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The pain of him leaving doesn’t register until after a while.
In fact, the first thing she feels is a weird mixture of anger and defiance. It doesn’t feel fair. She’s done so much, tried so hard to get back the part of her life Rupert was so involved with, all for this to backfire. It’s not that she’s ever truly considered staying with Sam; she’s respected him enough to not lead him on for too long. It’s not even that she was falling for him; thankfully, some part of her brain remained conscious enough to not let this happen. But she does feel hurt. The things both her and Ted said – screamed, really – they all came crashing down and revealed something ugly and raw and beating painfully under the surface of the last months.
(It was Ted who had acknowledged that.
“I don’t think we’re still talking about you and Sam”, he said. And he looked so open, so honest, in a way she wasn’t used to, in a way she hasn’t seen in such a long time, and hasn't tried to see. It took the wind out of her sails, left her bereft of the fury and anger, lost in realization of how much he’s changed, how much he’s worked on himself and how blind to it she was.)
So maybe it’s not anger and defiance, maybe it’s shame. She’d risked the integrity of the team again (and it’s different, Keeley’s been adamant about not letting Rebecca put an equal sign between the two, but she feels in her bones that the difference is not that big, not big enough). She let Ted get away, let him slip into someplace dark and lonely and all that after he pulled her back time and time again from her own darkness.
She feels stupid. She feels so incredibly stupid, and ridiculous, and it’s almost fucking poetic how all her attempts to get away from Rupert’s hold on her resulted in feeling exactly the way he’s always made her feel. She chuckles bitterly whenever she thinks about it.
She doesn't stop Ted, she doesn’t even try. She’s still riding the insane wave of emotions from their fight by the time he lets her know about his decision. And yet, for all the big talk of “You don’t get the right to judge me” she’s been using all the time in the last couple of days, the shock and something else when he says the words penetrate right through her walls, just as it’s always been with him.
(They’ve never felt as disconnected as they do then, in her office, her with the fake bravado and him with sincerity and gentleness. It strikes her how far apart they’ve come, him taking steps forward – towards healing and peace and happiness – and her taking steps back, although with the same goals in mind.)
Ted’s absence leaves a crack in her walls and everyday something new seeps through.
There are some obvious changes: no biscuits, for one. His southern drawl doesn’t reach her windows anymore. The press is on her again, which isn’t a change per se, except this time it takes a lot of work to blame them. She agrees to an interview with Trent Crimm because she feels like she owes it to the team, to Ted. She doesn’t want to read another article about his leaving as a punishment for being a bad coach, a bad person. She doesn’t want anyone to think he isn’t missed.
He is, so much. She sees it every day all over the club. The impact of him lingers in a way the team is united again. In a way Jamie gets invited to weekly dinners at Keeley and Roy’s, in a way players find a way to makeshift an office for Higgins close to the locker room, in a way Dani’s more quiet when he needs to be, in a way nobody can doubt Isaac’s role as a captain, and in a way Sam finds it in him to start smiling at her again when she’s brave enough to try and talk to him. But they all miss him. There are moments when they get somber, like there’s some phantom pain collectively experienced between all of them. They seem to derive strength from it, though. Rebecca envies them so much.
(Her and Ted are… better, perhaps. She should know they will not be able to not talk to each other forever. It took one very long phone call –
“I’m sorry, I didn’t have the right,” he says and it doesn’t feel true to her but she doesn’t know how to tell him that he did, he actually did have the right, she doesn’t know what that would mean when there’s clearly some sunshine returning to his eyes.
-
which left her shaking in the middle of night and some Face Time impromptu chats to have a semblance of normalcy restored between them. It’s not enough. Not at all.)
She talks to Sharon.
Rebecca’s already made a decision that fine, she’s going to give therapy a try. She doesn’t know how she feels about it but hearing Ted talking about how much it helped him gives her a little push. Hearing Keeley say she’s proud of her is another push. Hearing Roy – when they’re standing next to each other in her kitchen, listening to Keeley and Phoebe laughing in the other room – saying “I think you owe it to yourself” is a shove. She loves them all.
She doesn’t want to have therapy with Sharon – feels like she’s Ted’s, which is a ridiculous thing to focus on but here’s where she’s at – but she asks her for recommendations. Sharon’s helpful and quiet in a way that doesn’t feel irritating, not like she’s waiting for Rebecca to blow up. She offers her a bottle of water with a little smirk and Rebecca chuckles.
They don’t fall into friendship all at once but they do start spending some time together, at work and outside. It takes no time to see why Ted chose to open up to Sharon. She’s understanding and gentle, with a slight edge to her and a wicked sense of humor. She accepts the boundaries Rebecca sets and doesn’t try to push her, doesn’t pry. It feels good to talk to someone who’s slightly more objective than Keeley or Higgins, who’s only just met her and isn’t hung up on what they imagined her to be.
They talk about Ted in a way two people talk about a friend they share, while knowing they share different parts of him. It’s not easy to navigate at first, with Sharon careful about not saying something she’s found out about him as a therapist and Rebecca careful to not say anything she’s not ready to, but they find their rhythm eventually.
With Christmas approaching, Rebecca starts to crumble. There’s only so many times she can repeat “I’m happy for him” or “He’s taking care of himself” before Keeley’s concerned gaze starts to feel pitiful. There’s only so many phone calls she can end with a shaking voice. There’s only so many she doesn’t start because she’s too afraid of what might come out of her mouth. She’s been good – better, much better – at learning how to accept both being on her own and wanting to be with someone, at learning how to give herself time and space, and it’s working, and she can breathe a little fuller now. She doesn’t feel like there’s this constant race she’s a part of, the one she has to win in order to be allowed happiness.
But it doesn’t mean she doesn’t miss him.
(“It feels like… It feels like there’s this void in my life where a person used to be,” she tells Sharon, two glasses of wine in, while they’re decorating Rebecca’s house for a Christmas team party.
Before Sharon gets to say anything – and she can hear what it would be anyway, it’s all over her face, has been for a while - Rebecca’s talking again:
“And I know it’s not fair to him because he’s there and I’m here and we still talk and you’d think everything is the same but it’s not.” She gets a little angry at the end of that statement, tugs forcefully at the end of a tinsel and a part of it comes off in her fingers.
She looks at it for a heartbeat, two, three.)
And here’s what it all comes down to: she doesn’t need him in her life in some sort of desperate way. She doesn’t need his white knighting and him to save her anymore. But she wants him all the same.