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“If you’ve still got beef with Langdon, go talk to him. He’s here to stay, so put on your big-girl panties and work it out.” Trinity tries fruitlessly to ignore the pain in her chest, the tightness in her throat and the gnawing in her gut. She didn’t realise the wind could be knocked out of her quite so easily. Maybe it’s her fault; Garcia wouldn’t be able to tear her heart up if she hadn’t worn it on her sleeve like a fucking moron. Casual. This has only ever been casual. Garcia was right to remind her.
She hates herself a little more than usual.
“But he is n-” she defends‒ or attempts to‒ but Garcia cuts her off.
“Nope.” The surgeon’s tone is as unwavering as ever, dangerously neutral, tight, with the smallest hint of frustration tugging at the edges of her lips. If Trinity hadn’t spent the last six months studying her, she’d be inclined to believe Garcia was just updating her on a patient.
It goes quiet.
Garcia has a hard time expressing her emotions, or whatever Robby had said this morning. She wasn’t in that trauma, only present for Whitaker’s brief summary—Trinity had done a good job working on his gossip skills, made him a more interesting roommate— during a mostly calm half hour at lunch.
Trinity has nothing left to say, nothing that won’t make her look even less mature and professional. Nothing that won’t make her run for the hills. Yeah, sleeping with a woman just as avoidant as her? Terrible plan. Even casually.
But she can do casual, she thinks.
She’s done casual for ten months. Sure, every time Yolanda— Garcia. Every time Garcia slips out of her bedroom immediately after sex, or just sort of… waits if they’re in her apartment and not Trinity’s, tensely sitting up in bed, like Trinity’s nothing more than an intrusion in her space. She just picked her heart up off the floor, along with her clothes, and slipped out wordlessly.
After an eternity, Garcia lightly pinches the bridge of her nose, sighing exasperatedly. “Fine, I’ll bite. What actually is your fucking problem with Langdon?” Trinity’s breath hitches. “And don’t tell me it’s just about the meds, because it isn’t. It’s been ten months, Trinity. If it were that simple, you’d be over it or confronting him directly. I don’t need this bullshit. Tell me or tell a fucking therapist.”
Trinity flounders, mouth opening and closing uselessly. Obviously, she realised Garcia would hit this point sooner or later; she’s too smart, too observant, not to notice and too headstrong not to confront her about it. Still, she thought she had a little more time; maybe Garcia would even end things before they had to have an honest conversation. “I…” She can’t. She’s tried to get the words out before— to her parents, her surviving friends, to a therapist, to the cop that eventually came to speak to her after it all (not that that went anywhere without her testimony). “Uh… He- He was…”
Even Trinity quickly realises she doesn’t know where she’s going with that. What? He was mean to her? Unprofessional, belligerent, unnecessarily critical and tried to turn Robby against her when she caught onto the discrepancy with his prescriptions? Sure, and she doesn’t have to be over it, but Garcia’s right: they both know it’s not really that, not anymore.
“He was…?” Garcia repeats, almost provoking her. “Harsh? A lot of seniors are, but you manage fine. You even managed to impress Shamsi.” Her arms fold across her chest, eyes narrowing. It’s like she’s goading Trinity to talk. To get angry enough that the truth just slips out carelessly. It’s a good strategy, and one that is so incredibly characteristic of Garcia that she could laugh.
But Langdon wasn’t just harsh.
He acted just like he did when she was younger, yelling until she couldn’t take it, trying to isolate her, to discredit her before she ever had a chance to speak up. He made her feel small.
And that wasn’t something she could neatly compartmentalise. Or let go. Once her subconscious had connected the two, everything was suddenly messy. Now, when she was stuck with Langdon, she had to tense to avoid flinching. She had to be snarky, had to fight him on everything, all the time, because the last time she stopped fighting…
She won’t this time.
Different or not, she knows better.
“It’s nothing.” She snaps, turning cold and indifferent, forcing herself away from the softness she so desperately craves. She’d give anything to collapse into Yolanda’s arms, on her couch, in her arms… completely smothered by her perfume. She wants to sob pathetically while expertly trained hands trail up and down her spine.
That idea also causes bile to claw its way up her throat, though.
“It’s not nothing!” Garcia’s the one to break first, shockingly. Trinity swallows, forcing acid back down. “I’m not a goddamn idiot.” She can see the neck veins, bulging more than usual, and the way that one forehead vein juts out as her jaw clenches. If this were in a trauma, with Garcia taking out her frustration, ire or utter exhaustion on Ogilvie or Langdon (she has to bite her lip to hold back a smile), Trinity would already be salivating. In truth, she still is, just a little. But, no, now she’s on the receiving end for the second time.
Still hot, but also kind of terrifying.
Garcia takes a moment. She breathes, slow and long, like she’s counting, like she’s trying to rein herself in. Trinity blinks. That’s never happened before. Once angry, Garcia acts more like a hurricane, tearing through the nearest target and moving on, destroying everything in her path until she wears herself out. Okay, destroying is an exaggeration, but she definitely doesn’t self-soothe; she lashes out.
When she finally manages a second of eye contact, Trinity finds Yolanda, not Garcia. She knows it’s a stupid distinction. The cocky and impatient, but incredibly skilled, surgeon and the woman who gently presses kisses to her scars are the same person, after all. Sometimes Trinity forgets. Other times, she remembers all too well, and it becomes impossible to see Garcia without craving Yolanda.
Casual means boundaries, so Trinity differentiates.
Yolanda’s soft, dark brown eyes scan her face. They dart back and forth, concern evident. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have yelled. We’re at work, and you don’t owe me anything.” Her hands slip into scrub pockets, where her ID badge dangles just out of the way.
Trinity’s the one freezing now, nervously staring forward. Yolanda shifts, like she’s about to leave, and Trinity panics. Her hand is around Yolanda’s wrist before she has a chance to process. “No. Don’t. I…”
Her jaw hangs open uselessly as every single word conveniently disappears from her brain, English and Tagalog, not that that would be helpful here. The weight of Yolanda’s gaze forms goosebumps under her sleeves. Her mouth opens and closes. She doesn’t want Yolanda to go. She doesn’t want Garcia’s cool indifference back. Not yet.
“I can’t, I can’t-” Her voice croaks under the pressure. She curls her hands into fists, pressing the blunt tips of her fingernails into her palm.
Yolanda has the nerve to look a little apologetic. She isn’t really, and if she is, she won’t admit it a second time, but her expression gradually softens anyway. The hall is quiet now— as quiet as it can be downstairs— just the sound of people moving up and down the stairs, a faint scuffle of shoes, and the muted ED bustle behind the doors.
Trinity takes a few deep breaths, careful to keep them discreet. She doesn’t panic about it anymore. Not at home, not at work and not in front of Yolanda Garcia.
“Okay,” Yolanda concedes. “Not here, not now. We’re both busy, and it’s not exactly private.” She drags a palm down one side of her face, trying to make eye contact with Trinity, who is adamant about looking anywhere else. “Tonight. Just… Screw fireworks and come over. Or I can come to yours, if Farm Boy’s out and you’re more comfortable there? Trinity, you can’t fault me for a shitty reaction when you refuse to give me all the information, and you can’t get angry at us being casual when you’re the one who insisted on it. Repeatedly.”
Trinity bristles.
Yeah, fine, sure, she’d been the one to ask for casual first. But that was ten months ago, and Yolanda’s been throwing that back in her face since the second month. What was she supposed to do? Trust that the surgeon who had dismissed her as “trouble” two weeks earlier was an entirely new person? One worthy of Trinity’s complete trust?
She didn’t think so.
Besides, she hasn’t actually dated anyone. Not in med school, not in college, not before Emma died and certainly not after. She did hook-ups. Strangers who didn’t think to question the neat lines on her upper thighs, or how she’d flinch if their hand grazed the wrong spot. Yolanda was a deviation, one that made her feel a lot more vulnerable than she was pleased to admit.
Yolanda, the only one in the hospital to see her scars, or even to know they exist.
This was a terrible idea from the start, and now she’s attached.
It doesn’t matter. She still doesn’t date.
But this isn’t dating. This is casual. Casual plus a very vague explanation of why she’s not acting like a middle schooler. No details, no mention of Emma. Just a simple “When I was younger, there was… a situation. It ended badly, and I never want to feel like I did then again, but Langdon makes that difficult, and I don’t know if I can be around him anymore.”
Trinity’s stomach lurches violently.
She’ll fine-tune the wording, make it enough to placate Garcia, but simultaneously, nothing real.
“Okay. Your place.” Dennis is home tonight, going to the farm tomorrow morning, so their apartment is out. She nods to herself. This is a plan she can work with; murmur a single sentence, have sex, leave straight after. “End of shift.”
“I’ll come find you.” And with that, Garcia’s strolling back upstairs.
End of shift.
That was the plan.
Until the waterpark collapse victims flood The Pitt, and everyone gets caught up in the wave. Garcia’s barely around; mostly stuck upstairs. Trinity sees her around occasionally, when she’s bringing patients upstairs or helping in traumas. But even then, it’s a combination of Garcia, Walsh, Miller, and another two surgeons she doesn’t remember. Night shift, probably. A lot of them had been called in, Abbott, Elis and Shen included. At least there’s one attending she doesn’t have to worry about upsetting.
Her six p.m. finish is delayed by three hours, almost as long as the Pittfest MCE on her first day. As she’s pulling her scrub top over her head, swapping it out for her favourite hoodie, she can’t help but fixate on a newfound opportunity. Earlier, she and Garcia had assumed they’d be finished at the same time… But Trinity’s ready to go, and the surgeon is nowhere to be seen, maybe caught up in a final surgery. She’s not here. Trinity could just… leave.
No warning, no conversation and no uncomfortable silence after Garcia finds out.
She has two days off, Garcia has one, then another two at the end of the week, when Trinity’s working. She could pull it off, she thinks, avoid her for the two days they’re on shift together. Just ghost her.
Not forever… Just until Garcia lets the whole thing go, and they can just be casual. Trinity won’t talk to her about Langdon anymore, won’t complain. She’ll get better at avoiding him and faking playing nice when Garcia’s around. Like she’s over it. That’s all Garcia wants, right?
This way, she doesn’t have to talk, doesn’t have to be honest or open. Doesn’t have to feel her heart pounding or her stomach threatening to spill however little food she’s actually consumed today. Three protein bars… Maybe a banana this morning. Five mugs of coffee and Perlah’s energy drink.
She’s about to leave, bag hanging from her shoulder, when Yolanda appears in the doorway, holding her own bag. She’s in sweats and a t-shirt— one that Trinity knows from experience is incredibly soft. Her lower bun is gone, curls flowing to a little below her shoulder, top half still tightly in place. “Ready to go?” She asks bluntly, one eyebrow raised. So she clearly knew Trinity would try to sneak off. That’s not at all humiliating.
“Uh… Yeah. Yep.” Trinity immediately stares down at the floor to hide her blush; she feels like a misbehaving little kid, and she really hates how Yolanda pulled that off with a single look.
“Good.” Trinity’s bag is yanked off her shoulder and settled on Yolanda’s. The surgeon just walks out, walking to the parking lot on muscle memory, leaving Trinity to trail after her like a trained puppy. She lingers for a few moments, stunned still, before doing exactly that. She keeps her eyes and head downcast and presses a cool hand to her burning cheeks.
She stays a few paces behind, refusing to walk past her coworkers right next to Yolanda and add even more fuel to the fire. She’s pretty sure there’s a betting pool about her and Garcia. Sometimes she wishes she had just let Perlah and Princess go on assuming she was white; that way, she’d have full access to all the gossip. She hears plenty about everyone else, but the occasional, sudden silence when she approaches quickly clues her into the subject.
Who is she kidding? Yolanda is carrying a second bag that is easily identifiable as Trinity’s. A worn, black backpack on its last thread, with sewn-up tears and badges Emma had ironed on in high school. Trinity couldn’t bring herself to use anything else, and usually it wouldn’t matter… But that bag slung over Yolanda’s shoulder is a dead giveaway.
She lets out a quiet, pained groan as she steps outside. Yolanda doesn’t slow down or look back once; she knows Trinity’s following. She stops at her car, dropping the bags in the trunk and patiently holding the passenger-side door open. Trinity finally catches up and ducks inside. Yolanda closes the door and slips into the driver’s seat.
“Surprised you didn’t try to buckle me in.” She just can’t help herself.
Yolanda hums, unimpressed, and her fingers tighten around the steering wheel. “If you don’t do it yourself, I will.” Trinity tugs the seatbelt into place.
The drive to Yolanda’s apartment complex is fifteen minutes of tense silence, the kind you could cut with a knife. Or a scalpel. The one she managed to embed in Yolanda’s foot comes to mind, and Trinity cringes. She turns to stare out the window and keeps her mouth firmly shut for once.
“Sit.” Yolanda hangs up her keys, not bothering to elaborate. They both know what she means. She wanders into her kitchen while Trinity shifts awkwardly on her couch.
She doesn’t know why she’s being so weird already; they’ve done a lot worse than just sit on the leather. She perches on the very edge, then slides all the way back and sits up at a perfect, rigid ninety-degree angle.
“What is wrong with you?!” She hisses under her breath, shifting to the middle of the cushion. But then her legs are squeezed too tightly together. She opens them. No, not manspreading. She crosses them. Now her knee aches.
She never thought she’d be praying for Yolanda’s return, not in this situation, but the woman’s still rummaging around in the kitchen.
Is she cooking?
No, if she planned on cooking properly, she would’ve mentioned it when she told Trinity to sit.
Trinity whines to herself, shoving her face between her knees. She stays put for a couple minutes, when she suddenly realises Yolanda might walk in on her any second. She straightens back up and starts to pull her hair down, brushing through it with her fingers. This way, she can hide a little more of her face.
Her leg bounces impatiently. It’s only been five minutes, and she’s ready to vibrate out of her skin. She could just stand up and walk into the kitchen. She knows where it is. There’s nothing Yolanda can do about it.
But she was told to sit, to stay on the couch and wait.
Trinity had recognised pretty quickly that Yolanda liked to be in charge. Probably the most unsurprising revelation ever… But that specific kind of control was usually limited to the bedroom (or the shower, or the wall, or the couch she’s currently sitting on)... It was usually limited to sex.
She doesn’t get the chance to indulge in the full thought, because Yolanda’s back, handing her a tupperware with some lumpia, specifically the ones from a restaurant closer to her place, she’d introduced Yolanda to their takeout menu one of the few nights she’d stayed for a couple hours after they’d finished.
“Leftovers,” Yolanda supplies, “from last night.” She steals one and drops it in her mouth. “We haven’t had much time to eat, and you suck at remembering to eat breakfast.”
“I do not.” That’s a lie. Trinity’s breakfast is limited to coffee, another coffee, and sometimes a shitty hospital cafeteria pastry, but she’s not letting Yolanda call her out on it. There had only been two or three sleepovers before Trinity had declared them “casual”. That was when Yolanda started disappearing straight away, and expecting the same from her. Yolanda levels her with a knowing gaze, and Trinity turns her head away. “Shut up. You don’t know what I eat.”
“It’s not about what, it’s about how much. You definitely don’t eat enough.”
Trinity suppresses a scoff and leans back. “I just can’t stomach it right now, okay?” She admits, near silently. Her eyes are fixed on the living room window, which is conveniently the opposite direction to Yolanda. She fidgets with her fingers, twisting around the ring she wears religiously whenever she’s not working.
Yolanda nods, taking the container from Trinity’s lap and setting it on the coffee table without another word. “Can we talk now?” She asks, blunt as ever, but she wipes off the end of her fingers with a napkin and rests the hand over Trinity’s, gently cupping her knuckles. “Or do you need a minute?”
Trinity’s heart skips a beat, and her stomach drops dramatically— good thing she didn’t eat all day. She swallows, resisting the urge to smack Yolanda’s hands away, so she can twitch and scratch freely. She restrains herself. The touch is so gentle, tender in a way she’s never associated with Yolanda before now. A thumb is tracing back and forth over her knuckles, warm and soothing. She has to focus on not melting into the couch. “No, I… I- We, we… We can talk, yeah. You, um, you have specific questions?” She croaks out, voice almost cracking. God, when did her throat get so dry? She can barely swallow, let alone speak properly.
“I mean… Same as earlier.” Yolanda murmurs. “I know I didn’t ask in… the best way. Why are you so fixated on Langdon?” She immediately groans, pressing her forehead into her free hand. “That was no better, was it? I just… You’ve been off all day, and it’s not like you to act like that in front of a patient. He must really get to you, and I just… I don’t know. I feel like I’m missing something. Am I?”
Trinity doesn’t make a sound for several minutes; she stares out the window and occasionally shifts her hand to squeeze Yolanda’s. It reminds her of the stress ball she was given by that one shrink. She remembered squeezing the life out of it while the woman tiptoed around a hundred different ways of asking if she was planning to follow Emma. If she were suicidal, too. She said no, and it wasn’t a total lie, she was never actually going to, but the thought still cropped up from time to time.
“I…” This was supposed to be simple. Keep it vague, distract her with sex, and get out. “I told you I did gymnastics as a kid, right?” Trinity finds herself abandoning any possible variation of her plan before she can even process what she’s said.
The surgeon nods. “Yeah. I asked how you got so flexible.” Trinity imagines the smirk Yolanda’s hiding. She loves that fucking smirk.
Trinity tugs one hand free to brush through her hair, as she takes a deep breath. “I started when I was young. Really young, and I was good. I competed ‘til the end of high school, and then for a bit of college to keep my scholarship. I would’ve quit at seventeen if not for the scholarship thing.”
“Why?”
“I had a coach…” Here comes the hard part. Yolanda’s hand unwraps from hers, instead easing Trinity’s tight fist apart and intertwining their fingers properly.
Maybe she could do this.
Maybe, if it wasn’t too late, she could try not casual. She doesn’t know what that’s like, but she’d try anything to feel the way her heart just fluttered again.
“I, uh, I had a coach,” she repeats, “he started training me, me and my friend, when we were… I think thirteen.”
She remembers the day she met him. Her old coach, a sweet but strict older woman, had finally retired, and her classes and personal trainees were taken over by one of the other coaches in the gym. He was still built like a gymnast, even after several years of retirement from competition, he was relatively young and attractive. That was convincing enough for her mom. Her dad took a little longer, but her new coach took him out for a drink, rambling about how Trinity and Emma could go all the way if they worked hard enough, and all the fame and money she’d earn (her dad’s eyes practically shone at the mention of brand deals, selfish bastard), and after a few weeks, that was enough for him, too.
Her new coach had her parents commit to an even more intense training schedule, Emma’s also agreeing without a fight. Pretty much every moment outside of school and sleep was spent with him. He was nice, at first, offering them chocolate or bringing them ice cream after particularly successful sessions. The façade didn’t last longer than a month.
“He berated us for every single mistake, every non-flawless execution, even for gaining weight through puberty. I tried… I tried to tell my parents, but they loved him. He’d gotten to them long before I could, and he—”
“He discredited you.” Yolanda finishes. “So no one believed you?” Trinity finally turns her head away from the window, briefly scanning Yolanda’s face. She notices when the realisation hits. “And Langdon—”
Trinity swallows and nods, interrupting, “Yeah, yeah, um… It just got worse as we got older. I really tried, but my parents just didn’t believe me, didn’t care enough to. My friend’s dad died when she was little, and her mom kinda only cared about her brothers. We were stuck with him for years.”
She knows Yolanda understands now. Trinity doesn’t need to explain any more; her reaction to the Langdon situation now seems a lot more rational (even if her behaviour earlier was indeed unprofessional).
But she can’t help but think… She’s never gotten this far before.
She’s never tried to tell Emma’s story, the darkest parts included. Her funeral, her eulogy, had all been scripted and performed. It was the story of a star athlete and student, a perfect, beautiful young girl, gone too soon. No one was interested in why; the why tainted everything, so Trinity kept her mouth shut. She told some dumb story about Emma’s first crush in middle school. She made people laugh. She smiled. She felt dead inside.
She felt the opposite now, so alive it hurt.
The deep ache in her chest wasn’t going anywhere, even as she cleared her throat and tried desperately to focus on not crying. Yolanda’s hand squeezes hers, drawing her back out of her own mind. Trinity finally realises how close she is, how their thighs are pressing together, and finds her head guided to Yolanda’s shoulder, as an arm slides behind her back.
She’s being comforted, and for the first time, she doesn’t want to fight it. She doesn’t want to fuck it all up. She can hear the steady thumping of Yolanda’s heart, the soft skin of her neck pressed against the side of Trinity’s forehead. She hasn’t been this close to someone since Emma died. She presses her face closer to Yolanda’s neck, savouring how it feels to be engulfed in her perfume.
“He didn’t really care about me.” She keeps going, quieter this time. She’s almost whispering. “I mean… It was good for him when I did well and he, like, touched me sometimes. It was uncomfortable, uh, but… It wasn’t as bad… With Emma, he…” A tear slips out of the corner of her eye, eventually landing on Yolanda’s collar. She’s mortified, but she’s not stopping, she already got this far. “It took a year for her to tell me. We were fifteen.”
She’d noticed something was wrong before anyone else. Emma stopped talking, she didn’t want to hang out with any of their friends, she flinched when people moved around her, and she seemed genuinely terrified of the gym. It wasn’t adding up, so Trinity begged her parents for a sleepover. They eventually gave in, and the second the bedroom door closed, Emma collapsed on her bed, sobs wracking her frame. That’s when Trinity found the pregnancy test in her bag.
“Jesus.” She barely catches the whisper.
Trinity takes a short break to breathe and readjust her collar. She shifts her head a little, noticing how soaked the shoulder of Yolanda’s shirt is. She didn’t realise she was crying, she thought it was just that one tear. “Shit, sorry—” Her fingers trace over her own cheek like it’s a foreign entity, finding the soft skin drenched in her tears. It stings.
“No apologies.” Yolanda pulls her hand away and swipes off a few stray tears herself. She lifts Trinity’s head slightly, sitting straighter and leaning further into the couch, then resting her head right back on the plane of her shoulder. Trinity imagines Yolanda realising how long, and difficult, a story this is, and trying to make everything more comfortable for both of them. Yolanda can’t soothe the grief and anguish in her mind, but she can hold her while she works her way through finally opening up.
“Emma…” Trinity shoves her face into the fabric for a second before sniffling and taking a deep breath. “I think she just couldn’t see a way out. She was, uh, she was pregnant, and our families were— are— Catholic, and, if her mom found out… I tried to help, but I still… I missed the signs.”
She remembers waking up at three a.m. to her phone going off— some stupid ringtone she’d bought on a whim, thinking it was so cool, now haunted her dreams. She remembers how she haphazardly reached for it, knocking over a glass of water in the process. Most of all, she remembers the text.
i love u trin. im sorry.
She’d scrambled out of bed, stepping straight onto the shattered remains of the water glass. It didn’t hurt in the moment, too much adrenaline. She ran to her parents' room, small pieces of glass embedded in the soles of her feet.
She inhales. “I was too late. I begged my parents to drive me to this, uh—” Her jaw twitches. “—this shut-down public pool? We used to hang out there, talk. It was near the gym we trained at. Anyway, it took hours for them to listen, but once we were there… The paramedics couldn’t revive her.”
Yolanda doesn’t speak. She doesn’t even try to. She presses a single kiss to Trinity’s forehead, like she knows there’s nothing she can say or do to fix… any of it. She’s just there, present and solid in a way Trinity’s never seen.
“I’m— I’m sorry. About Langdon. He’s… I don’t like him, but he just… The way he acted on my first day… It was like I was back in the gym. I just, I can’t trust that he’s fixed now, or whatever. It feels like, um, like a trick. Like I’m constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop and I can’t—”
The arm around her waist tightens, pulling her further into Yolanda’s side. “I understand. I could talk to him?” She suggests, “Not… Not details. Just tell him you’re not ready and that he needs to give you space whenever possible? Or Al Hashimi—”
Trinity can’t help but smile beneath her tears. She’s not even the tiniest bit surprised that Yolanda’s skipping through everything else and fixating on coming up with ways to help, to fix what she can, like a checklist. “We have all of tomorrow off, and I have another day, too. We can talk about it later.”
Yolanda nods, grabbing a lumpia and pressing it to Trinity’s lips, hoping now that it’s out that she’ll finally be able to eat. She needs Trinity to eat something, just for her own peace of mind at this point.
Trinity obliges, opening her mouth. She chews, humming contentedly, and Yolanda dabs at her cheeks and nose with tissues.
It’s peaceful.
It’s soft.
So soft that Trinity needs to blow it up.
“This doesn’t feel casual,” she murmurs between mouthfuls of lumpia. Yolanda predictably freezes.
“No, no, it doesn’t.” She brushes a loose strand of Trinity’s hair behind her ear. “I never wanted casual. And I’m sorry I’ve been…”
“A bitch?”
Yolanda huffs out a small laugh, verging on a scoff. “Sure, I was a bitch about it. I lied about having plans before… I threw it back in your face. I haven’t been easy. But, while we’re being honest? Why did you insist on being casual? Everything was so great the first week and then you—”
“Ruined everything?”
“Well, no—”
“Yes,” Trinity retorts. “Who knew? All it took for Yolanda Garcia to be sweet and soft was a dead best friend.” Yolanda tsks, but doesn’t further interrupt. “Yeah, I ruined everything. I’ve never… Dated, before.”
“Anyone?” Yolanda repeats, stunned. “I’m not exactly one for commitment, but—”
“No one. Ever.” Trinity confirms, back to avoiding eye contact. “I have a hard time getting close to people. And college was a nightmare and I didn’t have time in med school… Everything stayed casual. So when we… Fuck, I got scared, okay?”
“I didn’t want to try and be— and be too broken for you. I didn’t want the blowback at work, when we…”
“When we broke up?” Trinity nods. “So we’d gotten drinks twice, had sex once, hadn’t talked about it immediately and you managed to invent our future break-up?”
Trinity nudges her side with an elbow. “Shut up,” she whines. “I haven’t really been close to anyone in a long time. I mean, Huckleberry’s around, but I still… I don’t talk to him, not fully. I think he knows, too.”
“He’s not my biggest fan.” Trinity leans impossibly closer, guiding Yolanda’s free arm around her waist, boxing herself in. She never thought she’d enjoy this, always imagining it would feel suffocating, like she couldn’t flee as easily as she wanted to, but there’s comfort in the weight.
“No.” She reaches out, shoving another lumpia in her mouth. “But that’s okay. His opinion isn’t relevant.”
Yolanda frowns. “Yes, it is? He’s your best friend—” She presses a finger to Trinity’s lips before she can protest. “—Even if you have a hard time being honest with him and yourself. And he doesn’t like me because I haven’t treated you well. He’s right not to like me and that does matter.”
“Not if we’re casual.”
“Do you really want to be casual?” Yolanda’s pulse quickens against Trinity’s ear. She feels her breath hitch slightly. “You said you ruined everything, so you liked it, too. Before it was actually casual. And I know you haven’t dated anyone, and I’m not exactly a good starter girlfriend.” Trinity laughs slightly. “But I don’t want to be casual. This doesn’t feel casual, and this is what I want. I want to sit here with you, I want to be the one you talk to, I want to make sure you eat, and I want to listen to you talk about your day…”
“That sounds nice,” Trinity whispers.
“Would you want to try?” Yolanda’s heart hammers against her ribcage, awaiting the inevitable rejection. She’d be the worst first girlfriend ever. She’d probably fuck Trinity up even more, but, selfishly, she still wants this.
Trinity’s head shifts against her shoulder, brushing over the soaked patch of her t-shirt. “Yeah, I wanna try. With you.” Yolanda gently lifts her head, guiding Trinity’s lips to hers in a hesitant kiss, and they both melt into it. It’s not like the lust-filled makeouts; it was slow and gentle, and there was no awkward, rushed fumbling with buttons and zippers.
When they finally pull away for air, Yolanda cups Trinity’s cheeks. “You should wash your face. You’ll feel better.”
“And you need a new shirt.” Trinity smirks, and Yolanda rolls her eyes. “Bedroom?”
It’s past three a.m. when Trinity stirs awake, Yolanda’s bedroom lit only by a streetlight outside her window. Trinity realised months ago that she’s never seen the curtains closed at night, a tiny insight into the otherwise closed-off surgeon. The thought has her smiling softly as she rolls onto her side, resting her head on Yolanda’s sternum and focusing on the rhythmic up and down of her chest. She’s never fallen asleep so easily.