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“I think Derek might be my soulmate,” Meredith confesses.
“Oh no,” Cristina says.
Meredith pushes away from the headboard and leans closer to her friend, pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth, then seeking any leftover salt and lime between her teeth. “I know,” she sighs. “I should be ashamed to say that, shouldn’t I?”
“Yes.”
Meredith hums and takes the tequila bottle out of Cristina’s hands. The world swims and so does Cristina’s contemptuous expression.
“Yeah. Don’t give me that look,” Meredith says, closing her eyes to stop the spinning. “I know.”
Cristina’s not wrong, but caring about that is something hungover Meredith can do in the morning. She swigs, liquid sloshing.
“God,” Cristina says, swaying into Meredith and grabbing at the bottle. Meredith squeaks and resists, and they tussle on the bed briefly:
“Mm-ey! Hey, stop! Gimmie—!”
“Oh! Oh, what, huh?”
“—stop it—”
“Oh—oh, really—hey—so you think you haven’t had enough?”
“Gimmie, Cristiiiina, hey—”
“I mean, you clearly have. Soulmates, my ass—”
“If you spill this tequila, Cristina, I swear—!”
“You swear? I swear! There’s no such thing as soulmates,” Cristina says, winning the tug-of-war. “Hah!” she crows, and swallows a triumphant mouthful, and immediately winces.
“Seriously, this tastes more like stupidity than ever,” she says, and Meredith giggles. “Where, where’re the takeout menus?” Cristina asks.
“I dunno,” Meredith says, shrugging elaborately and slumping back against the pillows and the headboard.
“I’m not going downstairs,” Cristina says. “George!” she yells, settling in beside Meredith, curling her legs up and closing her eyes.
When Meredith takes the bottle out of her hands, she says, “You idiot.”
“What’s new?” Meredith asks, sipping again.
Cristina grunts an agreement.
“It is stupid, isn’t it?” Meredith asks rhetorically after a companionable minute.
“Mm-hm.”
“Mawkish. Melancholy. Sick.”
“Stop talking.”
“It’s just the way he makes me feel.”
“You idiot,” Cristina repeats. “People don’t come in pairs. Shepherd’s not your soulmate, okay?”
Because soulmates aren’t real. Derek is just Derek. Wonderful, sexy Derek…
“Don’t they?” Meredith says, just keeping the conversation going in order to distract herself away from those mental images. And because don’t they? Aren’t she and Cristina kind of a pair? Cristina, not Derek, is her person.
Maybe that’s pretty similar, actually, to having a soulmate.
But Cristina goes on. “You’re your own soulmate,” she says. “You’re the one for you.”
Which is not the not ‘I’m your person’ that seems appropriate. Meredith rolls her head to the side to stare at Cristina. Cristina obviously senses the motion and does nothing in response.
“The one?” Meredith repeats, and Cristina groans and opens her eyes just to roll them, and Meredith complains, “Gross.”
“I know,” Cristina answers.
Meredith wiggles the tequila bottle again. There’s so little tequila left in the bottle that the splashing sound is very musical. “I think you need to wash your mouth out.”
“Me—? Fine. You and me both. Promise me you’ll never say soulmate again.”
“You neither.”
“I mean, great, fine, deal.” Cristina takes the bottle and sips. “I never wanted to say it in the first place. That was your fault. Where are the takeout menus?”
“George!” they yell together.