Chapter 9. Girls' Night
A quiver of excitement stirs within him as his fingers feel around the wall for the light switch. Olivia swats his hand away from the switch and then pushes him toward the bed. She pins him on the mattress and straddles him, her wetness brushing against the cotton dress shirt. Her tongue plunges into his mouth and he sucks the sweetness of her wine. Her dominance excites him. She's not a passive sex object, but a woman who knows what she wants. She's making love to him, and it's the most sensuous and dizzying experience imaginable. Excitement and desire are all mixed together.
He caresses every part of her soft skin as she has her way with him. Kissing him. Licking him. Touching him in warm places. His body responds. He lifts her effortlessly, flipping her onto her back. Then, he quickly strips down to his boxers and tosses his watch onto the nightstand.
His wet mouth trails down her collarbone, hungrily licking and sucking her breasts. They're warm and soft. He kisses around the belly ring then runs his tongue around the curve of her leg. She moans with pleasure, his stiffness pressing against her thigh. He deftly slips out of his underwear, flinging them haphazardly across the room.
"Wait. Wait." she says breathlessly, coming to her senses. His heart skips a beat, praying she hasn't changed her mind.
"What?" his voice is rough and impatient. He wants her so badly his chest aches.
"Do—do you have protection?" she asks in gasps and spurts.
Mouth hanging open, he looks like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming car. Of course he isn't prepared. He hasn't used a condom since before he was married.
"Fuck!" he exclaims with frustration as he rolls off her.
"Drawer. Drawer," pointing at the fragile night table next to the bed. She ignores the fleeting look of surprise in his eyes.
He yanks open the drawer, sending items on the tabletop crashing to the floor. Olivia sits up in the bed, her back pressed against the cool, bare wall. She watches him from the corner of her eye with amusement as he fumbles with the gold foil packet.
He's really nervous.
"Do you need help with that?" she asks, stifling a laugh.
"I got it," his face crimson with embarrassment.
He slips inside her easily. She gasps, not disappointed. Arm draped around his neck, she clings to him as he rams her with intensity.
Boom. Boom. Boom. Is the sound of her back slapping against the wall. The pendant and cross dangling from the gold chain around his neck gently smacks her chin with each thrust. Their lovemaking reverberates through the old vents in the two-story Federal-style house. Downstairs, Mrs. Shoffener smiles at the metal bedspring mattress creaking and groaning. She remembers fondly that make-up sex is the best sex ever. So many emotions and passions are involved.
He pulls her down on the bed by the legs, his knee pushes her thighs apart. Bodies intimately intwined, his strokes are deliberate and restrained. He moves like a man who wants to please a woman.
"Open your eyes," he whispers. Their eyes meet in the dark. She stares at him unblinking. "You feel so fuckin' good."
She writhes beneath him, his back muscles bulging under her fingertips. She's seeking her pleasure. It's been a while.
"Not yet. Hang with me," he whispers again, close to her ear, "we're almost there." Her head nods up and down.
Bodies slick and undulating, he thrusts faster and faster, his heart jackhammering against the wall of his chest. It's been a while for him, too. She trembles again and sounds of pleasure slice through the still air.
Pumping fiercely, the explosion blasts every cell, every nerve, and every gland in his body. A kaleidoscopic burst of color overtakes his mind. He is alive. He is awakened from a long winter's nap. After a few moments, Olivia thrums her fingers against his slick back.
"Too heavy," she says, her voice dry and raspy.
"Oh. I'm sorry," quickly rolling onto his back.
The air is thick and full of sex. He slides off the condom and tosses it into the waste basket that's underneath the night table. She kicks away the sheets tangled around her ankles and drapes a bent leg across his stomach. Winded and spent, they gasp for breath.
"Not bad, superintendent. Not bad at all," she says, smiling contentedly. He pulls her close and presses a dry kiss to her cheek.
"Are you all right?" his voice is thick and hoarse.
"That. Was. Fantastic."
"You're fantastic," he says. After years of rejection and hearing 'hurry up' or 'are you finished yet?' he wasn't certain if she would be pleased.
Olivia turns on her side, propping her head up with her hand. "What's that?" fingering the pendant resting flat on his chest. She doesn't mention the gold cross. He lifts the pendant and stares at it fondly.
"It's Saint Michael the Archangel. Patron Saint of Soldiers and Police. My brother gave it to me when I graduated from the academy."
"You really believe in all that stuff?" He turns his head and frowns at her.
"Don't you?"
Beams of moonlight streaming through the sheer white curtains flood the room, illuminating their nakedness. She curls close to his side and he wraps his arm around her shoulder. The physical closeness of another human being is unmatched by any other feeling.
"What's the name of that song playing? I like it," he says as the music flows from the living area.
"I can't remember," she says. Her brain is mush. She can't remember Maysa, one of her favorite smooth jazz artists, singing Quiet Fire.
He wants to ask about the flower-shaped belly ring but her eyes flutter close. Arm tucked behind his head he twirls strands of her messy hair around his index finger and stares at the decorative tin ceiling. The night is almost behind him.
He quietly slides from the bed and Olivia flips onto her side, her back to him. Down on hands and knees, he blindly feels around the floor. Where the hell is my underwear? He can't remember what he left in the other room and what he discarded in the bedroom. Finally, he slips on his boxers and pants and grabs his shirt and shoes from the floor. He leans over the bed, close to her ear.
"Olivia," he whispers, clutching the shirt and shoes to his chest.
"Hmm?"
"I have to go," he whispers again.
"Go," she mumbles, hugging the pillow tight.
"I'll see you tomorrow. Okay?" pressing a kiss to her shoulder.
"This is not happening again, superintendent," she says in a drowsy murmur before falling back to sleep.
As he finishes dressing in the living area, another song he doesn't know starts to play. He swipes the crumbled suit jacket, phone, and keys from the floor. Then, he blows out the candle, recorks the half-empty bottle of wine, and turns off the speaker. He looks around the space once more thinking, the tiniest apartment ever.
XXX
Ferguson scowls as he stares in the rearview mirror watching his disheveled boss walk toward the SUV. The two men's eyes meet briefly in the mirror. Ferguson is judging him. Fitz forks his fingers through his hair and straightens his jacket.
"Take me home," he says, avoiding his driver's eyes.
"You have lipstick on your collar, sir."
Fitz quickly looks down at the shirt and frowns. He adjusts the suit jacket collar in a futile attempt to conceal the stain.
"A fresh shirt is hanging on the hook behind you, sir. Leave the one you're wearing on the seat. I'll take it to the dry cleaners tomorrow."
Fitz shimmies out of the jacket and unbuttons the shirt.
"Fuck!" he exclaims, staring down at his bare left wrist. His watch is somewhere in the apartment. He considers going back for it, but he doesn't want to awaken Olivia.
"Is something wrong, sir?" Ferguson asks, still staring at the man's reflection in the rearview mirror.
"No. No. Just drive."
Ferguson shifts the SUV into gear, thinking, I knew that woman was going to be trouble.
XXX
The next morning Fitz checks his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He doesn't think he looks any different than he did yesterday morning. Same face. Same eyes. Same hair. Same uniform. But he feels different inside—not guilty—but alive. He smiles slightly as he thinks back to last night—the taste of Olivia's wine on his lips, how he felt inside her, that song he can't seem to get out of his head. He inhales deeply, checks his reflection in the mirror again, then heads downstairs for breakfast. Almost the instant he walks into the mid-century kitchen, his daughter assaults him with questions.
"Dad, can we go to Coney Island while we're in New York?"
"Ask your mother. She made all the arrangements," he says, walking over to the coffeemaker.
He wonders if his family notices anything different about him. He wonders if he's acting differently as he drops six teaspoons of sugar into the coffee mug. He wonders if his wife can tell that he made love to another woman last night.
"Can I buy new clothes while we're in New York? They have the coolest stores." Karen says excitedly.
"Maybe. Your mother and I will discuss it," he says, sitting down in the chair next to Karen. "Where's Jerry?" he asks, bringing the mug to his mouth.
"He's already left for school. He got a ride with Nathan," Mellie says as she scrambles his three eggs, soft, in the skillet.
"Nathan's driving now?"
"Nathan has been driving for months. Where have you been, Fitz? I guess Jerry will want a car soon," Mellie says, plating his breakfast.
"Dad, can you take me to school?" Karen asks eagerly. She and her father are on good terms since he made amends for yelling at her. She loves that the two of them went to the movies and had dinner at DiMaggio's.
"I can't this morning, sweetheart. I have to make a stop. It's in the opposite direction of your school."
Mellie wonders where he's going this morning as she sets two slices of toast on the plate. Bottom lip poked out, Karen broods like a toddler. Fitz ignores the expression on her face. He doesn't have time to pacify her this morning.
"Fitz, did you hear me?" Mellie says, as she sets his plate on the table in front of him.
"I'm sorry. What did you say?" staring at his wife blankly.
"You're wearing your everyday watch again. Where's the watch you got as a service award? I hope you didn't lose it."
"The spring bar fell out," lying too easily.
"That's an expensive watch—practically new. A watch like that shouldn't fall apart. You've only worn it a couple of times. I don't understand why you started wearing it to the office."
"It's no big deal, Mellie," he says, pushing the eggs around on the plate.
"I'll send it back to the manufacturer today when I take lunch."
"Ferguson took it to the jeweler." Lying is getting easier.
"Karen, get your backpack. I'll drop you off," Mellie says as she makes a tuna sandwich for lunch.
"Thanks, Mom," Karen says as she shuffles from the kitchen with her head down.
"You know she just wants to spend time with you." Fitz looks up with confusion in his eyes.
"What?"
"Fitz, are you all right? You seem a little off this morning."
"I'm fine," he says, standing and carrying his plate over to the sink.
"You hardly touched your breakfast. Are you sure you're all right? You're not getting sick, are you? I wouldn't be surprised with the crazy hours they're making you work lately."
"I gotta get going, Mellie, he says, pecking her on the cheek.
"Will you be home for dinner or are you working late again?"
"I'll let you know," he says, walking from the kitchen.
"Where's Dad?" Karen asks, rushing back into the kitchen with the backpack strapped over her right shoulder.
"He's already left for work," Mellie says, scraping her husband's uneaten food down the garbage disposal, "did you need something?"
"I just wanted to say good-bye to Dad," Karen says somberly, adjusting the backpack strap on her shoulder.
XXX
Fitz climbs into the back of the SUV; the stained white shirt is gone. Ferguson shifts the cruiser into gear, driving the same route he has taken since he started picking the superintendent up and driving him to work. That was ten years ago.
"Take me to Saint Gregory's first," Fitz says tightly, looking straight ahead out the large windshield window.
"Yes, sir," Ferguson replies, nodding his head up and down with approval. He knows that his boss is a good and decent man. One lapse in judgment doesn't negate who he is at his core.
He will receive the grace of confession.
XXX
Since arriving at work this morning, Fitz has been gazing out the window thinking about all that defines who he is. He thinks about his religion, his marriage, and his children. He inhales deeply, thinking it's pathetic that a man who uses data every day to make all sorts of business decisions has never made one meaningful decision for his own life.
"Come in," he says, recognizing Mrs. Warren's faint knock on the door. The smell of mildew and mold accompany the woman as she enters the office. Water seeping into the basement of BPD over the years, humidity, and poor ventilation have damaged many boxes of old case files.
"I have more of those files you requested, Superintendent Grant," Mrs. Warren says, piling the files on the desk. She created three stacks on the desk labeled New, Keep, and Return. The Return stack is higher than the New and Keep stacks.
"Thank you, Mrs. Warren," he says, sliding the tin of mints from under the piles of folders. "When you get a chance return those back to the basement," gesturing to the Return stack with a nod of his head.
"I'll need a few more days before I can get them back downstairs," sounding a bit winded.
Fitz takes the top folder from the New stack, blows on the cover, sending tiny particles of dust dancing in the air. The corners of his mouth turn down as he flips through the musty-smelling pages. He tosses the folder on the Return stack.
Another dead end.
"It's pretty dank down in that old basement," Mrs. Warren says.
"Excuse me?" Fitz says, realizing for the first time that his mother would be around Mrs. Warren's age if she had lived.
"No one has asked about those old files in decades," the elderly woman's sly way of trying to finagle information out of Fitz. He hasn't told her anything. He just keeps asking for more files from the 1980s. So far, she's given him files up to 1982; seven more years to go.
"I guess you look for what you want. Maybe I'm looking for something that isn't there," he says with disappointment in his voice.
"Superintendent Grant, you don't find what you don't look for." Fitz smiles slightly. "Have a good day."
"You as well. Uh—Mrs. Warren?"
"Yes, Superintendent?" turning around with a pleasant smile on her face.
"How did you happen to get this assignment?" His roundabout way of asking why a woman of her years is assigned to his project. He's not sure if she's physically up for the task.
"Mrs. Dreisen, my supervisor, gave me the assignment. When you requested someone to go through boxes of old case files in the basement, none of the younger women wanted to do it. They said it's too dark and dusty down there. They said they're scared that rats might be running around, which there are," she giggles lightly. "I just don't think they wanted to ruin their fake designer clothes and expensive hair-do's."
Fitz smiles with a corner of his mouth.
"So, the old lady who they think is a nuisance and should've retired years ago gets to crawl around the smelly basement and search through damp boxes for old files."
Fitz nods his head with understanding.
"I appreciate your help, Mrs. Warren."
"Have a good day, Superintendent Grant."
XXX
The following evening, surrounded by ecru-colored walls lined with custom floor-to-ceiling bookcases that house an enviable collection of books and vinyl records of all genres, the two old friends settle down to catch up with each other's lives.
"I'm stuffed. You missed your calling, Liv," Abby says, half-sprawled across the grey tufted sofa. The carbohydrates-rich meal and wine and soft music playing in the background is lulling her to sleep.
"Cooking dinner was the least I could do. Thank goodness you've been checking on the house. It's a mess down there. A lot of that stuff will have to be trashed."
"This is a beautiful brownstone, Liv, but the plumbing is old. You need to think about upgrading."
"I did. I updated all the systems—plumbing, electrical, HVAC. …A small fortune. Don't you remember how the circuit breaker tripped whenever the microwave and air conditioner were on at the same time?"
"Get me a copy of your contract with the plumber. Three-year-old pipes shouldn't burst — especially this time of the year."
"I have homeowners insurance," Olivia says, refilling her glass with red wine before sitting down on the sofa.
"Insurance won't cover everything. Give me a copy of your insurance policy, too. Insurance companies love taking our premiums, but don't want to pay up when we file a claim."
"I'll be here the rest of the week cleaning up. I'll dig out the papers before I go back to Boston."
"We'll pack the things you want to keep. You'll have to call one of those remediation companies in the morning to haul away the other crap."
Olivia nods her head. She is exhausted from cleaning the waterlogged lower level of the house and cooking. She's ready to relax and catch up with her best friend.
"I miss our girls' night. Are you really staying in boring Bean Town for five more months?"
"You do know that Boston is the third largest city in the Northeast? They have some of the best universities. … hospitals … thriving tech and financial industries in the world.
"So, you now work for Travel Massachusetts?" Abby snarks.
"I'm just saying —it's not a bad city."
Abby bolts upright immediately when she sees the discreet smile playing on Olivia's lips. She wants the scoop.
"You screwed that Edison guy. I can tell when you've had sex. Tell me everything. Was he any good?"
"I didn't sleep with Edison. There's something creepy about him," she says with a far-off look in her eyes. "I can't put my finger on it," tapping the rim of the wine glass with a broken fingernail.
"You slept with someone. Those toys don't make you grin like that. Now, spill."
"I shouldn't," Olivia says in a teasing tone.
"We always tell. Spill."
Olivia twirls her hair around her index finger, contemplating how much she should tell her friend. Abby can be judgmental. She decides not to talk about the scene Fitz made at the restaurant. Abby will say she's tolerating a man's foul behavior again. She certainly won't tell that Fitz said he has feelings for her, whatever that's supposed to mean.
"Earth to Liv," Abby says, snapping her fingers in the air as she stumbles toward the kitchen for another bottle of her favorite cheap Chardonnay chilling in the refrigerator. She can afford a better wine, but she doesn't care about the qualities that Olivia raves about like balance, tannins, color, etc. She doesn't care where the grapes were grown. She drinks solely for the effects.
Olivia clears her throat softly and grips the wine glass tightly. She's grateful that Abby can't see her face.
"It was Superintendent Grant," she says in a small voice.
"What did you say?" Abby grimacing as she struggles to uncork the wine bottle with the oddly shaped corkscrew. She doesn't know why her friend buys aesthetically pleasing but utterly non-functional housewares.
"It. Was. Superintendent Grant," she repeats a little louder. "I slept with Fitz." She squeezes her eyes shut and waits for the firestorm to rain down on her.
Abby runs from the kitchen, holding the wine bottle by the neck with one hand and pressing her other hand against her chest. She is wild-eyed.
"Please tell me you didn't say what I thought you said. You didn't —not with that man."
"It's not going to happen again, Abby. I told him that," Olivia says quickly, but Abby is still on the warpath.
"How could you? He's married. He was mean to you. What the heck were you thinking?" her long red hair swinging from side to side like a set of windshield wiper blades.
"I — we didn't plan it."
"So, there's a we now?" Olivia rolls her eyes, almost regretting telling Abby, but she needed to tell someone.
"You know what I mean," taking another sip.
Abby sits down on the sofa and sets the wine bottle on the glass coffee table. Trying to calm herself, she rubs her bare feet back and forth on the white Mongolian lamb rug that extends from underneath the coffee table. She and Olivia have seen each other through the ups and downs of life. She just wants the best for her friend.
"You can't keep getting involved with men who aren't physically or emotionally available," Abby says with frustration. "You're smart. Look at all these books. You're a published author."
"Hey, no judgments. No lectures," Olivia retorts, reminding Abby of the cardinal rule that's sustained their friendship for all these years. "One, I'm not involved with Fitz. Two, don't act like you never had a one-night stand. That you never slept with someone for the physical connection. I remember that drummer from the Indie band playing at Camille's down on Eighty-Third Street."
Abby smiles sheepishly. She remembers the drummer, too; but that was before she met David. She raises her right hand mid-air like a courtroom witness swearing to tell the whole truth and nothing but the truth.
"You're right. I've been guilty of having a one-night stand or two."
"We're grown women, Abby. We don't have to feel guilty about enjoying sex. Maybe Fitz wasn't the ideal choice, but. … It had been a while since I was with someone. The toys don't always get the job done. At least not the way I want," she says with a deep sense of longing.
"Isn't he supposed to be some kind of religious fanatic?"
Olivia laughs lightly. "He's Catholic. I don't think that's considered a cult."
"He's a phony and a hypocrite—that's what he is," Abby gripes.
"That's none of my business. Though I got the impression he's never stepped out of his marriage. He was kind of nervous at first."
Abby waves her hand in the air dismissively. "I bet he cheats all the time. I bet he said his wife's a nagging shrew."
"I assure you, Abigail, we did not spend time talking about his wife," sniggering softly.
"Don't get involved with him, Liv. He'll just use you to fill the gaps in his mediocre life."
"Pfft. I have no intention of sleeping with him again. He's served his purpose. I'll be thirty-one next year, I'm not interested in wasting time with another woman's husband. I want my own family one day."
"Look at you, sounding all grown up," Abby says, leaning forward and splashing more wine into her glass. "Suppose he tries to change your mind?"
Olivia juts her chin forward and in a self-assured tone says, "I change my own mind."
"Just suppose he wants to continue. You have to be ready to say something."
With a smug expression on her face and in a whimsical tone, Olivia regales Abby with the random words as they pop into her head.
"I'll say something like, the night was enjoyable. …You were great. …It would be inappropriate to continue. …I hope we can be professional. Blah. Blah. Blah. I'll be gentle. I'll let him down easy."
"Badass Olivia Pope. Now, give me the numbers," Abby says, her glassy green eyes dancing in her head.
Smiling from ear to ear, Olivia pulls a bent knee up to her chest and takes another long sip of wine. "Two times for sure. Probably three," she reports in their codified language. They high-five like two locker room jocks bragging about the girls they seduced under the football field bleachers during the school dance.
"More. Tell me more. Does he have a Dad bod?"
"Actually, he's pretty fit," her eyes beaming reminiscently. "As far as dimensions — let's just say I was quite sore and hoarse the next day. I'm sure my landlady got an earful."
"Damn!" Abby exclaims. "So, the stoic superintendent is packing a pretty big pistol. Or should I say — a Bazooka?"
Tears roll down their cheeks. They laugh so hard they can barely talk.
"The next time my gynecologist asks if I'm sexually active, I can respond with a resounding yes. Olivia pumps her fist like Tiger Woods after he's made an amazing golf swing.
Abby flops back against the sofa and stretches her long legs across the coffee table. Her chin drops to her chest.
"I miss our girls' nights," she says sadly.
"You already said that. No more wine for you, Ms. Whelan."
The old friends laugh out loud again, this time for no reason at all.
XXX
Sitting hunched over the desk, Fitz sneezes repeatedly as he reads another thirty-year-old case file. The mold and dust particles are wreaking havoc on his sinuses. He closes the musty folder and pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to quell the headache that's building behind his eyes. He's not making any progress. Nothing that he's read so far supports the nagging feeling that the current crime data are similar to a case that occurred many years ago. He sighs in frustration; he can't remember the name of the case.
With a pensive expression on his face, he leans back in the chair and his thoughts veer to Olivia. He hasn't seen her around headquarters, and it wasn't for lack of trying. Over the past few days, he circled the halls of the west tower several times hoping to accidentally run into her. He considered asking Mike about her but dismissed the thought. He doesn't want to arouse suspicion that his interest in Olivia Pope is anything other than professional.
As usual, his mind starts to churn. Maybe she's avoiding me. Maybe she regrets our night together. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. He needs to clear his head of dust and Olivia so he heads downstairs to the gym.
XXX
Following the grueling sixty-minute circuit workout with weights, Fitz relaxed in the 110-degree steam room for twenty minutes. The moist air clears his mind of the raging thoughts and the dust particles ravaging his sinuses. After a long cool shower, he heads back upstairs to his office. His heart almost leaps from his chest when he hears in the distance her unmistakable laugh. Like the moon pulling the tide, he slowly gravitates toward her. Excited.
"Fitz, you look like you got caught in the rain, and it's not even raining." Mike's booming laugh echoes throughout the hallway as he points to Fitz' wet hair flattened to his head. Grown men can act like boys, chopping each other down when they want to impress a woman. Fitz ignores the snide remark.
"Hello, Mike. Dr. Pope," Fitz says, trying to not stare at Olivia.
"Hello, Superintendent Grant," Olivia says in a flat tone.
"Olivia was just telling me about her trip to the Big Apple. Do they still call it the Big Apple?" Mike chortles.
"No one who's from New York does," shifting her body so she's not in Fitz' line-of-sight.
"I was wondering where she was all last week. We've all gotten used to having Olivia around here. We're going to continue our interview over lunch. Would you like to join us?"
"No — thank you. I have a lot of work to do," Fitz says as the elevator dings.
"Don't we all," Mike says, never knowing when to stop talking. "We better get going, Olivia. We don't want to get caught in the rain." Mike expels another belly laugh.
"Enjoy your lunch," Fitz says, turning on his heels to leave.
"Maybe next time, Superintendent Grant," Olivia calls over her shoulder as Mike steers her inside the waiting elevator.
"The Ice Man," Mike snarks.
"Excuse me?" she says, eyeing Mike with a crinkled brow.
"Fitz has a good streak of stubbornness in him. He doesn't give up. Right now, he's obsessed with trying to decipher some obscure crime data. I told him there's nothing there to see. The man needs a vacation."
"He's the head of the Intelligence and Analysis Bureau. Isn't it his job to analyze data?"
Mike glances sideways at Olivia, thinking she sounds like a Fitz defender.
XXX
As the day eases toward late afternoon, with a clear head, Fitz gamed out a plan to regain control of his Olivia situation. He has to start all over. He hurls the ink pen across the room, sending it crashing against the wall. Things moved at lightening speed that night. He didn't plan to sleep with her—that was to come later. She obviously needed the physical connection and, frankly, so did he. But when she mumbled they couldn't be together again, he knew he had lost the upper hand. She no longer needed him.
He walks over to the window and folds his arms across his chest. He chuckles; it's starting to rain.
"Come in," he calls out, smiling as the people in the park dash in different directions trying to outrun the pelting rain.
"Superintendent Grant."
His head jerks around, surprised to see her standing just inside of the office. His face brightens. The smile spread all the way across his face.
"Olivia? Come in." She doesn't move any farther into the office. He sits on the edge of the desk; half the distance of the room separates them. He shifts the expression on his face. He remembers he shouldn't smile.
"You dropped your pen," she says, bending down and swiping the ink pen from the floor. She takes a few steps into the office. Keeping her distance, she stretches out her arm and hands him the pen.
"Have a seat," he says.
"I can't stay," adjusting the tote bag on her shoulder.
"I haven't seen you since — "
"I had to go home … to Brooklyn … unexpectedly."
"Mike said as much. I hope everything is all right."
"It is now. My friend Abby called last week … said that a pipe burst in my home. The garden level was completely flooded."
"You live in a brownstone?"
"I do," a look of pride moves across her face.
"I hope you didn't lose anything important."
"Nothing that can't be replaced."
"That's good."
"It was a massive cleanup. I had to hire a plumber … a cleaning service … contact the insurance company. It was a mess." Her ears know she's rambling.
"I see."
An awkward silence hangs in the air. They stare at each other like two old lovers who haven't seen each other for ages—whose relationship didn't end well.
"I have something of yours," reaching inside the tote bag and pulling out a small, cushioned envelope. "I would've gotten it to you sooner, but. … It's a good-looking watch. Expensive. I could've sold it— bought myself something really nice with the proceeds," she laughs nervously.
"Then I would have to arrest you. Handcuff you," he says, taking the envelope from her hand. Her smile is tight.
"Well, I guess I should be going. Have a good day." She turns and walks toward the door.
"Olivia," he says, just before she reaches the door. She inhales softly, turns around slowly, ready to state adamantly and unequivocally why they can't be together again.
"About that night," she says. "It can't — "
"It shouldn't have happened," he says quickly before she could finish her sentence. For the tiniest fraction of a second, he sees the look of surprise flicker in her eyes. "It was a mistake —a lapse in judgment on my part. I'm sorry. It won't happen again."
A lapse in judgment?
The stoic expression on his face doesn't change. "I hope we can still have a professional relationship. I would like to continue the interviews — if that's all right with you."
"Of —of course," she stammers, nodding her head slowly.
"Well, thanks again for dropping off the watch."
He walks around the desk and opens the folder on top of the Return stack. He flips through the pages slowly, pretending to read the useless document. After a moment, he looks up at her with lifted eyebrows.
"Was there anything else?"
"No. No," she says.
"Then I guess I'll see you at the next superintendents' meeting. Have a good day, Olivia."
Did he just dismiss me?
"You as well, Fitz." Her voice quieter than usual.
XXX
At first, she was startled, not angry, when her rehearsed words spilled from his mouth. Now, as she walks down the hallway toward the elevator, she is outraged.
Who does he think he is, standing there acting like I'm a stranger that he barely knows.
She pushes the elevator call button repeatedly trying to hurry it along.
That BS he spouted about being attracted to me was just a ruse to get me into bed. How could I be so stupid? Abby is right, he probably cheats on his wife all the time.
XXX
Pleased with himself, Fitz closes the office door and sits down in the chair behind the desk thinking the expression on her face was priceless. Clearly, she didn't expect him to turn the tables on her— for him to say they couldn't be together again. But he needed to reestablish his position. He needs to be strategic. He knows he's playing a wicked game. He also knows that it's insane for a married man to pursue a younger and unmarried woman. But for once he's going to take a risk. He's tired of living a life of regrets. Tired of deferring his dreams for people with a limited vision for his life. He can't turn time back like a movie and start all over again, but he can start to live the life that he wants. Because deep down he knows if he lets this opportunity pass, he will shrivel up and die like a raisin in the sun.