Lyrics from the songs the 1, Say Don't Go, and Bigger Than the Whole Sky, Guilty As Sin? by Taylor Swift appear in this chapter.
I made it to my desk feeling a little like a pack mule, balancing a drink tray, bakery bag, purse, lunch bag, and work bag. Luckily, it was a well-practiced routine and I managed not to spill the coffee or drop anything. I placed my purse in a desk drawer and slid my work bag under my desk before hanging my coat on the hook on my cubicle wall. It was late April, and the temperature would be in the low 70s today, but it was raining. Knowing I couldn't manage an umbrella while carrying everything else, I opted for my raincoat. It didn't rain often, not nearly enough, but on the days it did, trying to stay dry was my only hope for controlling my hair. Working in an office instead of running down the street after FTAs allowed me to wear nicer clothes, put some effort into my hair, and wear more makeup than just mascara for confidence. It did wonders for my self-image, but having poofy hair did not. The change also meant I was able to buy things that were better quality because I knew they wouldn't get destroyed in one wear. While I thought I was an expert shopper, my new shopping partner Abigail had introduced me to the concept of cost-per-wear which was a great way to justify almost any purchase. If the item I wanted was more than I would usually spend, she would ask me how often I would wear it before doing the math to convince me that it was well worth it, a bargain even. The nice thing is I wasn't wearing a suit, pantyhose, and heels like I had at EE Martin; the dress code was more casual than that, but I loved it. This whole being a grown-up thing was growing on me.
Making a quick detour to the break room to put my lunch in the fridge, I headed to my friend Abigail's private office. My workspace was only semi-private. I had a cubicle in a room with three other team members. There were two analysts: Adam and me. I focused more on the people involved in the case, their interviews, and personal histories; he was a self-proclaimed science nerd and could decipher all the forensics. He was also eleven years old. Not really, but he looked like it, he was five foot six inches tall and probably weighed less than 110 pounds. In actuality, he was twenty-four, a genius, and decorated his space with figurines and memorabilia from science fiction and fantasy fandoms, mostly things I'd never heard of. There were also two Special Agents on the team. Nick was a little bit younger than me, but not as young as Adam, with dark blond hair, blue eyes, and the build of an athlete. He played D1 soccer in college and was married with two little girls. The other agent was my friend Kat. She was Nick's age and an absolute badass. I wanted to be her when I grew up. Kat was six feet tall with thick, black wavy hair that behaved much better than mine did, was trained in three different types of martial arts, and played on a women's rugby team for fun. She was brilliant and quick with a joke to lighten the mood, especially when the cases got pretty dark.
Our spaces were separated by five-foot-tall partitions, allowing us a chance to personalize our spaces, besides giving each of us a little privacy, which helped tremendously with my concentration. However, I could still easily ask someone else's opinion and the setup kept me from feeling isolated. We had a conference table and whiteboard in the corner for meetings to compare notes on cases we worked on. It was the best of both worlds as we all worked on different aspects of a case before coming together to make sense of it all. It was a good group, everyone worked hard and was dedicated to the job, but understood work wasn't everything and had lives outside the office. While that wasn't the case for me last year, I was getting there. Four months into my new life, I was doing good, trying new shit. I'd been saying yes instead of no, and having adventures on my own.
My friend Abigail was a Public Affairs Specialist and therefore had her own office. She spent lots of time on the phone and having meetings that required privacy. While not luxurious, her decor was more than basic modular laminate office furniture like in my department. She had a nice wood desk, a small conference table, a loveseat, and a couple of comfy chairs surrounding a coffee table. It was the perfect place for breakfast and our morning gab session. She wasn't in yet and was probably held up dropping her kids off at daycare. Recently, her four-year-old son Henry had developed separation anxiety. Even though he loved his preschool and daycare, for the last couple of weeks he's wanted to stay with his mom. So there were extra hugs and kisses to combat the tears, but I could tell it was wearing on her and adding to the mom guilt.
I made myself at home, dropping into what had become 'my chair,' took the first drink of my iced caramel macchiato, and sighed as the caffeine entered my bloodstream. While I disagreed with Tank that my choice of vodka had become fancy since moving west, the same couldn't be said for my coffee choices. I found that with the climate change, I couldn't drink hot coffee anymore. I'd tried iced coffee, but it didn't pack enough punch, so I switched to espresso. Trying out different variations of lattes, I finally settled on this, it was just sweet enough and the extra shot got me through until lunchtime when I switched to soda. That's not to say I didn't stay hydrated by lugging around a three-pound metal water bottle all day as well, like every other man, woman, and child in America.
Even though I'd beaten Abigail into work, I didn't mind being early. The way I dressed was not the only thing that had changed with my new job. Office hours were somewhat flexible, and I preferred to come in earlier and have the late afternoon and evening to myself. Once I lived somewhere I knew was secure and didn't have to worry about people breaking in at all hours of the night, be it friend or foe, I could get a good night's sleep and quickly settled into a routine. I went to bed at a decent hour, slept well, and had little difficulty waking up in the morning. So my mornings generally started at six am, giving myself plenty of time to get ready and out the door just before seven. My drive to work was about twenty to twenty-five minutes depending on traffic, but every morning I made a stop at the coffee shop a couple of blocks from my apartment for my daily jolt of caffeine and a fresh baked good. While I occasionally still had a donut, coffee cake, fresh fruit pastries, and quick bread were more my speed now. Some of them were even healthy, and usually, I even included a piece of fruit or yogurt. Wouldn't Ranger be proud of me? As quickly as the thought came into my head, I pushed it away. While thoughts of the Man in Black still occurred multiple times a day, I'd learned to just accept them, but not let them linger and affect my mood. It was just one way I was making progress.
When Ranger and I had once again found ourselves in bed together back in December, I'd accepted it for what it was, rather than beat myself up over it or fixate on it, wondering and hoping if it would lead to more. Neither of us rushed away the morning after, and we chose to spend the weekend together. After the abrupt end to not only our incredibly intense six-month affair but to our nearly five-year friendship, we both seemed to need time with each other. It seemed that while I'd moved away, neither of us had been successful in moving on. So we gave ourselves the gift of a break from reality; inside that hotel room, only the two of us existed, with no real-life demands or expectations. Over the weekend there were no more revelations, no talk of the future or the outside world, just the two of us together, suspended in time. Well, there was also sex, lots and lots of really great sex.
When Ranger drove me to my parents' house two days later, we sat parked out front in silence for a few minutes, savoring the last bit of our time together. Finally, I blew out a breath and turned to find him watching me, looking like he wanted to say something. We'd both successfully avoided any discussion about what, if anything, had changed between us. I didn't know what he wanted from me, and I honestly didn't think he knew himself. I wanted to preserve the pleasant memory of our time together and didn't want him to say anything to ruin it: to tell me that's all he could ever offer me, or ask me to go back to just being friends, which was something I wasn't sure I could offer him, at least not right now. Taking the initiative, I leaned into him, cupping his jaw, and kissed him long, slow, and sweet. Ending the kiss, I leaned my forehead against his for a long moment, unable and unwilling to give voice to the thoughts that warred within me. There were no words, nothing that would make things better, but lots of words that could make it worse, make me regret my decision. So before the moment was ruined, I pulled away from him, climbed out of the car, and headed up the walk, not allowing myself to turn back. As I closed the door behind me, a thought whispered through my mind, "Proud of you, Babe." I was proud of myself, too.
While that was the last time I saw Ranger, it wasn't the last time I was near him, or felt him, though. By the time he dropped me off, I'd already used my travel app to change my return flight to California, and the next morning I left New Jersey physically behind me again, determined to do the same emotionally this time. The flight change came at a financial cost but was easily outweighed by the mental and emotional payoff. While I was leaving early, I was still able to avoid a lot of the holiday travelers, just as I did on my original trip out west, only this time I was leaving before the New Year. Last year I flew out on January 3rd, avoiding holiday travelers and prices. While I'd been sitting at the terminal, the hair on the back of my neck stood up in the way it only does when Ranger was near. I was surprised, but probably shouldn't have been. We'd said our final goodbyes at his apartment Christmas night and hadn't had any further contact. I rationalized he was probably there for his own flight out to Boston or Miami. There was the part of me that had hoped, prayed he'd show up as I was boarding the plane and in some romantic gesture would say "Don't go." I would stay forever if he'd say, "Don't go." But as we taxied down the runway, I'd berated myself for being stupid, wishing and hoping he'd change his mind. This year, the familiar tingle signaled he was once again there, watching me. The difference was, this time I didn't search for him, didn't hope, didn't pray. This time, as I watched Trenton fade beneath the clouds, I found myself saying goodbye, trying to put all of it and him behind me. To me, he'd been everything, bigger than the whole sky, and we were more than just a short time. Now I had a lot to pine about, a lot to live without. I was leaving it all behind: what could've been, what would've been, what should've been.
Having a few extra days before I needed to be back at work, I made the most of my time. While some of the things on my list of New Year's resolutions required professional help, no one would be in the office for another week, so finding a therapist or counselor had to wait. I was determined to make the changes I needed to move on and make a life for myself without Ranger in it. Deciding to tackle some of the other things on my own, I did some shopping. I started with my apartment, buying some things to change it from somewhere I lived into a home. That was my new mindset. While I would forever be a Jersey Girl, I was determined to make Long Beach, California my home. I signed up for a cooking class I'd seen advertised at my local grocery store and scoured my social media feeds to find some simple recipes I could do on my own, giving myself a goal of cooking for myself three times a week. Finding a crafty hobby was kind of a happy accident. Several times in the last year I'd walked past an outdoor market down at the pier where vendors sold everything from farm fresh veggies to baked goods, and handmade crafts. Visiting the weekend before starting back at work, I came across a vendor booth with framed needlework and pillows. My mom's Grandma had done needlework and still had some pieces made by her hanging in various rooms in the house. I thought buying something from here might be a neat way to honor her.
One framed piece hanging at the front of the booth was a sampler, very similar to the one that hung in our dining room, but instead of 'Bless This Home,' surrounded by the little house, trees, and decorative designs was stitched, 'Bless This Hizzle, Fo' Shizzle.' Snoop Dogg! I giggled, then snorted and laughed. Looking around the booth I found gorgeous floral designs, and traditional-looking geometric borders, but where I expected old-timey homey sayings, snarky and sweary phrases took their place. It was awesome. Not only did she sell finished pieces, there were kits with all the supplies needed to make one myself, with directions and a link to her YouTube tutorials page. The owner Becca was sweet and snarky herself and assured me it was something I could do, and she was at this market twice a month if I needed any help. So I left with a kit for a pillow that featured a beautiful, bright floral spray surrounding the words, 'Bitch you're doin' a good job.' I also bought a kit for a little framed design to hang in my cubicle that said, 'Per my last email,' which had been one of our favorite phrases used by members of my team when corresponding with other agencies and was the most professional way we could find to say, 'I already fucking told you that.' In addition to having cute things to decorate with, cross-stitching was very therapeutic. How could you not embrace a hobby that allowed you to stab something 10,000 times? I'd finished both those projects, and I was currently working on a design that said, 'Whatever doesn't kill you gives you unhealthy coping mechanisms and a very dark sense of humor.'
While I kept busy crafting and cooking, I tried to keep thoughts of my weekend with Ranger at bay, but I wasn't always successful. Without work to occupy my focus, my brain was restless and free to remember and reflect. What did it mean? Was I willing to accept his friendship? Let him back into my life? Or would I tell myself it was enough while hiding my desire for it to be more? Briefly, I entertained the thought that we could text and talk on the phone, then meet up in a hotel room in some city between the coasts to hook up. But was that enough? Was that a relationship, or just long-distance friends with benefits? Is that what I wanted, or just what I would settle for? What if I met someone new, and started a relationship? Would the longing for him ever fade? What if I saw him again, would I be able to resist the desire, the need, the want, the connection, the pull of only feeling complete when I was with him? Being with Joe hadn't kept me from giving in, and it made me feel shitty. Could I, would I do that again to someone else? Would I be strong enough not to? Just the thought of it made me ill, but I worried I'd never be able to move on, never open up the way I did with him.
Abigail's whirlwind entrance was a welcome distraction from my what-ifs. She carried her own ridiculous load of work bag, lunchbox, and purse with the added weight of a breast pump. Henry was her older child at age four, and she had given birth to little William, or Billy Boy, which was his current nickname, last June. There were complications with her pregnancy, causing her to go on bed rest in April, and she'd only returned to the office in November. We'd only known each other enough to say hello in the few months I'd worked here last spring before she'd started working from home. When she came back to work, she had a severe case of what she calls 'Mommy Brain' and accidentally sent me a snarky, bitchy email intended for someone else. Of course, she was mortified and apologized profusely. I laughed it off and told her not to worry about it because I'd recently replied to my work group chat with a snarky comment about an agent who had come in to be interviewed on a case and was a condescending asshole. I meant to send the message to just my friend Kat, but I accidentally sent it to everyone. Fortunately for me, the entire team felt the same way. My boss did call me into his office, and we had a conversation in which he said, "I'm having this conversation with you because I'm your boss and I have to." But there wasn't much heat behind it.
The brilliant, professional way that Abigail told this guy Steven to fuck off was absolutely inspired, and I knew we had to be friends. In a very odd way, she reminded me a bit of Connie, without the accent, Jersey hair and Family connections. Before I'd left in December to travel back to Trenton, we'd eaten lunch together in the break room a couple of times a week, simply because of our schedules. But when I came back in January, we started having coffee in her office in the mornings, as well as lunch, usually texting throughout the day as well. It was a comfortable and easy friendship. We had the same sarcastic personalities and dark sense of humor. We also shared the inability to hide what we were feeling. She said neither of us faces had 'inside faces,' like the 'inside voices' we were reminded to use in elementary school. Whatever we thought about someone was clearly visible for all to read. We were also the same sort of hot mess. I was trying to get my life together and move on from my disastrous relationship with Ranger, and she was trying to find a sense of balance between work and family, as well as deal with a whole range of postpartum hormones and guilt over being a working mom. What sealed the deal was when I ran into her outside my therapist's office while she was waiting for her own. While it was a little awkward, it solidified our friendship. At first, I felt sort of a bond, like we were keeping each other's secret. While going to therapy is a pretty common thing now and doesn't have the stigma it once did, all of that was new to me. In the Burg, we didn't go to therapy, only crazy people went to therapy. After that, though, it turned into something more. It was also nice to have a friend who realized their issues, and actively worked on them.
I wondered what kind of friend I'd been when living in denial back in Trenton, constantly claiming, "It wasn't my fault," when sometimes it was. Maybe not always or fully, but I did bear some of the blame and had refused to admit it at the time. Looking back, I can see how frustrating that must have been for the Merry Men and Ranger. It wasn't until the last few months before I left, during my unlikely partnership with Hector, that I started working out and getting serious about carrying my gun. I know that Ranger refusing to admit his issues and demons irritated the shit out of me. In the end, he did offer an apology and acknowledge his problems, and it seemed like this last year he was at least attempting to make some changes. But was it too little, too late? I hoped he continued to work on it, for himself anyway.
While Lula physically healed after Ramirez, I felt like she stuck her head in the sand, just like I did when dealing with the trauma. With what little I knew about her life growing up and while she worked Stark Street, talking about your feelings was simply not done. She thought it made her tough. Looking back, I thought it made her angry. She went from zero to one hundred when she felt insulted or disrespected, resulting in her firing back verbally or with her gun, often landing us both in hot water.
Once I was back at work, I contacted HR to find out what steps to take to use EAP benefits, and I was connected with Margaret, the therapist for my department. While she was extremely kind when I called to set up an intake appointment, she informed me she was pregnant and most likely going on maternity leave in the next two weeks. Several therapists in her department were going to be helping with her caseload while she was gone, so rather than meeting with her, only to be transferred to someone else and have to start over again, she gave me Nick D'Angelo's information. I was a little unsure about seeing a male therapist, worried I wouldn't be able to talk to him the way I would a woman, but I figured I'd give it a try. Margaret said if I wanted to, I could switch back to see her when she returned.
The fact that my therapist was a man was my first concern, plus he sounded Italian. I tried to imagine any of the Italian boys I grew up with in the Burg becoming mental health professionals, but I couldn't picture it. My second concern was that his name was Nick. I already had a coworker named Nick. My boss's name was also Nick. Nick Harrison was the head of the Cold Case Division, in his late fifties, overweight, and a hard ass. Well, he pretended to be a hard ass, but he kind of reminded me of Lou Grant from the Mary Tyler Moore Show that I used to watch at my grandparent's house. The other concern with my new therapist was something I didn't discover until my first appointment; he was handsome, like really, really handsome. Kat and I had already started calling our teammate Nick Mulholland Handsome Nick to differentiate between him and our boss. Not having another option, I started seeing my new therapist weekly, and I'd dubbed him, Handsome Handsome Nick, sometimes shortened to HHN.
While Abigail agreed that Handsome Handsome Nick was incredibly good-looking, she was the one who'd talked me off the ledge when after the first few weeks of therapy, I freaked out because I thought I needed to quit or find a new therapist because I'd fallen in love with him.
Abigail had rolled her eyes, "You dope, you're not in love with him."
"I'm not?" I'd been in a panic.
She'd laughed at me, "No, you're not. You've just never met a handsome man who recognized and could openly talk about emotions." She was right and an excellent choice for my closest friend.
Focusing back on her, I asked, "How's Henry? Any better this morning?" Before answering, she dropped her load onto her desk to deal with and sort through later. Sighing, she joined me, grabbing her coffee and pastry, settling in the other chair.
She shook her head, "No. He's clingy, and it makes me feel like shit first thing in the morning. I feel so guilty. I know it's a phase, and it's probably because I started back to work, and he's still adjusting to sharing our attention with Billy, but it sucks."
I felt awful for her. I didn't have kids and couldn't relate, but offered a suggestion anyway, "Why doesn't Tim drop him off in the mornings for a while? See if Henry acts the same way?" I shrugged, "Even if he still has a hard time, Tim can feel like shit instead of you."
"Why didn't I think of that? That's a fabulous idea!" Her face brightened for the first time since she walked in.
I laughed, "Because you have Mommy Brain, I read somewhere that when you breastfeed, the baby sucks out part of your brain, in addition to nutrients and antibodies."
She quirked an eyebrow at me. "You read this?"
I rolled my eyes, "Okay fine, I saw a TikTok. I swear, being in the same room with you while you're pumping has fucked up my social media feed. In addition to smutty BookTalk, cute cat videos, and crazy rich ladies organizing their pantries, I now get posts about baby slings, nipple cream, and women who make cloth diapers and sell them on Etsy." The last group had some cool stuff, and I'd forwarded a few of them to Tank.
She laughed. "Maybe it's just your biological clock ticking louder that's causing it."
I snorted, "That clock has been permanently snoozed. I'm perfectly happy being Auntie Steph to your boys, my sister's kids, and a childless cat lady. Caring for Jessica Fletcher fulfills any maternal yearning I might have. I don't see that changing any time soon."
The other thing I'd done when returning from New Jersey was visit the local pet rescue and adopt the most adorable old lady cat. She was a light orange longhair and nearly as nosey as I was. There wasn't a square inch in my apartment she hadn't investigated. Each visitor had to be thoroughly vetted upon entry as well. I'd also get a thorough inspection any time I returned home, searching for any evidence I'd spent time around another animal. I'd started rewatching Murder She Wrote, a show I used to watch with Grandma Mazur growing up, and my new roommate instantly reminded me of the character played by Angela Lansbury. Jessica was not only a great roommate; she made me feel closer to Grandma. We'd Facetimed and texted regularly since I'd been back, and sheappeared to be doing well, but I was still worried.
Abigail changed the subject, "So what did Handsome, Handsome Nick have to say yesterday?" While Abigail and I were both using the counseling services at work, she was jealous that I got the additional benefit of eye candy during my weekly sessions while her therapist, Helene, reminded me of the nun at St. Anthony, Sister Saint Luke who taught my CCD class on Wednesday nights when I was in the third grade. It was a combination of the tightly permed brown curls, tortoiseshell glasses on a beaded chain, and the wardrobe of polyester clothing in a wide range of browns that evoked the feeling. Well, that and the impression Abigail got that made her feel like if she didn't stop feeling guilty and blaming herself for every issue or illness her children had, she was going to get rapped on the knuckles with a ruler.
I smiled, "Oh you know, he loves me desperately, I'm his favorite, and I'm winning at therapy." She just rolled her eyes at me, and I laughed. "Well fine, he's not madly in love with me, YET, but he didn't deny that I was his favorite and I made him laugh three times. I am so winning at therapy."
She just snorted and took a big bite of muffin while making the circular 'go on' motion with her hand. "I got a gold star on my Best Steph Ever Checklist."
When I'd returned after the holidays, I'd made an actual list of all the things I'd wanted to work on or do to build a life here.
Nick helped me sort the list into categories: Concrete and Abstract. The Concrete List included things like getting a pet, cooking for myself, and finding a hobby or craft, as well as goals he helped me create for myself as far as outings or efforts made to connect with or make friends, like dinner dates, movie nights, and shopping trips. I also put things on the list I'd already been doing last year, like going to the gym and the gun range regularly. While they weren't things I was adding to my life, he thought it was important to recognize things I'd already put in place to help boost my confidence. Plus, as soon as I wrote them down, I could cross them off, and I felt like I'd already accomplished something.
He also had me writing in a journal that I could choose to share with him or not, and I had. It seemed silly to go through the effort of writing it and then not using it to work on my issues. I also took the time after Christmas to make a Google slide show, complete with pictures and links to newspaper and online articles about some of the exploits of The Bombshell Bounty Hunter. While I wasn't interested in outing myself to the entire office, I felt like to work on and heal some of my open wounds, I needed to be honest about who I was and what I'd been through, so I could put it behind me to move on to who I wanted to be. The only two people who've seen it are Nick and Abigail. I'd told Kat some of my past, but not the whole, ugly truth. I didn't hate making it, seeing what I'd been through and survived was worth recognizing.
The other list, Abstract, was a little different. It was things you couldn't see, things that would require ongoing effort, like changing long ingrained habits, and altering the way I thought about, processed, and reacted to things that happened to me, both in my past, now, and in the future. That list was harder, progress was slower, and it would be a long time before I could cross anything off it. Rather than think of it like a checklist, Nick suggested more like progress monitoring, like a sliding scale or data chart, because while I was making progress on these goals, there had been some setbacks and I knew there would be more, and I was learning to be okay with it.
I knew Abigail wouldn't let it go until I gave her specifics. Neither of us was good at giving ourselves credit for the progress we made, so we made a deal to share some of what went on in our sessions as a way of celebrating each other's accomplishments. "Well, I did a little show and tell. I brought along the hat I'm crocheting for Mary Alice, the play food I made for Lisa, and the beaded bracelets I made for Angie." Finding a craft I'd been very successful at, maybe too successful, I went from not knowing how to make anything to now having several projects I was working on simultaneously. Once I'd figured out cross-stitching, other things looked less scary, and I'd pored through Pinterest and searched TikTok and Instagram for things that might interest me. I chose some simple things to start with. Crocheting looked easier than knitting, so I started with that. A local craft store had a woman about my mom's age who was super helpful at picking out the supplies for a simple starting project: dishcloths. While not glamorous, it was basic, quick, and almost instant gratification.
I'd watched tutorials, gone back to the store to ask Gladys a few questions, and even FaceTimed my mom a couple of times when I got stuck. I also found a few online groups that were helpful. I did learn that when you start to crochet, it's important to ask yourself if you know how to count, and then be prepared to deal with the answer being no. Sometimes I ripped out the stitches and started over, other times I just ignored it and kept going. Who cared if a dishcloth was wonky? That's not to say there weren't some disasters. When I moved on to hats, there was at least one project that was a tangled mess and went into the trash. It was partly my fault and partly Jessica Fletcher's. She'd been so infatuated with the ball of yarn that when I was out for brunch with friends one Sunday morning, I came back to find her all tangled up in it. Since then, she has her own small yarn stash to play with, and I've done a better job of keeping my projects stashed away.
Nick encouraged all of my new hobbies. He said studies had shown that crafting can help reduce stress and anxiety. I thought it was great because I didn't sit still very well. So, most nights I spent on the couch with my cat, watching TV and crafting. At first, I felt like a little old spinster, I'd gotten more comfortable with it, especially after I saw more and more people who were even younger than I am sharing their creations online. I wasn't quite that brave yet. Making things also helped with the sense of guilt I'd always felt for just vegging out when life became too much. That was something the women in my family just didn't do. This way, I could hang out on my couch and feel productive at the same time, which was a huge boost to my mood. The more I accomplished, the better I felt about myself.
Seeing through my diversion, Abigail pressed, "Did you tell him? About your feelings? Your 'Spidey Sense' tingling?"
When I said I told Abigail everything, I mean everything. By then end of January we'd been having lunch together every day, texting about office things and sending memes back and forth. Our departments didn't really work together, so our paths didn't naturally cross during the day. As I was getting ready to head home one Friday night, I checked my phone and realized I hadn't heard from her all afternoon, which was odd, especially since I sent her an absolutely hilarious Tiktok that could have been made specifically about her most annoying coworker and office nemesis, Kelli. I knew she had her first big meeting since being back from leave, so I stopped to check on her on my way out. Her door was locked, but I could hear muffled sounds that sounded like crying from the other side of the door. That worried me. Abigail was not a crier. Reaching into my work bag, I pulled out a little zippered pouch and utilized a skill Hector taught me. Picking the lock, I opened the door to the darkened office and found my friend curled up on the loveseat sobbing and hiccuping. Shutting and locking the door behind me, I sat with her, trying to channel my dad and Ranger, trying to remember the ways they comforted and calmed me. Not knowing any Italian or Spanish words that were appropriate, I just put my arms around her and rocked her until she eventually calmed enough to talk.
She was a wreck because it had been her first big meeting, a crisis control sort of thing, something she could handle in her sleep. But she'd been so keyed up about it that she'd forgotten to take the time to pump beforehand. Halfway through the meeting, she felt the familiar tingle of her milk letting down while sitting around the conference table with three men from the Mayor's office. She feigned a chill and grabbed her jacket to cover up the blouse that quickly became soaked. While the meeting had gone well, the stress of it all had been too much, and she'd been hiding in her office crying ever since. Not having much experience on this side of an emotional breakdown, I tried to make her feel better by sharing some of my crazy past, the funny ones to make her laugh. After that, she called her husband to pick up the boys and told him she was staying late. We ordered dinner and spent the evening laughing and crying as we shared our pasts, the good, the bad, and the ugly, solidifying our friendship. So she knew everything, growing up in the Burg, my disastrous marriage and divorce from the Dick, my twisted involvement with Joe, my life as a BEA, the Merry Men and Ranger. Of all the bit and pieces I'd told her about, it was my Spidey Sense that fascinated her the most, well that and wanting to know what Ranger looked like naked. She told me she was married, not dead, and her mommy hormones shared some characteristics with my jelly donut hormones.
"Yes, I told him. But I'm still no closer to figuring it out. I can't pinpoint it." She looked at me expectantly, waiting for more, "It's not like I'm in danger or have a stalker or anything, although I've gotten the feeling that someone is watching me, not all the time, but a few times when I've been out running errands or on my way home." I thought about it some more, "And it can't be about a case, like I found something hinky that I needed to look into, or a file on a guy that gave me the heebie-jeebies, because we just wrapped a case. Today, Adam and I are going through the list of possibles for our next case while Kat and Nick wrap up their paperwork on the Jack Henderson case."
She took in my explanation. "So what did HHN say about it?" It amazed me that my therapist wasn't skeptical at all when I explained the tingly feelings I would get when I felt things weren't quite right. I figured being a mental health professional, he would chalk it up to anxiety.
"He said to pay closer attention to things, and be more aware, that I needed to trust my feelings. He sounded just like…" I trailed off as thoughts of Ranger believing in me and the memories of the endless number of times he said nearly those exact words. Pushing away the thoughts for the moment, I continued, "He said they're most likely tied to something making me uncomfortable; unconsciously my brain reacts by sending out the tingles. He said my mind has picked up on minute things being different, but not enough that I consciously recognized yet. Once the little things pile up, I'll be able to recognize what it is that's setting it off. He thought it's what other people play up as premonitions and something coming." After he said that, I had tingles and anxiety.
Abigail nodded. "That makes sense." She fake swooned, "Wow, he's gorgeous, sensitive, and smart. He's the whole package." She had the same dreamy look on her face that Mary Lou got whenever I mentioned one of the Merry Men. It was probably a good thing I didn't want to have children; my Hungarian hormones combined with new mommy hormones could be dangerous.
"Yeah." My dreamy look mirrored hers. "His wife thinks so too. And his three kids think he's pretty great as well." Nick had family photos in his office. He didn't offer much information since we were there to talk about me, but I knew he had two teenage boys from his first marriage and a little girl in kindergarten with his second wife. From a comment he made once, it sounded like maybe the divorce hadn't been great, something about knowing what it was like to not making good decisions when it came to people we loved.
She sighed, "Yeah, all the good ones are taken." When I gave her a look, she conceded, "And I'm very lucky, Tim's one of the best men I know." But she grinned. "But he doesn't fill out a pair of dress pants the same way Handsome Handsome Nick does." I nodded in agreement; he had a great ass. Her husband Tim was great and reminded me of Mary Lou's husband, Lenny. Both men were committed, loved their wives and children and while they weren't the best at picking up on their wives' moods or hints, they tried.
I crumpled up the bakery bag and stood, grabbing my coffee to finish at my desk while I looked over files. As I dropped the bag in the garbage, Abigail informed me, "We're having lunch in here today, I need to pump before my afternoon meeting, and you're not done telling me about your appointment. I need to know what HHN said about your sex dreams. You told him about your nightly, crazy Ranger sex dreams, didn't you?" I nodded and headed toward the door. I should have known she'd remember. The dreams were vivid, sensual, and felt so real that several times I'd actually woken up with labored breath, bed sheets ablaze, screaming his name. They were part memory, part fantasy, my mind recalling things we never did. He still possessed my body and soul as if he'd written mine on my upper thigh. As much as I tried to keep these longings locked inside a vault, they consumed me. Once, he'd called me his woman, and he'd yet to relinquish ownership.
As I walked out the door she added, "And don't think I didn't notice you avoided saying his name earlier. Like Nick said, the more you try and pretend you're not still thinking about The Man in Black, the more your brain is going to force the issue with crazier and more intense dreams." I knew she was right, but I kind of liked the sex dreams.