#typical

since your first day at ptmc you've trusted her, respected her, worried about her, because loneliness for you looked like a lot of different things, but you can confidently say that you, like, have a life. even if said life involves forcing your adopted lame little brother to watch bravo with you or dragging mel out to karaoke, you… do things. you go to the farmer's market when you're free on sunday mornings; you go to drag brunch and museums and you even see dennis' stupid superhero movies in the theater. you kiss people and let them touch you when they ask first, a tenuous safety that you try to let yourself get lost in sometimes. it's always been easier to keep your body and your mind moving, to never stop or be still, to run and run and run because your demons are fast and agile and mean—but you've always been smarter, stronger. you've always been, most importantly, fundamentally more stubborn. you think maybe your stubbornness is what's kept you alive through everything, a refusal to let the bad guys win our of genuine spite, rather than an active desire to stay.

but samira is worrisome because she really, genuinely doesn't do things. when you'd asked her what she likes to do on her days off, or where her favorite spots in pittsburgh are, or even hobbies she's interested in trying but hasn't had time to yet, she'd just kind of blinked at you, like it was something she'd never even really considered. 'i—i read. i go on walks sometimes, when the weather's nice. i do my laundry,' she'd said, which was so sad you hadn't even had the heart to laugh at her.

but lately she's come along with you and dennis, sometimes mel and victoria too, when you go out after work. she loved drag brunch, cheered and laughed and split a caraffe of mimosas with you. she's also a good listener, comfortable one on one once she realized you're not actually, like, a murderer or something. she's patient and kind and incredibly passionate; you got into medicine in part because there's a thrill in being the best, but also because you fell through the cracks. your best friend fell through the cracks. 'the healthcare system,' samira had been saying earlier tonight, a glass of skin contact wine in her hand, the bowl of tortilla chips half empty and the guacamole completely gone, 'you know, it's just a microcosm of white supremancy as a whole.'

you'd agreed, of course you had, and you'd felt something good, then: someone who was actually angry with you. samira takes her time—too much of it, sometimes—with patients because she doesn't want them to fall through the cracks. there's some kind of kindred understanding that you're beginning to recognize more and more in her, in the way she treats her patients, in the way she wears her keffiyeh often as the weather gets cooler, in the way she's reaching out the same way you are—unsure and a little desperate and so fucking grateful.

you groan, now, thinking of therapy, thinking of how hard it is to language all that sits inside you, broken and bleeding even after all this time. you can't even fucking say what's wrong, even if it hurts and hurts and hurts; for so long, it's been easier to bite than to heal.

samira pats your leg. 'sorry, we don't have to talk about therapy. it's good you're going though.'

'yeah, yeah.'

'i do mean it, trinity.'

you soften. 'i know you do.'

'i’ll get going, then,' she says, standing to put her wine glass in the sink.

'or, you could just stay here.'

she pauses from where she's dumping the bowl of tortilla chips back in their bag you'd saved. 'i guess.'

'when's the last time you had a slumber party?' you ask, waggle your brows, grab another bottle of wine from the fridge.

'i was never allowed,' she admits, putting the chips away in the pantry.

'samira.

she shrugs.

'we're definitely having a sleepover, then.'

you wait for her to decide, but eventually she turns to you with a smile. her hair is loose and her dimples are showing and you pour another glass of wine for you both, even though you're sure your face is flushed and you feel a buzz all over.

'want to watch the movie that made me know i was gay?'

she laughs.

'time honored traditon.'

'in that case,' she says, then gestures toward the couch, 'of course.'

she's drunk enough to be pretty endearingly riveted by stick it—it's a masterpiece, though, so who can blame her—but eventually she asks, 'was gymnastics really like this?'

it's not a secret that you used to be a gymnast; you've mentioned it in passing a few times. it's pretty impossible to talk about honestly, especially at work and especially to people you don't really know well. but you're not at work, and you know about samira's dad, and her mom, and what it was like to grow up with so many expectations and so much grief.

you shrug. 'kind of? i mean, i don't know. some parts were cool; i think i'll always need an outlet for how competitive i get. and i could always do more pullups than all the boys in my class. and i had a best friend.'

she sits with that, then nods. 'it seems like it was a difficult environment.'

you laugh once. 'understatement of the century.' she doesn't laugh with you, just sits quietly, paying attention to you, seeing you. it's been annoying as hell, to let people in, but you bite down and do it anyway because the alternative is a loneliness that will kill you one day if you give into it. 'i got hurt, a lot. in… different ways.'

samira's jaw clenches and she looks genuinely very angry for a moment; you appreciate it, but you can't sit in it anymore. your therapist is always going on and on about how anger is a secondary emotion to sadness, which is true but so fucking annoying. 'i'm sorry, trinity.'

there are a million ways to brush it off. instead, you reach out and take her hand. she lets you, laces your fingers together. 'thanks. and, for the record, i'm sorry your first slumber party is kind of a bummer.'

she squeezes your hand and shakes her head. 'aren't sad heart to hearts a part of it?'

'i mean, at the lame ones, maybe. but we can still get it back. the night is young.'

on cue, she yawns. 'i'm not.'

'oh, come on. you're, like, twenty-nine.'

'i'm tired.'

'okay, well, here's what happens. we get deliriously tired, that's part of it, and then we talk about our crushes or something stupid my brothers did or something your mom did that annoyed you. there's only two of us so i don't think spin the bottle would work too well.' you're thankful she blushes because you can feel how hot your face is when you say that. 'we can paint each other's nails? i could give you bangs.'

'absolutely not.'

'oh, come on. i cut whitaker's hair for him.'

'trinity, no.'

'fine.' the movie plays on in the background, and suddenly you, too, are very tired. 'i guess we can go lie down.'

'i can stay on the couch, if you want?'

'that's dumb, and also very antithetical to a sleepover. you're supposed to whisper in bed until you literally fall asleep.'

she worries her bottom lip, which, with the amount of wine you'd consumed, is dangerous. 'okay,' she settles on finally—maybe it's dangerous for her too.

you brush your teeth next to her in your bathroom, and, when you shimmy out of your sweatpants to sleep in your very unsexy underwear and the sweater you already had on, she debates for a moment before she takes her pants off too, a blush rising to her cheeks. instead of saying anything—you're so fucking beautiful, probably—you just pull the duvet back and tell her where the spare phone charger is if she needs it. when she gets into bed she lies stiffly on her back, which is so insane you laugh.

'okay, i know you've never had a sleepover, but haven't you, like, shared a bed with anyone?'

samira shakes her head. 'as an adult, no?'

'…not once?'

'i… i typically leave, if i, you know.'

'have sex?'

'yes.'

'do you… go out with people often? do you, like, date?'

she stays on her back, stares up at the ceiling. 'no. not really.'

'oh.' you ache with it, because her life is so small and she's so big. 'well, my last situationship ended up sucking ass, so in some ways you're really not missing out. especially if it's boys.' your nose wrinkles on its own and she finally turns her head to look at you, a smile on her face, relaxed again.

'i know about garcia.'

'oh.'

'and—not always boys.'

that sends a thrill through you, pretty much immediately fixes the sad little ache in your chest about yolanda. 'see, now you're getting the hang of a slumber party.'

she laughs, finally, and turns to lie on her side facing you. you're both quiet for a few breaths; your body grows heavier, easy. 'can i ask you something?'

'twenty questions? great idea.'

'i don't know if i'll stay awake for twenty.'

you shrug. 'worth a shot.'

'okay, well. when we were watching the movie earlier, you said you had a best friend.'

you feel your whole body tense. 'yeah.'

'sorry,' samira says, then reaches out, a little tentative, to put her arm around your waist. 'obviously it's fine if you don't want to talk about it. i just—it's been good, getting to know you.'

you think again of your sharpness, your fury, the dark caverns that sit in you that feel like they're always going to swallow you whole. you're the one who got marisol into gymnastics, although your therapist says you can't blame yourself for that: you were seven at the time you both started going together, and you were talented, and you loved spending time with your friend. you're the one who got both of you into that fucking hellhole, you're the one who couldn't save her—you couldn't try harder, not with your own desolation, the bile that sat in your throat for fucking years, the way your body still might not fully belong to you. grief and panic sit together, unruly, sick bedfellows, in your joints that have aged far beyond the rest of your body. your mind wobbles sometimes, hiding away and blurring what's real about the world, and your own self in it; your heart hurts.

it's almost too horrible to do: let samira—kind, gorgeous, caring samira, who has spent so, so long pushing things she wants to the side because of it, taking on everyone else's burdens with so much grace—in to all of your pain.

but her hand is warm on your hip, and her eyes are wide, and she's stronger than she looks, fiercer than people even know. maybe she won't leave, you think, a tiny seed of hope.

'she died. we were seventeen,' you whisper that still feels too loud for your room in its dark stillness.

'i'm so sorry, trinity,' samira says, even though you think she'd probably concluded that on her own.

'yeah.' you swallow and try to fight back tears. you've told people about it before: a random hookup in med school after you'd dropped acid at a party; a patient; whitaker, eventually; your fucking therapist, even though it had made you throw up and you'd sat, the worst images rolling unbidden through your mind, on your bedroom floor next to your tin of scapels, your hands stinging all night until dennis got home in the morning. it's an awful feeling, but sometimes you wish marisol had died in one of the many other often mundane, traumatic ways you see people die from all the time: a car accident, complications from childhood cancer or some other difficult, tragic disease, a mass casualty incident, even. you don't want to tell samira, not really, with her beautiful jaw and steady hands, but she hasn't moved, hasn't left, hasn't looked away. 'she—um, she committed suicide.'

'fuck,' samira says, then rubs a gentle thumb over the skin on your hip where your shirt has ridden up. it's quiet; there's nothing really to say. you've had too much wine, you think, because you feel sick. but then, a fucking lifeline: 'terrible start to twenty questions.'

your laugh is teary but a release. 'truly. what the hell?'

'sorry,' she says, letting out a giggle that you know she's mortified by in its inappropriate timing. 'this is my first sleepover.'

'okay, well, we can save your trauma for question seven, at least. favorite color?'

samira laughs fully now. 'green.'

'ah, like my eyes?'

her scoff really does nothing when her cheeks blush; you grin. 'no, idiot,' she says—not terribly convincing. 'have you ever been to india?'

you shake your head no.

she closes her eyes for a moment. 'the nilgiri mountains,' she tells you, soft and reverent in a way you understand conceptually. 'my family is from there. so, that green.'

'in the morning, can you show me pictures?'

'i would really like that.'

'cool. well, you can get a do-over at the game, but only because it's your first time.'

samira looks regretful still, so you reach out too, rest your hand on her waist: it's okay, you mean to say, i forgive you; i'm okay with you here; i'm so fucking scared all of the time; please don't leave; i love you. 'you sure?'

you nod. 'i trust you,' you tell her, and maybe that means the same thing.

'favorite food?'

'ugh, that's so hard.'

she smiles.

'dinakdakan, maybe. but specifically from this one little place in quezon city. it's hard to describe, but it's pork and some other stuff. creamy, i don't know.'

she hums. 'maybe we can cook together and trade food sometime. i make a really good sambar.'

you make filipino food for whitaker sometimes, but just because you're making it for yourself, and usually you make easy, quick things, convenient. this, maybe, sounds a lot like love too. 'i'd really like that.'

samira takes a deep breath, shimmies a little closer to you, loops an ankle around yours. 'can i tell you a secret?'

'now you're getting the hang of a sleepover,' you say, but your voice comes out a little strangled.

she rolls her eyes but continues anyway, 'i didn't expect you.'

'oh.'

she brushes a hand through your hair. 'you should let more people know who you really are.'

you finally do cry, a hot press of salty tears down your cheeks when you close your eyes against it. 'gross,' you croak.

samira is undeterred though; she keeps looking at your face, her mouth open just a little, and sneaks a hand underneath the covers, then touches your thigh, just once, light fingers so capable of healing, so good at it, over the scars there. you hadn't bothered to hide them when you'd changed in front of her at work yesterday, and she'd just looked at them for a moment and then at you, nodded a little, and went back to tying up her hair. 'you're a good person, trinity.'

it's impossible to believe. you were a good person once, maybe, as a child—you took care of your little brothers and helped your classmates with their homework if they got stuck; you would share your toys and cheer on your teammates. it's been so, so long since then.

but samira brings her hand to your shoulder, your neck, her thumb on your collarbone. 'you are.'

'okay, that's enough unless you want to see me sob or something.'

'well, if you feel like you need to.' she shrugs.

'next sleepover i'm going to say the nicest things about you until you cry.'

'ah, very threatening.'

you take a deep breath, the first in a long time. 'thank you.'

'thank you for my first slumber party.'

she's so close. you ache and want and want and fucking want, all the time, until it eats you from the inside out, rotten and wrong. but samira is so soft and lovely and you've let her know you, and she's still in your bed, even in the dark. it's a young feeling, one you never really got to have, you'll realize belatedly, to have your heart race in your chest and your palms suddenly get sweaty: not the aniticipation of easy, meaningless sex, or even the thrill of flirting. you bring your palm to her jaw. 'can i kiss you?'

'yes,' samira says simply, a brief look of utter relief crossing her face that makes you smile as you lean forward and press your lips against hers. she tastes like wine and popcorn and spearmint toothpaste and you press your knee between her legs. you feel a wound begin to close, somewhere deep inside you, as she scrapes her teeth along your bottom lip: still gentle, still kind. you kiss for a little bit more, then back up, rest your forehead against hers.

'nice.'

she laughs. 'yeah.'

'do you—uh, i kind of went through the ringer, so we can have sex if you want, but i'm a little out of sorts. i can get it together, though.'

'trinity,' samira says, a furrow immediately appearing between her brows that you very badly want to smooth away, 'i didn't kiss you because i expected sex.'

'oh.'

'i mean, don't get me wrong. we should definitely eventually have sex.'

'agreed.'

'but i… i wanted to kiss you, just to kiss you.'

'really?'

she kisses your cheek, then your forehead, then your eyes when they flutter closed, then the tip of your nose. 'yeah.'

'wow.'

'i was worried i'd totally ruined the mood.'

'well, slumber parties contain multitudes. now you know.'

she nods sagely, though it's clear she's fighting a smile. 'now i know.'

you're stuck for a moment on what to possibly do now when she lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. you grin. 'should we finally sleep?'

'i think i might be at my limit, regretfully.'

'that's okay.'

'do you—' she screws up her face, a moment of indecision before she finds some kind of resolve, 'do you want me to hold you?'

you haven't wanted anything more in your whole fucking life, probably. 'i guess, sure.'

she laughs into the back of your neck once you finally get situated. you tug her hand up toward your chin, lace your fingers together. you want to fold your body into hers, safe for once. she kisses the back of your neck. 'goodnight, trinity.'

'sleep well, samira.'

you wake late in the morning, the light warm through the gauzy curtains. she's sitting up in bed next to you, reading one of the books that had been on your nightstand, face curious and involved. you take a moment all on your own to study her, the way your sweater is loose on her shoulders and how her hair is a little wild. you're sure she'll make you talk about your feelings eventually but for now she turns the page and then smiles at you.

'i can feel you watching me.'

'good morning to you too.'

'i didn't take you for a poetry girl,' she says.

'eh, it was a party trick in college, but i guess it kind of stuck.' you grin. 'and now, you're in my bed, so it worked on you, didn't it?'

she rolls her eyes. 'don't push your luck.'

'good morning,' you say again, sitting up with a little groan and a fair amount of pops and clicks.

she leans over to kiss you, just like that; you smile into it because she's like fucking sunshine. 'i made chai, even though you have the most pathetic version of it. tea bags.' she shakes her head, chastising.

'okay, sorry, auntie samira.'