Episode 13, Part II: Justify My Love

Flashback

"We'll never get to 56th Street at your pace."

"You cannot carry me all the way to Central Park!"

Friday, Labor Day Weekend, New York City

Love and Lace: The Present Absence

Exhibition

Olivia walked into the Chandani Adikeri Gallery. Immediately, her mouth was agape. Most guests were still due, but a significant gathering had already formed. Because she had shown up early to catch Dani before things became too hectic, Olivia had enough time to behold the scope of the show's theme, the artists involved and all the textures and colors that filled the ample space.

"Wow," she mouthed as she wandered around the gallery. She spotted Chandani in the back corner, likely giving instructions to her staff before slipping away to change into her attire for the evening. Olivia quickly made her way towards her.

"Dani! I'm so proud of you," she said as both women embraced. "You may have outdone yourself."

"Tell me that after you've looked around first, hain na? I'll believe it then," Dani joked. "I'm so glad you're here."

Chandani's assistant, Neville, held a tight smile because he was interrupted by Olivia's greeting. Olivia noticed and reminded herself that she and Dani had a whole weekend together.

"Oops, I interrupted. I should let you go."

Chandani released Olivia's hand, waving sweetly to her as she walked away. "I've got to change, but I'll see you after."

X

"Red or white, ma'am?"

Is what Olivia heard behind her back. She turned carefully and picked up a glass of burgundy liquid from the waiter's tray. Satisfied with her first sip, she thanked the server and went off on discovery.

Olivia was impressed by the vast array of interpretations of lace as a textile and how artists used it to convey something about love as an experience. Looking at these projects from afar one would not readily think about love, or, frankly, lace. Some artists used literal lace to create shapes and motifs. Others used materials like chicken wire, leather, paper, or yarn, fashioning them into lace-like objects. One piece, made from glass beads, hung from a rail that bifurcated the room like a crystal curtain. It was by a Japanese artist. She did not fully comprehend it, but nevertheless appreciated its beauty.

Olivia now felt silly for the proverbial handwringing she had done, fearing the sophomoric obviousness of exploding hearts and lace cut-outs of figures mounted onto canvas, and other matters pungent with cloyingly romantic longing. What awaited her was instead, captivating, pulling her into wanting to know more.

She turned left and saw the towering work of an artist that hit her with a sudden wave of nostalgia. She got as close as reasonably appropriate, trying to identify the constitution of the lacy material. It looked familiar. Something old, but still striking. The stiff open lace material formed two figures who were joined at the hands. They were standing at what appeared to be an altar.

"You know what it is?" Said a man in a deep, liltingly sonorous accent as he approached Olivia.

"I think so," she squinted. "These are…they look like those starched crocheted doilies my grandmother had."

"Smart girl," he replied.

The way he drew out the word 'girl' prompted Olivia to ask, "Trinidad?"

"Guyana," he replied. "I'm Vincent, the artist."

"I'm Olivia. It's nice to meet you. Your work is extraordinary."

She looked at the two crocheted figures in front of her. They stood at least a foot taller than her. Looking up she added, "This reminds me of being in my grandmother's living room, in Jamaica."

"The train on the wedding dress is actually made from my grandmother's starched doilies. The ones from her dining room and coffee tables," Vincent clarified. "I'm still in shock she let me have them. That's who you see," he said pointing to his work. "My grandmother and my grandfather. These two were my first lesson in love." He clutched his chest. "They've been married for 60 years."

"That's amazing," Olivia replied authentically. "People married so early back then. I can't even imagine it."

"Don't I know it," Vincent said. He had not been quite as lucky at love. "Especially by today's standards. This piece is based on an oral history I did with them several years back. I had to capture the recipe and bottle what they have, you know? This is my attempt."

"Attempt?" She posed, mesmerized still by his work. "I believe you've succeeded."

Olivia wondered what it must be like to share your life with the same person for seventy-five percent of your existence. Was it skill, luck, or a combination of the two? Maybe some marrying disposition gene one needed to possess?

"Have you seen the view from behind? Vincent asked.

"There's more?" Olivia said, her thoughtful contemplation interrupted.

"I'll hold that for you," Vincent strongly suggested as he held out his hand for Olivia's glass of vino.

Olivia approached the back of the bride's figure with intrigue splashed all over her face. When she arrived behind it, her eyes grew wide with disbelief, which quickly turned to confusion.

"The groom looks completely opaque from this angle. I can see through her dress, but your grandfather—the male figure—he's… He looks like a solid piece of ivory.

Vincent smiled at the success of his optical illusion.

More and more guests began to arrive. The gallery was now abuzz. Others began to gather around Vincent's work, too.

"How did you do that," she demanded.

"To see that look on your face," Vincent said, handing Olivia back her wine.

Olivia noted the definite flirtation and took it as her signal to keep exploring. She was enjoying her evening and needed no complications, nor the effort required to rebuff men in ways that would not arouse their resentment and ire.

"Vincent, it was nice to meet you," she said, offering her hand to him. "I wish you the best of luck."

Vincent shook her hand reluctantly, un-obliged to let go. "We were having fun, weren't we?"

Olivia moved to turn on her silver heel. It was then that she glimpsed Chandani's re-emergence. She had changed and was now busy flipping through the cards, preparing for her speech.

Olivia heard a voice, in the distance behind her, that stopped her in her tracks.

"Jim! You son of a gun, it's good to see you. You've met Cara, right?"

No. It cannot be, she thought. She did not come all this way just to run into him, once again, with another woman. What luck; what a fucking curse. Unlike Old Town there was nowhere to which she could flee in this open trap of a space. Olivia reigned in her runaway train of thoughts before bravely, and slowly turning around. She hoped to be experiencing an auditory hallucination. That it wasn't…

Him.

It was him. Fitz. She knew that baritone, and that jawline she could glimpse through the crystal curtain was undeniable. But there was also her. Cara, apparently. Who the fuck was Cara, she thought, before she could realize what she was doing.

"Actually, Vincent, is the effect the same from the groom's view?"

Earlier, when Fitz walked into the Lower East Side exhibition space owned by a casual friend of Cara's, he was not sure what to expect. Cara had helped Chandani find the gallery many years ago, back when development was just an interest between modeling gigs. Since then, Cara regularly sourced pieces from the gallery on behalf of her clients, being confident that they would not find these pieces anywhere else. She had assured Fitz that he was sure to find inspiration for his new flat, and urged him to accompany her tonight, especially as her boyfriend had his own engagement.

"Fitz, I'll be right back. I need to speak with Dani before she does her whole spiel. Look around. See if you find anything that you like," Cara said gesturing around as she walked away from Fitz.

No sooner did Cara leave than Fitz heard, "Red or white, sir?"

Fitz looked at the tray. "Got anything stronger?"

"I'm afraid we don't. Red or white wine? Or I can get you a Perrier," said the server.

He adjusted the open collar on his white shirt. "Red," Fitz settled.

Expecting it to be cheap caterer's wine, Fitz took an uninterested first sip. He was wrong. Some thought had gone into the selection. Whatever it was, it was not cheap. His tongue was better at detecting a single malt from a blended one, and the area of the world in which it was made, but he knew enough to discern a quality red from an insipid one.

X

Fitz looked around the room, deciding to which corner he would first take himself. He spotted a small crowd who appeared to be listening intently to an artist explaining his work. He headed there. The work looked like a floating assembly of black clouds, made from construction paper, using a hole puncher and a craft knife in creative ways. He did not find it compelling, though the audience was inexplicably rapt.

Two pieces beyond that one Fitz spotted a woman fixing the center panel of a triptych: three framed works that spoke to one subject. The frames were small in comparison to other works in the gallery. Their stature was comparable to the compact size of the artist. Fitz leaned in to observe the details. He could see that each panel displayed a cutout of a photograph of the same woman, each one consisting of a different lace effect.

"Hi," he said. "Do you mind telling me more about your use of materials here?" Fitz enquired.

Hannah, the artist, smiled and introduced herself and her work, entitled 'When We Were Young'. It is about the first woman she ever loved. The one who made her realize she was not as straight as she thought.

Hannah said the exhibition's theme, 'love and lace' was both broad and specific, allowing her to combine the beautiful, the ugly, and the banal parts of loving and sharing a life with someone. Each panel is a reworking of a photograph she had taken of her lover. This photo was the last one Hannah took of her in the light, before they called it quits. For the 'banal' panel, Hanna recreated lace patterns in the photograph using hairpins, ballpoint pens, forks, and the end of a feather from a chicken, Wren—over whom they still shared custody. These were the ordinary things found around their home. The 'beautiful' panel, in the middle, was larger than the two flanking it on either side. The lace pattern was produced by a pair of fishnet stockings she layered onto and then cut away from the photo from, creating empty spaces. Last, and most evocative of all was the 'ugly' panel. Hannah burned the borders of the photo to create a blackened frilly edge. Lit cigarettes burned strategic holes creating a lace effect. It was Hannah's homage to how much she hated when her former lover smoked.

When Fitz drew his body back to behold both the pain and the care reflected in the totality of the work, he saw something else instead.

Someone else.

Olivia?

That laugh was unmistakable. And it was directed at some guy standing way too close. Who's the guy? He thought as his jaw tightened. Was this the Chase guy Kenny casually mentioned that one time? Had he avoided seeing them together in D.C. only to come to New York to face it? Fitz's gaze never left her form, as he watched her through a crystal curtain, the prism of its light splattered kaleidoscope patterns against the white walls, her white pants, and silver top.

Fitz's brow furrowed as he eased the wine glass from his lips. Did she just see him? She turned demurely, tucking her loose waves behind her ears, and excused herself. Maybe he was wrong about who the guy was. He watched her hightail it in a direction away from him. Fitz sighed in relief. At least he avoided that awkwardness. But if he was doubtful about whether she had seen him, it was confirmed when Olivia made eye contact with him over her shoulder as she continued to walk away. Fitz's feet itched to move toward her, instinctively. He stopped himself, and thought, what justification do I have to chase her? In an art gallery no less. But would he let her leave without approaching her at all? That he could not do.

As the full crowd assembled, Chandani took to the stage, resplendent in a vintage green and gold brocade sari. She wore it in the traditional style of Kodava women in her family: The sari pleats were gathered at the back and tucked into the skirt. The dramatic drape of fabric extended across the back, and over the shoulder towards the front. That end of the fabric was then pinned with a piece of jewelry to the part of the ornate material pulled up over her sleeveless sari blouse. She was stunning. Her hair was open and hanging down her back, stopping just at her softly shaped waist. The lights dimmed to draw attention to Chandani. She wanted to officially introduce Love and Lace: The Present Absence.

"Four summers ago, I visited my Daadi—that's my father's mother for you foreigners—after my grandfather had passed away. One day, as we spent an afternoon going through his belongings, I came across a chest filled with things that belonged, instead, to her. Turns out it was her bridal trousseau. I, of course, am very nosey—as many of you know. So, amongst all the jewelry and beautiful saris I expected to find (one of which I'm wearing tonight), and other pieces, I also discovered a pair of beautiful ivory lace panties that I never dreamed of finding. Mum, dad, please don't be upset for airing Daadiji's linens in public. Literally. But you must understand I've never known this woman to be interested in lingerie. What she wears is practical and useful—as far as I have glimpsed. Daadiji insisted she never the wore panties in question because they were too pretty; she would never buy something so frivolous. The garment was added by her mischievous girlfriends who thought she should wear them on her wedding night. I was so tickled, I begged her to let me keep them. She did. No, I'm not wearing them tonight, but they did inspire this exhibition.

"Lace is so frequently associated with love, with romance, with femininity. As a textile, it can conceal and reveal at the same time. It is a material defined as much by what is there as it is by what is not. In other words, lace exists as a contradiction of both the absence and presence of something. I thought that's also true for love. Love thrives as the presence of trust and the absence of fear. It has spaces and shadows, moments of lightness and darkness. The little spaces, the pockets inside of love are what keep it eminently interesting and alive. And challenging.

"But love, just like lace, can come in many forms. Both are capable of ugliness as well as beauty. Once I began thinking about the commonalities, I couldn't stop myself. The least I could do was channel it into something productive. I pulled in a slew of talented artists to help me work through this obsession. This, tonight is the culmination. This exhibition is a result of years of conversations, artistry and even therapy—for some of them. For me, too.

"I urge you all to get lost in the magic of love and lace tonight. Thank you."

The exhibition was a triumph. The end of the evening came, and with it, art lovers and critics buzzing about on free wine and canapés began trickling out of the gallery and onto the rest of their Friday night. Having said goodbye to her family, only a smattering of people remained around Chandani. Mostly those making requests and giving praise.

Olivia chatted with Neville as she awaited Chandani.

It was nearly 10 PM. Fitz stood near the door as Cara waited to speak with Chandani, in part for herself and partly concerning Fitz's request for the piece he coveted. Even if he could not own it in its original form, he and the artist had come up with an idea. Its materialization would depend, Cara said, on what happened with the exhibition after tonight.

Fitz saw Cara waving her hand, frantically, above her short, blonde bob. He heeded the wave.

Olivia and Neville approached Dani and her friend from the opposite end of the gallery.

"Fitz, this is Chandani Adikeri, owner of the gallery. She has quite the eye," Cara began.

"That's an understatement," Fitz said, accepting the hand Chandani offered. But it was not for shaking. Fitz kissed the back of her hand. "Charmed to meet you," he added. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Olivia joining them. "Cara convinced me to come tonight, and I must say, I do not regret it," he said with his eyes affixed to Olivia's approaching presence.

"I think I like you already," an impish Chandani said.

Fitz smiled and his eyes moved to Chandani's face. "I just bought a place near Central Park and there are a few pieces in here that would work quite nicely. One in particular," he finished.

"Cara told me. We'll have to talk about that, but maybe not tonight. I've got a few offers I'm fielding for the fate of the exhibition. I'm leaning in a certain direction but nothing official yet."

Had she heard correctly, Olivia wondered. Fitz was moving to New York. He bought a place here when his DC duplex was only a rental? Her heart thumped faster, but she could not explain the nascent panic rattling around inside her. She had no right to let it run rampant, but still it owned her in this moment.

Dani noticed the wan look passing across Olivia's face.

"Liv? Liv?" She waved a hand in front of her face. "Chutki, are you ok?"

A self-conscious Olivia snapped out of her haze. Her eyes darted around at the four concerned people in front of her. "Sorry, I'm fine."

"Are you sure? You look like you've seen a ghost. You looked grey for a minute there," Cara added.

"I'm fine, everyone," she said through gritted teeth, but her stare remained fixed on Fitz.

X

Introductions and a faucet of effusive praise, for Dani and the artists, flowed freely. It was then that Olivia found out who the fuck Cara is: his cousin. That cousin. He had mentioned her once, Olivia vaguely tried to recall. But she did not imagine his 'little cousin' to be a statuesque former model-cum-real estate mogul. This lack of connection underscored for her just how much more there was to learn about Fitz.

Fitz followed Olivia's lead, which was to act as if they only vaguely knew each other professionally, on the D.C. scene.

"I've eaten nothing all day except for a few canapés and a glass of white wine," Chandani exclaimed. Her head was thrown back theatrically to convey the sense of urgency. "I need to eat."

"That sounds great," said Cara.

"Are you sure? It's late, and you must be exhausted," Olivia tried to convince. "I can get you home and order food."

"Are you kidding? I'm wired" Chandani pushed back. "Liv, this is New York. Late doesn't mean the same. Come on small-town girl, we're going to Brooklyn, to one of my favorite spots. I'm going to be bad," Chandani said mischievously as she began to walk toward the door. "Neville, lock up and catch us up. Cara, Fitz, Liv, let's go." She started clapping her hands before adding "Jaldi, jaldi!"

Fitz looked over at Olivia. He did not know what Chandani said just then, but he felt her haste. This was going to be a long night.

The other side of midnight found the gang of five ready to ditch Sunset Park Diner & Donuts. Chandani's strange combination of cravings brought them to the old school greasy spoon for fish tacos and cherry pie. Especially the cherry pie.

After leaving the gallery, things between Olivia and Fitz went from tense to polite to familiar ease. Chandani's infectious energy shifted a room. As the evening's main character, her presence smoothed the troubled waters between the two, allowing unsaid things to take a temporary backseat.

Whilst everyone but Chandani perused the diner's menu, pontificating out loud the edible prospects, Olivia—sitting across from Fitz, in the booth—leaned in to reveal why they gathered at that particular diner.

"When Chandani has a craving, she must have it, or she'll drive you crazy until she does. There's no deterring her; I've tried. I hope you find something you want at this place."

Fitz smiled that crooked smiled she loved, and she could not help but smile, too.

"You're both very willful. I can see why you two are friends," Fitz quipped.

Olivia playfully kicked him under the table, and he feigned pain.

Fitz then added, "This is the Dani you met in India, right?"

"The one and only. In fact, she introduced me to the grandmother she mentioned in her speech." In that moment she wished she were sitting next to him to make it easier to whisper. It had been so long since she'd spoken to him, told him things. Now that Fitz had met Chandani, in context, Olivia found her an easy conduit for talking to him again.

"In fact, I've seen the panties."

"Oh? The very ones?" Fitz said. His elbow now rested on the tabletop to support his jaw. He was absorbed in this turn toward playfulness.

"What are you two huddling about over here?" said Cara. She sat next to Fitz, and so easily poked her head into their bubble. Neville and Chandani—both sitting on Olivia's side—also became intrigued. Now everyone wanted to know what the two would-be lovers found so interesting.

"I thought I heard the word 'panties,' so yes, what are you two talking about? Do share with the group," Chandani nudged.

"I was just telling Fitz that you really created an exhibition out of literal granny panties," Olivia saved.

"Not so literally. They're still in my bedroom."

"Please, don't tell any man that those framed underwear belong to your grandmother. I love you, but you are very weird for that."

"I haven't had one of those in my bedroom in nearly a year," Chandani noted. "I'm not overly concerned."

"What do you mean?" Cara attempted to clarify.

"The kind of men I want aren't exactly chomping at the bit for a divorced Indian woman in her mid-thirties." Chandani said bluntly before turning the talk back to menu decisions. She was riding too high to let unrequited parts of her life diminish an ounce of the light shining on her tonight.

The group of five went on to talk about many more things that evening, most of them centered around Chandani and the exhibition. It was her night and she reveled in it. They discussed the many offers thrown at her to tour the exhibition internationally. There was also the option to make a profit for the artists and herself upfront. She was leaning toward a deal that would enable both. She would negotiate sales for the artists contingent on the buyers agreeing to loan the pieces for an 18-month traveling exhibition that would start at the Smithsonian Museum of Folklore.

Fitz learned how to soften and shorten, respectively, the two 'a' sounds in Chandani's name, which she found she needed to teach most Americans. 'Dani' was reserved as a nickname only for those who could pronounce her full name properly. She mused that Americans had mastered Dostoyevsky and Tchaikovsky without incident. By comparison, her name was a walk in the park.

That's when Fitz decided he liked Chandani. She was, in turn, certainly charmed by him. He intrigued her, but not in that way. At one point Fitz swapped seats with Neville to ask Chandani questions about the exhibition from her point of view. Something deeper than what was contained in her speech is what he was angling for. The two exchanged cards before the end of the evening. Olivia and Cara got to know each other as well, with the former never completely taking her eyes off Fitz and Chandani.

X

Standing outside the diner, it seemed all the New Yorkers wanted to go somewhere other than to their homes. Cara's Wall Street boyfriend sent a car for her to meet him at a party, to which she invited the other four. Still in a celebratory mood, Chandani and Neville took up her offer.

Both Olivia and Fitz cried off, claiming fatigue due to a long day of work and travel. It was mostly true, but both also knew they had unfinished business. They would be fools to let the opportunity pass them by.

Goodbyes were said, plans made for the next day (Olivia and Chandani; Fitz and Cara). Or later that day since it was after midnight.

"Fitz, make sure she gets to her hotel safely?" Chandani said in question form, but in true effect it was a directive. "And Liv, don't call before noon." She kissed her on both cheeks before lowering herself into the town car.

The sleek, black carriage pulled off into traffic, leaving Olivia and Fitz to make their way back to Manhattan, from the corner of 39th & 5th, in Brooklyn.

"Where are you staying?" Fitz asked as he hailed a cab for them.

"West 56th, between 5th and 6th, at the Whitby."

Fitz quickly mapped her location in his head.

"That's near the lower end of Central Park, right?" He said as he opened the cab door for Olivia. Once he seated himself, Fitz added, "I'm a little further up, also by the Park."

Olivia said nothing, only returning a small smile to acknowledge his words. They rode in silence for fifteen minutes. The air in the cab turned thick and opaque with unasked questions. Olivia lowered the window for fresh air—as fresh as one could get in that part of Brooklyn. She breathed in the stolid, but natural air, and let it flow through her.

Observing this act, Fitz brokered the silence. "That's right, you have a love-hate relationship with air conditioning."

"You remember."

"There's not much about you that I've forgotten."

He had not meant it in that way, but his words melted into her like butter on warm toast.

She looked at him. He looked at her. Their faces softened toward each other. Their shoulders relaxed. His eyes said, 'I've missed you,' and hers returned a 'me, too.'

"Madam?" the Sikh driver interrupted. "Please to put up the window."

"Sorry," she said, doing as requested.

It was not long before Olivia began to shiver, and the tension returned to her body. Fitz removed his lightweight suit jacket.

"Take this," he said as he placed it around her shoulders. "I've been waiting all night to relieve myself of it."

"Thank you," she said with a small smile.

Fitz looked out the window, noting the route that the driver was taking. They were nearing the Manhattan Bridge. He mused to himself that it was one of the few bridges in the City across which he had not walked. The spontaneous spirit of Chandani entered him.

"Care for a stroll across the Manhattan Bridge? We can get another cab on the other side. You're not tired, are you?"

Olivia thought about the shoes she was wearing, and how inappropriate they were for bridge-walking. But she liked the idea of prolonging their time together, and it wouldn't hurt to get out of this freezing cab.

"Not at all. A long walk sounds perfect."

Walking along the bridge, Olivia and Fitz began talking about their favorite pieces from the exhibition, and the ones they found too weird for words. They discovered that they had similar taste in art. Their list of commonalities was ever-expanding.

"I love that piece, too," Fitz said of the sugar-starched doily sculptures by Vincent Singh. It moved me, and not just because of the whole optical illusion part."

"How so?" Olivia asked, thinking back to being startled to hear his voice as she looked at that very sculpture.

"Visually, it reminds me of those little wedding cake figurine toppers," he began. "The starch being made of sugar and the doily material both make me think of sweetness and the frivolity of love. But that's the outsider perspective when you're looking at both figures in profile." His hands curled and shifted to demonstrate the vantage point. "But when you try to adopt the perspective of either of figures, the artist is saying something more profound." Fitz stops on the bridge to gather and convey his thoughts as meaningfully as he could.

"What did you think of the optical illusion?" Olivia intervened in attempt to coax his interpretation out of him. She wanted to know.

"How do I explain it?" Fitz said, looking to the sky before he decided he had found the words. "It's…it's like touching the soul of something you can't see with the naked eye," Fitz began. "They're looking at each other and very connected as they hold hands. But, in a way, the person they are marrying is still a bit of a mystery. No matter how much you think you know—or see—going into the marriage, there are just some things you can't predict, or see. I think that's what the opaqueness speaks to." His hands were stuffed in his pockets again, and he tilted back on his heel. "I guess love is an optical illusion as much as it is real."

"Wow, Fitz. That's very insightful. You've made me think deeper about that sculpture and I already liked it," Olivia said. "Is that what you were talking to Chandani about?"

She began walking again and he followed her.

"A bit. But those are mostly my thoughts. I wanted to know if I was off base."

"Cara told me she's a real estate developer," she said moving toward the questions to which she wanted answers. "Is that why you've bought an apartment here? Did she advise you on it?"

"She did, but that's not why I bought it. I love the view," Fitz said facetiously.

Olivia put her hand out to block his path.

Fitz adjusted the arm which supported his grey jacket (back in his possession), now slung over his shoulder. His left hand still found solace in his pocket.

"We'll never get to Manhattan if we keep stopping," he said in response to her arm against his abdomen.

"Fitz, I'm serious. Are you moving to New York? What happened to Howard? You've got a job here now. Is that it? You want to be closer to your aunt and Cara?" Her questions came fast and furious as the rising panic she felt earlier returned. "Wha…what about Angela?" She added, not truly caring, but hoping to provoke an answer.

Fitz, with his arms folded, leaned his body against the railing of the bridge, careful not to let his white shirt be besmirched by the grungy metal. The light of the moon danced atop his hair.

"You knew about her?"

"I know her. Did know her. She was two years ahead of me at Georgetown. We were friendly, but not friends exactly," Olivia divulged.

"So…"

"I saw you two together," she revealed. "Twice, unfortunately." Olivia was facing him on the bridge, her eyes averted towards the black water behind Fitz instead of his face. She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, her hands twisting in each other. "Purely by happenstance, by the way."

Fitz looked at her. The wind whipping off the water billowed through her high-waisted white pants. The paillettes on her cropped silver top illuminated just how beautiful she was. Not that he did not know this. But memory, no matter how frequently he conjured her, was insufficient when faced with the reality.

He reached for her hand. "Come on, let's keep walking."

A few strides later, he relieved Olivia of conjecture and laid out some facts. "Angela and I had a good time, but that's all that it was. She's back in Omaha now," Fitz finally said.

"Oh," was all Olivia managed. What else was there to say?

"And what about…Chase, is it?" He asked

"Jake," Olivia corrected.

"Right. Would he be upset right now?"

Olivia looked down between them. She had not registered that Fitz was holding her hand, nor that she had given it to him. In the same way she does not notice she's breathing. It just happens.

"He might," she said as she moved her thumb from its perch on the back of Fitz's hand to be tucked away inside his palm. "If I were still seeing him."

It was his turn. "Oh."

They continued walking, now more than halfway over the bridge.

"I'm not moving to New York, Olivia," Fitz finally admitted.

Hoping for more, Olivia turned to look up at him as he continued to look ahead.

"I bought a place because I didn't want to be in a hotel every weekend. And I don't want to intrude on my aunt, or Cara and whomever she happens to be dating."

"What's here on the weekends? Or is it who?"

Fitz chuckled lowly, noting her concern—for the second time that evening—who may or may not be in his life currently. Actually, third. It was the third time that night. The way her face went from aggrieved to relieved when Cara introduced him as her cousin-cum-brother, did not go unnoticed.

"You're making a lot of assumptions tonight," Fitz observed out loud.

"I'm asking questions. We used to do that, remember?" she said as nonchalantly as she could muster.

After a few beats, Fitz turned toward her and said, "I miss us. I miss you being part of my world."

"Ok, Little Mermaid," Olivia said diffusing the emotion in his statement.

He smiled and she smiled.

When the smiles waned, and no other response emerged, Fitz filled in the gap with his autumn plans. He told her of the educational leadership graduate degree he was pursuing. He realized he could do more for those in university classrooms than just teaching. He had witnessed first-hand the inequities and the increasing penchant for these institutions to treat education as a commodity they sell, rather than an enriching experience preparing these students for life. Alvin thought he meant well, if not a little naive. The last few weeks found Fitz spending more time in New York because Howard's fall semester would be starting on Tuesday, as in four days from now. He'd busied himself in New York this summer trying to meet with administrators at NYU and Columbia, as well as with a few firms and potential investors. The former was to expand the internship opportunities for HU Law students; the latter to invest in his writing program and expand the financial grants available to those students.

"So, no, I'm not planning to move here, but I'm open to wherever life takes me after I'm finished with the course at Bank Street," Fitz summarized.

Olivia stopped and looked at him with all the tenderness and pride her body held. The man she had met two years ago, how could she foresee that he would be this man in front of her? A frisson of girlish excitement—the kind she grew expert at hiding—revisited her now. She thought of how she used to surreptitiously anticipate stealing looks at him from across the shiny walnut conference table at Wannamaker & Beene, feeling a sympathy for him that she should have held in reserve for her actual client, his wife.

Olivia loosened her hand from his, cupping the side of his face instead. "I'm proud of you, Fitz," she said as she held his gaze.

He did not know that he longed to hear that. Needed to hear that. From her, or anyone. But because it was coming from her, an undercurrent of sadness washed over him. Just a little. Because she wasn't his. He could not spin her around, hold her by the waist as he dipped her for a kiss to rival any in a Gregory Peck or Cary Grant movie. But this was not a movie. And she was not his leading lady. Interest in love did not seem to be on her agenda. Not to mention she was fresh off a breakup.

Fitz removed her hand from his face, but not before placing a sweet kiss inside her palm, his response to her caring words.

His hand was soon placed against his abdomen as he breathed through his mouth.

Disquieted, Olivia's hand flew atop of his. "Are you OK?"

"It's nothing. I think my stomach is a little upset," Fitz assessed.

"Why were you eating a cream-filled donut so late at night? Two, in fact. Those things have probably been sitting around since 4 AM yesterday, when they were made."

"It'll pass. I've got an iron stomach."

Olivia poked at him a bit. "I hate you for having these abs and eating two donuts without a care."

"Come on, we're nearly there," he said.

The end of the bridge and the buzz of Manhattan were in sight.

X

The pair continued to talk, not about donuts, but of Olivia's crazier cases and more of Fitz's future goals.

"I'm only pursuing what I think is right. Or…" Fitz tilted his head, trying to recall Olivia's own words that he read in the Washington Flyer interview. "Listening to my gut, as you say."

"You read that interview?"

"Of course. You were wonderful, despite the interviewer's attempts to pigeonhole you. I loved reading what you had to say. Very astute, clever. You're inspiring. You've inspired me."

"Oh Fitz, come on." She demurred. "That's enough."

"I'm serious. I'm thrilled that you went after something you love."

An unsaid thing hung in silence like a shared chain around both their necks.

Olivia disentangled herself from that weighty silence and was the first to speak. "I do love it," she said of her work. It's unpredictable, chaotic and oddly satisfying," she said. "I sometimes have to be careful not to let it become my entire life. Because it could." That was Connie speaking, but Olivia did not want to divulge that.

"You sound like Alvin. He's always telling me to be careful of burnout," Fitz responded. "So, I'm passing that admonishment on to you."

Before evaluating her response, she blurted out, "I can't burn out. Who will take care of Vera?!"

"Vera?" Fitz said, confused.

Olivia was smiling from ear to ear. "The gardenia plant. The leaves were such a beautiful, lush green. You know, verdant. So, I named her Vera. Now that she's in full bloom, there's more red than green, but…" she trailed off self-consciously.

"Who are you right now?" Fitz asked. He was both in slight disbelief and yet s thoroughly enlivened by the woman in front of him. "You sound like those people who just bought a puppy, or had a baby," he teased.

"I guess she kind of is my pet. I've never had one before—or a baby, for that matter. But, yes, I like taking care of her. She really does brighten up the apartment. Thank you for that," Olivia said genuinely.

"I'm just pleased you've given her a good home."

Just like a proud new mom of a fur baby or a human one, Olivia whipped out her phone to show Fitz pictures of Vera's progress between April and September.

Fitz stopped in his tracks when he saw the plant in its full bloom. "You should be very proud. You could win a contest with this." He handed her back her phone. "I had no question that you'd meet the challenge."

"Challenge?" Olivia queried.

"As in assembling a puzzle. You don't like to think there's anything beyond your grasp. Not even taking care of a plant," Fitz said. "I think it brings you personal satisfaction."

She would not confirm that he was right, instead reserving a secret smirk on her face since she was slightly behind him.

Fitz went on to add, "You know, as a name, Vera also means 'faith', or 'truth.' I knew you'd figure it out."

"You believe in me," she said as a statement.

"I've never doubted your capabilities," he said. "But your ability to continue this walk?" His face winced. "I have doubts."

The pair had long crossed the threshold back into Manhattan's Lower East Side. Or, rather, limped as was the case for Olivia, in her silver lamé stilettos. Crossing the bridge with Fitz had been worth it.

Walking to Olivia's hotel would be another ninety minutes, and it was already nearing 2 AM.

"Hold this" Fitz said, as he handed Olivia his jacket. Before she knew what was happening, Fitz was crouched one of his forearms at the back of her knees and the other at her lower back. He hoisted her up into a bridal carry.

"We'll never get to 56th Street at your pace," he said.

"Fitz! You cannot carry me all the way to Central Park," Olivia protested.

He leaned in close to her face and whispered, "Now who's doubtful?"

X

Twenty-two minutes later they reached the Whitby hotel. Olivia allowed Fitz to carry her for exactly five minutes before she convinced him to let her down and get a cab instead.

He had to admit that though he liked the feel of her in his arms, he could not enjoy having her there. What with the stares from passersby, the awkwardness of waiting for a traffic light to change, and the still buzzing madness of the city all around them? The moment did not feel right.

Not like now, in the alcove leading to her hotel room.

He did not want to leave her at the hotel's entrance whilst she was in the middle of a story. And so, he kept walking, not cognizant of his surroundings until they were in the elevator. Alone and ascending to the 11th floor. His jacket was back on his body, his hands shoved into his pockets. But still his body took it upon itself to move closer to hers. A moth called to her flame. And damnit if the flame didn't move toward him, too. The elevator car threatened to become an inferno; a chemistry lab about to blow.

Ding.

The doors opened to six impatient people ready to board before Olivia and Fitz could make an exit.

He did not know when it happened. The precise moment his tongue entered her mouth. But he was there now, luxuriating in its hungry embrace. God, the taste of her. The feel. The sounds. He was all instinct and sensation with her. The blood rushed elsewhere, far away from his brain, leaving him with little thought and a swelling erection.

The plush velvet of her mouth was something he could comfortably live in. Banished was every thought about this moment's impending end. Kissing her made him wish breathing wasn't necessary to stay alive. But he had to stay alive so that he could keep doing this. With her. How good she felt. Too good when her body waved into his chest, her hips eager to meld with his. He did not think she was conscious of what she was doing.

Was Fitz surprised that this was happening? Yes. Enjoying it? Absolutely.

And then she said his name, triggering in him something he did not expect to feel.

Upon hearing Olivia say his name, a large part of him—the part firming itself against her pants—wanted to whisper hotly in her ear: "Say my name. Say it again." Wanted to hear her say it in every pitch, every tone, every speed. Causing them to forgo the comforts and privacy of her hotel room. Heeding his lesser angels would have found him on his knees right there, with one of her thighs on his shoulder, his head between the valley of her folds spelling out the entirety of his name. Repeatedly. Until that name was so emblazoned in her mind, she could not come without saying it out loud. Just 'Fitz' would do.

Instead, hearing Olivia say his name with such need brought Fitz to his senses. What was this really? Some out-of-town indulgence? A dalliance she would deny once the long weekend was over and they made their way back, separately, to DC? Or would she acknowledge the mechanics of what happened but repudiate, once again, that anything could come of it? What had changed?

He could not go back to the solitude of her rejection. Back to pretending that he didn't envision the chemistry of their physics one day producing biological results. Backwards at all.

One was the loneliest number. Was he the only one who harbored this love even though no proof existed it would one day be fully reciprocated?

This, a hallway make out session and one night stand, he could have with any woman. Olivia was not any woman. He needed her to know that. Needed her to justify this love he carried for her. And if she could not, would not, then he needed to know that, too.

Fitz backed away, reluctantly easing Olivia's legs down to the ground.

"I want you, Olivia— "

Before he could finish, she was on him again, and for a few seconds he forgot himself. Getting lost in her presence was so easy. His hands wandered up and down the silken crepe of her trousered legs as their mouths again became one.

Olivia smiled out of the kiss as she stretched har arm to tap the key card against her door. She flung it open, making clear this was not goodnight for her. She walked in.

Fitz closed his eyes briefly and he breathed out. A sudden wave of heat and perspiration flushed through him. When he opened them, he saw Olivia's lavender, envelope shaped clutch on the floor. He reached down to pick it up before handing it back to her.

She was now holding the edge of the door.

The blood that was absent earlier from his brain rushed back to where he needed it most.

"I meant that I want to know you. Not…not like that," he pointed blithely toward the bed he could glimpse inside her room, and the potential it held for them.

How many dozens of women had he been only for a night? Fitz thought. He was very familiar with this rodeo. He did not think of tomorrow with them because he did to want it. But what of the tomorrow created from tonight? Looking directly at her, he could not see what it would be. The opaque uncertainty dampened him, drawing him inward.

I don't want to be your weekend lover. Your friend, or your client. I want you. I want to kiss you in Paris. Hold your hand in Rome. Make love in a sleeper car as we explore India together. The parts you've never seen. Make you my baby who would have our babies. Hear your dreams. Am I in them? What about your nightmares? What makes you scared? I want to hear all your stories. I'm not afraid of who you are, Livvie. But are you? She put this in him, and now what?

Poor is the man whose fulfilment depends on the conviction of another. No, she had to see it for herself. The potential of them. If Olivia wanted him inside her, he needed to be inside. Her.

All of Fitz's thoughts began to overwhelm him. His head began to get foggy.

"Liv, I don't…"

"Fitz?" she said, he voice filled with unease.

His stomach lurched. He could not do this, even if he wanted to.

"I'm sorry, Olivia." With that, Fitz turned around, his steps quickened towards the exit.

3:57 AM

Whiskey and wine should not mix. But here she was, more than an hour after he left her wet and wanting at her own door. After two glasses of wine, she needed something stronger to make her forget—both the promise of the night they had and the early morning she never received. Thinking about the former made the lack of the latter sting even more. She had raided her mini bar and found whiskey.

It made her feel pretty. And reckless.

Enough to compel her to pick up the phone, call Fitz and give him a piece of her mind. How dare he kiss her like that. Whisper that he wanted her whilst his dick was knocking at her entrance.

She groaned at the memory.

Now he was ignoring her. She ended the call before his voicemail could pick up. Five minutes and two more swigs of whiskey went by before she tried again. The result was the same: no answer. This time, though, she would leave a reply.

"Hey!" That came out aggressive and louder than she thought. Olivia quickly softened her tone, lowered her voice. She was not angry like she had first thought. The low feeling she carried was full of so much more than that, and she was not confident that what spilled from her mouth would express the plenitude of what she felt.

"Hi, hi. I've been drinking whisky, so pardon if I'm impolite. I just really wanted your…you here with me tonight. Hey, that rhymes! Poetic lines, right? Sorry. I uh…I've been thinking about you. I keep thinking about you. About us. I lo—I don't…want to lose you is the only thing on my mind. I can't believe I'm saying this…"

The whisky tumbler rest against her forehead. Was she high? You can't get high from drinking, she self-scolded. Did she almost say that word? High sounded good right now, somewhere above the clouds.

"You should…come over. I'll pour us a drink, babe…"

Suddenly, she was sounding like Adele and it surprised Olivia. She pulled back the phone from her face and looked at the screen, as if someone else had said it. Where did that East London accent come from? Maybe the remnants of hearing her mom speak on the phone to the cousins she left behind.

"But I'm too late, aren't I? I mean…it's late. After 4 AM…I'm rambling now…"

She was not so drunk as to hold back from telling him that he lit a flame inside her she could never extinguish. No matter how hard she tried, he remained. She did not want to fight it anymore.

"I just…Fitz…I wanna go back to the old way. Our Tuesdays. You, with your scotch and me, with my wine. You know, talking to you. Being with you. But I'm not. Instead, I'm here with empty bottles and a little too much to say…"

A hand dragged down the side of her face. She hiccupped like a cartoon character. Suffering succotash, she really should go.

"Ok…bye."

Faded and fading into the night that was quickly becoming day, Olivia's eyes began to shutter before regret could wag its finger. Maybe it was quixotic to think she could have those things she saw in the night sky on Maroon's rooftop. All of it like nothing she had ever experienced before. And therein lies the rub. She could leap and he could catch her. Or she could step off a ledge to be disappointment's assured victim. A fifty-fifty forecast for success did not bode well for leaping. Not at all smart.

Olivia was halfway to dreamland before she heard Connie's voice: but does it feel right?

A/N: hello, hello! I went on too long last time. I hope you enjoyed the read, especially the bookending of the hallways scenes. Let me know what you think and please drow a few words in the 'review' bucket. They sustain me.

As Always,

Petunia