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He’s eating a PB&J when she walks into the apartment. There are flowers on the dining table that match the ones he sent to her office, and her favorite candle is burning above the mantle. She can hear the water running in the guest bath, the one littered with curl conditioner and a skincare routine that rivals her own. A window is cracked to let in the spring air, curtains twisting and swirling from the light breeze. The familiar sounds of the Upper West Side are muted but ever-present; the wail of a siren, the car alarm two blocks over, someone practicing Vivaldi’s The Four Seasons. She’s used to that.
She’s still not used to him being here. In her kitchen. Like he belongs.
Her boots get kicked aside knowing he’ll straighten them later. Her keys land with a clang in the ceramic bowl Amanda brought back from her belated honeymoon. The bag hanging from the crook of her elbow is dropped unceremoniously to the floor, and she deposits her coat on the back of a chair as she makes her way to the set of stools at her counter.
“Hey,” he says, pushing a plate and half a sandwich in her direction. “Thought you might be hungry.”
Now that she’s got a better vantage point, she can see the pot sitting atop a burner turned low. The smell of dinner she thought was coming from her neighbor’s apartment is actually coming from her own.
“Noah wanted a sandwich for all of five seconds,” he explains with a twinkle in his eye. “I know this doesn’t go with chicken soup, but…” He shrugs. “Waste not, want not.”
She takes a bite and the peanut butter is thick and heavy on her tongue, and sits like a rock in the pit of her stomach. One bite is more than enough, and she hands the rest to Elliot, who shoves it into the pocket of his cheek in one mouthful. He looks like a squirrel storing nuts for winter, and if her day hadn’t been what it was, she’d no doubt be laughing.
When she doesn’t even crack a smile, his jaw makes quick work of the sandwich and he swallows it down with a shot of milk. Elbows pressed into the counter, he leans forward until they’re eye level.
“Rough day?”
She sighs. “It wasn’t great.”
It’s the understatement of the week. Month. Year, maybe.
“I thought I was helping someone, but…”
She can still picture Shana’s face crumpling as she gripped the edge of the steel slab. She can still see where the woman’s tears fell and stained the shroud of her sister. After 20 years, there wasn’t much left of her, just the faint raised outline of bones that never finished growing and a skull that held the dreams of a child.
“You wanna talk about it?” Elliot asks at the same time the shower turns off.
“No,” she tells him, straightening up and sucking a breath in through her nose. Her fingers curl briefly around his and give a quick squeeze. “But thanks.”
Instead, she goes through the motions with a smile plastered to her face for the sake of her kid. She toys with a stray curl, asks him about his upcoming Spanish test, double-checks the date of his next recital. With Elliot’s help, the three of them demolish half the pot of soup, sort out an overly complicated long division problem, and finish the pint of chocolate chip mint in the freezer.
Sometimes she plays the part of a well-adjusted single mother so well she almost believes it.
But when Noah is tucked in bed with an overdue library book and a mug of hot chocolate, and the apartment is dark and quiet, the darkness creeps back in and drags her down into the couch cushions. She leans back and closes her eyes, listening to Elliot move through her space like he owns it. She hears the clack of dishes as he loads them into the dishwasher, the whisper of a rag as he wipes down the counter. There’s the pop of a wine bottle being opened, and the steady glug, glug, glug as he pours two glasses.
She only opens her eyes when she feels the cushion dip beside her.
“Thanks,” she says, accepting the heavy pour of red she picked up at Trader Joe’s in desperation on the way home. It’s a reliable standby from her childless, single days, and there’s some comfort in the tannins of plumb and cherry.
His thigh nudges hers, and when she tilts her head to glance at him, steel blue meets chocolate brown in implicit understanding. With a sigh, she takes another big sip before swirling the glass between her fingers.
“I caught a case the other day,” she starts. He knows about Sykes and her backstory, and he knows her, so he doesn’t look surprised when she tells him she opened a can of worms with Shana’s missing sister.
“She deserves closure. They all did.”
“Uh huh.” Elliot’s palm rests on her knee, warm and comforting through the thick denim. His smile is soft and knowing as his fingers flex, digging into her flesh. “You meant well.”
She nods. “I did.”
“Ask for forgiveness, not permission?”
“You sound like Fin.”
Elliot’s smile widens for a moment before he sobers. “Your heart was in the right place, Liv. But, y’know, you have a tendency to overstep sometimes.”
She’d argue with him if he weren’t right and she wasn't so exhausted. There are a million lines she’s crossed over the years, rules she ignored or outright flouted because she thought the ends justified the means. And she thought bringing Shana closure, putting her sister to rest, would help her heal.
But as she stood outside the M.E.’s office, watching Shana break down, she wasn’t so sure.
“She asked me to leave it alone, and instead I inadvertently caused a man to give a false confession, dug up a body, and ruined what could’ve been a good friendship.”
Agent Clay had called as she was leaving the office, letting her know Sykes had requested to be formally removed from her squad and was probably halfway to Wisconsin by now. His tone was sympathetic, but it wasn’t anything Olivia wanted to hear, so she’d hung up as soon as she could, tossing her phone in the bottom of her bag for the duration of the drive home.
And now she’s here, and Elliot’s here, and for a long time she would’ve expected to come home and wallow alone with a glass of wine and some Netflix reality show she only paid half attention to. But the TV is off, and for a few minutes all she hears is the steady, low hum of the dishwasher and the gentle brush of silverware as they’re rinsed clean. The heel of Elliot’s palm digs into her thigh, working at a knot she hadn’t even noticed until he hits it just right and she lets out a hiss.
“Those families deserved to know what happened to their kids,” he tells her, kneading coiled muscles while she finishes her glass of wine. “You maybe should’ve given Sykes a head’s up before you went digging, but…”
He trails off, and when she looks up, he makes sure to hold her gaze. “If it was Noah, you’d want closure. I know I would, if it was one of my kids.”
Somehow he always manages to make her feel seen, even after a light scolding. She told Amanda once that she knew Elliot better than anyone, but the reverse is also true. He’s always seen her flaws and loved her anyway.
She clears her throat and wipes at the dew collecting in the corner of one eye. “Speaking of, how are they?”
It’s Elliot’s turn to look away, and he drags out his answer by taking a sip of his own drink. “I think Eli’s girlfriend is pregnant.”
His words hang in the air between them, the ghost of a long-lost conversation thick and heavy. She’ll never forget the suckerpunch to the gut she received in a courtroom hallway, the door of possibility slamming in her face for what she thought was the final time.
Elliot’s laugh is hollow. “Like father, like son, I guess.”
Her empty glass is deposited on the coffee table and she takes his free hand in both of hers. “He told you that? Those exact words?”
“No,” he admits with a shake of his head, “we didn’t have time to finish the conversation before Ayanna called. But they dropped out of school and they’re moving back to New York, and I just… I know, you know? He didn’t need to say it.”
“Maybe don’t jump the gun,” she warns with a half-hearted smile. “You know what they say.”
“Assume makes an ass out of you and me. Yeah, I know.” His forehead tips forward until it lands against her own. “I just don’t want the kid to screw up his life the way I did.”
He does this sometimes, dances around Kathy like he’s afraid to say her name in her presence. And despite the number of times she’s told him it’s fine, he’s still hesitant. Like bringing her up might somehow tarnish the thing growing between them. The thing she can’t name yet, but he has a key to her place, and he’s Noah’s emergency contact, and the moms at school pick-up know him by his first name.
“Your marriage wasn’t a mistake, El. It’s part of what I–” She stops herself and searches for a word that doesn’t start with ‘L’. “–admired about you.”
If he notices her brief hesitation, he doesn’t say anything.
“No, but sometimes I look back and wonder what would’ve happened if we’d formalized the divorce. If we never got back together.”
“You wouldn’t have Eli,” she points out.
“No,” he agrees. “Might not’ve lost all my hair, either.” His lips curl into a faint smile at his own joke. “I’m gonna have to sit down and talk to him soon, whatever it is. He keeps asking about doing another family dinner.”
She’s heard all about the last one by now. Their eyes meet and they laugh in unison at the thought of a repeat. Elliot’s the first one to quiet, his lips pressing a quick kiss to her own.
“You know you’re invited, right? You’re part of the family.”
It’s not the first time he’s asked, and it warms a cold, dark spot deep inside of her. She gives his knee a pat and offers an apologetic smile. “I know. But I just…”
“Wanna take things slow. I know.” They’ve talked about it plenty, this thing between them that’s not exactly a secret to their loved ones, but is still new and exciting and mostly just theirs. She’s not sure she’s ready to bring Noah to what will inevitably be another explosive dinner. He’d probably love the drama, but she still feels the need to keep him sheltered from the complicated lives of adults with too much baggage.
“I’ll be here if you need somewhere to run after it’s over,” she promises instead.
They head to bed not long after. She checks her phone while she brushes her teeth, but the apology she sent Shana remains unread and unanswered.
She suspects it will stay that way, and there’s a gentle tugging beneath her ribcage as the guilt settles in and makes its home in the marrow of her bones. Doubt hangs over her like a heavy cloud, raining insecurities down upon her as she slips beneath the covers.
But then she feels the now-familiar weight of Elliot’s arm drape across her stomach, fingers splayed beneath her sleep shirt, something she stole from his dresser a week ago. It’s worn and full of holes, and it feels like a too-obvious metaphor for her own existence. But it’s comfortable, and his chest is steady against her back, and as she drifts off, she feels sure of at least one thing.
“Love you,” he whispers into the quiet.
She can’t say the words just yet, but she hums her response and pulls him closer. “Goodnight,” she says, trusting that he’ll still be there when she wakes up in the morning.