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At the tail end of the interminable July 4th shift, Langdon finally spots her.
One Trinity Santos, on his left.
Demon. Savior.
Bitch.
Of course she hadn’t been part of the (admittedly sparse) welcoming committee when he first strode through the door, trying to project contrition and bravado all at once. That had been McKay, sponsor and new bff, plus Collins and Mohan with their brave faces plastered on. Then there was King, who couldn’t quite meet his eyes, whose face was pale except for twin splotches on her cheeks. Whitaker, poor unlucky bastard, had been chosen to supervise the daily urine tests so he was hovering nearby looking as uncomfortable as any human could.
Robby had been just behind them all, watching carefully but silently. Unreadable.
He knows that everyone is clocking every move he made. He knows that the snatches of Tagalog he hears when he stretches too long or takes a swig out of his water bottle are all Perlah and Princess wondering if he was going to start using right in front of them. He knows by the way King tenses up in his presence that she is probably never going to trust him again. He sees Mateo and Kim and Donnie all check the meds he's prescribing.
So, bumping into Santos? Literally the rotted brussels sprouts icing on the shit cake.
She glares at him, pale eyes flashing, her chin lifted in defiance. Langdon had heard that she’d complained vociferously to Robby over the decision to let Langdon return after rehab and suspension.
“Doctor Santos.”
“DOCTOR Langdon.”
At rehab, at the dreaded weekly meetings, at his psychiatrist’s office, he heard the same thing over and over and over: make amends.
Easy for them to say when they didn’t have a fully disdainful, distrustful, disbelieving SANTOS right in front of them.
The board is, unfortunately, pretty clear, and he has to wait on labs before seeing his last patient, so it's time.
Fuck.
“If you would indulge me, Doctor Santos, I’d appreciate a moment of your time.”
She scoffs. “Anything you want to say to me, you can say right here in front of everyone.”
And everyone is very much looking.
“It’s not a fight. We don’t need to bring seconds.” He pauses, watching half a dozen emotions – mostly bad – flit across her face. “Please.”
She shrugs and heads for the lounge. There aren’t many people in there, but they take one look at Santos and another at Langdon and seem to arrive at the group decision to get the hell out of there. Langdon closes the door and leans against it.
Deep breath. And another.
“Did you ask me here to breathe at me, or do you—”
“You might want to sit down.”
“Fuck, no.”
“Fine, then I’ll sit down.” He winces at the screech of chair legs on cheap linoleum. Arranging his long limbs in the small space, he clears his throat and makes himself look into Santos’ eyes.
“I wanted to say thank you.”
She blinks at him, mouth wide open. “I think I’d better sit down, after all,” she mumbles, taking a seat across the table. “Is someone making you do this? Like, at gunpoint?”
He waves his hands, palms outstretched. “Free will. Are you going to listen? Because this isn’t easy for me, but you need to hear me out.” When she sits back in her chair, arms folded over her chest, he clears his throat again and starts over. “I want to thank you for what you did. Yes, it did derail my life. And it almost cost me my marriage...” He sees her flick a glance at his wedding ring, just a fleeting thing. “...but if you hadn’t acted on your suspicions, if you hadn’t had, truthfully, the BALLS to go to Robby with them, it’s entirely possible that I’d be dead by now.”
Something in her defensive posture shifts minutely.
“Was I pissed that you went over my head and tried to get Garcia involved? Yes.”
“She didn’t—”
Langdon cuts her off, shaking his head. “She’ll never forgive herself for siding with me, but that’s another, longer story. The point is that not only were you right, but that you saw something that people who’ve known me for years completely missed.” He allows himself a slight chuckle. “I think that pissed Robby off as much as anything.”
Santos snorts. “Yeah, you might be right about that. He didn’t know how to treat me once you’d left, like he didn’t know if he should promote me or smash my face into the wall for making him toss his golden child. I’m still not sure he’s made up his mind.”
“That’s unfair of him.” He sees the surprise in Santos’ face. “What? I’m not a monster. I can be a little caustic...”
“A dick.” But there’s a lift to the side of Santos’ mouth when she says it.
Okay.
“Fair enough. If you want, I can talk to him, let him know that we’re okay. If, that is, we really ARE okay?”
“It’s fine if we’re not,” Langdon continues, to break the painful silence. “I was just hoping, you know, that we could make things a little more pleasant.”
“You really were an ass to me, from jump. Yeah, I made some dumb mistakes, but you were ON me and only me.”
Well, this was getting interesting. “Know why?” At Santos’ level gaze, Langdon adds: “Because you were ME, when I was an intern. Smart but a smart-ass, competitive, ruthlessly ambitious. And Robby just gentled me along, never got in my face no matter how shitty I was to Collins or Garcia or Shen, and look how I turned out. I saw a chance to nip your attitude in the bud and I took it. Admittedly, everything I did was WRONG, but still.” He finally comes up for air. “I wanted to save you from becoming, well, me.”
“You think I’m like you? Wow. Okay, tell me something.” Santos leans forward. “What was your family like, growing up?”
That came out of nowhere. “My, uh, father is a Lutheran pastor.”
“Oh, my God, were you an ALTAR BOY?” Not a mocking tone, just incredulity.
“The word is acolyte, and yes. My mom taught 5th grade. You know what they say about preachers’ kids and teachers’ kids? Well, I’m both, so that explains a lot.” He tilts his head, trying to comprehend what she wants. “That’s my dirty little family secret; what’s yours?”
Santos surges out of her chair, and Langdon isn’t sure if she’s going to slap him or run away. She does neither, just goes to the door and makes sure it’s completely shut. “I need to tell you something, and I swear to God, if you turn your fucking puppydog eyes on me I will rip them out of their sockets with my fingernails, understood?”
“The FUCK...?”
“UNDERSTOOD?”
He nods, swallows. Indicates that she should sit down again. Santos goes to the sink, fills two paper cups with water, and sets one down in front of each of them. When she sits down, she’s quivering with an anxious energy that sets Langdon’s warning sensors alight.
“I can spot an addict a mile away. My dad, my real dad, was a junkie. He checked out on us when I was eight. NOPE,” she says with a wave when Langdon’s eyes go soft. “Don’t make me use my fingernails. Anyway. Mom remarried when I was ten. The new guy, Seth, said he wanted to be my friend. Wanted to be friends with MY friends.” She takes a sip of water. Her hand trembles, ever so slightly.
“Anyway. He was a user, too. Took me a while to figure out because most of the time he was under control. But there was something in his eyes, in how cold they’d get, and he’d yell at me for big things, but also the slightest, stupidest things. Sound like anyone you know?" Whatever expression has frozen on Langdon's face, Santos seems satisfied with it. "At least by day. By night, it wasn't like you at all. It was a different situation.”
Langdon’s blood runs cold. “Santos...”
“Shut up, dumbass, you can’t follow instructions for shit, how’d you become a doctor?” She breathes out, stirring the strands of hair that have escaped her ponytail. “Little games, ‘just between us.’ And my best friend, Maricel, he’d do things when she slept over. To both of us.”
A tear works its way from the corner of one of her eyes. Langdon longs to smooth it away, but he can’t. Instead he pushes a pile of paper napkins her way. She grabs one and dabs quickly at her eye. “Thanks. We were ten, eleven, we didn’t know that what he was doing was wrong. We trusted him with his little pats and strokes, and it felt like a game.”
Langdon keeps his body still, but his mind is racing.
“Then we hit our teens, and he got bolder. Wanted to touch my breasts, first, ‘just to check how you’re growing,’ and then I’d wake up some nights with him in my bed. After a while, he started raping me. Told me he’d kill my mother if I tattled, and that no one would believe me. Maricel didn’t come over much, but when she did he’d rape her, too, and threaten her the way he did me.”
She drinks the last of her water, grimaces, then snatches Langdon’s away and finishes that, too. “I was lucky. She wasn’t. She got pregnant. That’s when I told my mom—I mean, fuck it, how could I NOT? Seth told her it wasn’t him. And she believed him. Didn’t believe her own daughter, didn’t believe the evidence given by not one but two girls, all because she didn’t want a second divorce.” Suddenly the torrent of words stops and Santos stares at the ceiling for so long that Langdon is afraid she might be having an absent seizure.
“You don’t have to go on,” he murmurs.
“I do. I just...” She takes another napkin and blows her nose. “Maricel killed herself a few days later. My mother never did believe me. Probably still doesn’t. Anyway, Seth died of an overdose when I was in college and I, like, NEVER talk to my mother anymore.” She turns her gaze on Langdon, and there’s no longer any animosity in it. “So, I still get all Nancy Drew when I think someone’s using, especially men. And all the signs were right THERE.”
He nods. She’s right.
“I’d actually begun to hope I was wrong, because Mel thought you were the second coming of Albert Schweitzer or something and I didn’t want to break her heart. But...” Tears start flowing now, an unstoppable flow. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean...”
Langdon gets out of his chair and kneels in front of hers. “You did the right thing,” he assures her. Their eyes meet, and he’s assured in return.
God, this poor woman, and he was so sharp with her that day. What burdens we all carry.
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to blubber all over the place,” Santos says after using another napkin to wipe her face. “At least you didn’t react like Whitaker did.”
“You told Whitaker?” Then he remembers the story he’d heard, of Santos discovering the poor kid living in an unused wing of the hospital and giving him a home with her.
“Yeah. We were drunk after a really bad shift, and he’s so goofy and soft that it all just kinda...spilled out. He cried more than I did.” The words are dismissive, but her expression is fond. “He’s such a Huckleberry.”
“So you take in strays? Am I one?”
“Kinda.” She looks away, keen eyes unusually gentle. “Plus, Mel’s been good to me, and I owe her a favor.”
Langdon gets up and offers his hand, which, surprisingly, she takes. She’s feather-light as he pulls her out of the chair, so light that she almost tips forward into his arms. She turns her face to his, damp cheeks and all, and whispers. “Could you...for a minute?”
He lets her come to him, lets her arms wrap around his waist, before he puts one hand on her shoulder and the other on top of her hair, smoothing it down. “I won’t tell a soul about this. I swear it.” He can feel the smile against his chest.
“Better not,” Santos retorts as she lets go, but she’s grinning now through the remnants of her tears. “You’re skinny as fuck, you know that? Didn’t they feed you at the hospital?”
“Hospital food,” Langdon laughs, raising one eyebrow. “Best way to lose twenty pounds.”
“Only weight YOU needed to lose was your ego. Can’t have you keeling over. Robby would never get over it.” She taps his chest. “He still loves you, for reasons passing understanding. He all but told us to take care of you, to be kind to you. And now I’ve gone and made you cry.”
Surprised, Langdon swipes his sleeve over his face. “So. We’re...even? We’re okay?”
Santos appraises him. “Well, I want Robby to forgive me, so maybe if I fatten you up a little.” She opens the door to the fridge and pulls out a Tupperware container that’s seen better days. “Whitaker made fried chicken and I made sinagag.” With a single movement she plunks the container down on the table and pulls out Langdon’s chair. “So, eat. I wish I had a beer for you—” Eyes wide, she claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, SHIT, I’m sorry!”
“It’s okay. I don’t mind.” He takes in her mortified expression. “Seriously. I’ll be happier if you don’t tiptoe around me. People are acting like I’m fragile. Or combustible. Normal sounds good.”
Santos hums, a neutral response, and her embarrassed flush dissipates. She smiles when Langdon lets out a moan at how tasty the meal is. Home cooking is a rarity these days, with Abby working two jobs to make up for his lost income. “This is really, really amazing,” he mumbles around a huge mouthful, and Santos is laughing delightedly when the door opens and Robby walks in.
If he were a cartoon, his eyes would be out on springs. He looks from one to the other and back. “What...?”
“Get him a fork, he needs some of this,” Langdon tells a still-giggling Santos, and she obliges.
“Whose lunch IS this?” Robby asks even as he takes a forkful and lifts it to his mouth.
“Whitaker’s. But it doesn’t matter.”
Langdon and Robby both gape at her. “Probably matters to HIM,” Robby says, dryly, but it doesn’t stop him from eating. “Oh. God. The two of you should open a food truck, put the cafeteria out of business.”
He and Langdon fight over the last of the rice—Langdon lets him win, because after all he’s ROBBY, and Santos watches them both with a contented, self-satisfied little smirk. When the food’s completely gone, Robby looks at them both again. It’s that appraising, “differential diagnosis,” head-to-toe examination that Langdon used to love but now fills him with dread. It even seems to befuddle Santos a little.
“So. You two have talked?” Robby looks Langdon squarely in the eye. “And you have apologized?”
“He did. Beautifully,” Santos puts in before Langdon can draw a breath, earning her another double-take from Robby. “I mean, we’re not exactly ‘bffs-4-eva’ but I think we...understand each other.”
Langdon’s throat constricts, so he just nods his assent.
“And you can work together without bloodshed?”
“I’m actually looking forward to it. I’ve got a lot to learn.”
Robby gives her a “who are you, and what have you done with Trinity Santos?” look that makes both Santos and Langdon burst out laughing.
“I can learn, too,” Langdon says, choking back another wave of laughter.
Langdon has known Robby for what, five, six years? He’s never, ever seen him look so thoroughly discombobulated. With a little of the mischief that had always been his trademark, Langdon offers a chart to Santos and asks for her help. They leave together, almost shoulder to shoulder. Not friends, but definitely comrades.
Robby almost has himself pulled together when he opens the door. He leaves just as Whitaker comes in.
They can all hear Whitaker through the door as it shuts.
“Who the hell ate my lunch?”