Purple Rain (Fitz's perspective)

Flashback

"Tell me, Livvie, are you happy?"

"Please… don't ask me that."

/Mid-October, Two Weeks after the Rooftop/

The night she let him walk her home (to her street), the same night he asked her what she thought about when sleep would not come. That night, as he trekked back to his car across town, he had imagined that he lay next to her, and she talked to him instead of silently conjuring Vermont's night. He lay there listening to her and watching her beauty make a fool of moonlight. That night he imagined everything from her building to her bedroom. Her front door, did it have a knocker or a bell? A knocker, he decided. Perhaps it was a thousand times that he mapped out this real place he could only hope to one day visit. And that day was now here, although it was not under the circumstances he imagined. Fitz stood in front of Olivia's varnished wood grain door. A knocker and a bell. He used his knuckles instead. Anticipation blistered inside him, filling his body with heat as he waited for her to answer.

...

"Hi."

"Hi…"

In the pause before her response, Fitz read a cocktail of shock and intrigue at his audacity to show up at her door.

"What are you doing here?" Olivia demanded, still holding the doorknob.

Because you are here, Fitz wanted to say. What tumbled out was, "I think you know why I'm here." His hands were buried in the pockets of his navy suit pants, but the unconcealed plea in his eyes met hers and she turned away into her apartment, pushing the door further open.

He found her pacing in a circle by her piano, avoiding eye contact. He approached her and she stilled, momentarily looking up at him before reluctantly backing away.

"Why are you here? You shouldn't be here. This is…this is…"

"Tell me to go and I'll leave. Say it."

Pregnant sigh. Silence, followed by folded arms and turning away. But no indication that his presence was unwanted. Gingerly, he approached her, the sole of his shoes hitting the parquet floor the only sound. Until he was so close, he could see the change in her breathing, most pronounced in the rise and fall of her delicate cardigan-covered shoulders.

"Tell me why."

She turned around to face him, her eyes trying to say what her opened mouth struggled to relinquish.

"Tell me why you ran from me. I think you owe me that much."

"I owe you?!" She scoffed.

Something told him she was more comfortable in defensive mode than explaining mode. He picked up on this tendency over months of their deep dives, discourse, and drinking. Time he wished they had been dating. He thought that if he started, if he explained what he felt, maybe she could feel that she could, too.

"I was devastated when you ran. I worried that I had come on too strong. That maybe I had read things all wrong and that I overstepped. But then I would remember the look on your face…before you got spooked." He closed his eyes as if to conjure that perfect moment, before it turned to broken glass, spilled wine and tears. "I don't know how else to describe it but…celestial. It's like you were on some other plane. And to think my touching your palm had anything to do with that, I couldn't un-see that image. I couldn't un-see you sitting there before me. Or the memory of the dance we shared. Or the way you laugh when we're together. Even the way you tease me. Or any of the times you looked at me with a softness I haven't felt in decades."

He paused to look at her earnestly, at a precipice of need. "Was any of that real, Liv? I've spent the last two weeks running these memories repeatedly, trying to reach a different conclusion. But the person who could confirm or deny the reality I believed in, she wouldn't take my calls. Or even answer a text— "

"You know how I feel about text messages."

"Let alone show up for our Tuesdays," he continued, refusing to acknowledge her listless attempt to derail sincerity. He removed his jacket and placed it over the back of her sofa. He sat down because he did not know how long it would take her to talk to him for longer than a sentence. "So, I showed up on her doorstep. Because I needed to know it was all real. And not just for me."

"Fitz, Tuesdays are no more. They're never coming back. The why should be obvious."

Of all the things he said, a text message and Tuesdays were what she chose to respond to. Deflection.

"Ok, Thursdays, then." He returned facetiously, wanting her to say it to him. He could play.

She pinched the skin between her eyes and sat down on her coffee table, facing him. "Two Tuesdays from today, my fiancé will officially become a United States Senator. I can't be seen at random bars in the company of random men."

He knew better than to react to 'random men'. In the time he had known her, he had come to understand her sharpest daggers were thrown in distraction, obfuscation. He could not be distracted because the sonic boom produced by the word fiancé was so deafening, its din dimmed the room in temporary darkness. When he finally looked at that finger, on that hand, the iridescent gleam of diamonds surrounded by an onyx abyss was all he could see. Not a purple cloud in the sky, let alone a twinkle of light. Fitz crumpled in on himself, hearing nothing but the repeating ring of 'fiancé'. He saw the glint of her teeth from the corner of his eye, and it registered in his brain that she was still talking. Saw that she, too, was now looking at the ring just as he was. When he remembered to breathe, the ringing stopped, and he heard her voice again.

"…but I haven't been wearing it in public. We haven't announced yet. I think it would be best to wait until after the election," she said.

Announcements and dates, he didn't care about any of it. The only thing that mattered is that she ran from him and into another man's proposal. More than knowing if what existed between them was real and shared, there was one question begging to escape his lips. He decided that if the answer was 'yes', then his other questions would not matter. That if it was 'yes', it would be his cue to leave. He had never had to live with heartbreak before, but maybe this was his time.

He steepled his fingers through her left hand so that on either side of that glittering diamond was a reality that preceded that ring's arrival. He wanted his fingers to remind her of that fact when he asked, "Tell me, Livvie, are you happy?"

Her eyes glistened with a call for mercy. "Please… don't ask me that."

"But I am asking. Yes, or no—that's all I want to know."

She would not answer. No matter how many tumbleweeds of silence passed in the space between them: he, on the couch and she, seated on her coffee table with a mouth full of glue. Her head began to softly move back and forth. Did that mean that no, she was not happy, or that she simply refused to tell him?

Olivia rose only to sit next to him, with a decorative pillow's gap between them. "Your memories aren't lying to you, Fitz. It was real. I felt it, too," she admitted, letting go of a breath she had been holding in since he arrived.

An answer, he thought. He breathed, too, and reached for her hand. "Then what do we do?"

"There is nothing to do," she said, sliding her hand back in her lap. "This is the way it is. I'm getting married and you'll find someone else. Eventually." She would not look at him.

"You mean there's nothing you're willing to do."

Her eyes turned to him, stinging from his words, his accusation. "Do you think this is easy for me? We're not plucky characters in a Jane Austen novel. I'm supposed to just choose between the man that I…and the man that makes me…" She could not finish either description. What good would it have done. She laughed mirthlessly before throwing her hands up in the air. "This is an impossible situation, one that never should have happened."

He sensed her distress and felt the impulse to comfort her. He had not come here for this. For confrontation, yes. Pain, sorrow and ultimatums? No. What right did he have. How long had he waited to make himself plain to her, knowing all the while that another man occupied her bed, her time and now, soon, her life. Fitz extended his hand up toward her and hoped she would take it.

"Liv, come here," he said softly. "Sit with me. Please. Just for one minute can we be two people who see each other? I won't ask you for anything after that. Sit with me. Be here. With me. Just for one minute."

If they were to have just sixty seconds, he thought, then let each of them be glorious. The time started with him watching her sit beside him with no room to spare. Seconds more her knees came up and her arms cradling his chest, prompting his body to envelop her in a way that, once experienced, he never wanted to be without. The pain of what he would be losing troubled his features. He inhaled deeply to commit to memory the perfection of this moment: the feel of her hair against the bottom of his chin; the smell of her skin; the texture of her sweater; the warmth of her delicate form folded into his.

And then it was over, though she did not move.

"It's getting late and it's probably a good idea for you to go," Olivia finally said.

"Is this the last time?"

"I don't know. But, Fitz? You can't show up here again. Not after the election. Please don't."

When he got up, he stepped outside of himself and his own feelings for the first time since he had stepped foot in her apartment. She. He. Them. Had been his only focus. But now he noticed his surroundings. Her surroundings.

"I wish I could say I haven't pictured your place a thousand times since the night I first walked you home." He turned around, taking in a 360-degree view. "It's perfect. Very you," he smiled.

Their eyes met, communicating the longings neither of them was brave enough to voice. Instead, Fitz dutifully grabbed his jacket, and blurted out, "Would you honor me with a tour? It's only polite."

That crooked smile was all the convincing she needed. He knew and she knew that they were just prolonging the inevitable parting. Turning to walk down the short runway towards her bedroom, Olivia remarked, "Somehow I don't think you want to start with the kitchen."

"Only because I know you don't cook."

She flashed him an endearing smile over her shoulder.

…

Following her over the threshold to her bedroom, he marveled at the feminine lavenders, silvers, soft pinks and white decor. The daintiness of her bed drew his attention. When his mind lapsed into a vision of his naked back on top of her, dedicating himself to keeping her in bed ten more minutes, he quickly shifted his line of sight to her opened closet, lest he embarrass himself. "Feminine, chic and so well-organized," he commented. She touched his arm in acknowledgment before he turned to her, apology written all over his face. A hand pressed scoldingly to his forehead. "Oh no…"

"Fitz, what is it?" She grabbed his hand instinctively.

"Your jacket. I'm so sorry. I came here straight from work and didn't think to swing by my place." How could he when he still did not quite know how his car ended up in front of her building that evening.

As he was led by the hand back toward the living room, his brain whirred with worry. He did not want her to think that forgetting her jacket was some convenient ploy to show up again, especially now that she had asked him to stay away.

"You can leave the jacket with Kenny, and I'll get it from him," Olivia said. "Problem solved."

"If that's what you prefer…"

"It's not, but…"

"I know…"

Each understood the empty spaces behind their words.

She took his jacket from him, presenting it for him to slip into. When he turned around, she brushed invisible lint from his lapel. Her hands rested on his chest as she looked up into his eyes, her expression wistful. His feet remained planted there in front of her door, neither of them reaching to open it. He was her supplicant, arrested by her closeness. In that moment his hand moved to her lower back, joining her body to his. He needed to feel close to her again if this truly would be the last time they were alone together. And then it occurred to him that it is the only time they have been alone. First. Last. Forever?

"Livvie, tell me what to do and I'll do it." His eyes did not leave hers and she did not tear herself away from him.

"Let me go," she implored.

"Anything but that."

Her body relaxed into his, betraying the very words she had just uttered. Bowing her head to his chest, she said, "Don't make this harder for me than it already is."

Fitz knew that he loved her. Love without pain is a fantasy, but if it is in his power to spare those he loved suffering, then that is what he would do, he thought. He drew her shoulders back from his body, taking her in for the last time. He shook his head gently before saying, "I should go."

"You should go," she repeated in reluctant confirmation.

With a lingering kiss to her forehead, he reached for the doorknob, letting himself out, but not before telling her, "I just want you to be happy."

Kenny said goodnight to the last member of staff lingering on that crisp Tuesday night. His mind briefly considered the two knuckleheads he had not seen in nearly two weeks. He missed catching bits and pieces of their conversations, their laughter and the energy with which they flooded the place. What he did not want, nor missed was drama. Speaking to Liv last week was little help in understanding what happened between her and Geraldo. But fixing it was none of his concern. His mind was preoccupied with the summons in his office and needing to find an attorney to sort out this mess. He should not wish bad things on his holy neighbor, but Kenny did wish she was forced to walk around in wet socks for the remainder of her life. He also hoped that she would regularly fall down in public. Not to the extent that she would break anything, but enough to fuck up her clothes and make her feel embarrassed. He supposed petty wishes and legal concerns were far better than facing the haunting of this time of year. One that had nothing to do with Halloween.

Tariq was on Kenny's mind, not for the first time as he closed the lounge that evening and headed to his English basement apartment downstairs. It was nearly that time of year again. What Maroon is now had so much to do with Tariq's emotional (and financial) influence. He had consoled him in that very basement long after his grandmother, Mother Gordon, had passed and people stopped bringing food by, and the condolence cards no longer flooded his mailbox. Hurt stuck around longer than everyone else. Caused by grief, it had a way of showing up—even ten years later—in places where the aggrieved least expected it. It lay dormant in the body, like chicken pox, waiting to be triggered, taking on new formations of pain in sensitive nerve endings.

/

Before owning Maroon, Kenny had been a very successful bartender at LIVE Night Club. But he was seeking more control over his life. He met Tariq when his team, the Ravens, had taken over the club one night. They were the AFC champions headed to the Super Bowl that year. Every eligible woman in the DC Metro area (and plenty of non-eligible ones) begged their way into the club that night, in hopes of snagging a husband, or at least sex, followed by getting flown out after an away game or two. Then more sex and a shopping spree or two before the player would, inevitably, move on to a shiny new version of the same Instagram prototype. Or, in some cases, go home to their actual wives. Kenny had ben mildly amused when, repeatedly, the star running back always returned to his end of the bar when his drink needed replenishing. Bemused when, after Kenny handed this man his third vodka cranberry, he finally spoke.

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Who wants to know?"

"Me," he said, shrugging an innocent shoulder.

"It's Kenny."

"Alright, Kenny. Here you go, my man." Tariq said, handing him a rolled-up bill.

Unrolling it, Kenny discovered it to be a $100 bill. Inside was a small note which read, "How can I call you?" Did this nigga think he was an Instagram model, or something. Or was this some homophobic bait and switch. Kenny recognized who Tariq was, which meant everyone else did, too. But he had not been privy to any rumors about him, though Kenny thought he was plenty fine. Physically, Tariq was exactly his type: shorter, dark, bearded, sinewy, killer smile. He even had those extra curly lashes Kenny found irresistible, the kind that kept him in bed with a lover longer than he should stay. Just as his mouth began to curl upward, Kenny spotted that familiar face out of the corner of his eyes, raising his empty glass. This time there was a question in his stare that wasn't about filling another round. Kenny quickly scribbled on the piece of paper, surreptitiously handing it over with the fourth vodka cranberry.

A fun fling is what Kenny expected from someone like Tariq, who was closeted and elusive at times. But he was also caring, sexy and supportive. Those parts of Tariq made possible their six-year on-off love affair until it was tragically cut short.

Kenny dried his face with a towel, his image in the mirror bringing him out of his loss, nearly one year ago.

"Rest in peace, T."

/

Fitz could not sleep. Driving back from her apartment, the crisp October air flooding in through the opened windows did nothing to sober his thoughts. Nor ameliorate his pain. His longing remained, still fresh from earlier that evening. Worse was the sea of alternative things he could have said, buzzing about his mind. Only the foolhardy would think that they would have made a miraculous difference in the face of such a tiny, but seemingly resolved woman.

There is a great joy and satisfaction that comes from truly knowing someone, Fitz thought. It is like being allowed to be two people at once. Or owning one home and being a beloved visitor to another, knowing that door is always open to you. True intimacy feels like someone allowing you to take up residence inside them. Not with parts of your body, but your entire existence. As if they carry you around with them as a grounding comfort, not an oppressive burden.

Fitz wanted that. And, in turn, he wanted to spiritually inhabit someone. The one. He wanted a full life with her. Olivia. A full week of Tuesdays. Sunday mornings in bed, when they would make lazy love, then playfully squabble about who would take care of breakfast and who would get to shower first, only to end up doing both together. Arguments about parenting and sharing snapshots of cute things their babies did when the other was not there. To care for her in sickness and discover if she regressed into infancy—whiny and helpless; or would she be stubborn and full of denial. To be allowed into her darkness and bathe in her light. He was ready to offer the same. A love worthy of writing about someday is what he wanted. But only with her. All of her. More than anything else, he missed their friendship. Such a shame to lose that.

Lying there in bed, unable to think of nothing and no one else. Fitz found his quaint, domesticated thoughts of her turning amorous. He recognized the return of his earlier vision—the morning frolic in bed with her. The very one he had seen when he looked at her bed just hours ago. Longing traveled south and his dick began to stir at the thought of being on top of her, pouring into his kiss everything he felt for her. He began to think about the feeling of her mouth, pliant and welcoming to every exploration of his tongue. Accustomed to sleeping naked, his dick, now fully erect, tented his sheets, urging him deeper into this fantasy. He reached into his bedside table before he fisted his length, pumping up and down as he imagined the specter of Olivia riding him, her face awash in the pleasure he provided. She bit her lip, savoring the ecstasy she wrung from him with each swirl of her hips. His eyes traveled to the back of his head because now she put his thumb in her mouth and performed Cirque du Soleil routines until his toes were curling. He pumped faster and faster, his chest heaving up and down. She was driving him into a frenzy. His pace was rapacious inside her, forcing her to fall to his chest, so racked with pleasure she could no longer stay upright. With possessive handfuls of her ass, he alone now controlled their rhythm. Her moaning intensified in his ear, spurring him on as she hotly whispered, "You feel so good inside me. Don't ever stop." The warm zephyr of her words in his ear and the slip and slide of her cunt had him losing control in no time, erupting like Mount Vesuvius.

Minutes later when his breathing had calmed, remnants of his lust on his fingers brought him around to a cold reality: she was not there, and he was alone.

/Late October/

"Wah gwaan, Dread?" Kenny greeted

"Cool, man. Everyting is everyting," Devon—more intimately referred to as 'Dread'—returned, as he curled Kenny's fingers into his palm before bringing their bodies to embrace in that way that men do. His thick ropes of intentionally matted hair hung down his back, protectively encased in a black, green and gold crocheted bonnet. The edge of which rested at the top of his crown, leaving his greying temples and slightly receding hairline exposed.

"Wha 'bout you? Everyting Irie?" Devon asked.

"Soon come," Kenny answered, thinking of the court summons he had received from his religious neighbor.

Devon, who stopped frequenting Maroon Lounge once fewer and fewer of his fellow Jamaicans flocked to the place—on account of the changing clientele—still stopped in once in a blue moon, if his business required the trek to DC from his home in Arlington, Virginia. Ironically, it was here that he had met the woman to whom he was now married, Pauline. In the early days of Maroon, when she saw a small Ethiopian flag sticker on the Lounge's open door, she boldly and excitedly stopped in to ask, in an unmistakable DC twang, "Y'all serve ital food here?" She had him at 'ital', or 'eye-dul' as it sounded on her American tongue. It was because of Pauline that Devon was here now, picking up some clean vegetarian fare—cooked food (boiled green banana, yellow yam and plantain) with steamed aacki and callaloo. The long-time line cook, Winston, still cooked this kind of food for the staff before the evening shift. When the clientele of Maroon began to change, so did its menu. Food like this was for Yardies and Rastafari who played midday board games of Ludo and reasoned for hours over a game of dominoes. It was not for urban transplants looking for hot, fried snacks to soak up their after-work rail drinks.

Devon pulled out his phone, glancing at the time. It was nearing five o'clock. He calculated the traffic delay in his head, tapping his feet as he waited for Kenny to emerge from the kitchen with his food. He thought he was experiencing déjà vu, but no, the same Billy Paul song played again and again from the jukebox in the back corner of the room. A white man turned to sit back in his seat nursing brown liquor between Billy's earnestly swollen cries for Mrs. Jones. The new clientele. Devon shook his head, thinking that the man looked sad. But he was also thankful that his beliefs, and his family, rescued him from the dangers of liquor and other ungovernable behavior. He could have been that man.

"Here you go. Give Pauline and the kids a hug from me. Is when mi ago see dem?" Kenny approached saying. His eyes followed those of Devon to see what had him both captivated and concerned.

"Yow, is weh him depon?" Devon pointed to the sad looking man. "Jah know mi glad say mi nah do dem tings no more," He added, taking the food from Kenny and patting him on the shoulders as he turned to head out.

"See you," Kenny said over his shoulder as he walked toward Fitz. He barely registered Devon's "Likkle more, Star" as he headed out into the DC night.

…

Fitz stood with his exposed arms—from his rolled-up sleeves—on either side of the old jukebox. The sinewy shape of his arched, muscular back evident under his artic blue shirt. He stood there trying to push through his despondency and self-indulgent wallowing.

"Why are you pretending to look at that list? Besides the fact that half those buttons don't work anymore, I think we all know which tune you'll reach for. Again," Kenny said, his arms crossed.

Fitz pushed the predictable button, and soon the opening soft sounds of the song's piano, saxophone and guitar filled that corner of the Lounge.

"I promise you this is the last cycle of this song." Kenny looked around as the place began to quickly teem with Tuesday's happy hour crowd.

"You don't understand," Fitz huffed, downing the last of his drink before shaking it obstinately at Kenny, indicating he needed a top-up. Without so much as a glance his way.

This pissed off Kenny, whose patience was clipped these days. He walked to the box's outlet and yanked the cord from the socket. "You're done."

"Come on, Ken! Look, I'm sorry, Ok? Did I not say please?"

"Fitz, you're drunk and you're sad. Frankly, you're fucking up the vibe." Kenny knew exactly what this was about. If this is what he was missing out on the last few weeks, then good riddance. "Listen, she went her way and now it's time you go yours."

Fitz looked at him, hurt and surprised, his eyes red and drowsy. "Et tu, Brute? Of all people?"

"Me?! Now why am I in it?"

"You're the only one who knows how much she means to me. How much this hurts," Fitz charged.

"Two minutes ago, it was 'you don't understand' and now it's 'you're the only one who understands'. Which is it? Is it Oochie Wally or is it One Mic? It can't be both," Kenny said.

Fitz paused, in contemplation and confusion, before admitting defeat. He could not decipher Kenny's analogy and he was annoyed because Kenny knew that he would not.

Kenny sighed, fishing for an equivalent Fitz might understand. "Is it Garth Brooks or Chris Gaines?"

Fitz made a clicking sound with this mouth. "Ever the Riddler, you are," he admitted. "It's both, actually. You're the only one who's really seen us together. That I'm not…" he trailed off not wanting to say the word out loud. "And no, you don't understand what it's like loving someone you can't really have, or won't give themselves fully to you. You don't know what their sudden absence from your life is like. Absent, but so damn present that it's…it's almost maddening," Fitz continued.

Kenny breathed in slowly, practicing techniques he had used to beat back memories he had worked hard to sequester, but which were a lot harder to contain as October's end neared. A simmering anger rose inside him, taking the place of grief that was usually lidded inside its cauldron.

"That is funny," Kenny said churlishly.

Fitz looked up at him incredulously, the expectation of explanation knitted in his brows.

Ever aware of where he was, who he was, and the business he protectively ran, Kenny bent down close to Fitz, lowering his volume and increasing the steeliness of his tone. "What's funny to me is that you don't know who I am or what I've been through to make any assumptions about who I have or have not loved. In all the many, many nights you've been here, not once have you taken the opportunity to know me. You're selfish and you're spoiled. You think you love that woman? Have you ever stopped to think what you have to offer her? And I don't mean your money or your grandaddy's name. I mean have you thought about how you can make her life better by your presence? Or have you only imagined how she would make you better?"

Kenny stopped there before rising to his full height of six feet, not wanting to unleash his own demons unfairly. He had already said too much. Their relationship was not his business; his business was not the place to mourn their relationship. "Now, call yourself an Uber because, like I said, you are fucking up the vibe of my establishment."

/Early December/

Fitz handed his keys to the valet and adjusted his jacket and attitude before walking into the Club House of Creighton Farms' private golf club. His father had maintained a family membership here, despite Fitz only setting foot into the space when necessary. It was beautiful and palatial, with some of the best manicured courses in the greater Metro area. But its exclusivity strangled him with expectation.

Fitz spotted his father at his usual table. Reserved for Fitz was the same place across from Big Jerry, every time his presence was requested. Or should he say demanded. Because his father never invited him to lunch in order to ask about his well-being. Or anything about his life. Fitz wanted to skip straight to the part where Big Jerry gave him his instructions and then fast forward to the part where he would not need to see him for several months.

"Dad," Fitz greeted as he sat down.

"Son!" Jerry enthused. "Do you know what I only just discovered? President Monroe lived across the street from this very club!"

"Dad, that's impossible."

"You know what I mean. Across from the land this place is built upon. And one day future members will talk about how President Grant belonged to this club." Big Jerry's shining and small blue eyes glimmered with future possibilities.

"Here we go," Fitz said under his breath. He knew it would not be long before they visited his father's favorite topic. Big Jerry's one-track mind had become more dogged ever since Fitz declared that he would not be able to stop him divorcing Mellie. Fitz was mercifully spared presidential talk during, and for many months after, his divorce.

"Fitz, I've been thinking. You can't sell the Greenwood estate."

"I don't think that's any of your business. My investment in my old firm doesn't require that I still live in Virginia. I don't see the need to hang on to it. I'm looking to get something permanent in DC… eventually." The Greenwood property in Charlottesville was meant to be a family home for him and Mellie and the children they would raise. When that became implausible, its sentimentality waned. As property, its Georgian architecture had been well-cared for, lasting centuries. Mellie had begged for a complete modern renovation that would betray most of its character. He had refused then. And still refused later, knowing the fate the property would meet, should he cede it to her in the divorce. He held firm instead. But now he could offload it. "I'm never there. Paying for the upkeep seems wasteful since I have no plans to return."

"Wasteful? Fitzgerald. You're no spendthrift," Big Jerry scoffed. "You and I both know acquiring another property isn't contingent upon selling Greenwood. Just because you sell a house doesn't mean you get rid of the memories. They couldn't have all been bad."

They were not all bad, but he was putting that place behind him and moving on. "Why are you so invested in that property? Do you want it? We can do the deed transfer and be done."

"I was hoping you wouldn't turn insolent so soon. I wanted to have a nice lunch, for once, with my boy before turning to practical matters."

"You brought up the house, not me."

"Hear this, Fitzgerald: Virginia is a very strategically placed state for us. You need Greenwood to keep your residency. This state is one of a dwindling few where you can still win as a Republican without debasing yourself or your family." He popped a pillow of stuffed ravioli into his mouth, mashing it around before adding, "We're doing your Senate run in the next cycle. The timing is perfect."

Fitz dropped his fork. All these months he was under the delusion that his father may have been giving him space to recalibrate after his divorce from Mellie. No, Big Jerry was remapping his plans. "You still haven't dropped this?"

Ignoring Fitz, Jerry remarked, "It's a shame you couldn't make it in time to play a round or two of golf with me and the guys. But you'll meet them next week."

"What's special about next week?"

"It's the State Dinner for Xi Jinping. After my faux pas in September, next week must be perfect. It's going to be an elegant affair, filled with all the right people."

"They're holding a state dinner the second week of December? Seems sort of close to Christmas," Fitz pondered.

The senior Grant continued making a meal of his lunch between sentences. "It's a very auspicious time and you know how the Chinese are about such occasions. Besides, the first ever state dinner took place in December, put on by a Grant no less!" He said, slapping the table in pride.

For as long as Fitz could remember, his father had drilled into him the legacy of the Grant name, and that they had come from presidential stock. Never-mind that their connection was through a distant cousin of Ulysses S. Grant. A cousin who saw more action down on the docks than on the battlefield, where Grant made his name fighting for the Union and forcing Robert E. Lee to capitulation. Lineage was lineage, Big Gerry was fond of saying. It is what you do in this day that matters for the future of this name. His father had tried and failed to carry on USG's presidential legacy. A one-term governor of their home state of California, Big Jerry, perhaps too soon, ran for president and fell short. It was not even close. He wasn't what the country needed at the time, which is why he did not make it far enough to clinch the Republican nomination. He set his sights on the Senate where he was successful…with some help from Cyrus Beene. Now, with a Republican finally back in office after sixteen years, he had been called to serve as Ambassador to China by President Fenton Royce.

"Dad, I respectfully decline the invitation. You'll have to let down whichever political ladder-climbing young lady is expecting me to escort her to that dinner. I'm not looking to date or lead anyone on right now. Especially anyone who's looking for husband material," Fitz stated matter of fact-ly.

"You were husband material once and still are, son. You had a starter marriage that ran its course." He shrugged. "We'll find you another one."

"That's just it. Right there. I don't want 'another one'." He wanted The One. He had found her. Or so he thought. Thinks? He did not know anymore and the weeks he had spent with a metaphorical blanket over his head had made things seem bleaker than they were. The only time he seen her, after the rooftop, was wistfully devastating. He still had not found that silver lining of hope which indicated that she could somehow remain in his life. Fitz's frustration coagulated in the despondent air surrounding the table at Creighton Farms. A man who found it almost impossible to button up his true feelings instead of wearing them on his sleeve, his face was the definition of bereft.

Jerry regarded his son, thinking of the rumors he had heard about his boy. He thought they were spinnable, if it came to that. Who was not dipping their signing pen into less than ideal inkwells these days. It only mattered what was public.

"Son. I know your mother isn't here to help control this. And Mellie, bless her, handled it for a time." He gestured to Fitz disappointedly. "All this sensitivity…"

Fitz motioned to open his mouth.

"And you can save your usual speech blaming me for everything that went wrong with your mother. You're just like her: sensitive and never satisfied. No matter what I gave her, or opportunity I created. She had everything…just like you. But there was always something she didn't have that became her fixation. You're like that, you know." Jerry fixed his napkin, giving up on the remnants of crab and fennel ravioli, drowned at the bottom of the shallow bowl by a rich creamy white wine sauce. With a pointed raise of his eyebrow and mere point of his finger, a young server was by his side in seconds to whisk away his first course.

"Listen to what I'm trying to tell you. You're not a boy anymore. You're past forty and this is your political prime. You've got the Grant name, grooming, looks, charm and Rhodes Scholar intelligence. You have everything! Why are you wasting it at some two-bit university?"

"Excuse me?"

"Listen, I had heard you'd been hanging out in more…colorful parts of Washington. Which, you know, get your rocks off however you want. I'm sure after the divorce, you wanted to explore, sow your oats, as they say. But now it's time— "

Fitz motioned to get up. "You are disgusting."

"Sit!" The elder Grant demanded in a low growl, looking around. "Disgusting though I may be, it doesn't matter. What matters is what you do with your future. Some little gal broke your heart? Boo hoo. Suck it up. Be an adult. You listen to me good, Fitzgerald. What kind of father would I be to let you squander opportunity a second time? It's been over a year since the divorce. And what have you done with yourself? Cruise colored neighborhoods and get yourself a little teaching job at one of their universities? Associate Law Professor," Gerry scoffed with all the venom he could muster. "Have you forgotten who you are? Who I am? You're not some common kid from the suburbs working his way up. You're Fitzgerald Thomas Grant—third of your name. You were wounded and I gave you some time after Mellie. In that time, she's soared and you…you're flailing. It's time for a reset."

"Let me guess. It's time for me to follow in your footsteps to become a failed presidential candidate. Is that it? I thought I had a few more years before reaching those depths. You were in your fifties when you flopped that hard, right? Oh, I better start embroiling myself in sex scandals, since you are quite the competition. What was that one girl's name? Hope? Hope! Gotta find me one of those."

The slap came swift and fast. And so did the disappearance of the crystal, Bowmore-infused tumbler in front of him. So fast, the few diners around on this Thursday afternoon registered the noise as a clap, or perhaps an exuberant hand across the table. Whatever it was, the WASPs in the Clubhouse made no bones about it. Fitz refused to acknowledge the flame-like pain on the side of his face, keeping his eyes down and a tight, fisted hand atop the table.

Big Jerry wiped the side of his mouth before deciding that this reunion with his son was now over. He would give him until Monday to let his words sink in, but not before he made himself clear.

"You will be at that Dinner on the 18th. The invitation will be delivered to your DC hovel. You will pick up your date, as soon as I have finalized her. And you will be the charmer you were raised to be. Have I made myself clear?"

"Yes, sir," Fitz responded. He had not moved, nor given his father any eye contact.

End of Part I

A/N: First, thank you for your continued support of this story. I'm so excited for all I have in store for you. Please do leave a review because it makes my little heart happy :).

Second, I hope you guys enjoyed Part I of the aftermath through Fitz's eyes. There's more to come for him, which will be up in a few days. Please also keep in mind that Olivia will get her own two-part episode. So don't worry if you don't know what's happening with her. Part II of Fitz will kind of give some hints. The Fitz and Olivia episodes are going to exist as companion pieces. This is 2/5 flashbackapalooza episodes.

What did you think of Fitz going to Olivia's apartment? He waited two whole weeks! We're getting some background on Kenny, and he and Fitz have a rough moment. What did you think of that? This episode has A LOT of male energy. I'd love to know what you think you might get in Part II for Fitz.

If you have questions, leave them in your review or hit me up on Twitter ( ADotPetunia).