maria

You didn't have the habit of snoring, but your father did, and that's exactly how he used to wake up from lazy naps on hot days, blinking heavily a few times as if he were getting his bearings. Apnea. But with you it wasn't that, no. When the feeling of nausea overwhelmed you, your mouth suddenly filling with water, you knew it was a hangover. A terrible one.

The room was yours. That, too, was familiar. And you only glanced half-heartedly through the darkness behind your thick curtain that obscured the entire room in near-darkness, rushing to the en-suite bathroom and throwing up everything in the toilet. You stayed there for about five or ten minutes, but only vomited once. You used the rest of the time to soothe your parched throat and the little sweat that was running down the back of your neck, until you decided to close the lid and flush, still sitting down, and stayed like that for a while longer, your eyes closed while you felt the cold of the bathroom floor.

You began to gather the details of your physical condition. Your body ached everywhere, but there weren't many signs of injury. You had a burning elbow, saved only by a very shoddy bandage, and looking up a little you saw that your first-aid kit was still open on the sink, bandages and plasters scattered haphazardly. Your clothes were the same as the night before. Except for one of the nipple covers that had come off, your chest was covered, the fabric of your t-shirt was disheveled, and there was a rather strange stain that smelled like vomit on your pants. Barefoot. Hair? A disgrace. 

How did you get home? It wasn't by Uber. And you were barely out of it, because you remembered almost nothing and were sure you wouldn't be prudent enough to bandage yourself in the middle of the night.

Huh. You should get your thing with alcohol checked out. 

Yeah, I think we can agree that you have a conflicted relationship with alcohol.

You jumped in your seat and bumped your head on something as you stood up, completely groggy, and went back to your room. The abruptness with which you saw the empty bed startled you while simultaneously comforting you, but recalling your current state only made you realize that perhaps the events you didn't remember had led to worse moments, prompting you to this point. 

You heard the sound of dishes being washed in the background. Could it be your father? No, definitely not. He wouldn't call him for that.

Or would he? You could very well have asked him and–

You rushed out of the room and walked to the kitchen, forgetting the spatial context that you weren't in your old house and didn't need to walk so far to reach the other room. You were overcome by a forced pause when you realized this, and blinked a few times against the morning light to see if anything was different. Nothing smelled of eggs. Or bananas. Or coffee. On your sofa, a heavy leather jacket, a wallet on the coffee table, keys and–

“Do you like chocolate pancakes?”

****

He seemed calm. Well, he was calm. It would have been stranger if he'd been wearing an apron and had flour all over his face, but it was no less disconcerting to see him standing in your kitchen setting the table. You hadn't answered his question, so he gave a weak chuckle and said it was the only truly delicious thing he knew how to make, and he hoped you wouldn't mind that he'd used up the rest of the flour. You didn't ask anything, but you should have. A second wave of vomiting was coming, and all you did was run to the bathroom again.

“Why don't you take a shower and have something to eat? I brought you an isotonic drink,” He said by the door, without coming in, and you wanted to snap back that he shouldn’t be worried about privacy after basically making his bed in your house, but you didn’t argue and did as he suggested. 

It was a short shower, but you managed to clean yourself up and get a better sense of self. To clear your head. You had a scrape on your right elbow, as well as on the side of your right knee. You dressed in light clothes but didn't put on new bandages. You rinsed your mouth, made sure you wouldn't vomit again, and went back to the kitchen a little less breathless, only to find him there, doing exactly that: serving the table as if it belonged to him.

It was one of Cool Citrus, the isotonic drink that was waiting for you on the table. Anticipating your question, he explained:

“I've seen you take that flavor almost every time in the lab. Then there was this one time you complained to Z that he'd taken the last one from the vending machine, and I just deduced it.” 

You noticed that Benny looked a little embarrassed, and your defensive posture softened. Whatever had happened the night before, you were starting to think it was all too weird. 

“... You didn't need to do all that. I insist on paying for the expense.”

“Don't think about that now. Eat something.”

Then he went back to what he was doing while you sat at the table, which was washing the dishes. There was more than just what he used to make those pancakes, but he was washing everything. And, in fact, they were delicious, and at first you were grateful to have the silverware to muffle the tight silence between the two of you, but then it became more suffocating, and you knew you would have to talk about it. 

“I messed up big time, didn't I?”

Benny placed the last plate against the drainer and turned to you with a blank expression on his face. Perhaps the quietness had made him consider more carefully how he would behave, because it was a much more familiar expression to you.

“When I mentioned alcohol, I meant it. I know it's none of my business, but that shit is a hellish limbo.” 

You nodded in agreement, but he didn't sound or seem harsh. It was just a consideration.

“Regarding your question, no. Aside from being very drunk, you only behaved like someone in that state. You fell when you were getting out of the car and hurt yourself.” 

You grimaced in discomfort, then closed your eyes and rested your head on a pair of rough hands. You heard him moving closer, but he didn't pull up a chair to sit down. For a moment, all you could do was digest the probable mess you did, and then you faced him again with little pride. 

“Did you sleep on my couch?”

“I was as comfortable as I was the first time,” He smiled sheepishly, trying to clear the air. “Since you vomited and passed out when we arrived, I thought it best to spend the night to make sure you'd be okay.”

It was noble, but it made you sad. Things were fine as they were, with you two drifting apart in the coldest, yet fairest way possible. You were showing good composure, despite everything, weren't you? Being in that state and subjected to so much effort on his part made you look like an idiot, not to mention the time he took from you to keep an eye on you. 

You remembered the conversation in the kitchen again, and then the scolding at the hospital. You were certainly nothing but a weakling to him.

“... I'm sorry about that,” That was all your mind had conjured up to say, and Benny simply sighed in acceptance.

“Your hand looks better,” He changed the subject, pointing at your splayed fingers on the table. You averted your gaze to the scar, then back to him. “You complained a lot last night, saying it was very itchy.”

Subconsciously, you could see yourself using your fingers to rub the affected skin, as if the reminder would bring the sensation back, but before it could, Benny calmly took it and brought it close to his face, his thumb going here and there on the back of your hand while his breath brushed against your skin.

“If anyone at your new job asks, make up a cool cop story. I can lend you one if you want,” He was smiling slightly at that, pulling his hand away and looking at you in a good-humored way, which made you return a slight, crooked smile.

“Would you have a story about saving an elderly woman from a fire? I think that would be much more heroic.” 

He looked at you with a hint of regret, pursed his lips, and shook his head negatively. “I think I've done my quota of trying to be a hero a long time ago. I won't be able to help you with this one.”

It seemed like the wrong thing to do, to have made the joke, and you thought he was clearly referring to you. This brought you back to that spiral of regret and shame. Your neck burned and your eyes faltered to meet his again. 

“I need to go now. I believe your father is on his way,” He said. “He called and I thought it would be kind of weird not to answer.”

“Of course, thank you. I owe you that one too.”

But Benny didn't answer. He went to the living room, picked up his things, said goodbye with a brief nod, and left. Only then did you see the tears welling up, and for the first time, it was the kind of thing you wanted.

****

Your father didn't ask any questions. Perhaps you thought he wasn't stupid enough to think you'd know the answers, but to some extent he would question your company, the fact that Benny answered your phone. Nothing occurred to you. He rarely interfered in your life's affairs, as he often pointed out, and limited himself to giving you well-deserved scoldings about seeking help for your drinking problem.

It was only later, when you were too quiet to retort, that he let the dust settle and circled around Benny.

“He and you… you know…?” He made a gesture, his two index fingers crossing in the air in an awkward way. 

“Yes. But not last night. And it only happened once,” A day, better saying, but there was no need to go into specifics. 

“He seemed somewhat familiar to me. I remembered his name from TV and I must have had little trouble putting a face to the name,” He said. “He was the one who was at the restaurant that night, wasn't he?”

You nodded. Your father hummed, then contemplated that as the tip of his fingers brushed his chin. As you two were sitting on the fire escape, you could see in detail that he had been letting his beard grow a little, which was rather unusual. It represented sloppiness to your mother, so he never went without shaving. You then noticed that his eyes were downcast, tired, and his clothes were somewhat rumpled.

“Mm-hm,” You nudged him with your elbow. “Are you okay?”

“I'm worried. About you, about your brother… I'll be honest, I shouldn't be worrying about this kind of thing regarding you. Not at this point in my life,” The words were blunt and brutal, but his tone was collected. “I need you all to get your heads straight about things.”

That made you retrieve, then nod. “... I know.”

“That friend of yours, Detective Magalon. He seems like a nice guy. I’m not saying anything, just… You need to have these people around. To keep you grounded. You just got out of a long-term relationship, lost half your social circle… you're lost and trying to forge a new path in life. Theodore wasn't determined to live his life for you, but the truth is, nobody is. It's you for you.” 

Something had indeed happened, but regardless of the motivation, he was right. For someone who considered herself clearly centered, you were being reminded by many people that this wasn't quite the case, and that this beacon of understanding reflected much more on others than on you. 

You thought about what Emma had told you, about the lessons she always taught. There was a shift in that behavior that radiated acceptance of error, scrutiny, and disdain. You didn't know how to be like that, you couldn't. Like your father, you felt too much, you were overly sensitive, and that was making you sick. Even though you didn't say anything, it was clear that you two seemed to be in the same place, that he was tired and dejected, even if the reason wasn't the same as yours. There you were, thinking about others again, running away from your blatant guilt. Was it work? Marriage? Certainly marriage. Your mother wouldn't let him leave the house like that. 

Yeah, other people had worse problems than yours. More difficult ones. And you were playing that game far too close to the Sun.

****

It didn't seem intentional, but you doubted that was exactly the kind of place they frequented. Despite Theodore's 'latent' intelligence for mathematical things, he had very little social ability to understand what his mother's plans were.

Your new job at Ricci & Co. had some perks that closely mirrored your reality at LASD. They had a comfortable break area, almost unlimited access to all kinds of coffee, pastries, and TVs. It wasn't like Silicon Valley companies with video games and such, but the feeling of relaxation was always very palpable, and that, curiously, bothered you. Then you'd go out onto the street, find a coffee shop across the street, and order something, always at lunchtime, before obsessively throwing yourself back into work. You lacked familiarity with the idea of ​​flexibility. Someone would end up laughing at you for it.

That you knew Theodore might be involved with the company wasn't news to you. Well, he himself had spread the good news in your brother's office, so it wasn't surprising that he wasn’t oblivious to the business. But he wasn't showing up, the HR manager told you. She seemed at least somewhat sympathetic, even if it was rather unprofessional of her, but she didn't bring up the subject of your marriage to him. The fact that he was in the cafeteria with his mother was strange, or at least disconcerting. Judging by the place, the finesse of the dishes, and the prices of everything, that's where Emerald should be, but not there, not specifically, the place you usually frequented for the cheapest cup of coffee.

She must have gotten the information from the company. Judging by the way she looked at you almost immediately when you walked in, she wasn't making any effort to hide it. But you took your time, breathed deeply while resisting the urge to order a shot of whiskey in a coffee cup. You ordered tea. Mate. And also a portion of mini donuts for the people in your department.

As you approached, Emerald nudged Theodore, who was standing with his back to you, leaning slightly over the table in an unassuming manner, and he jumped slightly before realizing your proximity, straightening his posture, and standing up as his palm slid over his button shirt. 

He was... different. Scarred. He looked normal, but there were lingering signs of the assault. He seemed to have a bandage slipping from his shirt collar, which gave you the impression that his shoulder still needed some care. You looked at him closely, very closely, and then turned to Emerald, who was sitting watching the scene, giving you a silent reminder that you had a sour look on your face.

“Can I ask?” 

“Do better and join us while you do it,” She said, and with a single look, Theodore was already sliding a chair for you beside him. 

You had forgotten how forcefully he was instructed, but perhaps he was more lethargic because of the occasion and the incident. This wasn't how you imagined seeing him after the divorce. Despite that, aside from the injuries, he still seemed the same. You made a point of lightly tapping the glass on the table and spilling a little tea. In your peripheral vision, you could see Emerald letting out a gasp of disbelief, but you pretended not to see it as you grabbed a handful of napkins to wipe your fingers.

“We can't take that risk again, right?” You teased, but your voice didn’t quite reach your face. “So. Am I being asked to attend a meeting?”

Theodore cleared his throat, and you were a step away from warning that it wouldn’t be a good start if he decided to speak instead of his mother. 

“I think some things have happened in your recent life that reminded me that our separation was very cold. And disrespectful, of course, to our… history.”

Rehearsed. Typical. You sipped your tea with a clear expression of derision at how difficult it seemed for him to remember the words, but you nodded in agreement.

“You know I sold the house, right?” You slid your eyes to Emerald. She was neutral, but you could tell the mention got some kind of reaction out of her. “If you wanted a share of the sale proceeds, I reviewed the divorce agreement and I had the right to do whatever I wanted with it.” 

“We don't want money,” He argued, brows tight in a frown. 

“We? Oh yeah, your mother is here. How many little nudges did she give you to get you to come talk to me?”

“I tried to talk to you.”

“On the phone. Making jokes about me still caring about you,” You shook your head and turned fully to Emerald. “So?” 

She gave her head a slight shake to stop what appeared to be Theodore from speaking, and wiped the corners of her mouth even though she hadn't drunk or eaten anything. 

“I felt it was my responsibility to contact you to discuss what happened at the hospital. And no, I'm not asking for payment. It would be absurd of me not to offer the minimum,” She opened her bag and took out a business card. “This is Dr. Farrell's number. I wasn't sure if you still knew him, but I urge you to consult him about treating your scar. He will be happy to take care of it.” 

You would never have the money to even walk past Dr. Farrell's office, but you didn't say anything because you knew something about 'we'll pay' would come up and it would be very humiliating.

“The problem is that I was unaware of the events leading up to the divorce, and after the accident at the hospital, it became clear that we should’ve been more supportive so that the process would have been less painful.”

Weird. 

“As I always made clear to Theo, I was against the presence of that child–”

“Mom–”

“But she's already out of the picture. It's not important. Considering only that she was brought into your life because of my son, I wanted to see you to find out how you were doing.” 

Super weird. 

You considered her for a while, then glanced at Theodore, who had his head down, somewhat embarrassed. There was something there.

“... I'm doing well. I sold the house, changed jobs. And my hand is great too,” You said. “But I can assure you that that’s nothing of your concern.”

Emerald frowned. Confused. 

“Your mother told us that–”

“What?”

Your mother. Your mother? What did that have to do with your mother?

You remembered the expression on your father's face, the way he spoke to you. "I shouldn't be worrying about you like this," he said. 

Theodore intervened thoughtfully, noticing your clearly confused and defensive gesture beginning to create the barrier. That he could notice. 

“Mom, I don't think it's ideal for us to talk about this.”

“Talk about what?” You asked. There was no way back. The mention would already make you want to know, obviously. 

Emerald rolled her shoulders and took a deep breath. 

“She was quite forceful with us. With me, actually. At the gallery. She approached me and yelled at me… about some things. About how you were doing. The issues at work, at home… about alcohol,” Each word she spoke generated a discomfort that went from the top of your head to your toes. It gave you chills. It made you feel hot with shame. Suffocated. You felt yourself shrinking, pressing your fingers against the cup and losing your composure. “... I could assume she herself was under the influence of something. That worried us.”

You felt your bile rising in your throat like on the morning of your hangover, but you didn't vomit. There was nothing to vomit. If it were possible, you would express your misfortune nonverbally, you would bring to light how the tragedy had spread in such absurd ways. You weren't seeing something. She, your mother, was at some point in her life that exempted you from the peak, which was that.

Theodore caught your attention when he saw you blink heavily and not say anything. He knew you in that way; he knew the only other time you'd been like that was during the confrontation about Aileen. He tried to reach for your arm, but all you did was recoil and spill more tea on the table. Emerald orchestrated an apology, along with an 'I thought you knew,' and before they could say anything else, you stood up abruptly, tea abandoned, and stormed out of the cafeteria clutching the box of donuts to your chest.

The nearest bathroom was on your floor, which was the fifth. There were many people in the elevator line, your vision was blurring, and your lungs were short of air. When you finally entered the building, you felt the cold air conditioning in the reception area, and you could only see the small cleaning supply closet in a side corridor. You ran there and locked yourself in the darkness, sliding your back along the cleaning supply cabinet until you sat on the floor.

Your hands were trembling. What colossal mess was happening?

****

You didn't call to let her know you were going. You didn't want to and you didn't need to. For the rest of the day, you spent it harboring anger and a sense of disregard that couldn't be contained within you, and you didn't know what you were going to say to her, but you would say something.

It took you a little longer to reach their house, and you should’ve used that time to notice that there was more than a car parked on the curb. 

You rang the doorbell. No one answered. Impatient, you reached for the doorknob and opened the door. You didn't take off your shoes or hang up your coat. Your feet made a straight line to the living room, where you found your brother packing some things into a cardboard box and your mother near him, her hair wet as if she had just taken a shower. If you had really noticed, you would have realized that a good part of the house was a mess, and that some of your father's typical things were no longer in sight.

They both looked at you in surprise. You must’ve had the worst expression on your face.

“Don't tell me something happened,” Your brother said, but you should be the one saying that. 

“What the hell were you doing with Emerald?”

She realized it immediately, and you could see her expression fall. Your brother wasn't confused, which was worse: you hoped you weren't the only one who didn't know about your mother's antics. Or about whatever was happening right before your eyes. She didn't answer right away. Surprising. After you, only one other person always had an answer on the tip of their tongue.

You scoffed, then shook your head as you passed a hand over your mouth. 

“... I feel like an idiot here. You two are staring at me and I'm not hearing a single response… None!” You snapped. “What the hell did you say to her? Mm? That I'm a loser? That I'm broke because her rich son stopped supporting me? That I have a drinking problem? Answer me!” 

“She wasn't thinking straight, she–”

“She humiliated me! I had to deal with a visit from her with Theodore! Theodore! And the two of them treated me like I was a street kid!”

“I just wanted to help!” She yelled back, and that put a small, harsh silence between you. “I… You don't know how frustrating it is for me to see you putting your father on a pedestal, making him your confidant. Things happened to you and you didn't share anything with me! I felt powerless! And if you knew what I'm going through with your father, you would understand that!”

“If I don't open up to you, it's your fault!”

It was a Pandora's box, your feelings for your mother. You knew that the moment you opened it, there would be no way to close it, and that's why it had never actually been spoken about. But she was there, messing things up, and you were drunk with rage. The words just came out.

“You always rejected me, always! How many pictures of me did you have at home?! How many times did you take me to science class, how many times did you support my dreams?! How many times did you put me to bed like you did with my brother, how many underhanded objections did you raise on my wedding day?! You want to talk about injustice, so let's talk about that. About how you excluded me from your life as if I didn't deserve to be in it!” 

“How can you talk about your marriage if it didn't work out?! Theodore proved himself a jerk! What are you complaining about so much?!”

“Of not having a mother! My father–”

“Your father is an asshole. Did you know that? An asshole! You see this? And this?” She grabbed some belongings from a box and started throwing them at your feet. They were your father's books, maybe a picture frame. Your brother tried to stop her, but she was just as distraught as you were, her nose running as she fought back tears. “This crap means nothing to him! Your dear daddy jumped at the first opportunity to get involved with another woman under my roof! My roof! Because this house is mine! Everything here is mine! And for years I had to endure your arrogance, your circle of secrets with your father, while I was denied access to your life! It's my right! I am your mother! From the moment I took you out of me, I should at least receive more than a call filled with childish resentment!” 

You stopped talking. It was that lump in your throat again, and this time you knew you were going to vomit. Your brother sensed this and ran towards you with a bucket or a box or something, which you only had time to see in front of you before throwing up your food. When your legs wobbled a little, you felt more than a pair of hands holding you, and you deduced it was your mother, but you didn't make any move to push her away. 

You murmured small 'it's okay, it's okay,' and felt your chest tighten and your eyes burn. There was so much extremism in it, so much hesitation. Your body seemed unable to handle what should have been normal. Was it the alcohol? Was the lack of it preventing you from feeling things normally? Was it your lack of discernment in understanding things, your immaturity in not properly processing your divorce and work issues, preventing you from realizing what was happening there? 

As you began to sob, pushing the bucket away from you, your arms slid down and you found yourself with your forehead on the floor, your arms outstretched on the ground as you couldn't stop crying copiously. Suddenly, as if all your bizarre loneliness hadn't already made you succumb to despair, she enveloped you in a hug over your bent back and you could feel her tears wetting the nape of your neck. It was her, for sure. It was the scent of rose soap and shampoo, of femininity and a warm, yet welcoming embrace that you hadn't felt in years.

It was the comforting hug after a bicycle accident when you were 8 years old, which before seemed like a distant and vague memory, but which there was the best thing that had ever happened to you.

****

Your brother told you things that made you think he had lived another life, with another family. 

Your mother had been an alcoholic since she was 15. You knew she had a, shall we say, complex life before she met your father, but from what you'd heard, she'd stopped when she got pregnant with you. It was kind of hard to process, to understand the weight of the withdrawal she must have been feeling and the guilt transferred to your existence. You were making her sick. But then she had your brother, and she and your father promised not to tell you about it, definitively, even though that feeling still existed, and even though you were being openly rejected. He didn't say it like that, but it was implied. 

He also said that your father and she had been having problems for a long time, but at the time you were getting divorced, and it was very complicated, so they tried to work things out. You understood again the weight of what your father had said, and how your mother considered your resentment unfair. She, who had remained silent after her outburst, sat on the other side of the sofa, her eyes fixed on the coffee table. She had relapsed when she learned of the cheating. No one seemed willing to go into the details of who it was, or how it started, but judging by her state, it was someone close. There was no justification for the gallery incident with Emerald. You didn't ask for it.

“We wanted to tell you sooner, but… well, things weren't going well at LASD. We saw it on TV, on the internet. And you were… and we were… it all happened at the same time. You didn't need this to add up to your stuff. But we were going to tell you.” 

“Do you think we're both alcoholics?”

You were staring at her profile, almost demanding an answer after so much silence following the fight. She took the question lightly, then turned to you with a firm expression.

“In controlled doses.”

And it would still be difficult to process, but it made sense. In controlled doses.

That only happened when there weren't enough doses left to control what couldn't be controlled.

****

He thought it was you, but dismissed the idea because, days earlier, he had also thought he saw your father walking in a park near his home with a woman—something that had also seemed unlikely. During that extraordinary and surprising appearance at your apartment that night, he had plenty of time to realize that the woman accompanying the man was not your mother.

But then he stood there, and the figure didn't disappear. Emerging from the very building where he had expected to meet Belinda, he saw that it was indeed you. You looked serious and sullen, checking a pace that had seemed hurried—forcing you to stop at the curb before reaching the street. You huffed, squeezed your eyes shut, and pressed the heels of your hands against them, as if trying to compose yourself.

He got out of the car. It was stronger than him—an impulse he couldn't resist, acting without hesitation—as if Benny had forgotten that the estrangement was mutual, or that this would only make things more awkward. But it was night, after all. The street was busy, yet he couldn't help keeping an eye out.

As he drew closer, he realized you were far more than just stressed—it was a state he had never seen you in before. There was a great deal of restlessness and irritability. Just as going to you had been an unconscious act, Benny thought it prudent to approach more calmly.

Just as he was about to speak, you had already sensed his approach and turned your face toward him abruptly, startled. Had he not known you, he would have sworn you were fleeing from something; realizing Benny might see your tear-filled eyes, you turned your face away just as he glanced around, trying to understand your state.

It happened very quickly. There was still an almost tearful look on your face, though more restrained. Then you were surprised and smiled very broadly—in a very forced way.

“Hi!” You noticed your own tone and cooled it down. “Hi, Benny.”

It had been two months since the apartment incident. Three, if you count the fact that you had already stopped speaking to each other that same month. And, well, it was strange. Suddenly, Benny was seeing you around every day—working or chatting with Lennon or Gina—and then came the sex, until everything dissolved into nothingness; and even though he was the one more inclined to pull away, it felt like an eternity.

He noticed you were very different, but simply showing a heightened degree of dejection. A little more reflection, and he would realize where you were coming from.

“Hey. What a coincidence,” Lacking much knack for pretense, he gave it a try, and you offered a slightly nervous little smile, your shoulders tense.

“Yeah, I…. I've been coming here. You know, here,” You pointed to the building. There was no flashy façade or any kind of sign; it was a place that only those who needed it knew existed. Discretion was important for vulnerable people, Belinda used to say. And it made sense. It wasn't exactly prudent to put up huge posters inviting people to therapeutic support groups.

But then he considered your reasons and settled on the idea of ​​alcohol. Your father had shown a hint of concern on the phone when you’d blacked out—as if already aware of the context—which made him reflect more firmly on what he was thinking right then: that you had been trying to get sober. It was something Belinda used to say when dealing with alcoholics: that when alcohol is tied to the idea of ​​recreation, it was rather difficult to pinpoint the dependency precisely; that "recreational alcoholics"—as she liked to call them—generally didn't wreak havoc on others, only on themselves, and that this often led to delayed diagnoses.

Looking at it from the outside, it certainly seemed strange to categorize you that way, but perhaps the events of your life were steering you toward a somewhat unhealthy coping mechanism, and in all likelihood, something began to shift your perception.

You didn't follow up with any questions about why he was there, because it might have been pretty obvious. That center was known within the LASD—and law enforcement in general—as a place frequently visited by people dealing with that sort of thing. You likely assumed he knew someone there or had gone to pick someone up. It probably wasn't any of your business anyway, even though you felt uncomfortable about having been "caught."

“And how has it been?” 

You shrugged sheepishly. “Challenging. Honestly, I was expecting a handful of people sitting in a circle talking about their feelings, but it’s much more… personal than that,” Just then it came to you to ask: “And you? What are you doing here?”

His answer was simpler.

“My sister is a volunteer therapist here. I came to pick her up.”

“Belinda?”

Benny felt slightly relieved that you remembered her—or at least her name. It gave the impression that he wasn't actually dealing with someone else, and that, despite everything, you were still as attentive and appreciative as ever. Another relief was realizing that this came as a surprise to you, which meant she wasn't the one you were dealing with your problems with.

“That's right. Today is our birthday, so–”

“Wait, what? Really?” Your expression shifted slightly: you were smiling. Even your eyes lit up at the news, the welling tears all but vanishing amidst the genuine smile you wore. “Do you have the same birthday?”

“Sort of. Mine is actually tomorrow, but we usually celebrate together.” 

“Oh hell… Happy anticipated birthday, then.”

It was somewhat impulsive. He knew it was because you froze the moment your arms wrapped around his left shoulder and waist, but Benny didn't hesitate much either, hugging you back as if he wanted to feel your body sliding against his palms once more. You still smelled good, wearing the same perfume from the day of your divorce—when you’d arrived at that crime scene looking a bit sullen, the sun catching hair that kept getting tousled by the breeze. It was faintly sweet, the kind of scent you could only catch up close, as if it lured people in just so they could settle into the fragrance. It hadn't seemed intentional back then, and it didn't now either, but Benny couldn't resist leaning in a little closer to catch the scent where your neck met your shoulder. You were wearing a somewhat heavy puffer coat, but there was that sliver of skin exposed where he could feel you. It was ridiculous; he shouldn't have wanted that. But then you gripped the fabric of his jacket more tightly, pressed yourself closer against his body, and Benny realized that you needed it, too.

You sniffled a bit and he thought you might be crying, but in the harsh reality of having to let go of you, Benny noticed it was just a slightly runny nose—something you had discreetly tried to hide.

“How old will you be?” Your voice wavered a little. It really wasn’t only him, then. But you also were really self conscious, so he felt you slipping away from his fingertips and his body leaned slightly over to chase you. 

He took an extra second to respond.

“51.” 

“... Oh?” You flinched, but not in a mocking way. “You don't look a day older than about 47.”

“I actually feel ten years older than 67. But thank you.” 

“Well, anyway, they say it's a good age for men. You know, that whole virility and peak-of-life thing… Anyway. It probably makes sense if you age like George Clooney or something.” 

Benny was about to make a stupid joke when he saw you tense up again at the sound of a voice. Your face hardened completely, and you huffed before looking away toward the street. He glanced toward the building and saw a woman, no older than forty, trying to get your attention, with an older figure—also wearing a stern expression and bearing a striking resemblance to you—following close behind.

The younger woman saw Benny and scowled, as if he were some jerk hassling you in the moonlight at that hour of the night, but before he could even attempt to explain himself, you launched into a tense, irritated argument. That he knew well. 

“You can't expect me to keep staying there and being a punching bag.”

“We don't…” The woman glanced between you and Benny, as if suddenly alert to the fact that a stranger was listening to the conversation, but she must have recognized who he was, for she relaxed just a little. “We can talk about this another time, but I wouldn't want that to mean you won't come anymore.” 

“Yeah, well, don't count on it. Maybe you should think twice about how to take care of her before getting myself into this shit—and I can take care of myself just fine.” 

You looked steadily at the older woman, who was quiet, then at the younger one, and finally at him. Benny was about to speak up again, but you simply shook your head and walked away, eventually getting into a car and staying there. The three of them watched the scene in silence.

“I'd better leave. I can't guarantee she'll actually come back, but I'll make an effort,” The older woman glanced at him for a moment, but if she knew who he was or not, she didn’t show. But something about him made her say the rest of the sentence: “As I said, she has a terrible tendency to listen only to her father.” 

The younger woman’s name was Dylan—he remembered it as soon as the two of you left. He had questions—several, in fact—but it wasn’t his place to ask them, so she simply steered the conversation toward pleasantries until Belinda left the building. 

Benny left as if he had a piece of stone stuck in his throat.

****

He no longer spoke to Gina about anything other than work, and even that was clipped and distant. Things at LASD were going from bad to worse—that was true—but the Isla case had made her extremely reluctant, to the point where she’d drawn a reprimand from Byrne; meanwhile, Benny knew he was enjoying this new dynamic a little too much. He wouldn’t dare ask Lennon—since, truth be told, he had a nagging suspicion that Lennon had been quietly making moves on you—but it wasn’t easy to broach the subject with Gina without making it seem like mere speculation. 

But he tried anyway. He barely ate dinner the night before, and Belinda found it strange.

“I thought you would have the day off.”

Gina adopted a deliberately mild tone with him, as if trying to coax him out of the litter. She seemed to be trying. It was commendable. He made his own efforts, too. She entered the laboratory and found him staring at some frog specimens she had brought back from a scene, but the case wasn't his, and there was no chance of him asking why they were there.

Gina sat down in front of a computer and typed a few things. He waited, but kept staring at her until she could look back at him. She didn't take long to do so.

“I don't recall having a case with you. Can I help?” 

He didn’t take turns or beat around the bush. Benny said your name, which made her frown, and he explained:

“I saw her leaving the support group last night. We talked for a bit. I don't know if you're still in direct contact, but I wanted to know if she's doing okay.”

Well, you weren’t—because if it had been, you wouldn't be there—and that thought might have crossed Gina's mind, but she hesitated to answer. She sat there for a moment, glaring at him, her almond-shaped eyes fixed steadily on his face as if searching for a flaw.

She then shook her head a little.

“... Some things did happen, yes. I think it involves her parents. But I don't feel comfortable going into details with you, despite how close you are to her.” 

Her accusatory tone didn't make him back down, but it confirmed that she knew something. Noticing his clinical gaze, Gina scoffed and raised her eyebrows with a bitter little smile.

“What? Think I didn't know the two of you were hooking up?” She said. “I have a close friend who works at the bar where you guys met up. He told me he saw her there with you.” 

Benny was somewhat surprised, but didn't hesitate to retort: “So I feel uncomfortable trusting that you know how to keep a secret.”

“You haven't told me any worth keeping yet. Unless the fact that you truly care about her counts as one.” 

Did it? He tended to gatekeep everyone’s business—and maybe Henderson had come the closest to figuring it out—but Gus kept to himself; even if he suspected the two of you had had an affair, he wouldn’t have made a big deal out of it. But with Gina, it was different. Gina wasn’t indifferent, or chill, or anything like that. She was protective—she was your friend and the person closest to you at the LASD. If she acted that way with Isla, things were a completely different story when it came to you.

She seized upon his silence with a certain frustration and sighed in defeat.

“No one knows. I mean, about the two of you having sex. I’m relatively opposed to what happened, but you aren’t the worst of the lot. Maybe you’re the best. Or the less worse,” Gina declared. “If you don't know what happened, I can assume the two of you aren't seeing each other anymore.”

“We haven't met up for that since last year.”

“I suppose the Isla situation shook the relationship.”

“I'm not here to open up to you, Gina; I just need to know if she's okay.”

She opened and closed her mouth, then leaned back slightly. The look she gave him was much like the one she’d worn when the bombshell dropped regarding Isla. The realization—the way they seemed to instinctively sympathize with the woman. It could’ve been their own mothers in that position: a Cuban immigrant in his case, a Salvadoran woman with two children in her arms in hers. There was a connection there. In this instance, it was two people shying away—not from *you*, but from trusting each other enough to act on your behalf, even if no one there could actually do anything. They settled, then, on the idea that they were getting to know each other and bonding over the fact that their hands were tied.

“She'll be. In time. Until then, it might be wise for you to decide whether to stay close or away from her, so as not to confuse her further,” So she knew more than expected. Perhaps Gina knew everything. “But I know you had already made that decision when you came to ask me about her, so I just suggest you be responsible. I certainly acknowledge my own fault in this, and I’m sure that all she needs right now is someone who won’t throw her under the bus again.” 

“I wouldn't do that.”

“That's good. Keep it up, and I might start believing you're not like them.” 

“Not like whom?”

Nick’s voice put them both briefly on alert, but Benny could already see Gina concocting an excuse, her lips pursed. If she, confrontational as she was, seemed willing to lie about the matter to protect you, perhaps that was the first obvious way to help you.

Benny needed to truly figure out what O'Brien represented in his life. As it turned out, the answer might be simpler than it seemed. 

And it would lie in the next words to leave his mouth.

****

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