you have a full-time job. One that's pressuring you right now."

"I could have taken a leave of absence to run your campaign," she countered.

"That's not what you needed, especially with trying to make partner. I didn't need you to make that sacrifice for me. I needed your support. Still do. It's hard enough trying to get you to be my full-time girlfriend. I need you more in that role. But you can't help yourself, can you?"

What was playful ribbing to Edison, Olivia received as reproach. Remaining cognizant of her surroundings, she fought the inclination to turn away from him. Instead, her face transformed into an affectation of calm, more readable from afar than the umbrage in her eyes. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"Olivia," Edison softened. "I mean that you're so much more to me. The kind of more I never want to lose." Riding the high of his first debate win, Edison began reaching inside his jacket. Olivia grabbed him in a hug, trapping his hand between them.

"Don't. Not here." Aware of the wandering and wondering eyes consuming the moment, the calculated caution of her words was incompatible with the devoted smile plastered across her face.

"I wasn't trying to embarrass you back there," Edison tried to convince whilst removing the knot in his tie. The couple had returned to their Florida pan-handle hotel room. Grasping the yellow and blue tie in his fist, he admitted, "It's true that I have been planning to propose for weeks, but I didn't plan to do it in that moment. It just… happened."

Quiet and searching her own mind, Olivia sat on the hotel room's bed, her back towards Edison. She removed the diamond studs from her ears, placing them atop the bedside table. Silently she began fumbling with the zipper on the back of her lavender shift dress when she felt the bed dip, and fingers at her neckline. The zipper eased down with Edison planting placating kisses at the nape of her neck. "Are you upset that I want to marry you?"

What a politician, she thought, as she huffed incredulously, gently shaking her head. A 'yes', would make her sound like an undeserving monster. A 'no' would require explanation about her mercurial shift toward him. She loathed being cornered.

Olivia tried to keep her volume as measured as possible. "We've never discussed marriage. Not even after the first time you impetuously proposed. Two years later, suddenly, you're reaching for a ring after a debate, in a room full of people and cameras."

"I told you, I didn't plan that part."

"Edison, how am I supposed to accept that when you had the ring in your pocket? Which means it was there before the debate." Her anger was rising now. Was it the stunt he tried to pull that she did not see coming, or was it what the stunt implied? Olivia vacillated between the two as she marched into the bathroom, hair held back with a claw clip and still wearing the full satin slip beneath her dress.

Edison stood at the threshold, explaining himself as he watched her massage makeup-dissolving cleanser into her skin. "I did plan to do it tonight. Just not there. Proposing just felt right. Like a cherry on top of a sundae of an evening."

Was she the cherry? Olivia whipped around, water still dripping off her face. "Did you think about me at all? Or is this proposal a career move for you?" Olivia saw the opening and held on firmly to his penchant for creating spectacle out of the wrong moments. "Most pundits agreed that you came out on top tonight. Was that not enough of a headline grab?"

"Olivia…" Edison took a physical step back, suddenly thrown off balance by the ferocity of her accusation." That's not fair. Of course, I thought of you, how preposterous. I've tried to plan this perfectly for you. I've even spoken to your father. I guess it's my timing that was off, though, again, it felt right. To me."

The most dangerous type of anger is not the explosive variety; it is the one that simmers, affecting calm. Upon hearing that he had gone behind her back, Olivia found herself in that place. "At least you've discussed marriage with one Pope. Too bad it isn't the one you want to marry."

Edison knew Olivia. Knew when she was deflecting. "The question remains, Olivia, do you want to marry me?"

"We… We never discussed it."

"We're discussing it now. We've been together for two and a half years. We are very good together. Are we not?" Edison was closer now, gently grasping her arms.

She could not say there was anything bad about their togetherness. "We are." Olivia acknowledged, studying his shoulder instead of his face.

"Maybe we've been progressing on different assumptions. But that stops now. You say we've never talked about marriage. Well, let me make my intentions clear: if you stay in this relationship, I will marry you," declared Edison.

Olivia finally looked into his face, something akin to mild panic in her eyes.

Edison continued, "That's not me applying pressure. I'm telling you what I want. What is it that you want, Olivia?"

She paused before opening her mouth. A string of silence floated out, disintegrating in the small space between them. "I. I want…I want…" Edison grabbed her hand in support. "Time. I need you to give me some time. And trust me when I say that there will be no mistaking when I'm ready. I will let you know. Can we leave it at that for now?"

The corners of Edison's eyes crinkled as a small, closed-mouth smile formed on his face. He sighed reluctantly. "Sure. Whatever you need."

Mrs. Edison Davis.

Mrs. Edison Davis-Pope.

Mrs. Pope-Davis.

Mrs. Olivia Pope-Davis.

Mrs. Davis.

Ms. Pope.

Olivia returned to Ms. Pope again and again. Why should I have to change my name just to join my life with his? The princess cut of the nearly flaw-free, coruscating diamond gleamed in its platinum setting. Holding it in front of her, Olivia continued to stare at the ring, mentally bridging the gap between its 1930s elegance and the meaning it lent to her future.

With each combination of their names, Olivia tried to picture the life corresponding with the name. Hers. His. Theirs. Each chimera began as a pastoral flurry, before disintegrating into a troubled carburetor sputtering and coughing before giving up in a puff of smoke, returning her to an unmoved present reality.

She had asked for his patience whilst she pondered his proposal. Told him that as soon as she knew, he would too. Asked and answered once before, the response to the marriage question was 'no'. Immediately. The first time it had been only six months into their relationship, and she knew they were not ready. Unconvinced that they knew enough of each other to commit to a lifetime, nor had she considered giving a lifetime of herself to anyone. Two years later, the second time around, she knew nearly everything about Edison, but could not decide if that was enough, or too much to enter a marriage. Would she get bored? Would they run out of things to discover about the other? Or, perhaps, she did not know enough about his expectations of marriage.

But marriage is supposed to be about compromise, goes the saying. How could she compromise if she had no place from which to start? Which is why she was here now, alone in his bedroom, looking at this circle of promise, holding it up to the light for inspection.

The problem was not love. Because she did love him—Edison. She loved him with a quiet certainty, the way one moves limbs without thinking. Not once had she doubted his loyalty to her or felt mistreated by him. Handsome, successful, ambitious, financially sound, satisfactory in bed. He checked every box of the ideal candidate for husband, with every potential to fit neatly into the life she currently had. Olivia felt a slight unease that caused her to undo the top button of her blouse and breathe out of her mouth. Husband. That word bothered her. Olivia quietly put the ring back in its box, returning it to its hiding place in Edison's bedroom.

Olivia put her nose to the grindstone at Wannamaker & Beene. A fortnight of remaining in DC, no flying, no Maroon Lounge, had done a world of good for her concentration and sleep. She had seen Edison once during that period. He flew to DC, the week after her birthday to make up for having to miss it. She tried to ignore the mild convenience of his arrival intersecting with his imperative to testify in front of the Senate's Select Committee on Improper Activities in Labor and Management. They were one year into a sprawling investigation into possible inter-state violations of the Labor-Management Reporting and Disclosure Act, committed by one of Edison's former corporate clients, Paulson Poultry and Feed. Though he had served briefly on the team of attorneys for PPF, Edison had quickly obliged the Committee's request to testify, seeing it as an opportunity to make an impression on his future colleagues. He hoped to get a prestigious committee assignment his first term.

Olivia and Edison made a beautiful spectacle that evening, and well into the rest of that week, as the images from that Wednesday evening were plastered on local and national screens and publications. Senate Democrats desperately needed to flip Florida if they were going to exercise any resistance to the Republican president, who had been elected two years earlier. Edison had the momentum, and national attention—a boon any candidate would want to ride into Congress as junior senator.

He would not say it, but she could feel the unasked "Are you ready to marry me?" With each reach for her hand across the table, each stare into her eyes. The way he would pause apprehensively when speaking of a future beyond the election.

"Do you want to marry now because you're about to be a Senator? It's an ideal time." Olivia said, slicing into her roasted Brussels sprouts.

"Ouch, Liv. Is that how you view my proposal?" Edison defended.

After two weeks of considering his proposal, she could not be certain that it was opportunity-free. The flashing bulbs as he escorted her from Wannamaker and Beene's Dupont Circle offices, perhaps, influenced her question. Or maybe she was still thinking about the unexpected visit to the private re-opening of the newly named and refurbished David H. Koch Hall of Fossils, at the Museum of Natural History, before dinner. It was a who's-who parade of Washington and Hollywood darlings. The brief audience with Colin Powell made that pitstop worth it. Her father must have sent the invitation Edison produced, directly to him. She had been in the dark about the entire evening. Edison called it a surprise.

Olivia pushed the roasted beets further and further to the edge of her plate, conscious that she was heading in a direction she could not stop. "What I know is that single, male politicians in their forties are seen as less trustworthy, suspicious. Particularly among women."

"What about Newsome and Graham?" He countered.

"Newsome is divorced, which is different. Graham has never been handsome and is well-rumored to be gay. What matters is he's kept his nose clean and his NDAs tight. Besides, those two men have the benefit of receiving far less scrutiny than you will ever experience. We both know this. So, when it comes to you and me, eventually people will start speculating about why is it that you haven't married me. They won't blame me. They'll question your values and commitment." She reasoned.

"Only my commitment, huh? Strange how that works," Edison almost mumbled under his breath, dismissing campaign chatter lodged at the back of his mind.

Olivia had not heard Edison. She was too absorbed in her own reason. "Unless…" she folded her arms, leaned back, gleaning the optics of the evening. "Unless you show yourself to be a public romantic, lavishing the object of your affection. Then it becomes 'What's wrong with her? Why hasn't she snatched him up? He's a good man!"

Edison glanced up from his plate to witness this performance of hers. "That's a lot of projecting for a simple birthday dinner."

"It's not projecting," she said, adjusting the straps of her evening dress. "It's strategy."

"For whom?"

"Your numbers look good but you're down among women over forty. You know how important this race is for the Senate. And with Florida's history of gerrymandering… Edison, you know you can't afford to sacrifice any demographic. Yours has to be a decisive, unimpeachable win." Triumphantly, Olivia popped a beet into her mouth.

Edison finished swallowing a perfect sliver of medium-rare Porterhouse. Chez Henri was the right choice, he self-congratulated. "Olivia, we've been through this. You're my girlfriend, soon-to-be-fiancé? Not my campaign manager."

"I can't help but to see the angles."

Crestfallen was not the word. Disappointed. He was disappointed in her avoidance, and her feeble attempt to package it as political patronising. This was his fault. The campaign became his main squeeze. And now he feared he had left her alone so much that she began to enjoy that solitude and independence a little too much.

"Ok, Lady Bird."

"What?"

"Lady Bird Johnson. Or, Claudia Taylor, I should say. LBJ proposed to her on their first date. He just knew she was the one. Sensibly, she turned him down." Edison stilled his culinary movements and looked directly at Olivia. "But the kind of conviction that brought us the most important Civil Rights legislation in one hundred years? He applied that dedication to pursuing Claudia. For ten more weeks he proposed again and again, even though they were apart much of the time. He was relentless in his campaign for her hand, despite her reservations. Eventually, he showed up on her doorstep one day and said, 'It's now or never.'"

Olivia listened to his self-centred spin on the Johnsons' love story. "She thought he might leave her if she didn't say 'yes' at that point. I know the story." Taking a sip of the disappointing Shiraz Edison ordered whilst she was in the restroom, she got to the point. "Are you threatening to leave me? Because I thought we agreed—"

"No," he interrupted. I'm not saying that. Not tonight."

A curtain of silence stood between them both, penetrated by the ambiance around them: the soft clink of wine glasses, the weighty clunk of silverware resting on plates between bites, spurts of laughter and unintelligible conversations.

He had put his cards on the table and having nothing to lose went full throttle on the life he wanted, expected with her. "I want three children. But I don't expect us to live in Florida. Not soon anyway. We'll have a family home there, no matter where my political career takes me. But plenty of our time will be spent in Washington."

A few more chews of the brussels sprouts would have made it go down smoother. A sip of wine to clear her passage produced a coughing fit she could not stop.

Washington's days continued to swelter as mid-September rolled into late September, ignoring Autumn's memo. The nights—with their everything blue—brought much-needed relief in the form of a cool breeze, water dusted blades of grass, deep midnight skies. Moody blues had overtaken Olivia during this period. Restless and chilled, she lay in bed staring out at twinkling stars peeking through semi-translucent blue-grey skies. She pretended to consult them, in search of direction. Until cool turned cold, erasing every other thought but the need for warmth.

Rising to close her window, she caught a shadowy glimpse of herself in the mirror. She saw a recently turned 31-year-old woman. So many women were married by now. Wasn't it banal in its normalcy? Her mother had married her father and spat her out by this very age.

The mild panic was still there, rising more as she tried to picture caring for three children. Children who would believe, just as she did, that their mother would be around for their entire childhoods, and much of the adult parts, too. Children who would look to her for guidance, love and learning about becoming. But who was she becoming? A partner? A wife? A mother… in Florida? A life oriented around others when she did not fully know herself.

Olivia smirked, thinking back to Senta, the tragic heroine of the Wagner opera to which Edison had treated her, after dinner, on the night of that birthday spectacle. That part wasn't for show; it was just for her. Olivia wondered if Senta would have lived had the story taken place nearly two centuries later. Or maybe if it had been composed by a woman, Senta would have seen that life was more than choosing between a fiancé and a great love. Olivia stopped staring in that dark mirror, closing her eyes to all of it. Picturing it all seemed like work when what she needed was rest. Wishing to retreat into a warm and lovely place of her fantasies, she headed back to bed.

"How are your mom and dad? They're still over on Otis Place, right?" enquired Olivia.

"Girl, yes. Hanging on for dear life." Franceska daintily patted the corners of her mouth with a paper napkin before continuing. "I cannot tell you how many times some Midwest transplant and their realtor knocks on their door, trying to persuade them to sell. I witnessed it myself just yesterday. My parents are one of only three Black families left on that block who own their home."

"It must be worth a mint," said Abby, picking away at her salad in regret.

"It is now. A couple more years and it will easily hit a million."

"I can't say I'm shocked, but it's so strange thinking about that neighborhood now versus when we were little. My mom used to go to this hairdresser on 14th street and she'd take me with her. Afterward we would pop into the Safeway near your parents. The one near—"

"Near the Metro that's now finally there?" Franceska added.

"That's the one," Olivia confirmed, exclaiming the point with a freedom fry. "The first time I walked in with her, there were barrels of red apples in the front entrance. To this day, I have a strong association between that neighborhood and the smell of Red Delicious apples," mused Olivia.

"The worst kind of apple," supported Abby.

"Universally known to be the bottom of the barrel variety of apple."

"A sponge would taste better," Olivia conferred.

"Better than this chicken salad, that's for sure." Abby petulantly stabbed at the salad leaves in takeout container, spearing one of the six small pieces of desiccated chicken spread over iceberg lettuce. "Why did you let me order this instead of the Dolly Madison burger?"

An unsympathetic Franceska looked Abby in the eyes as she bit into her satisfying Underground Railroad rib sandwich. "Choices."

The three law school roommates tittered on, catching up on their divergent lives and careers, in Olivia's living room. Franceska had moved to Atlanta, where she worked to become a senior legal attorney for the Southern Poverty Law Centre's Economic Justice program.

"Speaking of choices, how are you and PJ managing after the move?" Olivia asked.

Franceska adjusted her bum on the floor, regretting the decision not to sit on the sofa or the teal armchair. "The long-distance part was one of the hardest things I've had to endure in a relationship." A doleful but disconnected look emerged on her face before she added, "I can't believe we made it through a whole year of that."

"But then he made the move…" Abby said, in an encouraging attempt to transition Franceska to a brighter note of her relationship with her long-time boyfriend.

"He did."

"And…you guys are probably stronger after going through that."

"We were," Franceska confirmed. "The distance strengthened our bond and our friendship. All that strength made it easier to end our romantic relationship."

Olivia and Abby closed their containers and set down their drinks on coasters atop the coffee table. The sharp stillness that permeated the room happened so perfectly it could have been mistaken for coordination.

When it was clear that Franceska was not volunteering the story, Olivia interceded. "What? When?"

"About, hmmm…seven months ago, I think?" She kept eating.

"Fran, how are you this blasé?" Abby said. "You guys bought a house together. You got engaged. I was expecting you to drop news about the wedding date. Or even tell us we're on our way to aunty-hood. What is happening?"

Franceska looked at a bewildered Abby and Olivia, assessing the moment in front of her. "Peter and I are such good friends that I guess I stopped thinking about it as a break-up. I keep forgetting that the news is much more shocking for other people to hear." She put her sandwich back in the Gettysburger container, resigned to coaching her friends through her own break-up. She had not needed to do this with her parents because they had gone through this process with her. Heard her plaintive sobs, her anger, her despondency, and, eventually, her clarity.

"PJ is still very much in my life. I truly love and support him. But we had to eliminate the romantic phase of our relationship."

Olivia looked over her whiskey tumbler at Franceska sitting crossed legged on her floor. She detected a whiff of withholding in the mildly patronising legalese-turned-self-help platitudes she used to explain the break-up. "You sound like me when I'm convincing my clients that divorce is just an opportunity to change their relationship to each other."

"Well, that's true."

"Yes, but you're not my client and we," Liv said, pointing between herself and Abby, "don't need the Gwyneth Paltrow-Chris Martin spin."

"Yeah, so cut the crap," Abby added. "What happened?"

"It wasn't an event; it was a realization. I hadn't noticed, but PJ had been struggling with his sexuality. I think the move away from DC and his Pentecostal family gave him permission to… explore. I mean, Atlanta is the perfect place for that."

Abby covered her face with her hands. "Oh, Frannie, I'm so sorry. You were his beard? For all this time?"

"Abbs, come on. I'm not some victim. I don't think of it like that. I think he had repressed his feelings so deeply—to survive in his church—that the 'act' became who he was. Or who he thought he needed to be. Our sex life was fine and satisfying, but then it started to change." Franceska searched for the right words "Distant is the best way I can put it. Like he was there but not there. And in all our talks about what changed, some… things came out." A wave of carbohydrate-induced lethargy washed over her, making her feel impatient with her own narrative. "Long story short, we went to therapy together and it helped us understand that we needed to let each other go in order to live truthfully."

"I had no idea you were going through all of this. I'm so sorry," Liv sympathized.

"Don't be sorry. I'm not. I'm free. He's free. There's no love lost between us."

"Just sex," Abby zinged. "Speaking of which, have you started dating again? Are you trying to find someone new?"

Franceska's face turned serious before she dramatically began. "Because I am female, I am expected to aspire to marriage. I am expected to make my life choices—"

"Chimamanda, if you don't get the hell out of here," interrupted Abby. The three long-time friends laughed heartily.

"But seriously, enough with the interrogation about my love life. What about y'all?"

Abby volunteered first. "I remain happily divorced. Liv keeps threatening to set me up with her friend Stephen, but it's fallen through several times."

"Abby, I told you. It's a really busy time of year for him. He's in and out of DC often. But I promise he's worth chasing."

Abby cocked an eyebrow. "Is he now?"

"Not like that. We've never…the time was never…" Olivia fumbled.

"He seems to have time to hang out with you at Kenny's lounge," though. Abby messily added.

"What are you talking about? Maroon's not Stephen's vibe."

"Well, whose vibe is it? Because you've been going there a lot. And it's not with Edison or me," Abby prodded.

Before Olivia could deflect, she was saved by Franceska's nostalgic outburst. "Oh, Maroon! I miss that place. We have to go before I leave! Does he still do Throwback Thursdays?"

"Yep," Olivia confirmed.

Abby looked Olivia straight in the eyes as she said "Great. It's settled. We're all going this Thursday."

/Thursday Night/

"Fran, I'm fine. Really. Thanks for making sure I made it home," Olivia said as she struggled with the precise meeting between her key and the lock on her door. "Uber drivers hate waiting, so you can go."

"He's not waiting. Your apartment is my final destination."

"You don't have to do this," Olivia said walking into her apartment. "You don't have to take care of me. I'm not drunk, as you can see," she said, balancing herself on one leg whilst removing the stiletto off the other, after which she gave a flourishing twirl.

Olivia's marginally convincing sobriety still left Franceska with an unanswered question. "You're right. You're not drunk. You've just lost your mind."

Olivia did not make it to her bedroom, deciding to curl up on her inviting linen couch instead. "I'm so tired. Can we just talk tomorrow?"

"Yeah, no. Olivia, who was that?"

...

/Earlier that evening/

"Oh, it's the bad bitch link-up," greeted Kenny warmly. "Nobody told me all three of you would be here." He appraised each of the three friends. "You two are looking snatched in these dresses!" He said to Abby and Olivia.

"Fuck my outfit, right?" Franceska deadpanned, her hands resting on her curvy hips. "You're not gonna tell me I don't look good," she continued after slicking back her early-2000's page boy wig, donned for the evening's 'Naughty's Throwback' theme."

"Darling, I don't say you're not beautiful. But you are not looking beautiful tonight," Kenny returned playfully. "Maybe if you tied down your locs a little better, you wouldn't have that big ass mound poking out the back of your wig."

Francesca swatted his arm before the two embraced genuinely.

"Oh, Kenny, I've missed you. I haven't yet found my spot in Atlanta. Not that I have the time…"

"Get your ass back to DC, then, thickums. One thing Atlanta don't need is more Black people."

"Neither does DC."

"Ehhn…debatable."

…

For more than an hour, she had danced with her girls, and even a few random men who insisted on infiltrating their trio, mistaking their fun as an invitation to participate. She welcomed the distraction of the evening. How different it felt to be at Maroon and not be ensconced in his bubble. It had been months, and she'd nearly forgotten what it was like before him.

Nature called and Olivia excused herself to the ladies' room amidst the hard synths of Rihanna's 'SOS'. It was her third trip in the less than two hours since she had arrived with her girls.

He was there. Of course he was. It was Thursday, and she had not been there this Tuesday. Nor the one before that. Deliberately so. But he was here now, and she had run through her contingency plan in case of emergency. Dodge his eye contact. Tamp down the heat that rose inside of her when she caught a profile view of him, across the room. Chastise herself for the stir of resentment each time some woman sidled up to him. He was not hers and she was not his. She made that plain the last time she saw him. Still, she wanted to tell him about her day. Tell him that Edison proposed to her, and that she had proverbially left him on 'read'. Ask him why he was now renting in Dupont Circle instead of buying whatever property his heart desired. To be regaled with stories about his new teaching job at Howard Law. And argue with him about his father's recent embarrassing comments about China.

Olivia stopped in her tracks upon exiting the bathroom.

"Is this how you pick up women?"

"You've been avoiding me since you arrived. I thought maybe third time's the charm."

"Third?"

"Yes. Your third time to the ladies' room."

"You've been watching me? Do you have some sort of weird fetish, Mister?"

"Not that kind, no. I'm observant."

Olivia squinted involuntarily, but before she could wonder what his fetish was, Fitz continued. "I thought something might be bothering you. I know that sounds strange and maybe even creepy. I don't know. It's just a feeling."

She did not know how he did that thing that he did. The knowing but know knowing. Avoid eye contact. Avoid eye contact. Avoid. She repeated her the plan to herself, looking over his shoulder instead. "I'm fine. I'm here with my friends."

"Are you having a good time?"

"I am.

"I'd love to meet them."

"Not possible."

A few moments more passed between them, he looking at her and she looking everywhere but his face.

"Olivia," Fitz finally said, taking a step toward her. Olivia took a step back, finding the much-needed support of the wall on her naked shoulders. "The 24th of September, huh? That's a pretty dramatic way for me to finally learn of your birthday. Why didn't you tell me before?"

He saw her parading with Edison, she thought. A twinge akin to shame darkened her suddenly, causing her to go internal. "I could say the same for you. Besides, that's not my birthday."

When she volunteered no further, he blurted "You and Edison look…The two of you look like a nice couple." He swallowed, thinking of the words she emphasized the last time there were in this very place.

"You're right. There is something… something I should tell you, "Olivia said. She liked inspiring those two little creases between his barely-there brows. The ones that formed when he was both intrigued by and expectant of her next words. She watched his mouth part, too. That's when she realized she was doing the thing she told herself not to do: look at him. And he looked back her as if his eyes were a pair of arms holding her within them. They stood there in a world made of two, their gazes fixed. Suspended in the moment, forgetting that she was there with others. Until a firm hand on her forearm jolted her and the rest of her body in its direction.

"Liv, can we go!"

...

/Back at Olivia's Apartment/

"Liv, are you in love with Edison?"

"I haven't told anyone yet, but he proposed. Two weeks ago. I didn't say 'no'."

"Sounds like you didn't say 'yes' either. Do you want to say 'yes'?"

"I don't know."

Struggle was written on Olivia's face. Franceska softened into patient, giving Olivia space.

"When Peter proposed, did you answer right away? Were you sure?"

"Absolutely," Fran said, unreservedly. "We had talked about marriage before it happened. And we fell into a way of talking about the future that always included each other."

"See, that kind of certainty scares me because…" Olivia did not want to offend Franceska, nor turn the demise of her relationship into a teachable moment. She was not so lubricated that she could not balance, but just enough to be less inhibited with the truth. "Well, Fran, things fell apart for you—despite that surety. And you were blindsided by what unfolded."

Fran sighed. Seven months was not enough time for the scars to have disappeared, though she believed the wounds had healed. She was in a better place so long as she didn't have to think about the scarring too much. But if her friend's well of need required Fran to extend some vulnerability, she owed Olivia that much.

"I'm going to say something controversial yet brave, Liv. I wasn't blindsided. I knew. Even before PJ moved to be with me. I didn't want to lose him. He was my best friend. Still is, if I'm being honest."

"So why did you keep going?"

"Because I loved him. And… ignoring and pressing on seemed easier, like one of the many things women just must swallow. No one's marriage is perfect. Not even my parents—as much as I adore them. So, yeah, it was easier, I told myself, to ignore those instincts about him since it seemed he was doing the same. Maybe if we were both pretending, it could add up to something real."

Olivia looked at her. "Math was never your best subject."

The thwack of the pillow cushion against her face was unexpected. "Girl, shut up!" Franceska squealed. "But seriously, it took months of therapy to realise that we were both being selfish, even though we didn't think of it that way. We were holding each other back."

"Whose idea was therapy?"

"His. We went together. I was hostile at first, but eventually I realized it was helping me, not just us as a couple. I started seeing that therapist by myself. Still am."

Olivia opened her mouth to ask yet another question, as Franceska removed her page boy wig. She unpinned the tufts of fine Sisterlocks, letting them tumble to the middle of her back as her fingers worked at relieving the discomfort caused by the hairpins.

"Before you say anything else, answer my first question: who was that man and what were you doing?"

"His name is Fitz and it's not what you think."

"But you don't know what I think."

"I can guess."

"Tell me then, Miss. I'm-always-right."

Olivia sat up from her prone position on the couch. "You think I'm screwing him."

Franceska rose from her perch on the arm of the sofa, bringing the wig with her. As if it were a basketball and she a Harlem Globetrotter, she put her hand inside the wig and begun spinning it on her fingertip whilst circling the sofa.

"It's worse than I thought," Franceska stopped to look directly at Olivia. "You're in love with him!"

"Overruled! Leading the witness!" Olivia protested dramatically as she used to back in their mock trial days at Georgetown.

The two collapsed in laughter on each other. Minutes later Franceska got up and stretched-out her arms to lift Olivia up, too. "Come on, we need to draw this impromptu slumber party to a close. I need a couple of hours before I rush to my parents, grab my luggage and head to Dulles. You're on my bed."

"Oh, excuuuuuuse me, madam." The two said goodnight and Olivia moved down the hallway towards her room, stopping halfway. There was one more question she needed answered. "Frannie?"

"Hmmm?" she hummed.

"What did you think? Tonight, before you grabbed me?"

Franceska turned her head over her shoulder. "I hope you know what you're doing."

/Tuesday, Maroon Lounge/

"Are you OK," Kenny asked when Olivia walked in. She was wearing a grey, pinstriped suit, and stomping with purpose. Her eyes searched for their target.

"Of course. I'm fine." Olivia replied, still not looking into Kenny's face.

"I know this is y'all's day," Kenny said, making air quotes with his fingers. "But I haven't seen him since Thursday night. With you, actually."

"I'm here," said a familiar baritone from across the room, emerging from a high, winged back chair.

"I stand corrected. Your future baby daddy was here all along," joked Kenny.

Olivia shot him a warning look that made Kenny thrown his hands up, retreating from pursuing his usual good-natured mockery.

The first words out of Fitz's mouth to her, after pleasantries with Kenny, were "Have a drink with me upstairs."

"That's not why I asked you here."

"Come on. One drink. You summoned me. The least you could do is have a drink with me before you say whatever it is you called me here to say. I have a feeling it'll help us both."

"Fine," Olivia relented. She slipped off her stool, instructing over her shoulder, "Order my drink, then come and find me."

Maroon's rooftop was outfitted with small pergolas in each of its four corners. Entwined with verdant trellises, and breezy sheer curtains, these semi-private Shangri-Las supported swinging, padded bamboo benches and lacquered ottomans of the same material parked in front of them. It was in one of these back corners where Fitz found Olivia, gently swinging back and forth, with one leg trapped under her thigh. Her fitted charcoal grey suit jacket, with the fine powder blue stripes was neatly folded on the back of the bench.

Fitz walked slowly, confidently towards her. He noticed the dispassionate look on her face, a mask of sorts. His concern grew, questioning whether it was work, family or something entirely more personal. Why did she call him here? He had been surprised to hear her disembodied voice. She never called him between their 'coincidental', almost dependable weekly meetups. He had not seen her since last Thursday— the night she was there with her friends. Until she was snatched away by one of them, breaking the near minute-long forcefield they established. She—a brown-eyed wonder looking at him. He—looking at her, searching, searching her eyes. What is this and what did she want it to be? Or is this all that there would be—a weekly game of share my world, in between which they did not exist to the other.

For him it was an unbearable rollercoaster ride of six-day valleys between Tuesday peaks. Theirs was a magnetic, undeniable attraction. And whilst there is beauty in ordinary things, Fitz's soul yearned for the full spectrum of feeling extraordinary things with Olivia Pope. Would he be so bold this evening to make himself known to her?

"Hi," he said, reaching his destination.

"Hi."

…

His new job at Howard Law: great, but still much to learn

His Dupont Circle flat: lovely, practical.

His father's ignorant remarks about Chinese cuisine, following his regurgitating dinner all over Xi Jingping's shoes: disgusting, he agreed.

Small talk was not their usual way, but it was Olivia's preferred way of avoiding the bubble of intimacy they effortlessly created whenever they spent more than a few minutes with each other.

"You summoned me," Fitz pivoted. "I didn't think it was for small talk. You could have texted me all of this. Unless… you really needed that drink."

"Texting is a quick means to an end. It's efficient, but not always the best choice."

"For what?"

"For when what you have to say needs to be heard."

Fitz placed the tumbler of Macallan 12, neat, on the lacquered ottoman before angling himself to Olivia. "Livvie."

She closed her eyes. She hadn't heard that name in nearly twenty years. "Don't…" she pleaded; pain etched in her face. "Please don't call me that."

"Olivia," Fitz began again. "I know you have a speech you want to deliver—"

Olivia shot him a look that compelled him to pause, all but confirming he was right to pre-empt whatever it is she would say.

"And that's fine," he continued. "But not before I let you know this: these last six months with you… They've come to mean everything to me. The Tuesdays—and occasional Thursdays—here? They've been a lifeline. And it's not this place. It's you. You, Olivia, have come to mean everything to me."

She had come here rigid and resolute, and within a few sentences uttered out of a mouth she had never even kissed, she felt malleable. "Fitz…" she swallowed another swig of the Cabernet Sauvignon he brought her, savoring the notes of black currant. "You don't even know me."

He leaned in, placing his forearms on his parted thighs and entwined his hands before fixing his eyes on her. "You grew up over in Kalorama, but attended Surval Montreux, in Switzerland—where, not incidentally, you were the captain of the swim team and quite the young scholar. You prefer vintage Bordeaux wines for their complex, full-bodied flavors, but in the absence of that, almost any Cabernet," he pointed at the drink she clutched to her chest "is serviceable. Except in those fleeting times when you're feeling whimsical and unburdened. That's when you prefer a Gamay Beaujolais. But enough about wine. Let's talk about popcorn. That's what you eat when you're feeling sad because it's what your mom made for you. But as an adult? Solving complex problems is your reason to breathe. So much so, they sometimes keeping you up at night. And when you're really struggling to sleep, you think about being under the peace of Vermont's night sky. It helps you drift away," he concluded, pursing his mouth daring Olivia to pronounce any of it untrue.

Olivia was biting her lip. He paid attention to her. When she talked, when she ordered. Her mouth formed into a cynical twist. "You're good, Fitz. You know things about me. But me? You don't know me."

"But I do see you." He reached for her glass. Finding little resistance, he placed it next to his own.

"You should stop looking. I—"

"Look at me," Fitz said as he reached to tip her chin up so that her face was in line with his. "Is that what you called me here to deny? You don't want to be known? Livvie—"

She closed her eyes. Silence reigned and the soft pink glimmer of dusk floated in through the gaps in the sheer, white curtains. Still Olivia kept her eyes closed, a foolish defense.

Fitz, his gaze unrelenting, felt compelled to ask a question he had locked away for months. Not even during their twenty-one-question phase did he throw this one out there. It was not her answer he feared but voicing his own. Until now. "Are you in love, Olivia? Have you ever… been in love?"

Her eyes flew open and just as quickly they traveled away from the inviting blue pools, down to his chin. "Edison wants… Edison wants to marry me."

Fitz's heart leaped from his chest to punch him in the throat. He managed to croak out "Are you in love with him? Do you want to marry Edison?" He drew closer and the swing stilled for the moment.

"What I want is for us to stop whatever this is. It's dangerous and wrong and…reckless. It's reckless. I am not reckless," she insisted.

Wresting Olivia's left hand from her lap, Fitz laid it palm side up in his own. He stared at their hands, relishing the way her hand belonged with his. This wasn't wrong. How could he get her to see it, to feel it? Encountering no protest, with his thumb, Fitz began tracing the delicate crosshatch of lines on the inside of Olivia's hand.

"Do you want me?" He said, in a whisper-soft tone, at once raw and hopeful. Looking up into her glistening brown eyes, he added "Or don't you?" His thumb never ceased skating across the melting ice of her palm, hoping it would give way soon.

Like he was the sun itself, Olivia could not look directly at him, fearing what might come out of her mouth. Instead, she closed her eyes. Her breathing was shallow, and her open mouth fought the ecstasy crawling up her arm, enveloping her whole body. The electricity from his fingers took up residence inside her like a spirit.

Behind closed lids, Olivia retreated into an inner sanctum. Flesh and bone grounded in the reality of the moment with him as she felt his figure eights turn to circles in her palm. But it was her soul that traveled. It visited a place where celestial midnights existed in perpetuity, a teetering fulcrum of time. That which came before and the promise of what existed beyond, it all existed in this place. Glittering purple dust rained everywhere, dissipating before ever touching her. Particles clustered in the indigo skyline, forming ephemeral portraits of possibility. Past. Present. Future.

Her mouth opened and closed with wonder, for she felt wonderful. Flashes of them in past and future formed before her eyes. Across distance and time, the images assaulted her, coming quickly and clearly. Some with microscopic detail; others soft and suggestive. This inebriating feeling—was it an hallucination? Olivia felt… no, she saw… she was that person. In every decade, in every country, at every age. Terror obliterated her wonder, and the shimmering blue-black of the alternate universe splintered into a million pieces, floating away like dust that was never there. Suddenly, she was keenly aware of where she was, who she thought herself to be and the mass of energy beside her. Quickly she unplugged herself from his source.

She thought that she did not care. Perhaps, was even love impaired. At least in that fantastical way movies and books and operas try to convince. But. The tell-tale signs of crying began its production: her nasal cavity faintly ached, her lower lip trembled, the levies of her eyelids fought the impending deluge as these miraculous images fluoresced into crevices of her brain for later recall. At their mercy she now was. But the tears—here, now? That she could not abide.

This crucible was too much. Suddenly, Olivia bolted from the swing, standing up with such a force, her wine glass suicided from its perch. Rivulets of red cried her unshed tears as they raced down the cemented roof top.

"Livvie, are you OK?" Fitz said in alarm, reaching to console her.

Having the presence of mind enough to grab her bag, she avoided his touch. If he touched her again, it would be over. She had to leave. Now.

"I'm fine. I just… I remembered where I'm supposed to be," she hurriedly offered, all the while not looking back at him. "I can't be here. I can't do this. I can't…I have to go."

He barely heard her as she whizzed through the smaller Tuesday night crowd, making her way downstairs and out of the lounge.

Fitz sat dumbfounded, shards of stained glass resting in his hands.

Edison sat in his living room, scrutinising the transcript of his recent Senate testimony. He set down his drink when he heard his door slam and heels loudly pounding up his wooden staircase.

"Liv? Is that you?" No answer. "I didn't think you'd be home for another couple of hours." He began ascending the stairs to investigate the commotion she was causing. "I know you weren't expecting me until tomorrow. I thought you said you'd be much later?"

He reached his bedroom to find Olivia, wild eyed and erratic, as she opened his sock drawer and then every other one, before searching every shelf.

"Where is it, Edison? Where?" Olivia panicked.

"What are you talking about? Where is what? Are you on something?"

Olivia ignored his ridiculous question as another potential hiding place popped into her head, compelling her in its direction.

Edison went to grab hold of Olivia, looking in her face, trying to settle her movements. He held her forearms together in one of his palms. "Olivia, please. What is it that you're looking for?"

If only he knew what a loaded question he put to her. The answer died on her mouth, and her eyelids shut up shop, lest they betray her. "Where is the ring?"

Edison looked away ever so briefly, as if he was processing what she asked. He looked at her again before moving to his underwear drawer. He pulled the hunter green velvet box from its hiding place. Before turning around to face Olivia, he opened the box marvelling at his grandmother's 1930's princess cut diamond, nestled horizontally in its filigreed platinum setting.

"Ask me. Ask me again," Olivia urged

"Are you sure?" he turned around.

Olivia nodded, her hands resting in balled up fists at her side. "I wouldn't tell you to ask if I wasn't."

Edison crossed the room in a sweep, presenting himself on one knee for her acceptance.

"Olivia Carolyn Pope, will you marry me?"

Having never been in love before, her heart was a little slow, but not completely impaired. Unclenching her fists, Olivia moved to offer Edison her left hand. With some effort, the ring was now lodged on her finger, and she smiled down at him, through unexpected tears. At first, she thought that perhaps she was doing the right thing, and that her tears carried relief of having resolved the tension in her relationship with Edison. But the tears went from trickle to torrent. Ones she could not stop, despite his offer of tissues and the effort of her fingers. The deluge of tears hit the ice blue camisole shell, reminding her of her missing jacket, left behind on a rooftop with the man whose touch led her to an alternate universe that so engulfed her in wonder, she immediately sought terra firma. And now the certainty of that ground was being pelted by her inconsolable tears, as they piled in a tide threatening to drown the newly engaged couple in a truth only Olivia understood, but would continue to deny. She was crying because she loved him. The him from whom she had run.

Olivia looked down at her hand. Electricity lingered in her fingers as the memory of one hour ago ghosted across that very palm. She swallowed.

"Yes."

AN: I hope you enjoyed that because I loved writing it. The last two scenes have been in my head for three years and it feels good to finally build a story around them. This feels cathartic. Anyway, this is part 1 of a 5 -part 'flashbackapalooza' that will take place over the space of a year (don't worry, the next two POV chapters will span several months). So don't expect to return to the present (6 years ahead of this episode) until episode 15. As always, please do follow, fave and LEAVE REVIEWS :o). I love reading what you think-as few or as many words as you will offer.

Liv's a wild girl! What do you think of what she did at the end? Is Edison so bad or was she playing herself? Or does it not matter? I mean, would you implode your life for Fitz? So, what are your impressions of Franceska? (she was mentioned as one of the no-shows to the party in episode 9). Curious to hear what you think of her sitch with PJ. Abby's onto Liv. And Cyrus? What kind of threat was that? I don't like it.

Ok, laters!