Chapter 12. The Offer
Sleep evaded him again last night, as it has for the past few weeks. And when he arose in the morning, Olivia was still on his mind. Now, standing at the kitchen counter, filling his mug with coffee, he yawns. His wife yawns, too. She didn't sleep well last night either.
"Fitz, did you hear me?" Mellie asks with a hint of irritation in her voice. He turns his head and stares at her with a blank expression on his face.
"Excuse me?"
"Are you all right? Is something going on at headquarters?" Mellie asks tiredly as she scrambles his usual three eggs with extra cheese in the frying pan.
"What makes you ask that?" oblivious that his tossing and turning is cheating his wife out of sleep.
"You've been restless lately. I scarcely slept at all last night."
"I'm fine," he says flatly, turning back to the steamy mug of coffee. He stirs in the sugar.
"Dad, can you come to my play rehearsal tonight?" Karen asks, her nose almost pressed to her phone.
"Where's Jerry?" Fitz asks, leaning back against the counter.
"He got a ride to school with Nathan," Mellie says.
"Dad. Rehearsal. Tonight?" Karen repeats in her teenager's shorthand language.
"I have a meeting this evening, sweetheart. Can I come another day?" Mellie looks over at her husband thinking he hasn't worked late since the protests ended.
"Rehearsals are on Wednesdays," Karen says, still focused on her phone screen.
"I'll come next Wednesday," he says, placing a kiss on the top of his daughter's head. He then sits down at the table next to her.
"The play is July fifteenth— a Wednesday. One month before my birthday. Put it in your phone, Dad."
"You mean you have a birthday coming up? I didn't know," he says playfully.
"You're such a prankster, Dad," Karen says, elbowing his arm as he brings the mug to his lips.
The hot coffee splatters down the front of his crisp white shirt. He jumps to his feet. Karen jumps up, too, with a stricken look on her face.
"Fuck!" he exclaims.
"I'm really sorry, Dad," Karen says, her eyes wide with horror. Mellie quickly intercedes.
"Karen, go upstairs and finish getting ready for school. Fitz, change your shirt. Clean ones are hanging in the closet. I'll take care of that one."
Fitz sighs in frustration and then stomps from the kitchen.
XXX
"Fitz!" Mike booms cheerfully. "Hey, you look like crap this morning."
"Thanks, Mike," Fitz says, trying not to sound annoyed.
"You look like you could use a cup of that gasoline they pass off as coffee in the cafeteria. How about it, buddy?" Mike says, slapping Fitz on the back.
"Sure. Why not?" Fitz says.
"Is something wrong?" Mike asks as he dumps another one of those little cups of creamer into his coffee. He's now up to five.
"I haven't been sleeping well lately," Fitz admits, staring down into his black coffee.
"I understand. It was weeks ago, but that Nikola business and the shooting took a lot out of all of us. You better try to find a way to get some sleep. Keegan wants the gun violence numbers down before the election. Lots of overtime coming our way," Mike says in a singsong voice.
Fitz nods his head. He is not interested in talking about BPD business this morning.
"We confiscated a lot of fire power from those protesters," Mike continues. "The bad guys have bigger and more powerful weapons than us."
"The people we took those weapons from weren't protesters," Fitz says. "They were agitators. They came here to disrupt and destroy property."
"Nonetheless, these days we are outgunned by the criminals. Something has to be done about all the damn illegal guns. There are too many on the streets."
"That's a political argument," Fitz manages to eke out.
"I'm all for gun ownership— hell, I have a few of my own. I'm sure you do, too. But there have to be some controls. Kids shooting up schools with assault rifles…. Gangs with ghost guns…. It's all gotten out of control. It might be time for me to retire."
"Retire? You?" Fitz says, perking up a bit.
"You look like Olivia when I mentioned retiring to her."
"You talked to Olivia about retiring?" Fitz says, surprise filling his voice.
"She's easy to talk to. I haven't said a word to Patti yet. She gets all anxious about change. I've gone as high as I'm gonna go in this department. It might be time to do something different."
"What would you do?" Fitz asks. Intrigued.
"Well, I don't have all those fancy degrees like you, but I always wanted to be a storm chaser."
"Really? I never knew that about you."
"Grown men don't go around talking about their childhood dreams. I loved all that weather crap as a kid. I couldn't wait for the weather segment of the news to come on. I'd sit on the floor watching the weatherman report on storms. They weren't called meteorologists on TV back then. There would always be a few crazy guys in the middle of it all, chasing storms: hurricanes, tornadoes, blizzards, anything. I wish we had The Weather Channel back then," Mike says wistfully.
"Isn't storm chasing dangerous?" Fitz asks.
"No more dangerous than policing," Mike scoffs.
"Why didn't you pursue your dream? What happened?"
"The same thing that happens to all dreams. I woke up." Fitz nods his head with understanding.
"I've lived my whole life according to certain principles— other people's principles. It might be time that I do something for me."
The two men sit with their private thoughts. After a few long moments of silence, Mike waves a big beefy hand in the air and says, "Hell, maybe I'm just having a midlife crisis."
"Don't diminish your feelings, Mike. There's still time to pursue your dreams," Fitz says.
"Listen to you sounding like one of those New Age gurus." Mike laughs too loud. Like many men, he uses humor to deflect attention away from his emotions. Fitz knows when to move on.
"Has Dr. Pope resumed your interviews?" Fitz says. "Everything came to a halt after the protests started."
"It's funny you should ask. I got a text from her yesterday. She wanted to know when we could meet. Of course, I said anytime," Mike grins lasciviously. "How about you?"
"Nothing since before the protests," Fitz says, bringing the cup of coffee to his lips.
"I guess she was giving us a break until the city got back to normal. I'm sure she'll get around to you."
"It's odd that she can stay away from her family and significant other for such a long time," Fitz says, gently probing for information about Olivia.
"I didn't get the impression that she's involved with anyone. What a waste," Mike adds quickly. "I envy the fella who finally snags her."
"You two talk about things like that?" Fitz asks.
"Not really. She's pretty private when it comes to her personal life. Hey, we're cops. We know how to find out things."
Fitz forces a small smile.
"She has a best friend named Abby— she's a lawyer— I believe. She's the one who called Olivia when the pipes in her home burst."
Fitz nods his head.
"She never talks about her family though— except once," Mike adds. Fitz stares at Mike with interest. "Her father was a minister. Baptist. Had one of the largest churches in New York City. He apparently was friends with Reverend Norcross— hence the connection. I teased her once about being a PK. She didn't like it too much."
"PK?" Fitz says with furrowed brow.
"Preacher's Kid. God, you only know about Catholics," Mike chuckles again.
"She must be pretty religious, huh?" Fitz says.
"I didn't get that impression. Some PKs have it rough growing up."
"How so?"
"The pressure of always being watched, judged, or having to be perfect. Some rebel when they get older. Get wild."
"How do you know so much about the topic?" Fitz asks.
"The first person I patrolled with when I graduated from the academy was a PK. Don Wilson. He had nothing good to say about his pastor-father or the church. He couldn't wait to graduate from high school and get from under his father's holier-than-thou thumb. He got into a lot of trouble before joining the department."
"What happened to him?"
"Last I heard he was doing fine. Got married. Moved to Portland— Oregon. I think he joined the US Marshals. I don't like to stereotype, but I wonder if that's why Olivia is so driven professionally—and single. Women like Olivia don't need a man."
"What do you mean?" Fitz asks with a puzzled look on his face.
"God, you have been married far too long," Mike says. "Modern professional women like Olivia don't need a man to take care of them, to buy them things, to fix stuff for them. They can do all that crap for themselves. They're leaders in their professions. So, in a romantic relationship they want a man who can take control. Someone who's bold, confident, yet tender. They have no use for us dinosaurs. I guess it's a good thing we got married when we did."
"You also seem to know a lot about modern women," Fitz teases.
"I know a little about a lot of things," Mike laughs. "Patti has stacks of those women's magazines on her nightstand. I peek through them every now and then."
Fitz glances down at his watch. He's starting to feel uncomfortable discussing Olivia.
"I gotta get back upstairs. Take care, Mike."
"You, too. Try to get some sleep, Fitz."
XXX
Later, on the warm June afternoon, Fitz stands at his office window watching the children frolick in the park's splash pad. After listening to Mike talk about modern women, old fears creep in. He reaches into his pants pocket and pulls out a tin of Altoid mints. He pops two into his mouth. He begins to question his plan. He spent a week mentally drafting his argument. He logically listed all the points he wants to cover, analyzed every possible answer, and formulated responses to each answer. Every pause, every movement is calculated. He left no room for error. It's a technically and structurally sound argument.
XXX
Wearing a silk rose-colored camisole and shorts set, Olivia sits cross-legged on the little sofa reviewing the notes from her meeting with Kyree Turner's mother. Sad. The air blowing through the air-conditioner vents gives her little relief from the June heat. She frowns at the sound of the light knock on the door. She wonders what Mrs. Shoffener wants. She sets the glass of wine down on the coffee table and walks over to the door. Her eyes are the size of saucers when she swings the door open and sees Fitz standing on the other side. He flashes a lop-sided smile. She closes the door to barely a crack.
"What are you doing here? How did you get up here?" she says, peeking from behind the door.
"You should use your peephole. You won't be surprised every time you open the door," he says.
"Why are you here? What do you want?"
"I have an update on the day you got caught in the protests."
"You could've sent a text."
"That wouldn't be any fun," he says playfully, masking his nervousness. "May I come in?"
"I wasn't expecting company."
"You can get your robe. I'll wait," he says. She hesitates a moment then sighs heavily.
"Wait there," she says, pointing to the hallway. She closes the door in his face, and he wipes his sweating palms on the legs of his pants.
Olivia scurries into the bedroom, strips from the pajamas and quickly pulls on a pair of yoga pants and a colorful Metropolitan Museum of Art tee shirt. She hurries back. She opens the door and steps back so he can enter the apartment. She looks him up and down. He's not in uniform. He's wearing a tight-fitting, short-sleeved, navy-blue, tee shirt that accentuates his broad chest and muscled biceps. His pants are black like his shoes. No one would guess that he is in law enforcement.
Fitz glances around the compact space. She's working. Her laptop is open on the coffee table and papers are scattered over the sofa. A half-empty glass of red wine is next to the laptop. She frowns when he brazenly sits down on the sofa and crosses his long legs. She quickly gathers up the papers and sets them on the countertop.
"I like that song," he says, "what's it called?" She turns off the speaker.
"You wanted to share some information with me?"
"Yes. Have a seat," he says, patting the not-so firm sofa cushion. She folds her arms across her chest and glares at him.
"I've identified the police officer who frightened you."
"He did more than frighten me," she retorts. "He threatened to blow my head off."
Fitz sighs softly and nods his head, silently acknowledging her version of the event.
"His name is Officer Brendan McDevitt." He pauses for a moment, waiting for her reaction. The expression on her face says she doesn't remember their conversation about the young officer. "He was in the academy's last graduating class. I interviewed him first," he says, nudging her memory.
"Ahh," she says. "Your look-alike. The younger version of yourself. Isn't that how you described him?"
"If I hadn't seen the video with my own eyes, I would never have believed that Brendan could do such a thing." He shakes his head in disbelief.
"You see what you want to see," she says quietly.
"What does that mean?"
"You've had a soft spot for Brendan from the beginning," she says, sitting down on the sofa. She nestles against the armrest and tucks a bended leg under her. "After one meeting you decided that he had a great future ahead of him. Some future," she says mockingly.
Fitz is quiet for a long while, as if in deep thought. Finally, he says, "Brendan said he wanted to serve the community. He wanted people to feel safe. I don't understand what happened to him," he adds.
"Don't act like you don't know what's going on here. You of all people know that BPD is where thugs and wannabe gunslingers go to legally brutalize citizens and exercise their trigger-happy fingers."
His chin drops to his chest. Her underlying message is clear. She's talking about his brother— about his family. He stares at the multicolored striped rug under the coffee table for a while.
"I can't change what others have done, Olivia," he says somberly. She shrugs her shoulder slightly and reaches for the throw pillow.
"But you can affect the future of the department."
He looks over at her and says, "You don't understand."
"Don't you dare tell me about the brothers in blue code."
"It's not easy for a rookie— or any other cop— to go up against fellow officers, Olivia." He thinks about his early years on the force.
"You're still defending him— minimizing his actions. Un-believable."
"I'm not. Brendan is being disciplined. He's on administrative duty for now. Hopefully, with additional training and time to think about his actions, he'll perform his job better."
Olivia scoffs, shaking her head in disbelief.
"What?"
"You've been a part of that system for so long, you can't even hear the ridiculousness of that statement. How many innocent citizens have to suffer while Brendan learns how not to blow their heads off. Regardless of what you want to believe, Officer McDevitt is just another overzealous bully with a badge and a gun. You didn't see the expression on his face that day. He was so hyped with the power over life and death he could hardly contain himself."
"I'm sorry," he says earnestly. This is not how he wanted things to go with them tonight. Olivia doesn't relent.
"And what about the police officer that shot Kyree Turner? Does he get a slap on the wrist, too?"
"Commissioner Freeley put him on a thirty-day with an intent to fire. The district attorney is charging him with attempted murder."
"Yay. Justice for Kyree," she says.
"Yes, justice for Kyree," he says, staring softly at her.
They sit in uncomfortable silence for a few minutes and then Olivia stands from the sofa and walks over to the door. "Thank you for stopping by with the update, Superintendent Grant," she says. Fitz stays seated.
"There is one more thing," he says, glancing over at her.
"Oh?" she says, her forehead creased with confusion.
In the moment, the well-constructed argument he spent days crafting, jumbles in the back of his throat. He can't seem to find the words he wants to express. Olivia stares at him, wondering if something is wrong. She hopes he isn't having a stroke. He sees the confused look in her eyes and he knows he has to act fast. He must be courageous. Bold. He blinks his eyes a few times, clears his throat, and then slowly begins his opening statement.
"I didn't sleep well last night," he says. She gives him a why-are-you-telling-me look. "Actually, I haven't slept well in weeks. I don't want to play games with you anymore, Olivia."
"What are you talking about?" she says, her hand falling from the doorknob. He stands from the sofa and walks over to her. In her bare feet, their height difference is stark.
"I need to be candid— something I haven't been with you in a while. I told you that night how I feel about you— nothing has changed, Olivia. Pretending I'm not attracted to you won't stop the feelings."
"I told you, Superintendent, that wasn't going to happen again," she snaps as she sidesteps him.
"Just hear me out," he says quickly. She turns around and glares at him impatiently. "I'm not a foolhardy man or an impulsive man. I've thought about this very carefully."
"Thought about what?" she says with a crinkled brow. He takes two short steps and is standing in front of her.
"One, I think you like me as much as I like you." She opens her mouth to protest but he holds up a hand to halt her words. "Let me finish," he says. She reluctantly holds her tongue. "Two, you obviously enjoy having sex and I enjoy having sex with you. Three, I know my performance was more than satisfactory. I'm not being boastful— just factual." He hesitates a moment and then continues. "You will be in Boston for five more months— I offer myself to you— whenever you want me— for however long you want me."
Her eyes stretch wide. Shock, disgust, then anger cloud her lovely features. He needs to act quickly.
"You call all the shots. Everything will be on your terms."
"Are you saying what I think you're saying? Are you drunk? On drugs? How could you suggest such a thing?"
"I haven't had a drink tonight and I've never used narcotics in my life," he says flatly.
"Oh my God. Oh my God. Something's wrong with you," she exclaims, now pacing around the room. "Why on earth —?"
"It's a perfect solution to our problem."
"I don't have a problem. You're the one with the problem. Leave!"
"I know it's a lot to process— "
"You want me to be your whore because I slept with you one time?"
"No, no, no. Of course not. Please don't think that."
"What should I think?"
"I'm cognizant what I am suggesting is— unconventional. But— "
"Leave!" She storms over to the door.
His logical reasoning might have worked in a courtroom, but it's not working on Olivia. He needs to change his approach. With a healthy serving of honesty topped with a dollop of guile, he smoothly shifts tactics. He speaks from his heart.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you— insult you. I never want to do that," he says glumly. "To the world you're a brilliant, talented, accomplished author. I'm not flattering you, it's the truth."
With arms folded across her chest, Olivia glares at him icily.
"To me, you're more than your resume. You're beautiful. You're alluring without even trying. There's this intense energy that radiates from you and I'm hopelessly drawn to it. What I feel for you, I—I don't have words for it yet, but it keeps me up at night. You keep me up at night, Olivia."
"The word is lust. You should go." She reaches for the doorknob and he begins his closing argument.
"One day someone comes into your life and suddenly everything changes. You wake up. You start to see the world differently— in bright colors. You start to care that you're wasting your life— living it all wrong."
He steps towards her, stopping short of reaching out and touching her arm.
"This time in history will never repeat itself. We will never be at this place again. You said there are consequences to not pursuing dreams. That unfilled dreams can lead to apathy and hopelessness. We have a chance— "
"That's not what the poem means," she interjects in a clipped tone.
"It does! That's exactly what it means!" he exclaims emphatically. "The poet teaches us that life is short. That we must grab the brass ring when we have the chance. That we shouldn't live a life of regrets."
She stares at him without batting an eyelash, listening to his impassioned interpretation of the poem. The energy in the room shifts.
"A life of regrets is not a life at all. A life of regrets distorts the soul… damages the personality."
She is impressed by his eloquence and the ease in which he quotes parts of Dr. King's Letter from a Birmingham Prison. Maybe there's more depth to him than she realized.
Fitz ends his closing statement.
"The circumstances aren't ideal. I know that. But once-in-a-lifetime opportunities don't happen at the perfect time, Olivia. They happen when they're supposed to happen."
He walks over to the door, stops, then looks back at her and says, "I am a patient man, Olivia. Let me know what you decide. Goodnight."
Olivia expels a loud groan of frustration when the door closes behind him. She can't believe what just happened. Not in two lifetimes would she have imagined that him, of all people, would present such an outrageous offer to her. She refills her glass with wine, sits down on the sofa, and calls Abby.
XXX
Olivia called her best friend several times last night after Fitz left, but all her calls went directly to voicemail. The next morning, with her Manolo Blahnik heels clickety-clacking against the marble-tiled floor, Abby finally answers her phone as she hurries down the hallway of the Justice Center toward Courtroom 365.
"Where on earth have you been? I've been calling you all night. When need to talk," Olivia says in a hurried whisper.
"Good morning to you, too, Olivia. Girls' night is tomorrow," Abby says calmly.
"This can't wait until tomorrow. We need to talk. Now!"
"No can do. I'm getting ready to walk into the courtroom. Now! We'll catch up tomorrow," Abby adds quickly.
"Don't you step one foot into that courtroom until you promise to call me as soon as you're done. This is urgent, Abby."
"Liv— "
"Urgent, Abby. Call me the minute that court is over."
"All right. All right," Abby says with a heavy sigh.
Judge Klenkhofter shoots Abby a warning look when she enters the courtroom with the phone pressed against her ear. He's notorious for fining people for talking on their phones in his courtroom. She flashes the judge an apologetic smile and drops the phone into her purse.
XXX
A few hours later, after court recessed for lunch, Abby sits on a bench in the hallway of the Justice Center where she wolfed down a tuna salad sandwich and diet cola. She frowns as she tries to scrub the smell of fish from her hands with a dry paper napkin. She regrets eating a fish sandwich for lunch, but she didn't have time to go to a decent restaurant. She pulls a bottle of hand sanitizer, a pack of breath mints, and a tube of lipstick and mirror from her purse. Then she calls Olivia. Cradling the phone between her neck and shoulder, she squirts sanitizer into one hand.
"I've got fifteen minutes. What's up?" Abby says, rubbing her hands together.
"Fitz made me an offer last night," Olivia whispers hurriedly from behind closed doors in her office at BPD.
"Why are you whispering? I can hardly hear you," Abby says with a frown.
"Fitz made me an offer last night," Olivia repeats just above a whisper.
"You didn't tell me that you were still seeing that married man," Abby says. She brings her hands to her nose and sniffs.
"I'm not. He stopped by my place last night— unannounced. He wanted to give me some information."
"So, what's the offer?" Abby asks, staring at her reflection in the mirror as she applies the Peek-a-Boo lipstick from Laura Mercier's nude collection. She smacks her lips together twice then drops the tube of lipstick and mirror back into her purse. She pops a mint into her mouth.
"He wants us to make an agreement— an s-e-x agreement," Olivia whispers again.
"What?" Abby shrieks, almost choking on the mint. She looks left then right, hoping her colleagues, especially that fat fuck defense attorney, Riley Taylor, didn't hear her.
"I know. It's insane. Right?" Olivia says in her normal voice. "He volunteered to be my lover for the rest of my stay in Boston."
"He's a crazy man. Stay away from him, Liv." Olivia stays silent. "Liv, please tell me you're not actually considering such an idiotic proposal."
"He said it would be on my terms. I would call all the shots."
"Him saying that, is evidence you won't be controlling anything. He's sly, Liv. Isn't he a lawyer?"
"You said lawyers can't lie."
"One, he's a man first. They lie all the time. They can't help themselves. Two, he's not acting as an officer of the court, he's trying to get into your panties. Again! Three, lawyers engage in trickery all the time. He'll let you think that you're in control of this ridiculous arrangement, but he'll be the real puppet master."
"I resent being referred to as a wooden, brainless doll," Olivia says.
"That's my point. You're too smart to fall for such nonsense."
"He's much brighter than I gave him credit for. He had this whole legal-like argument ready. It's a good plan. He keeps surprising me."
"That's because he's a slick weasel."
"It could be…kind of…fun," Olivia says, reclining in her chair.
"Please tell me you didn't agree to it."
"Of course, not. He just asked last night. Do you take me for a wanton woman? I'll let him squirm a while longer," Olivia says, twirling her hair around her index finger.
"Don't do it, Liv."
"It's just five months, Abby."
"You said you weren't going to sleep with him again. Now you're going to have an affair with him. Make it make sense!"
"It won't be an affair. It'll be an arrangement. Transactional," Olivia clarifies.
"Earth to Liv. The man is married. He has kids. Two."
"That's his business, not mine."
"Find out where the eligible single men in that city hang out and run there. Don't walk."
"I'm not a slut, Abby. I can't jump from one man to the next."
"You're playing a dangerous game, Liv."
"I just want to have a little fun while I'm here. I work all the time," she whines.
"I thought therapy helped you to get over your PK and mommy issues," Abby says, not caring that she just crossed the line with her friend. The topic of Olivia's parents is always off limits.
"If you respect our friendship, you'll not bring up my parents again," Olivia says sternly, which usually means that part of their conversation is over.
"It can get messy. Emotions can get involved," Abby warns. Olivia rolls her eyes at the clucking mother hen.
"You worry too much. Besides, I'll be back home in a New York minute." Olivia cracks up at the old saying. This time Abby rolls her eyes.
"So, you're going to be his plaything?"
"No. He's going to be my plaything— a serviceman really. No different than the electrician or plumber I would call to fix my flickering lights or leaking toilet."
"Why the heck did you call me if you've already made up your mind?" Abby growls as she squirts more sanitizer in her hand.
"Knock 'em dead in court, Abigail. Good-bye."
XXX
Indeed, Fitz did squirm. It's been a week since he made his offer to Olivia, and she has not given him an answer. As he stares at his computer screen, he thinks, maybe she won't bother to respond. Maybe she thinks the idea is too ludicrous to warrant further discussion.
Later that morning, as he makes his way back to his office from the bathroom, Fitz spots Olivia walking down the hallway of the West Tower with Edison. As usual, Edison is yakking incessantly. Olivia laughs at whatever Edison is saying. Fitz' face flush crimson red when Edison reaches out and touches Olivia's shoulder before he steps inside the elevator. When the elevator doors close, Fitz casually strolls over to her. Her eyes dart furtively around the hallway, checking for passersby. In low voices, they quickly set a meeting place. Fitz smiles hopefully.
He got to the park early and angled himself on the bench so he can watch her walk toward him. He likes how she walks, as if she owns the world.
Separated by her oversized tote bag, they sit a wide distance away from each other on the bench. Fitz now looks straight ahead, watching the children laugh hysterically when they slip and fall on the cushioned splash pad. Pigeons congregate in front of them, cooing for a treat. Olivia shoos them away with the toe of her four-inch Jimmy Choo pumps. She pulls out a yellow legal notepad and ink pen from the bag. With ink pen poised over the notepad, she cocks her head to the side and stares at his profile. She wonders what kind of man he really is. What kind of husband he is. What kind of father he is. He certainly is different from the stoic man she interviewed in his office months ago.
"Why are you doing this? You can make this arrangement with any number of women. Why me?" she whispers.
"I'm not interested in other women," he says flatly, not taking his eyes off the children.
"You're married," she whispers again. He turns to face her, his azure-blue eyes bore into hers.
"A woman feels what she feels — so does a man. We have to try to live with the choices we've made."
"Won't it be a problem?"
"Let me worry about my marriage. Have you decided?"
"I'm not saying that I'm agreeing to anything, but what would that kind of arrangement look like?"
"You decide," he says comfortably. She thinks about what Abby said.
"There would have to be rules."
"Shall I draw up a contract? I'm a trained lawyer you know," he says, flashing a perfect set of white teeth.
"Are you making fun of me?" she snipes with annoyance. He studies her face. She is beautiful to him.
"Never. If we can't reach an agreement, maybe we can reach an understanding," he says.
"If we can't reach either?" she says.
"Then we've only lost time."
"Have you ever done anything like this?" she asks.
"No," he says.
"Me either," she says with a nervous smile.
"You can set a trial period— put me on probation— if you like. But I think I've already proven my value." Olivia sneers at him, stands, and gathers her things from the bench. She shoos the annoying birds again.
"Come to my apartment on Thursday— seven o' clock," she says before walking away.
"Olivia," he calls after her. "I may not be the one you want, but I know I'm the one you need."
She stares at him with creased brow, wondering what he means. As she disappears down the path, Fitz stretches his arms across the back of the bench. He turns his face skyward, thinking he can't remember ever seeing the sky so blue.
XXX
It's finally Thursday. Feeling encouraged— excited actually, Fitz sits on the small sofa impatiently waiting for Olivia to come out of the bedroom. She's been in there for a while. He wonders what she is doing. He glances around the room thinking it's unusual for music not to be playing softly in the background. For a candle not to be burning and saturating the air with a sweet aroma. For a half-empty bottle of wine not to be on the countertop next to the speaker. He eyes the two black folders that are carefully placed on the coffee table, then reaches into his pants pocket for a handkerchief. He dabs his brow.
A few minutes later, Olivia finally graces him with her presence. She's dressed in a peach-colored, sleeveless top and white pants. Her hair is pulled up in a bun on the top of her head. Her face glistens with a sheen of sweat. Fitz flashes her a smile when she sits down on the sofa.
"I know it's a little warm in here, but the air conditioner isn't working properly," she says. "I was trying to get some air flowing."
"Do you want me to take a look at it?" Fitz asks.
"No, no," she says with a wave of her hand. "It's old—probably one of the first ever built," she chuckles nervously. "I'll speak to Mrs. Shoffener about it tomorrow. Are you ready to get started?"
He nods his head.
"I've decided that we can try— at least for a while — what you suggested," she says, flexing her authoritarian muscles out of the gate.
"Okay," he says, stifling a victory smile.
"I took the liberty of drafting an agreement. Feel free to make amendments." She hands him one of the black folders. He hefts the folder in one hand.
"You're thorough," he says.
"I am," she replies.
Fitz opens his folder and reads the document title: Terms of Arrangement. He scans the first paragraph.
"You should've been a lawyer."
"I know enough lawyers," she replies. "The agreement covers the act of intercourse only— nothing more," she says firmly.
"I expect we'll do more than have sex," he says with a self-assured smile. She stares at him pointedly.
"Let's be clear, this is not a real relationship. It's a business arrangement. Transactional. Not unlike how traditional businesses exchange services. No emotions. No expectations. No strings attached. Can you be good with that?"
"Yes," he says hastily. At this point, he'll take whatever he can get.
"We'll have to be discreet— for both our sakes. No one at BPD can ever know," she says with eyes stretched wide.
"Of course," he says, nodding his head as he flips to the next page.
"Obviously, we will meet here," she continues. "Hopefully, the AC will be fixed by then."
"Okay."
"If this is going to work, we must be considerate and kind to each other. You must call or text before coming here. You can't just show up."
"Okay."
"We won't talk about our families— yours or mine."
"Okay."
"Do you have anything to say other than okay?" she says, growing annoyed with his one-word answers.
"Where do I sign?"
"You finished reading it already?" her voice is filled with surprise. The document is ten pages long.
"You're an excellent writer," he says, dodging the question.
"I've also created a schedule," she continues.
"A schedule?" he says, now staring at her with raised eyebrows.
"Are you going to repeat everything that I say?"
"I'm just trying to understand your train of thought."
"To ensure that both of our physical needs are equally met, I've made a schedule."
"You mean a sex schedule?" thinking he already has one of those with his wife.
"We need to fill in the table on page 9," she says. Fitz flips to page 9 of his copy, thinking she's making this unnecessarily complicated.
"There are five days in the week— "
"Seven. There are seven days in the week," he corrects her.
"I'm not counting the weekends. We each get to select one night on alternating weeks. Two nights each a month. A total of four encounters a month. What days do you want?"
"I can do any day except Wednesdays," he says.
"Fine. You can have Mondays and Fridays and I'll take Tuesdays and Thursdays."
"I'll take the first week," he says eagerly. "This coming Monday."
"Then I'll take week 2. Tuesday. Which means you have week 3."
"Friday," he says.
"That means I have week 4. Thursday. The unexpected always happens. So, if one of us cannot make our appointed day, we must give a two-hour cancellation notice."
"Okay," he says, trying to keep a straight face, wondering if she charges a cancellation fee.
Olivia stares at the page with a look of satisfaction on her face. The schedule is set. She tilts her head and looks over at him. She asks if he wants to add anything else. Fitz takes the ink pen from her hand and scribbles an amendment on page 10.
"That's better," he says, handing the ink pen back to her.
"Your handwriting is terrible. What does it say?" He reads the first sentence of his amendment.
"Pacta sunt servanda is Latin. It means the contract is legally binding. We should celebrate," he says, slapping his knees.
He stands from the sofa, walks across the room, and lifts the unopened bottle of wine from the countertop. He frowns as he reads the label.
"Do you have anything stronger than wine?"
"No," she says, carefully arranging the pages of the agreement back into his folder.
"Then I'm leaving. I'll see you on Monday. My night. Eight o' clock sharp." He says cheerfully before turning to leave.
"Wait! So, when are you getting tested?"
The question stops him cold in his tracks. His mind is racing. Olivia knows that he didn't read the document. He whipped through those pages too fast. The deer-in-the-headlight expression on his face confirms it.
"What?" he says. Grimacing.
"It's on page 5, Fitz. Under the section called STIs and Protection."
He stomps back over to the coffee table, snatches up his folder, and quickly thumbs to page 5. This time he reads it. The blood drains from his face. Sweat pools above his top lip.
"May I have some water, please?" he says in a lower-than-usual voice.
"Of course," she says.
Olivia pulls a bottle of water from the small refrigerator and hands it to him. He unscrews the cap and takes a long gulp. He hesitates a moment to regain his composure.
"Olivia, I'm clean. Tests won't be necessary," he says with an air of contrived bravado. He tosses the folder back onto the table.
"That might be true, but is your wife clean?"
The gut punch knocks him off balance. It's been years since he's wondered if Mellie might be having an affair.
"Olivia …"
"Non-compliance is a dealbreaker for me. It's all on page 5, Fitz."
He huffs, thinking he will punch something if she says page 5 again.
"We can't possibly start without your test results." She doesn't bat an eyelash, and he knows the whole question of testing is settled.
"Fine. Fine. I'll get tested if it'll make you happy," he says grumpily.
"Knowing protects everyone," Olivia says in her Sex Education teacher's voice.
"I have to go," Fitz says dejectedly as he stomps toward the door.
"You forgot your copy. Maybe you missed something else," she says, holding the folder out to him.
"I don't need it," he mumbles.
"I put my test results inside for you."
"Good night, Olivia."
When the door closes, Olivia breaks out in laughter, thinking, I'm nobody's puppet.
Standing on the other side of the door, Fitz pinches the bridge of his nose. He's wondering how the hell he's going to explain to Dr. McMichaels that he needs to be tested for Sexually Transmitted Infections.
Fuck!