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First time Trinity ever won anything she was eight. She’d been in gymnastics for two years already, and even at that age she had gotten the distinct feeling it was a matter of time before mom pulled her out of it. The signs were subtle: one time she had a headache, and couldn’t drive her to practice obviously, but that same evening they went out and got Red Lobster. Another time, there had been a lot more traffic than usual to get home from school, and instead of dropping Trinity off with a few more minutes delay, her mother had told her to skip practice, since she’d be so late for it anyways.
Then Trinity came home from a competition carrying a small golden plaque that read “1st place, level 5” on a black marble base, and a certificate with her name in cursive letter press. Though there was no verbal acknowledgment of her achievement, the trophy was put on display atop the mantel, and the certificate was pinned on the fridge door with a frog-shaped magnet for a whole two weeks, before the cat figured out how to bodily throw herself off the counter to swipe it off and drag magnet and certificate under the kitchen counter, forever to be lost among lint and stale chips.
For a while after that, mom didn’t miss a single competition. She’d drive Trinity to every event, sit with the other moms, and every time she managed to find the most inappropriate times to cheer Trinity’s name – no matter how many times the ref warned her about distracting the girls. Whenever Trinity won, or so much as qualified for the podium, they’d get IHOP afterwards. Even if she didn’t, mom would come find her after the competition, wherever Trinity had gone to blow out or cry without the other girls seeing her red in the face. Mom wasn’t exactly reassuring, but she always found a way to make Trinity feel like it wasn’t her fault she’d scored so low: either the judges had been unfair or bigoted, or her couch had stepped in far too soon to catch her, when Trinity could have obviously nailed the landed given a chance.
What did Rosa Santos even know about gymnastics anyways? As shitty of an attitude as it was in retrospect, it made Trinity feel seen.
It lasted about a year, maybe a year and a half. Mom then started going out with some guy she’d date for no longer than three months, had less time to dedicate to Trinity’s gymnastics – or Trinity, as a whole. Even after the breakup, however, Rosa couldn’t keep pretending to care if Trinity was still practicing or not. She’d give her money to pay the fees upon request and even paid for more than one of the out-of-state competitions Trinity started attending. At ten years old, however, Trinity Santos was traveling across state lines in the back seat of a Sedan belonging to Chrissie or Kylie or Luane’s mom.
The longest relationship Rosa was in while Trinity was growing up was also, unfortunately, the shittiest one. In her early tweens, and with enough of a repertoire to pull from, Trinity started setting bets on what she’d go on to call “douchbag expiration date”. The average time was around five months, after which Rosa found a fault to break up over, usually a superficial one that was completely unrelated to how shitty the guy truly was.
When Trinity’s coach in Philly started giving Rosa salacious smirks if she happened to come pick Trinity up from practice, Trinity gave Greg a hard once-over and called it over in four months. The guy was charming enough, had a salesman smile and enough money for upkeep, was handsome and dressed sharply outside the gym. But he’d always had cold, cruel eyes, no matter how brightly he smiled. Trinity had seen his grimace from the side view mirror the time Rosa shushed everyone in the car when Mitoy Yonting came on the radio. In that moment, she had a very clear vision of coming down into the kitchen one morning to find her mother crying over the fight that had come to put an end to a lovely four months.
Greg stuck around on them like fucking body glitter. By the time the relationship crashed and burned, Rosa and Trinity had already packed to move away to Pittsburg. After, Trinity had gone to college, come back and done her rotations in and out of state. She had moved out to start residency, had lived on her own for most of the summer before Dennis moved in, although having him there only made it feel like the apartment was truly hers, that she was able to decide to have a roommate without needing permission. While she had lunch with Rosa on the weekends, Trinity was otherwise entirely independent from her and her relationships – she filed her own taxes, paid for the apartment and her loans with her own money, had insured the car in her own name. She went out for drinks, had a gym membership, was thinking about adopting a cat and maybe renovating the bathroom to fit a tub, because she liked her shower well enough but missed having baths.
Her teen years felt like a distant speck, nearly ten years and so many miles removed from what her life had become. And even so, Trinity would still find there was glitter stuck to the inner seams of her skin. It did not seem to matter how hard she scrubbed; he would never go away.
Lately, the game from her tweens has come back to the forefront of her mind, and Trinity has had to put real conscious effort into not playing it.
Trinity follows Garcia into her apartment from the hallway, closing the door behind her with her hip. Garcia’s hand is stretched before her, offering to take the bag off her shoulder so Trinity can slip off her sneakers. Trinity brought her own pair of slippers to wear around the house, this time they aren’t skipping to undress one another on their way to Garcia’s bed, but the other woman doesn’t give her a chance to reach into her bag before she hands Trinity a pair of her own.
“They are pink, hope that is alright.”
Pink is quite the understatement. The slippers are fuchsia, so intensely bright they appear to emit their own light in the dim corridor. Trinity snorts.
“Perfectly fine, granted it doesn’t also smell like a unicorn puked on them.”
Garcia is smiling like she’s putting it on for Trinity’s benefit, and Trinity wishes she would have just glared at her the way she does at work, it’d be less embarrassing. She swallows up her own smile and puts on the slippers without further comment, then follows Garcia into the apartment proper.
They have yet to talk about this thing that’s developing between them. Too early to call it a relationship, too entangled already for a fleeting liaison – something no one has called a hook-up in neigh on two centuries. There had been two ill-advised hook-ups at work before Garcia invited Trinity out for drinks instead. Even then, those outings could not charitably be called ‘dates’. It was but a change of scenery for the hooking up, something more acceptable than the bathroom at work, like the bathroom of a lesbian bar.
There was one date, a proper one according to Trinity’s own standards, even if neither woman had called the outing by that name. Trinity wanted to see Honey, Don’t! because— Aubrey Plaza, but the thought of seeing a comedy on her own was deeply depressing. First, she’d asked Dennis, who was a little bitch about it – apparently, he had a previous arrangement, getting sensitivity and self-defense training to apply for the street team. After Dennis, she’d gone to Victoria, despite how little they had in common outside of work, and Samira afterwards. It was around the time she pulled up Mel’s number to bother her on one of the few days she got to spend with her sister, that Trinity came to two startling realizations. For one, that she had scarcely any friends, and women on top of that – everyone of these women was her co-worker first, and even if they were friendly, a handful of shifts did not friends make of people who were nothing alike. Secondly, Trinity became aware she was being obtuse, in the exact same way she had spent her life criticizing femmes and straight girls for being.
After the second hook-up, Yolanda had given Trinity her number. Surely, it hadn’t been for fucking emergencies.
Trinity [19:03]: got home safe. weirdo screamed at me on the bus but was fine
Trinity [19:04]: had fun tonghit
Trinity [19:04]: tonight
--Today--
Trinity [12:43]: hey
Trinity [12:43]: doing anything l8r?
YOLO, Garcia [12:57]: You, probably.
YOLO, Garcia [12:57]: Why, what’d you have in mind?
Trinity sent the movie poster. Soon after, Garcia replied with a thumbs up
YOLO, Garcia [13:02]: Pick you up at yours? 17:30.
After a brief debate between reacting with a fire or heart emoji, Trinity replied “sure :)”, and immediately regretted doing so as she felt herself go pale and her stomach do an ambitious flip.
The movie was quite good. They had actually watched it, too, because there had been a lot of people in the theatre, yes, but also Garcia had not seemed like the type of person who’d be down to pay for a ticket and then make out in the dark instead. Making out came after, when they got back to the car, and later after they got takeaway they ate in the park. It’d been a very nice evening, and they didn’t even end up having sex afterwards, despite Garcia’s big fat promise. Trinity enjoyed it all the more for it.
As much as she enjoyed sex with Garcia, and yes, she enjoyed it tremendously, Trinity had become worried that, if she did not intervene – if she didn’t take initiative to see Yolanda outside of work and sex, invited her for drinks, and over to her place, made small talk and tried getting to know her – that was all their relationship would ever be. And that wasn’t… Well, Trinity’s turning thirty. She had never planned on getting married, or having kids, it wasn’t something she aimed for, but she found herself yearning for more than passing flings, for a steady relationship. The kind of relationship where she could change her emergency contact, and have a set of clothes over elsewhere, a toothbrush too. Someone who’d tell her “you can’t take care of a cat, hun”, but would offer to go with her to the shelter, indulge her delusion of doing so.
Trinity follows Garcia into the kitchen. Garcia has a nice, sleek apartment, and a matching kitchen. Very modern, built in the last three years, one of those places that is made in bulk with a bunch of other buildings in the area and is dirt cheap for the first people to move in because they haven’t gotten the whole infrastructure figured out – the elevator hasn’t been installed, they have a doorman and it seems fancy until you realize it’s because the alarm system isn’t working and the tenants can’t get themselves in with the electronic key.
While the architecture of it is clean and minimalist, Garcia isn’t entirely obnoxious about keeping it that way, decoration wise. It is quite simple, plain, but in a practical way. There are a few pictures on the walls outside, but only one in the kitchen, a polaroid on the fridge: Yolanda, a few years younger, with three other women. They’re standing atop a hill, and Machu Picchu is visible in the background – it’s framed the exact same way as it is in so many other photos of people who’ve travelled there, in a way it suggests the guides know exactly where to point them for the iconic shot. Even in the picture, Garcia isn’t quite smiling. Her supposed friends are grinning, tired but overjoyed. Meanwhile, Yolanda’s lips are set tight. She’s visibly sweaty, a sheen across her brow, she’s frowning, though not angrily. She looks satisfied. Fulfilled.
There’s a plant in a jar on the kitchen counter, by the window, growing along the windowsill like it swooned over it dramatically and just kept growing horizontally. It looks well taken care of, but it is also the only plant in the kitchen, maybe the house. Aside from that, there is little else on the counter: no appliances to speak of, except for a coffee machine, no drying rack or spice cabinet, or toaster or knife stand.
On the kitchen table, there are two big grocery bags. Garcia gestures to them.
“Got all the stuff from your list. Except for the cilantro, they didn’t have any fresh, but I’ve got the powdered stuff around.”
“Ah, that’s a shame. But I can work with that.”
Trinity is looking around the impeccable, untouched kitchen, and she’s feeling a little dizzy, like the ground is farther away than usual. “You…” she swallows, her tongue heavy, her throat dry, “You’re sure it’s alright that I cook?”
Yolanda smirks at her.
“Getting cold feet now, Santos?”
No, no. Trinity had had cold feet since she got into the car earlier. Standing in Garcia’s untouched model of a kitchen is giving her full body sweats right through her shirt.
The kitchen looks like a place that’s used only in case Garcia needs to reheat food. Maybe for assembling a sandwich, or post-workout smoothie. Certainly not for cooking a meal for two Trinity had planned on making ‘romantic’.
She offered to cook because it is something she likes doing, because she knows she’s good at it. She knows a lot of recipes by heart, has been cooking since she was quite young, and also knows how to modify them the way she likes, learning what to take out and what ingredients go well with what sauce or spice. Her cooking has always gotten good reviews, from mom, Dennis, or past girlfriends. It had only occurred to her later that she had never talked to Garcia about meal prepping or cooking in general, and that was after she offered to cook, and agreed to send a list of ingredients she’d need so Garcia could check she had them at home. What Trinity had done, in terribly clear hindsight, was hijack Garcia’s kitchen to ‘show off’, before getting a feel for how Garcia might react to that sort of thing. Some women Trinity had met were fucking territorial about cooking and cleaning at their own places.
Then Garcia had asked what she needed, and Trinity told her she wouldn’t be making anything too out of the ordinary, that she’d get the meat herself, but the rest of the ingredients were pretty standard. Garcia insisted, said she might as well double check and stock up.
Considering the size of bag on the table – and two of them, at that – the only thing Garcia had to start with was dry cilantro. The idea of Garcia purposefully getting stuff for Trinity to cook for them, of taking time off her day, leaving work earlier, and taking the car to carry the bags, instead of her bike… It makes Trinity’s dizziness twist all the way up into nausea. Because she offered to, and it was meant as a nice change of pace, taking that burden off Garcia. Instead, she’d only given her more stuff to do, forced her to accommodate around Trinity’s request, her idea of their evening.
“Pots and pans are by the ovens if you wanna get started while I put away the groceries?”
“Yeah, sure…”
Trinity opens the first cabinet under the stove – electric, too, starts up with a low magnetic hum when she turns on the heat – and finds herself a large assortment of kitchen knives. Oh, cool! They look like real cooking knives, the kind chefs buy to have at home, which are sometimes better than the ones in their work-kitchen. Next drawer over there’s more kitchenware, stirring spoons, spatulas of three different shapes, a cake knife.
The cake knife is reassuring. Hardly a kitchen essential, doesn’t get bought in bulk for the first furnishing of a new house, usually people go out of their way to get it and that’s if they’re intent on using it. Meaning, at least at some point, Garcia had intended to use the kitchen to bake, and not to stand empty as a testament to independence. Maybe she does use the kitchen, then, and she’s just, what? A little manic about keeping it tidy? That still isn’t a whole lot better.
“Want help with the vegetables, when I’m done here, or you’re good on your own?” Garcia asks.
“Oh, no, you can help, I’m not uh… I like cooking with other people, don’t mind it.”
“Cool, give me a second and I’ll get to it. Would you like gloves? I have some, don’t use them if I’m not cooking chicken but I’ve known a lot of people in medicine who’d rather not touch food they’re gonna eat.”
“Uh, I’ve never put on gloves—I wash my hands a lot, though, if you have a rag that’s enough for me.”
“Can do.”
Trinity throws the rag over her shoulder, the way she does at home. Yolanda finishes up putting groceries away, presumably, and leaves Trinity’s listed items on the counter for ease of access to the both of them. Then she’s getting her own knife, and a cutting board, and begins chopping up the carrots and the onions, tiny cuts she puts aside on a bowl for Trinity. It’s perhaps unsurprising that Garcia’s really precise with the knife, just as she is with the scalpel. The technique of it is different, obviously – as much as they’d like to joke about it, surgeons rarely if ever chop up their patients. But there is a degree of control one must have over the scalpel that translates very well to a kitchen knife, and other sharp objects as well. Knowing the angles to cut at, how to keep the wrist and the thumb so it doesn’t create tension on the flexor carpi. Garcia cuts quickly, and she cuts evenly.
Cooking with Garcia feels the same as operating with her, and overtime, it puts Trinity at ease. They settle into the familiar dynamic that first drew them to one another, but in reverse – Trinity leads, Garcia follows, eager to show off. Only unlike the trauma room, there isn’t a patient lying between them with the inside of their body on intimate display, nor is there a disapproving attending breathing down their necks. In the privacy of her own home, there’s nothing keeping Garcia from touching Santos as much as she’d like.
Her hands land on either side of Trinity, over her hips, and she leans down to press her mouth to the side of her ear.
“Is this alright?”
Trinity deliberately relaxes onto her touch. “So long as you make sure I don’t get burned, it’s absolutely fine.”
Garcia smirks. She kisses the side of her neck, right under her lobe.
“I’m watching. I’ve got you.” She whispers in a sultry tone.
It’s so fucking domestic it hurts. Garcia’s body is warm where she’s pressed against her back, and with one hand by the stove she’s essentially boxing Trinity in, giving her wide berth to be safe from the heat. Her mouth travels along Trinity’s neck, where she’s most sensitive, but not in an intense, heated way that might lead to more – soft pecking, a slight nibble on the skin, not strong enough a bite to leave a mark – because she’s keeping her promise. Garcia watches Trinity over her shoulder, same as she does at work: all focused on her hands.
“When you offered to cook, I thought you’d be making something to impress me, Santos.”
Trinity laughs, trying to not let it show the way her throat has closed and dried up at that comment.
“Are you not impressed?” She asks.
“Mhm, not yet, I’m not. But it smells like potential. It’s simple, that’s all I’m saying. Not even deceptively so: like a home meal. Family recipe?”
“Sort of.” The real answer is a bit too complicated. It’s not a family recipe, rather a dish Trinity remembers having at her grandma’s house when she was alive. Only she didn’t keep a book, or wrote down anything about her recipes – and Rosa certainly hadn’t put in the work to learn it, then teach it. Trinity found a recipe that seemed fairly similar on Reddit, a few months into living on her own, and dedicated some weekends to getting it to taste the way she remembered. “It is simple. I didn’t want to, you know, spend a whole three hours cooking, and go and leave your kitchen in a state neither of us would be in the mood to clean up later.”
“How fucking thoughtful of you.” Garcia coos, a little mean but in a way Trinity has come to realize means she’s being genuine – just not very upfront about it. “That was smart of you, I don’t like washing dishes. That’s what the washing machine’s there for. I’ll admit, you had me worried with the list… There was this nurse at Mercy who once had me over for lamb chops. Lamb chops! She did the whole gravy from scratch, whole nine yards on the entire thing, it was in the oven for a fucking eternity, and she had to keep putting it back in because it didn’t cook all the way through. Something was up with the resistance on her oven, but fuck it if either of us knew how to fix it.
Trinity’s glad she’s turned from Garcia, what with the way she can feel her face twist up in discomfort. Can she even be surprised at this point? Why is it that every girl these days feels the need to bring up exes in such a casual way – like Trinity needs to hear about it.
“Do you only date other medical personnel?” She asks with a dry chuckle she hopes isn’t too antagonizing, just enough to clue Garcia in. Garcia glances at her profile, trying her best to read her expression from this up close. A little hard set, defensive.
Carefully, like stepping over a trip wire, Garcia replies, “Not always, but it’s easier, right? Got to be able to keep up with our crazy hours, at the very least.” Then she smooths her hand up to Trinity’s elbow. “Emelie is a friend, by the way. Acquaintance, rather, we were in the same cooking class a few months back. Not a hook up. Not a girlfriend, either.”
Trinity kind of sneers as a way of releasing the tension that had set in her jaw.
“Ah. The way you said it, the context, it sounded like…”
“I know how it sounded.” Garcia chuckles, “My bad. Have a little faith in me, Santos. I wouldn’t be talking exes at the girl I’m trying to get on my bed later. That’s thrash pillow-talk.”
They have dinner, and it’s pleasant, but that’s about all it is. Trinity tries for a while to veer sharply away from talking about work, but Garcia doesn’t seem to have the same reservations about bringing it up as she does. She’s upfront and direct about it in a way she isn’t about her thoughts, her feelings: asks Trinity about talking to Dennis, what he’d told her. And what Trinity planned on saying to Robinavitch.
Only Trinity hasn’t decided yet, doesn’t want to be fucking thinking about it the same day she blew up in Dennis’s face about it. Not to mention Garcia is hardly the person Trinity wants to bounce ideas off of about broaching Robby on the subject of her training, of him training her. Before Garcia can get her own opinion in, Trinity sharply changes the subject. And it’s only because she’s so obvious about it that Garcia plays along, though looking rather disgruntled at not being able to get Trinity to play by her rules instead.
After dinner, Garcia loads the washing machine, meanwhile Trinity cleans up the kitchen, wanting to leave it as tidy as Garcia had before she invaded her space.
Trinity doesn’t notice her until she’s hugging her from behind again, kissing up her neck. This time, less chastely.
“Give that here…” She steals the rag off Trinity’s hands, tosses it out of her reach. Then she’s twisting Trinity around to pick her up under the waist onto the counter. Trinity leans down to chase her lips – they taste of curry cream and beer, and noticing it isn’t entirely a pleasant experience but the heat of it, and Yolanda’s hand on the inside of her thighs more than make up for it – however, before Trinity can get too into it, the other woman is pulling back, grinning in the face of her childish pout. “That was excellent. Thank you for cooking for me. It’s been a while.”
“I wouldn’t mind doing it more often, if I got you to help me out like you did.”
“Mhm, liked getting groped over the flame?”
“It’s electric-…”
Garcia pinches her thigh.
“My turn to do something for you.”
Trinity waits on the bed while Yolanda finishes washing up. She’s counting two minutes while the other brushes her teeth, too fucking long already. At home, Trinity brushes her teeth in the hallway. If she’s having a conversation with Dennis, doesn’t even interrupt it, just talks around the brush. It isn’t like she can’t sit alone with her thoughts… If she stops, if she thinks, she’s going to blow it. Nearly did with the cooking – fast, quick decision: can I cook for you? And Garcia said yes, and there was no turning back after that. Turned out to be a really good experience, and Trinity learned that Garcia liked Filipino food, or liked Trinity’s food – either or was fine in Trinity’s eyes.
It’s thinking that kills it.
“What are we doing?” Trinity asked, sat next to Garcia at the bar, first time they went out. Garcia’s hand was in her back pocket, her gaze intense, and she was smiling in a way that made Trinity want to smile right back, then kiss her for good measure. Then maybe get her hand between her legs, her fingers in her mouth.
“We’re having fun. Don’t fuss about it, pretty girl.” – Trinity proceeded to tell her it was a huge fucking turn off to be called pretty girl, and Garcia laughed, promised to workshop it.
Having fun. Right. Trinity isn’t having fun anymore. Yolanda comes off the bathroom with her hair loose over her shoulders, her top over her forearm she drops on a chair before kneeling at Trinity’s feet. She’s smirking up at her, kissing the inside of her thigh, lips warm over her underwear. Trinity gasps, and Yolanda keeps touching her to hear more of that same sound, until she has Trinity grasping at strands of her hair and twisting off the bed with a cry, coming over ruined panties.
“Off.” Trinity groans, and Yolanda complies.
Trinity knows the douchebag expiration game isn’t fair – it wasn’t always the guy’s fault. Sometimes, it was Rosa. Others, it was Trinity’s. Fair or not, she got a really good feel for it, over time, to the point it wasn’t even a conscious effort she was making anymore. Just another way her mind categorized new people that threatened to come into her life and turn it upside down, for any amount of time they might be in it.
First time Garcia pulled her into the supply closet under the stairs on the fourth floor, Trinity remembers looking down at the gleam in her dark eyes and thinking nine months. It wasn’t a conscious deliberation, rather a defense mechanism, a bad impulse like putting her hand over a pretty flame. Trinity refused to let unabated thoughts ruin a good thing for her, but it was so difficult not to hear her own voice inside her head counting down the days to the expiration date.