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Life is made up of days. Mostly just a bunch of average ones with nothing too great to write home about, but nothing terrible to complain about either. Then there are those days that are transcendent, not that you necessarily even realise that’s what they are until after the fact. If you’re really lucky, when you look into her eyes for the first time, you’ll know that she’s the one and can do every damn thing imaginable to make sure that when she looks at you, she sees the same thing. Forever.
Sometimes the days are really, really shitty. Those days are usually obvious from the get go, it’s like getting out of bed on the wrong side is a legitimate thing. She’ll argue that you’re being absurd and there are no peer reviewed studies indicating that assertion to be true. When she clamps her mouth shut, speechless, after you sarcastically retort there are none disproving it either, you’ll be so deep into your spiral that you won’t appreciate your small victory. You won’t even notice it.
You’ll spill your coffee on your brand new expensive shirt that she bought you and even though she’ll laugh it off, because she can afford to buy you the company that makes the shirts, you’ll walk around with a dark cloud over your head all day.
You’ll run into your overbearing, nosy mother while surrounded by the best and brightest gossip mongers that the Boston Police Department has to offer. Of course it’s only natural that at this point she’ll ask you in her very distinct and effortlessly loud voice about whether you’ve popped the question yet? Because she really can’t wait to have a doctor in the family.
You won’t have time for her nonsense and because you got up on the wrong side of the bed this morning (it is a thing damnit), you’ll berate her in front of your brother. Of course that results in him confronting you about it in the elevator and naturally he will refuse to listen. Anyone else with half a brain would realise today is not the day to poke the bear, but not Frankie. Nope, Frankie hounds you until you jam your index finger into his chest and tell him to mind his own beeswax.
Instead of heading up to homicide, you’ll head down to the morgue, because surely, even though you left the house ahead of the one ray of sunshine in your life, she’ll be at work by now. Except she isn’t, because you forgot that as you walked out the door, in too much of a hurry to drive to work together, she took a call. Her assistant is overly cheery and lets you know that she is attending a body in Back Bay, a suspicious death. You’ll force a smile and you’ll stomp back down the hall, like only you can.
Instead of taking the elevator back up, you’ll take the stairs. You’ll take them because at that moment you’re working a case with a modus operandi eerily similar to that of Hoyt. Despite logically knowing that Charles Hoyt, the serial killer that had a serious hard on for you, is dead and buried, it hits you differently. You’ll need a minute to plant a palm against the wall, while pounding on your chest in an attempt to get yourself breathing again. Panic isn’t a good look, but she taught you some breathing exercises. You’ll close your eyes and picture how the soft light from the lamp lights up her golden locks like a halo. You’re very own personal angel who is making the most ridiculous faces as she talks you through your anxiety. You’ll remember her hand on your arm and how it soothed you. You’ll take those lessons and you’ll calm yourself down. You’ll sit down on the stairs, while the last of your breaths even out and you’ll take a moment to ponder that Hoyt is why you woke up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, because last night ended dreadfully.
That was yet another different type of day though, wasn’t it? It was the kind of day you’ve been having almost every day since you got over your Catholic guilt and fear of judgement and actually told her how you feel. So many of those above average, good to great days have been occurring. No wonder your mother is bailing you up asking you about popping the question. Because you should. You want to. You’ve been thinking about it, if you’re honest, since the moment you met her. Cliché but true. You don’t imagine anyone really believes in love at first sight in this day and age, you sure didn’t, but it happened and the results have been mostly wonderful.
A different kind of day indeed. A fantastic day that you just knew in your heart of hearts was going to end in one of those transcendent moments. One that you knew was coming before it even arrived. Because you intended to ask her that night, but your wonderful day devolved into an absolute nightmare. Copycat? Apprentice? Nobody knows. You just know that the ring is sitting in the pocket of your jacket you left hanging on the back of the couch when you both arrived home near two in the morning, too exhausted to climb the stairs. Eventually she coaxed you into trudging up the stairs and collapsing onto the bed. You fell asleep on the opposite side of the bed than you normally do. You woke up on the wrong damn side of the bed.
You’ll finish your moment and you’ll head back up the stairs because you have a job to do. You’ll work your tail off and every single time you head downstairs, desperate for that little ray of sunshine, she’ll be busy. Your mood will plummet even further and she’s long gone when Frost and Korsak finally talk you into going home. Sometimes you are too hard headed when on a case. But, damnit, this case has you shook and you know she understands. She always understands.
She’ll text you asking if you’re okay and you’ll know you’re not. You’ll know you’re fighting ghosts and you’ll know that tonight’s going to be rough. You won’t want to drive all the way out to Beacon Hill, you’ll just want to go to sleep in your own bed. You’ll call her, because you miss her voice.
“Hey,” you’ll say.
She’ll skip pleasantries, because she knows you all too well and with one simple utterance of your name, her words will convey so much concern and ask a dozen questions that all boil down to, ‘what can I do?’
“I need to clear my head,” you’ll hear yourself say and even to your ears it sounds hollow and absent. You can’t shake the memories of a scalpel to your throat. A shudder will roll down your spine and your palms will start to ache. A permanent reminder of that vile piece of crap that still haunts your dreams. “Don’t wait up.”
All you’ll hear is her soft breathing, and you’ll know that her super computer brain is working overtime to calculate the best course of action. You’ll close your vehicle door and so that you didn’t lie to her you’ll stand outside your apartment building sucking in the crisp night air. The weather’s starting to turn, it’ll be getting mighty cold real soon.
She’ll still be calculating when a loud clattering comes from two doors down, making you jump. Your heart rate will quicken even as you quickly assess it was just a stray cat trying to get into a neighbour’s garbage can. You’ll distract yourself with the quaint comfort provided by the look and feel of a dark night, with front porch lights and street lights providing illumination. Then you’ll remember this is Boston and it’s been long enough for your statement to be true.
You’ll trudge up the steps of your apartment building, pausing with your free hand on the lobby door to say, “I just wanted to say, I love you.”
You’ll hear the smile in her voice when she says, “I love you too.”
You’ll close your eyes for a moment to soak it in. This woman gets you and it is everything. You briefly think about turning around and getting back in your car and driving to Beacon Hill, but then Hoyt flashes across the back of your eyelids and you know that you won’t be going anywhere. Not tonight.
You’ll plaster a smile on your face in the hopes that you’ll sound better than you feel. In the hopes she won’t hear your anxiety and anguish. In the hopes that you can go to bed and wake up on the right side. In the hopes that all the pain that you live with every damn day will subside enough for you to put on a happy face tomorrow.
“Goodnight, Maura.”
There’ll be more silence on the line and you’ll know deep down in your soul that you failed. She’ll eventually say, “Goodnight Jane.”
You’ll end the call, pocket your phone and make your way inside. You’ll open your fridge looking for something to drink and pull out a beer. You’ll pop the top using the counter, take a couple of swigs and feel completely unsatisfied. You’ll think about opening the top shelf liquor, but you won’t. You’ll just leave the beer on your counter and head to bed. You’ll not even bother taking off your shoes, you’ll just flop down onto your back and stare at the ceiling. You’ll count the seconds.
Your hand will reach towards the empty side of the bed and you’ll wish you’d had the balls to ask her to come over. You’ll wish you knew how to ask for help when you needed it. Tears will trickle down your face and you’ll eventually fall asleep.
You’ll wake in the morning feeling disorientated because you’re not used to sleeping in your own apartment anymore. You only keep it because you’re not married yet and some traditions still mean something to you. Not that anyone could really tell, you practically live with her.
This is when you’ll realise you’re not alone. There’s a hand intertwined with your own. You’ll turn your head to the side and you’ll see her there, watching you closely. Your mouth is dry, but you’ll manage to quirk an eyebrow. You could get lost in her eyes, hazel with flecks of green. Mesmerising.
You’ll push up on your elbows and make sure you’re really looking at her, “How long have you been here?”
“All night.”
You’ll stare at her and you won’t even realise how incredulous you look. Your mouth will be hanging open for much longer than it ought to and while you’ll eventually clamp it shut you’ll have zero cognisance of it at all. Not for a very long time. Because all that matters in this moment is the preternatural feeling of calm that permeates from the very core of you just thinking about her answer.
“I didn’t…” you’ll stumble over your words.
“You didn’t have to.”
You’ll take your time processing this as you slide your feet around and plant them on the floor. Although as your feet hit the carpet you’ll look down because you could have sworn you left your shoes on last night. Also, when the Hell did you change into sweats and a Red Sox tee shirt? You’ll swing your body around and look at her in surprise.
She’ll sit up and say, “You’ve been in and out all night, darling. During one of your more lucid phases I helped you get more comfortable.”
You don’t recall drinking that much. In fact you’re sure you only drank a couple of mouthfuls of beer before bed. Crap. This case must really be getting to you. At least, you’ll think it is, because it’s hard to tell. You’ll still be riding the high from the calm flooding your system.
God, she’s beautiful.
She’ll smile at you and all you’ll think is that this woman is the love of your life and you’re tired of pushing her away. She has quite literally seen you at your worst. She also gets the best you can give on any given day and doesn’t complain, even when that best is last night. She’s everything and you are taking too damn long to do what you should have done years ago.
You’ll climb off the bed, walk around to her side, take her by the hand and get down on one knee. With absolutely zero fanfare, but the knowledge that this impromptu moment may well be the most important of your life, you’ll say, “Marry me.”
She’ll look at you strangely and you’ll start to panic, blurting out a chain of barely coherent thoughts. “I know this is nuts. I know you deserve a fancy proposal at a nice restaurant and a ring. Fudge. I have a ring. It’s in my jacket, on your couch.”
She’ll pat the hand holding hers and she’ll smile softly. You’ll feel your heart rate increase exponentially and hope bloom eternal in your chest. You feel it. You’ll break out in a giant cheesy grin before she can even answer.
“I thought you’d never ask.”
“Well to be fair…”
She’ll stand and tug on your hand encouraging you upwards, interrupting your train of thought. Her eyes sparkle like diamonds. “Jane, shut up and kiss me.”
You’ll do precisely that and it doesn’t last nearly as long as it should, but you don’t mind because you are one of the lucky few. You recognise this day for precisely what it is.
“Jane?”
“Yeah?”
“Brush your teeth.”
You’ll look at her for half a second and then you’ll burst out laughing as she shoves you in the direction of the en-suite. You just know that one day in the future, she’s going to tell your kids about the time their Ma proposed and they are going to feel mortified for you.
“To be fair,” you’ll say, “I was just doing what you told me to do.”
She’ll smirk and you’ll brush your teeth. Because for your entire life something has been missing. As you stare into the mirror at the eyes with bags as dark as your irises under them and the unruliest hair you’ve ever seen, you’ll realise you are whole.
Maura Isles is your fiancée. Now that is one way to start the day.
Transcendent.