Episode 12, Part II: The Limit to Your Love
(Olivia)
Flashback
"It doesn't matter how it is; It matters how it looks."
"Right. The offensive player has the first advantage. No matter how clever the defense, your move is dependent on somebody else's play."
.
/Early-Mid December/
Olivia walked into her office where she was greeted by Fitz. Not his physical presence. That, she had apparently missed. But Fitz's aura hung in the room, and with it the jacket she had abandoned when, like Helen circumventing the consuming fires of Troy, she fled from him.
The symbol of Fitz's presence was draped over the back of her chair, sheathed in plastic.
Some items of clothing hold within them, perhaps forever, memories that cannot be erased. The fibers are imbued with paintings of those memories, which the mind transposes with every touch, every wear of that garment. Like the ratty old orange and black Princeton t-shirt, gifted to her by the Black Student Union during orientation week. The sweatshirt she wore the day her mother left, never to return. Or the white broderie anglaise dress her grandmother, Sophia, made for her when she was eight, which Olivia had tailored into a sleeveless blouse after puberty transformed her body.
From the moment she laid eyes on the grey jacket, the memory of the rooftop enveloped her. The delicate blue pinstripes recalled the eyes from which she forced herself to look away. She would never sell it or donate it, but wearing it again? If seeing it could flood her senses in this way, wearing it would be out of the question.
Just as she went to hang up the garment on the coat stand, she observed the paper beneath the yellow sticky note.
~Dear Liv,
You are always impeccably dressed, but I bet you were missing this jacket from that well-organized closet of yours. I'm sorry it took me so long to return this to you. I wasn't satisfied with the initial effort of the cleaner. There were tiny, faint wine ring stains near the hem. We can't have that, can we? You deserve only the best.
Yours,
Fitz~
An involuntary smile tugged at her lips as she folded the paper, placing it inside her bag. A few lines on a piece of paper roused in her body every memory retained for him. Was there no recess of her mind into which he would not crawl? Oh, to be free of this man!
She was not like him. He to whom things came so easily. His light blazed bright and hot but like the sun, would it burn her if she got too close? The prudent Olivia she had worked to become crept into her consciousness, calculating the statistical probabilities of her every instinct toward him. That Olivia was there now with an unending string of doubts
Think of what you could lose! Are you this person? The kind who leaves a good, handsome, and ambitious man for some wealthy white boy with no track record? How do you think that would play in the press for Edison? You worked so hard to get him here and now you're going to blow it up? For what? What do you even want with Fitz? So what if he dated Black women in the past? He didn't marry any of them, and why do you think that was? Exactly. Edison fits neatly into the life you have. You know who he is and where he's going. He's a sure thing. Can you say the same for Fitz?
She could not say it. Were she the protagonist in a silly romantic comedy, destiny would conspire to pull them together because love must win. But there's a reason many of these movies never show what happens after the impossible—but fated—lovers get together, Olivia thought. What do they look like three years later when the unpredictability of life happens to them?
A wrap of knuckles sounded against Olivia's door, disrupting her thoughts.
A brown face with short natural hair poked its way into her office before she could say "Come in."
"Clarissa, I know you're still adjusting. However, I've asked you before to please wait for me to invite you in before opening my door."
"Good morning, Ms. Pope. I'm so— "
"It's Olivia, and good morning to you, too."
"Ok, Olivia. It's just that… Well, Mr. Beene made it seem urgent that he speak with you in his office."
.
"How was your long weekend?" Cyrus began.
Olivia heard Cyrus' question, but she was too preoccupied with the nervousness and lack of eye contact he displayed. How very unlike Cyrus. She could feel in the mundanity of his question, the concealing of something more substantive. That his query did not seek a sincere answer, but was a mere opening down a prickly path. His demeanor confirmed the uneasiness she had felt not long after she arrived this morning.
"Fine." She decided to keep her answers short.
"'Fine'? That's all?" Cyrus returned, his fisted hand set in front of his thin lips.
"Cyrus? I think we both know that I am not here to regale you with my weekend exploits. I wish you would just spit it out. The 'it' that you really summoned me here for."
"Liv, I actually do want to know about your weekend because I'm hoping to find something reassuring in it."
When Olivia appeared none the wiser about the riddle coming out of his mouth, Cyrus continued.
"I'm hoping you'll tell me about how happy you are with Edison. That in-between going over his staffing choices, whilst you two were in the Hamptons, that maybe you also discussed wedding dates. If I proposed today, James would have a venue by tomorrow. I'm trying to figure which of you is the James in this situation. You don't seem like the type. But I want to be wrong."
"Cyrus, you called me here to talk about my personal life? To get a heads up on wedding details? Or is this your way of recommending a Senate hire for Edison's team? I'm going to need you to be straight with me, so to speak."
Cyrus' booming but raspy laugh broke the tension. "That's funny, Liv. Fuuuuun-y."
Cyrus told Olivia about Mellie's visit and the accusations she had made about her and Fitz, and how their connection had been apparent throughout the divorce proceedings.
Olivia's first reaction was to close her eyes because, amongst the outrageous lies she heard, the kernels of truth were undeniable. The spark had been there, alongside her denial. There was…something between them now, but they…well, she had resolved not to act on it. Instead, she nursed it privately as a compromise between denial and reality. That way no one could quash her fantasies, and they would always be exactly as she pictured them.
"I was hoping for a stronger response," Cyrus interjected.
"Cyrus, what is it that you want me to say? These are a pack of lies. I'm not going to debase myself by doing a line-item denial of Mellie's accusations. As my client, I worked exceedingly hard to get Mellie what she wanted, and what she felt she deserved."
Olivia briefly thought about how digging into Mellie's financial disclosures sent her down a path that benefitted Fitz's side but dismissed it as unintentional in the bigger picture of things.
She continued, "Working with her also gave me insight, and I quickly realized that even if Fitz became a pauper from giving her every penny, property's deed and investment portfolio, she would still feel shortchanged. Fundamentally unhappy. Because what she wanted was to not lose. Not to win, mind you. Just not to lose. For her divorce is losing, and nothing I could say or offer made her feel differently."
"We're not re-litigating the Grant divorce, Liv— "
"Yes, but she is." To get Cyrus to see her point, Olivia asked, "What proof did she give you? Did she have anything to substantiate these fantastical claims?"
"Apparently he returned your dry-cleaning and left you a note at reception? Mellie dropped by on Friday for a meeting and must have seen it before Clara— "
"Clarissa"
"Before Clarissa put it in your office."
Olivia let out a sigh, thinking about that note. The one tucked in her bag. She knew the reality the note was based on. It was a far cry from the fanciful bodice-ripper claims Mellie crafted.
"Cyrus, I left my jacket at a bar. End of."
Cyrus thought about how much more personally that note read when he looked at it for himself. "Listen, kid, I don't care what you do in your personal life. I only care when it affects this firm's reputation."
"'Reputation'? Olivia repeated. "How is this affecting the firm exactly?'
"Mellie is threatening to file a complaint to have you disbarred for unprofessional conduct, and to badmouth this firm all over the DMV as one that backstabs their clients."
The non-sequitur of Cyrus' words confounded Olivia. "Unprofessional conduct?"
"Specifically on the grounds of moral turpitude and sexual relations with a client," Cyrus specified as his hand sought comfort at the back of his neck.
Olivia's laugh was cynical but brief. "Besides the fact that Mellie has no proof of this because none of it is true," she said leaning towards Cyrus' desk, she was my client, not Fitz! This doesn't even make sense."
"He wasn't a client of yours, but he was a client of the Firm's."
Cyrus stood with his hands in his pockets as he looked outside his window, down at passersby on Connecticut Avenue. W&B's penthouse offices offered him an incredible vantage point. As he looked down a feeling akin to Vertigo threatened to overtake him as he contemplated the worst-case scenario of Mellie's accusations. He had worked too hard to get this view.
"James wants a baby," Cyrus said unexpectedly.
"What?!" was the only response that made sense to address this whiplash turn in the conversation.
"James wants a baby. I think it's his way of hinting at marriage. But I'm not sure yet," Cyrus said, continuing with his back turned to Olivia.
"I can't have a baby, Liv. This," he turned to face her. "This firm is my baby. Wannamaker is an absentee father who makes sure we are financially cared for. But this baby feeds from my teat. Grows strong from my guidance. Is the pride of this town because of ME!" His voice boomed.
Cyrus wiped his mouth and took a calming breath. "Liv, what's one of the first things I taught you?"
Mouth open, she stared at Cyrus, feeling unprepared for this pop quiz. Quickly she searched. "It doesn't matter how it is; It matters how it looks."
"Right. The offensive player has the first advantage. No matter how clever the defense, your move is dependent on somebody else's play."
"So, what are exactly are you saying?" Olivia's agitation was mounting. Dazzlingly clear was Cyrus' decision, and he had arrived there without her.
"I made Mellie an offer not to go ahead with her nonsense. But it involves sacrifices from us both." He took a dramatic intake of breath.
Olivia looked on expectantly, ready for him to spit it out as she hid her panic.
"A leave of absence," Cyrus said. "I know, I know…but don't worry Christmas is around the corner. You're not long engaged and have a lot of commitments to that end. Yada yada yada. That's how we'll spin it in the office. I'm thinking six weeks would be a good cooling off period."
"How exactly are you sacrificing?"
"I'm losing my best girl for six weeks for crying out loud. And I have to play nice with Mellie."
Olivia folded her arms and pointedly asked. "And what did you give her? Punishing me is the cherry. What's the sundae made of? You know, the part she really wants."
Barely above a whisper, Cyrus said, "I gave her a few event invites and I'm heading up the legal team for her exploratory committee. She can't decide between gubernatorial or senate candidate just yet."
Olivia was flummoxed. She got sacrificed for this woman's political ambitions. When she couldn't leverage Fitz anymore, she found leverage in those connected to his life, albeit tangentially.
"What events?"
"Our big annual holiday benefit, and a few other things Henry and I receive invitations for." Henry Wannamaker was the rare partner that was almost entirely absent. He cared much more about the financial health of the firm than the PR opportunities. He left Cyrus to drive that.
"Such as?" Olivia was determined to make Cyrus spill to her everything for which he had sacrificed her and the integrity of this firm.
"Thursday night's State Dinner. She'll be my date."
"I'm sure your journalist boyfriend is delighted," she said bitingly as she shut the door behind her.
.
Olivia walked into her apartment, dazed and confused. How did she get to this point? Her keys and her bag rested on the entrance table, underneath the mirror, and she absentmindedly flung the dry-cleaned jacket over her linen sofa. With both hands now free, she systematically shed every piece of clothing in the march toward her bedroom.
Cold grey light shone through the curtains. What point was there to stay the whole day after being made to take a 6-week leave of absence. Her colleagues were being told it was a personal sabbatical.
Now dressed in black silk pajamas, Olivia drew the curtains closed and slid under the covers. She thought about Cyrus' words of reassurance to let tempers calm down, promising to take care of Mellie. She wanted to trust him, but he had so easily thrown her to the cold. More than ten years of knowing him was minimized by ten minutes with a woman Olivia was unconvinced had any bite behind her easy bark.
The hollow feeling of betrayal was swelling inside her like gas. How could she trust Cyrus again? What did this mean about becoming partner, and all the grueling work she had already put in? Was she supposed to go back and pretend that she had needed six weeks off to plan a wedding? That didn't seem very partner-like. Who would take her seriously now? She lay in bed, her eyes teetering on the edge of closing, but never committing. Her mind resisted her will, refusing to rest.
.
/Days Later, Mid-December/
"What an idiot!" Olivia said out loud to herself.
She thought of nights spent cycling through fantasies of Fitz. Ones whose enjoyment was quickly traded in for guilt, shame, betrayal. There is no innocence, she thought. Not anymore. Like some schoolgirl, the mere thought of that charming, crooked smile of his would make her lips curl or her cheeks blush.
To see him, now, on her television screen looking at another woman that way, at the State Dinner—mere days after leaving her jacket and a note at her office? The only heat Olivia felt was from the flames rising on the side of her face. Mellie may have pulled the pin, but Fitz was the one who left the grenade. And now she was being hit with all the shrapnel. Whatever softness Olivia felt toward him was dissipating into the volcanic flow of her rage. Productive and stimulating, rage felt better than the shadowy chill of pity. She would take rage over uncertainty any day.
Olivia had barely slept in the last three days as the world continued to rotate whilst she just …spun. No, seethed. She was seething now.
Cyrus put her on a leave of absence because of one woman's easily riled sensibilities. A woman she had helped, but who had never fully trusted her. Cyrus protected that woman's delusions over that of the woman without whom nearly fifty percent of his firm would be nothing. Because of a note? A note?
For once Olivia felt like dancing. Edison's thwarted ambitions favored her this time. Try as he might, a junior senator elect could not wrangle a ticket to that State Dinner. Neither Frank (Chief of Staff) nor Meena (Director of Communications) could change that. Not even Schumer or Pelosi could change it. The Republican administration wanted to send a clear message now that Edison's win had given the Democrats back their majority. The middle finger from the White House was inelastic and immovable. For that, she was thankful. She could not bear to be subjugated to Fitz's presence whilst she felt this volatile, verging on rupture.
It was enough that she had to see his photogenic face all over footage of the Dinner. Smiling and debonair and attentive to his date. How cozy they looked, gossip sites purred, as they began speculating about the Ambassador's son—once again—coming off the market. Less than three months ago he had begged her to be with him, prompting her to astrally project a universe filled with several lifetimes of their bond. Barely a month since she had heard he was sad and pining for her at Maroon. The image on her screen and the one Kenny painted seemed so incongruous. Nothing made sense, she thought.
From what she could see last night, it did not look like a first date. Fitz liked this woman, this Lillian Forrester. Olivia had, of course, read her work. She had never seen her face coupled with her name until tonight. Now she wished she had never known Lillian's face. That the image residing in her brain, of Lillian resting her head on his shoulder, was paying rent because she had not invited it. But it lived there now.
Things felt as if they were happening to her, spinning out of her control. She wanted her life back. The one that had neat compartments she could open and close for her needs. Fitz disrupted all of that. It seemed as if the fringes of his life touching hers served only to distract. She and Fitz were two people, with two separate lives. So it would stay, she decided.
But the note.
The note.
The fucking note.
Her thoughts kept returning there. Six sentences, sixty-six words. Or should she say sixty-six threads that led to the unravelling of her life. Only she could weave them back together.
But the motivation to do so right now was absent within her. All she could feel was the serrated edges of detritus from the crashing of everything around her. Who could she tell about this faithless truth? She could not tell Edison without betraying him. There was no comfort from him that she could solicit right now. What would she say? The truth? Pffft. Nothing happened, but maybe it should have to justify the consequences only she had to bear.
And now it did not matter. Fitz had come to her with eyes that spoke of sincerity, with a mouth full of what she now regarded as slick words. Words she bet were now being whispered to Lillian Forrester tonight. At least she did not have to be present to witness any of this. To make a twice-cooked fool out of her?
Fuck this.
Fuck him.
.
/Late January/
Olivia pressed the mute button on the TV remote. It was nearly 1 AM. Was that shuffling she heard outside her door? After listening intently for a few seconds to the dead of silence, she heard a low rumble outside her door. The melodic hum of 'Oh happy day'. Stealthily, she crept over to the door and flung it open, sparing no drama. The tire iron was posed above her shoulder, ready to strike before she saw who it was.
"What the hell are you doing here?!" She scream-whispered, not wanting to disturb her elderly neighbor, Lois, across the hall.
Unfazed by the fright Olivia created for herself, Kenny held up a single finger to her, continuing to tap on his phone. "Una momento, por favor," he said as he pressed send on his missive.
"Where are your manners?" Kenny demanded, shouldering his way inside. "Is this how you greet guests?"
Olivia was still posted by the door, her heart deescalating down to normal.
Kenny headed for the kitchen as Olivia finally locked her door.
"The hell is wrong with you flinging open the door with a tire iron. Girl, what'd I tell you about watching true crime late at night when you on your Macaulay Culkin?"
Kenny placed next to Olivia's bottle of wine, the lonely bottle of San Pellegrino sparkling water he found in her fridge, and a small ceramic bowl.
"It's late. What are you doing here?"
"It's only 1AM, which is early. Or are the rules different when you show up at my apartment at 3 AM?" Said Kenny, with pursed lips, as he looked over at Olivia.
Still standing and blinking excessively at Kenny, Olivia avoided his question.
Kenny was now pressing the information button on the remote. "Ohhhh, Snapped. You know TV One got a Black one called For My Man?" He guffawed at the very thought of the show. "It's awful and amazing! If you ever want to do a marathon, let me know."
"I'm not watching this for laughs. I watch these shows to remind me that sometimes justice works the way it is supposed to. Bad people get punished, not rewarded," Olivia said smugly.
Kenny's brows furrowed as he wondered what crawled into her Captain Crunch. "That right there is some bullshit. My analysis made more sense," Kenny returned. "If anything, some of these women are the sort who couldn't afford your services, so they chose violence because that's what was available, "Kenny mused.
Olivia huffed. "You're giving most of them too much credit." But she also thought of the many women she was unable to help because Wannamaker & Beene brooked no room for charity, unless it was in service to the wealthy and their causes.
"Uhhh, excuse me?" Olivia said, plopping down beside Kenny. "You seriously came to my house and pulled out a single serve bag of cheddar popcorn. Not only that, but you also have the audacity to pour said bag into my bowl, next to my sparkling water and offer me nothing? Rude."
Cradling the ceramic blue and jade bowl to his body, Kenny launched a fisted handful of white cheddar-coated kernels into his mouth.
"Believe it, sis. Like a kiddie perm from the '90s, this shit is: just for me." He mumbled.
Why are you like this, Olivia thought as she shook her head, loving Kenny like the big brother she never had. "What are you even doing here this time of night? Late night with your bestie, Fitz?" She teased.
"Oooooh, that sounded jealouuuuuuus," Kenny sang.
"Nothing of the sort," she insisted. She was trying to exorcise Fitz's haunting from her life. A disruptive phase is what he was. She did not want to conjure him, like Candyman, by saying his name.
"I'm being serious. What did you get up to?"
"Sucking dick and cock, mom!" Kenny mocked, in the cadence of a stroppy teenager.
"Dick and cock? A very busy night then," Olivia volleyed back.
Kenny coughed as the laughter hit him unexpectedly. "Good one."
"Thank you. Now what's the matter?"
"Nothing. I went on a lil' date, or whatevah. Not too far from here. I hadn't heard from you since New Year's, so I thought I'd check on you," Kenny shrugged.
"Oh, you really were— "
"Having a little fun and not feeling lonely? Yes." Kenny glanced at his phone and tapped out a short reply.
Olivia assumed Kenny was texting his date. "Must have been good if you're planning to go back for seconds?" She said with raised eyebrows.
Kenny looked around Olivia's living room, noting how lived-in it seemed. He zoomed in on the absence of papers and her ever-present laptop. No work on a Sunday night? The recycling bin full of wine bottles and the near empty bowl of popcorn on the coffee table told a partial story.
"Ehh, it's not that serious, Liv. But…back to you. What are we sad about tonight?"
"I'm not sad; I'm unwinding."
Kenny finally offered her a few cheesy kernels from his bowl. "You work so hard at pushing away attention when you need it the most."
Olivia looked down and away.
"We could keep doing this until Abby gets here, or you can cut the crap."
….
Olivia did cut the crap. She decided to relieve herself of this burden, foisted upon her by Cyrus, Mellie, and even Fitz, she supposed.
"Wait, so Edison doesn't know? He hasn't suspected?" Abby enquired, baffled.
"I…I can't tell him. He'll make a big deal out of it. Or tell me to quit and join his team. I don't want to go down that road." Olivia's twisting hands belied her obfuscation. She did not want to name Fitz, making things more complicated than she presented.
"But it is a big deal. It's an injustice. Cyrus put you on a leave of absence because the soon-to-be ex-wife of your client claimed that her soon-to-be ex-husband was flirting with you and that's why he got better terms in the divorce? That doesn't even make sense!" Abby exclaimed. "She sounds jealous. As for Cyrus, you can take him to court for sex discrimination."
"Wait, is the couple white?" Asked Kenny.
Nervously, Olivia thought for a moment before answering. "Yes."
"Then you best believe it's racial, too," Kenny said. "Wifey probably thinks you're some Jezebel who seduced her man, and all because he was nice to you, and she didn't get the result she wanted. She should have secured your services first instead of one of your underlings. Lowkey… Naw, fuck that. On the highest of keys, I bet she feels like her ex flirting with a Black woman in the middle of their divorce made her feel some type of way," Kenny interjected. "You know white women think they're the pinnacle of desirability."
"Liv, why are you letting this happen?" Said Abby.
Olivia was furiously pacing in circles as Abby and Kenny debated the justifications for Olivia's forced leave of absence and the merits of recruiting Edison's involvement. But upon hearing Abby's objection, she could no longer withhold pertinent details.
"Letting it? Abby, what power do I have here? Wannamaker and Beene is not mine to control. Even after how much of myself I've given over to that place," she deflected instead, though what she said was true.
"Which is exactly why I don't understand why you're rolling over on this. You could bring your own suit."
"Wow, Abby, you're so smart. It's almost like you went to some kind of school for law, or something," Kenny deadpanned.
"Almost, right?" Abby smiled.
Olivia continued in her circles. She was on the brink of falling from dizziness or having her head explode from the pressure building up due to her obfuscation.
"I didn't tell Edison because I couldn't tell him the whole story. I didn't tell you the whole story either."
….
"That's why you're not fighting this. It makes so much sense. You think you deserve this," Abby said, shaking her head. "Hell no, you don't."
A moment of silence filled the room, soon to be effaced by Olivia. "I appreciate that Abby, but I haven't internalized this as some kind of self-flagellation. I'm not pursuing this on legal grounds because it's petulant. It's not worth it to me." What was worth it was the harder matter to decipher. "But don't worry about me."
Abby was already on her next thought, as her mouth gaped, and her eyes traveled side to side. "You liar! I knew it!" Abby said suddenly, in an epiphanous tone after the full truth came tumbling out. "The guy at Maroon. The reason you've been going there every week and not inviting me to go with you. The note—it's from him?!"
She covered her mouth. "Wait, did you guys bone? In his house? Or here, on this couch?" She said springing to her feet in disgust.
"Abby!" Olivia scolded. "I would never do that to Edison."
"Might as well have fucked Geraldo. You could have at least gotten some dick out of all this headache," Kenny shrugged. "From what I've seen, it might have been worth it. Women be eyeing him like they already know the dick is gone give what it's supposed to have gave."
"That's quite enough on your friend, Fitz, Ok?" Olivia interjected.
"Oooh, Fitz. He must be rich," said Abby.
"Oh, honey," chimed Kenny. "Even after the divorce."
Nosey as ever, Abby Googled Fitz.
"Holy shit! I can't believe you didn't climb that. Not even once?" Abby shook her head repeatedly. "You're a better woman than I am."
By this point, as night was on the verge of day, Olivia's living room was quickly turning into a Fitzgerald Grant stan account.
"I thought you two came here to help me. This is not helping me."
….
The sun was rising by now. All night they had discussed Olivia's emotional affair with Fitz, the sonic boom of its ending, her increased resentment for Cyrus, and her reluctance with Edison. But Olivia was none the wiser about the rudderless no-man's-land in which she found herself.
Abby looked at Olivia as she stared out the window at the emerging day. After all the talking, drinking, and laughing that night, it occurred to Abby that there was one thing she had not given Olivia. She rose from the couch.
Abby hugged Olivia to her and held on until the stiffness of her form became as soft and pliable as the silk pajamas she wore.
"It's going to be OK, Liv. I know that sounds simple. But it's what you told me after you thwacked Chad's knees for hurting me. You made me sleep next to you that night and I felt safe. I remember pretending to sleep and thinking about I when my life would be mine again." Abby paused to swallow the rising emotion. "But you promised me it would. And you were right. I'm certainly no Olivia Pope, and this isn't the same situation, but I do know one thing: You're going to find your way and I'll be here when you do," Abby said as she rubbed Olivia's back gently. "You just need to trust yourself to do the right thing."
Olivia hung onto both Abby's body and words, like a piece of driftwood anchoring her at sea.
…
"Abby and I got to talking and realized something…" Kenny looked to Abby who returned a measuring smile.
Olivia, now showered and fresh faced, raised her eyebrows in curious amusement. "Uh oh. The two of you working together. What mess will this be?"
"You don't need help…I mean you do. But, first, you need something else," Kenny said as he handed Olivia the green tea he and Abby fetched when they went to buy coffee and muffins.
The devilish duo blurted in unison: "Affirmation!"
"Affirmation?" Olivia questioned?
"Yes. Not the you-is-kind-you-is-smart-you-is-important type," Kenny noted. "You need to get out of here."
"Kenny's right. There is life outside your apartment. Away from your man troubles, job troubles and the rest. D.C. is a claustrophobic reminder of all your worries. Let's get out of here! How about some well-deserved fun in Vegas? Just the three of us, what do you say?"
.
/The next weekend/
Three turned to four after Liv had spoken to Franceska about Kenny and Abby's makeshift intervention. She was eager to make the trip and rearranged her life to make it happen.
After a satisfying weekend, they were now heading back to the lives they briefly escaped.
Olivia sat on the plane with her seat reclined and sunglasses shading her tired eyes. The weekend had been as promised—fun, extemporaneous and almost completely void of her worries. She felt revitalized, surrounded as she was by love and support. Literally surrounded. Abby and Kenny occupied the row behind her; Frankie sat in the aisle seat beside her.
Olivia's face was a picture of delight as her mind revisited parts of their weekend.
….
"Ok, Kenny! We've had enough of your chest-thumping Celine Dion impression," Olivia playfully scolded, as the group's Uber neared their temporary home, The Bellagio. They had spent the last few hours indulging in the songbird's' residency at Caesar's Palace.
"Girl, you know how Jamaicans love them some Celine. That's their patron Canadian saint," Franceska joked.
Emerging from the car and taking in the scene around her, Abby remarked, "This is the gaudiest, most indulgent, over-the-top city, but I cannot deny it is a good time."
"Thank you for the tickets, by the way. You were right. I did need this," Oliva said, giving her friend a peck on the cheek.
The familiar instruments of Andrea Bocelli's 'Con te Partirò began its crescendo. A crowd formed around the hotel's famous fountains, as they awaited the beginning of colorful lights dancing across pirouetting streams of water.
The group of four friends huddled together in the chilled evening air of January in Nevada. They watched the symphonic fountain in action and let the emotion of the song wash over them. Each of them in their own world thinking of finding light on horizon's they have yet to reach, and the things and people holding them back from doing so.
A hand biller, or porn slapper, as they were more commonly known, approached the quartet, stuffing flyers decorated with naked photoshopped women into Kenny and Abby's hands.
The friends had made a pact to minimize excuses that weekend in their quest for a good time. If one or more of them suggested an activity, then they would all commit. They went horseback riding (Olivia); saw Siegfried & Roy (Frankie); flew to The Grand Canyon (Kenny's first time) and spent an inordinate amount of time at The Erotic Heritage Museum (Abby).
But tonight, everyone seemed to be of one accord about the flyers: they just were not in the mood for titties.
"We're leaving tomorrow, and we haven't indulged in the bread and butter of this place," said Frannie.
They gave her a confused look.
"Gambling, duh!"
They burst into laughing having not even considered that activity the entire weekend on the list of the many things to do in and around Vegas.
"Damn, you're right," Kenny said. "Not even a single slot machine."
"I know! We should do a casino crawl," Frankie said enthusiastically.
"A what?"
"A casino crawl."
"You're making that up," Liv said.
"Maybe. But it's just like a bar crawl. We go from casino to casino, gamble a little drink a lot. Until we're tired or broke, whichever comes first."
"Oh, it's gonna be the 'tired' option because I didn't come here to lose all my lil cointina aguileras," declared Kenny.
Everyone looked to Olivia.
"Let's do it," she shrugged. "But first, can we change? These shoes are going to have me on my hands and knees soon."
….
Olivia looked out the window. It never ceased to amaze her that she was tens of thousands of feet above the ground, flying in a metal tube with wings.
As if to echo her thoughts, Kenny, who was seated directly behind her said, "God was really in her bag when she made this planet. But the clouds! Nothing like them for feeling hopeful and reminding you of the bigger picture. The sea and the rest of earth are cool, too. Even the animals. Too bad she added humans. We fucked it all up. Now Earth is the ghetto. We're so selfish."
Olivia chuckled to herself.
She felt calmer than she had just days ago. Time spent with people she loved had much to do with it. The physical and symbolic space away from the quagmire of loose ends in Washington gave her perspective.
The anger that was so carelessly there had dissipated. So, too, did her jealousy and sense of betrayal. Whilst she could not guarantee that her father, Edison, nor Cyrus would make decisions in her best interest (even if they insisted it was so), she was the only one who could advocate for herself. It was not the fact of their being men, but the fact of her life not belonging to them. Done prioritizing everyone else's needs but her own, she would be the one to decide when to pause, pivot and proceed in a given direction.
Olivia lay her head against the window, watching in the distance as clouds parted for the sun. She closed her eyes and thought about turning her torch toward a more prudent path.
.
/Early February/
After giving a warning knock, Edison used his key to enter. He then placed it gently on the small table near the door.
"I'll be right there," Olivia yelled from her bedroom as she retrieved the hunter green velvet box from its resting place in the drawer beside her bed.
Edison stood near the entrance, looking distinguished in his charcoal grey wool coat. His U.S. Senate pin peeked out on his suit's lapel beneath. Olivia held up the box, waving it in the air. "I had it cleaned for you," she said soberly.
Edison took it from her, opened it and sighed wistfully at what would no longer be. He fought back the urge to say what was curdling on his tongue because that's not how he wanted this to go. Instead, he said, "Thanks, again, for coming to that event last week."
"Edison, of course."
Olivia had given Meena the heads up before telling Edison. The matter of their breakup she could privately handle but knew it would also need a public narrative to mitigate blowback. Every celebrity or public figure who had even an inkling of public relations knowledge knew the Friday evening news dump was the ideal way to release news you wished to bury, not celebrate. The most reluctant news was released right before a three-day weekend.
Olivia did not want the announcement to wait until President's Day, as Meena had begged her to do. It would have been another week of pretending.
"You rode into the Senate on a tide of support. You're off to a very promising start, and your personal life shouldn't take away from that. I," Olivia said with emphasis, "don't want to take away from that."
What Olivia said went in one ear and out the other because Edison could no longer choke back the words. What was the point?
"I've thought about giving you this ring for almost as long as we've been together…"
"Edison—" she interrupted, not wanting him to go down this road.
"No, Liv. I'm going somewhere with this," Edison promised.
"I can admit it was silly to propose after six months. It was impulsive. That's why I didn't have the ring with me. But I realized the other day—when you called me and told me you couldn't marry me after all…it registered that your reasons at month six seem nearly identical to your reasons two years later. Am I remarkably consistent or did what you suspect at month six only get confirmed two years later? Or were you the one that changed what you wanted?"
His gesticulations and clenched jaw did not distract Olivia from considering his question. Had she changed what she wanted? Or did she only now awaken to it?
Edison, undeterred in his search for answers, continued. "Is it the idea of marriage that bothers you? We can find a way to be modern if that's what it is. Things aren't the way they used to be. Or…or is it a family you don't want? It doesn't have to be three kids. We can negotiate. I know not wanting children is the line you and Meena decided on for the press release of our breakup, but… is it true?"
With her palms facing down, Olivia crossed them over each other repeatedly, her face plaintive. "Please stop this. I don't want to do this with you."
"Tell me something, Olivia. Anything. Because the idea that you're uncertain or scared just doesn't wash with me," he insisted.
Olivia swallowed. "You're right. I'm not scared or uncertain. I know."
She summoned compassion, careful not to let it overshadow her honesty. Her final overture to the relationship cast him as its sympathetic figure in their disentanglement. Together she and Meena decided Olivia would play the villain. Because, to many in the public, that's who a self-determined woman was if she left her enviable position at the side of a seemingly perfect man.
But Olivia, twice now, had known Edison to plan their future with her father without first discussing it with her. Her guilt had prevented her from confronting him. She felt she owed it to him, almost as a consolation for the fact that she had given pieces of herself to another man. Worse, they were pieces she had never given to Edison in the first place because she did not know they existed until Fitz showed up. But the other sacrifices she had made for him came to the forefront of her mind. And when she thought of the past year, what had truly excited her most about her relationship with Edison was their political partnership. Working on his campaign had given her something that their romantic pairing never did: vigor.
Now that the latter was in the distance, there was no point in keeping this epiphany lidded.
"Edison," she stepped toward him. "The truth is that I could marry you. I could make living just about anywhere —even Florida—work. I could have three children for you. But I don't want to. Because what I fundamentally cannot ignore anymore is that those are things that you want— "
"Liv, don't be like that. These are things that most people want. It's not like I'm abnormal," Edison volleyed.
"No, you're not abnormal. You're right that most people want marriage and kids. I cannot tell you unequivocally that I want those things with you— "
"Because you want them with someone else. That's it, isn't it? That's why you said yes to my proposal before saying no. Again. That's why you've felt distant even though you show up to the right things and say the right things. Look proud in all the right ways. Always with the smartest insights. I knew you were having fun down on 11th street, but I thought it was harmless. Just blowing off steam and occupying your time because I was away so much. Did you meet someone?" He accused.
"Edison, I'm not leaving you for anyone. There is no one waiting in the wings. This is about me. Me and the future you and my father planned without me!" There, she had said it now.
Edison was undeterred and unaffected. "Liv, come on. I was just running things by him. He's surprisingly insightful. Must be a Pope family trope."
"You two can keep seeing each other without me. My father can do what he likes with his time, and you two can plan the political future you've dreamed of. But I will not be the Jacqueline Bouvier pawn in your plans."
He could keep questioning her. Keep pelting her with accusations that were mere concealer for his hurt and disappointment. But nothing would change. They would not be getting married. She would not be his First Lady. And as he searched himself, Edison thought that he would not be willing to stake a third bet on Olivia.
Edison placed the ring box carefully in the lined pocket of his coat, by his chest. He grabbed her hand and patted it, "Liv, I hope you get what you want. Whenever you get around to figuring that out." Edison's hand reached for the door.
"I don't doubt that I will," Olivia said as she gave him one last watery smile. She was on her way to carving out a purpose-driven life of her own. One step at a time.
.
/Early February/
Leaning against the stained oak desk, her hands placed serenely at its edge, Olivia continued to wait. Any minute he would walk through that door. Her body felt uncustomarily relaxed in that space because her gut and her mind were of united.
The door opened with a bustling flourish.
"Liv!" Cyrus enthused. "Tanya didn't tell me you were back. It's good that you're here because I was going to call you to settle a date to return from your sabbatical." He was genuinely relieved to have his star attorney back in the fold.
He squeezed her arm appreciatively, looking into her eyes. "We've missed you here."
"I'm sure," Olivia replied, permitting the slightest closed mouth smile to grace her face. She was unmoved from her perch on his desk.
Cyrus plopped down into his tufted leather chair, as if he had not sat in hours. He threw onto his desk today's issue of The Washington Post, which pricked a recent memory.
"I was sorry to read about your engagement to Edison. That's too bad, kiddo. But you know what? Narrative-wise it works for your return since we told the staff you were on sabbatical to get a start on wedding planning. I guess the irreconcilable differences happened before you tied the knot. You are one heck of divorce lawyer to finagle that one," Cyrus said, pleased with himself. "But now the torch has been passed to me."
Olivia looked back over her shoulder at Cyrus. "Is that so?"
Cyrus's entwined hands rest atop his head of wispy hair and shiny skin. He continued, oblivious. "Love must be in the air," he shrugged. "That, or ultimatums. I proposed to James two weeks ago. The poor guy has been waiting years. He tried to convince me we could be modern, despite gay marriage being legal in DC for years. But ever since Obergefell v. Hodges started heating up, he's convinced it will soon be the law of the land. Imagine James with legal opinions! Anyway, I finally gave him what he wants because I just can't lose him. He's already started talking about adoption," Cyrus prattled on, as he continued looking up at the ceiling, rocking gently in his chair. "Well, the tax breaks should be good."
Olivia finally spoke, still in her same position. "Cyrus, do you think you're good for James?"
It was then that Cyrus registered the oxblood-colored expanse of the fabric covering Olivia's back.
"What kind of question is that? Am I good enough for James," Cyrus said in a mocking tone. "Liv, is everything Ok?"
When she did not answer, Cyrus, concerned, rose to his feet, and moved to stand in front of her. A faraway look in her eyes troubled his conscience. A troubling that continued to press down into the rest of his body until he was seated in one of the chairs facing Olivia. It was then that she repeated her question.
"That's not what I asked. Do you think you are good for James? Are you the one for him?"
"Liv, what's going on? Come on," Cyrus waived. "Sit with me."
"Are you good for James?"
In her voice he heard an obstinacy that compelled him to relinquish an answer.
"It doesn't matter so long as he's convinced himself that I am."
Olivia twisted her mouth in a wry smile, her head nodding almost imperceptibly. She uncrossed her legs and hopped off the desk to walk behind it. Olivia grabbed a sterling framed photo of the engaged couple next to Cyrus's desk lamp.
"It doesn't matter how it is; it matters how it looks," she said as she traced the frame's outline. "That's what you said to me. It's what you taught me."
Cyrus sat up in his chair and let out a slow breath. "I'm never worried about James. But this…this cool act of yours. "He ran his hand over his face. "I'm a little uncomfortable."
"Good." Olivia said, placing the photo back in its place. She squared her shoulders and tightened the belt at the side of her wool and silk blend coat. Its combination of warmth and comfort had served her well in the frosty tundra of Cyrus' office.
"Cyrus, I had a lot of time to think since I was last in this office. I remembered something else you taught me. Something you know all too well because you used me to do it. The offensive player sets the pace of the narrative. But the only way to wrest control is to change the narrative itself. You thought you were going to do that by sidelining me for six weeks."
Olivia moved back to rest against the front of Cyrus' desk, her hands clasped in her lap. Patronizingly she began, "The trouble is, with all the time on my hands, I began to think. I began to feel. I experienced a lot of emotions. Some fleeting, others cyclical. But there was one constant emotion. One that I tried to ignore, paper over with more rousing feelings. Peaceful, Cyrus. I felt peaceful. I kept coming back to that."
"Of course, you did. 'Twas the season for such feeling," he returned.
Wide-eyed, Olivia stared back at Cyrus, effacing any attempt at bonhomie.
"Peaceful, Cyrus… because I'm free. I loved my work, and I thought you denied me something I loved. Something I was good at— "
"Are. Are good at," Cyrus anxiously interjected. The train was bounding his way. He had to try and stop it.
"I know that. I'm at peace because I'm changing my narrative. I haven't lost; I've gained. It took me some time to see that." She returned.
"Liv, you are a star that we value here. I would never deny you anything. I did what I had to do to protect you. To protect what we've built. Momentary appeasement for a rather scornful woman of incalculable decision-making. Surely, you can understand?" Cyrus despaired.
Resolved, Olivia walked toward Cyrus. Behind him was a door marked exit with her name on it. "Oh, I am in no way confused. You value what I do for you. I am good for you," she pointed outward. "I want that." With her finger now pointed at her chest, her eyes both soft and clear, she said, "and I owe it to myself to find what's good for me."
And there it was. That which he could not stop. Cyrus' balled fist met his thin lips. "I really hate to see you go," he sighed. "But you'll always have a home here. You know that, right?"
Olivia placed a hand on his shoulder and patted it lightly. "Take care, Cyrus."
"Wait," he said holding onto her hand. "You didn't say for whom you're leaving me. Where will you go? What will you do next?"
A surfeit of possibility surged within her body, compelling her to draw a deep breath to accommodate it. Olivia looked Cyrus in the eyes and said simply, "Whatever I want."
As the door closed behind her, Cyrus yelled, "The invitation will be in the mail, and we expect to see you at the wedding!"
….
Her gait was buoyant as she made her way to the ground floor. Two break-ups in as many weeks, both about the same thing: it matters how it is. Cyrus was wrong, she thought. The facade always cracks, and the truth makes itself known.
Olivia emerged on to Connecticut Avenue as dusk began to settle over the city. She looked up, thinking that she hasn't yet shone her brightest in a sky that is waiting for her light.
.
/Mid-April/
"What?" Olivia answered. "Stephen, of course I'll be there. I'm leaving now." She sighed frustratingly. "Now-now. As in hand-on-door-knob-walking-out-of-my-apartment now. Please calm down…Ok. Bye."
Olivia Pope and Associates had been officially open for five weeks. This morning was a pivotal opportunity for the firm to prove its mettle, and for Olivia to shore up faith in her small team as their intrepid leader. After a sluggish start of mostly wealthy women hiring them to provide evidence of cheating husbands (as to assure a promised prenuptial pay-out), OPA's net was finally pulling in more than the dregs from Wannamaker & Beene.
When Edison needed her help two weeks ago, it marked a turning point for OPA. He had been the last known person to be seen with a young female staff member of his. She went missing. When her decaying body was discovered in Rock Creek Park, he had come to her desperate to clear his name and mitigate the damage to his public reputation from the mere allegations thrown his way. Not only did word spread on The Hill about OPA, but time, distance, and watching Olivia work in her element, directing her own team, on her terms had allowed Edison to see her in a way he was incapable of before. He saw that Olivia had been right to end their relationship for her place was not in the shadows of his career, but in the making of her own. A place where she could save people from the worst of themselves.
With the pace of her stride set to urgent, and her eyes fixed on the black mirror in her hand, Olivia made her way out the door.
Suddenly, she felt a sharp pain in her toe, as the tip of her stiletto crashed into a solid object.
"What the…"
The force of the collision sent the contents flying across the hallway's parquet floor, shattering against a neighboring wall. Dark soil and tiny bits of perlite scattered in multiple directions, and the potted plant was ejected from its protective terracotta surroundings.
Momentarily stunned and bordering on confused, Olivia surveyed the mess. The terracotta plant pot was in two pieces on its side, cracked open from the force of the kick, leaving only the black plastic casing. That, too, was barely containing the glossy verdant plant with its red buds full of endeavor. Its rhizomes and thin roots hung in a mass halfway out of the black lining.
It was then that she saw the paper affixed to the bottom of the bifurcated pot. It was folded and taped, with her name written clearly across it. The same handwriting as the note left on her jacket.
Olivia tapped on her screen and brought the phone to her ear.
"Listen, Abby, I need you to stall Senator Baldwin for 15-20 minutes…or start the intake without me. No, no, everything is fine. Something came up and I need to take care of it. I'll be there as soon as possible. I promise. Abby? Abby, you can do this. I trust you."
Before Abby could protest further, Olivia ended the call.
Standing there unmoved, her eyes fixed on the mess in front of her, the memory of writing to him bubbled up acutely, mockingly inside her body.
Eight drafts.
She had written a letter to Fitz eight times before deciding short and efficacious would be best.
The day she resigned from Wannamaker & Beene, the sharp corners of the envelope containing her four-page letter to him pricked her fingers when she reached inside her bag to retrieve her leather gloves. Her every intention was to march over to R Street to deliver that letter. Another tick on her to-do list.
Edison: [check].
Cyrus: [check].
Fitz: [abort].
Instead, she went uptown to meet Abby, too afraid that Fitz might actually be home that evening. Her instinct was right. Reading those four pages back, she felt foolish and rambling, exposed like a teenage girl writing in her diary. It took weeks before she slid a paragraph's worth of words under his door. From four pages to four lines. That way she might minimize the possibility of inspiring hope or inflicting further pain. Pain she knew intimately, but hope—at that time—was in short supply and she hoarded it protectively for herself.
As Olivia stood there looking at the folded piece of paper, she could hear her heart beating in her ears. She collapsed to her knees; her white double-breasted trench coat pooled around her as her hand carefully pulled the tape away from the note.
Her awfulness to him.
Her distance.
Her remorse.
The nights of iridescent longing.
Every one of those feelings lined the hem of her garment as it rested on the moist soil decorating the floor.
She burst into tears. He doesn't hate me. He wouldn't have bothered if he did. Right?
Still crouched on the floor, she carefully opened the note:
~Dear Olivia,
My warmest congratulations for your newest adventure, Olivia Pope & Associates. It has quite a ring to it. I heard the good news many weeks ago and wanted to let you know how proud of you I was. Am.
By now you've had copious glasses of champagne, and your offices must be filled with bouquets of congratulatory flowers. Instead of bringing you another temporary gift to consume or discard once wilted, I thought about something more permanent and personal. I hope that this time my note is seen only by you, and that its consequences to your life are less fractious.
This is a gardenia plant; one I grew from a tiny bulb. It is one of my favorite perennials. I waited until the tight red buds began to bloom so that you could see and smell its greatest potential. That potential can be limited to a one-time bundle of flowers. But with continued care and attention, it is sure to grow and capture your heart as it did mine. It's up to you.
Apart from the bathroom, I've seen every room in your apartment. Presuming you are not hiding plants in there; these gardenias will be your first plant? (I did not see any others). I have included detailed instructions should you choose to keep them around.
May these gardenias fill your life with beauty, joy, and unlimited inspiration as you breathe.
Be Well,
Fitz~
Olivia clutched the letter to her breast, her eyes closed, her lashes wet. She breathed in deeply and found that the hallway was already fragrant with a jasmine-like aroma, reminiscent of the kind that followed her everywhere in India.
Looking down at the letter again, a tear splashed on top of his closing words, blurring, and softening the jagged slice she had felt when she read them.
Be well? Be well.
Hurt was a feeling to which she was not entitled. And still. It was there. Where his last note ended with 'yours', this one was a directive. A lonely wish, only marginally better than an empty 'take care'. It could have been worse ('regards'). He still cared about her despite her best attempts for him not to. What did she expect after leaving him the briefest note, heavy with the insinuation that he had ruined her life? Yet it was not untrue. She was ruined. But she had ruined, too. She was coming to accept this truth.
Olivia could not think of another man who could have her on her hands and knees, cleaning up the mess she made of something he brought into her life. But here she was, with her own hands, carefully scooping up the moistened soil off the floor and depositing it back into the lining pot of the plant. She checked for damage since the force of her stiletto had sent the regal perennial crashing into a wall. But the red plant proved to be hardy and resilient, showing only a few crushed blossoms on an otherwise resplendent form.
The gardenias were too beautiful to let die. A sentiment that contained truth and a dare. Did she dare try to keep it alive? Olivia did not like to think there was limit to anything she could do. Having never taken care of a plant in her life, this one was now hers, which made its care not an obligation but a responsibility. A challenge that she would embrace. If she failed in its nurturing, no one had to know. If she succeeded, the benefit would be hers.
Olivia finished the cleanup in the hallway, bagging the white coat for the cleaners and swapping it for a vivid green wrap. She resolved to buy a ceramic pot on her way home that evening.
A/N: I hope you enjoyed the last part of this episode. I did not intend for it to take this long to post. Life got complicated, is the short of it.
I wanted to remind you guys that Episodes 11 and 12 are basically character studies. We get to spend time with Olivia and Fitz separatelt and see how they work through this unrequited love. Having said that, I hope you found some levity for Liv in this last part. I'm happy with the corner Olivia is turning (Alexa, play Corrine Bailey Rae). It feels hopeful. I really love this last scene. What do you guys make of it?
Was Cyrus too eager to appease Mellie? What do you think will happen next? How will our lovers cross paths? Do you think Fitz is being too nice, considering Olivia's note? Or does it reflect his emotional growth?
3/5 Flashback mini-story in the can. I'm so in love with my ideas for the last two parts. I'm going to do my best to write them together so there's no big gap. I know some of you are anxious to return to the present storyline and figure out what elements from the past will carry over.
Please leave a review. It is very encouraging and inspirational to me. I love when you guys write paragraphs, but I also love when you write two or three words. It lets me know you care. And sometimes your girl needs the boost.
As Always,
Petunia