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Trinity knows quiet like she knows the back of her hand—well and with a certain hatred for the shape of it.
She knows quiet because she knows solitude.
She knows being alone—she has spent the last decade of her life so.
Or she had.
But now there’s Dennis. Huckleberry. Pattering around the apartment with his obnoxiously heavy tread every day before work, sitting on the opposite end of the couch and asking an absurd amount of questions as they watch reality television together. Eating all of her avocados but making her coffee every morning, throwing her a protein bar when she looks like she’s about to collapse in the middle of Central. Always knowing where she has left her keys, somehow.
Just… there.
And Yolanda.
Dr. Yolanda Garcia, newly minted trauma surgery fellow at PTMC. Notoriously brash. Snarky. Arrogant. Many would say mean, though Trinity would not—if, for some reason, she did, she wouldn’t mean it.
Trinity wonders when that changed.
Was it when Yolanda apologized for not believing Trinity about Langdon, eleven days after the MCI? When she told her that she wasn’t trouble but a good doctor? Or when she gently traced the lines on Trinity’s thigh for the first time, pressing featherlight kisses to them afterward? What about the first time that Trinity woke with Yolanda asleep beside her, one arm gently thrown over her stomach, holding her there, like she didn’t want her to leave?
Somewhere along the way, a new picture was painted. One that was still arrogant and brash and snarky as hell but managed to interweave so much softness and care, even in the case of casual.
Or whatever it is they are.
Trinity doesn’t really know. She isn’t sure that Yolanda knows, either.
Still, she isn’t about to ask, to throw away something so good in search of what? Definition? Explanation? Validation? None of those are worth the risk; nothing could be worth scaring off Yolanda.
Yolanda, who insists that what they’re doing stays out of work yet finds all these little, unnecessary ways to touch Trinity in trauma rooms. Brushing Trinity’s lower back as she passes her, bumping shoulders, holding Trinity’s hand to guide her through a procedure or take an instrument.
Yolanda, who has woken Trinity up from three separate nightmares and guided her through a panic attack in the middle of sex and has never demanded to know more than Trinity can share. She has never looked at her any differently for the trouble or for the old lines on her leg.
Yolanda, who started making her breakfast sometime in February, making do with the general lack of ingredients in Trinity’s apartment, and who since has not stopped. Dinner, too, unless they end up ordering takeout, which Yolanda always insists is her treat because she is the one with the surgeon’s salary. Lunch, on the rare occasions that they get more than one day off together and decide to hole up in Yolanda’s apartment until PTMC needs them back.
Yolanda, who takes care of Trinity in a way that the younger woman is not familiar with but that she could very well get used to. Who wants Trinity, too. Not in spite of her sharp edges but because of them.
Trinity has it so good right now—she doesn’t need anything more.
Even if more might be nice.
Trinity snaps her eyes open and tries not to think about that. About more.
Right now, she has work, and she has Huckleberry, annoying as he may be, and she can hear Yolanda down the hall, moving around the kitchen as she makes them breakfast, talking in a hushed voice. Something in Spanish that Trinity can’t make out from here.
Absentmindedly, Trinity thinks of a day off two weeks ago, of sleepily stumbling out of Yolanda’s bedroom just after 8:00 a.m. to find the surgeon standing at the stove, quietly singing along to a bolero. Singing so quietly that she was almost humming. Trinity remembers Yolanda turning around to find her staring, then smiling softly but brightly and walking over to Trinity, wrapping her arms around Trinity’s neck and gently swaying the two of them back and forth.
Y volver, volver, volver
A tus brazos otra vez
Llegaré hasta donde estés
Yo sé perder, yo sé perder
Quiero volver, volver, volver
As Yolanda sang, Trinity tried her best to memorize the moment and the music, to encode the sound and the sensation of Yolanda holding her, of them swaying together, desperate to hold on to the feeling forever. When the song finished, Yolanda kissed her quickly—the kiss barely qualifying as a peck—before she pulled away and returned to the food on the stove as if nothing had happened. Nothing memorable or monumental, nothing worth lingering on.
Of course, Trinity hasn’t been able to stop thinking about that morning.
And to return, return, return
To your arms once again
I’ll go wherever you are
I know how to lose, I know how to lose
I want to return, return, return
She thinks about the morning and the music and the meaning and the noise.
The absence of quiet.
Trinity forces herself out of bed, immediately finding herself in the pursuit of clothing. She approaches Yolanda’s dresser and opens the drawer that was cleaned out for her three months ago, “since you’re here all the time.” The explanation had been given like the drawer was no big deal, nothing worth lingering on.
Trinity hastily throws on a graphic T-shirt and a pair of denim shorts, closing the drawer with maybe a little too much force.
No big deal.
She walks into the kitchen like it doesn’t matter, because it does not matter.
Except Yolanda is there, wearing a maroon racerback tank top and black leggings that fit perhaps too well, her hair pulled up in a ponytail, and it matters. Of course, it matters.
It matters because it’s Yolanda, and she’s beautiful and bold and bright, and she’s making breakfast for herself and for Trinity, actively scrambling eggs, and she’s laughing lightly into the speaker, oblivious to Trinity’s presence as her conversation continues.
“No vamos a hablar de mi vida sexual.”
We’re not going to talk about my sex life.
Jesus. Who the hell is she talking to? And what great timing does Trinity have to enter the kitchen at this point in the conversation?
Regardless, Trinity appreciates Yolanda’s conclusion, that they’re not going to talk about it. Whoever is on the other end does not need to know what she and Yolanda get up to.
“Sí, la otra doctora. Todavía la doctora.”
Yes, the other doctor. Still.
So much for not talking about it.
Trinity wonders what exactly Yolanda is being asked. Or really, how she is being asked it. What does this person make of the fact that Trinity is still around?
Yolanda huffs. “Ya no es interna.”
She isn’t an intern anymore.
“¿Desde cuándo?” the other person must ask, as Yolanda quickly but quietly—more quietly than before—answers, “Desde ayer.”
Since when?
Since yesterday.
Today is July 2. Somehow, they both got one day of the new year and then a day off.
There’s a long silence. Trinity can hear the hum of the other person talking, but Yolanda is holding her phone to her ear, so it’s impossible to make out what exactly is being said.
It must be important, though, because Yolanda puts down the spatula and whispers, “Andrea.”
A beat.
“Creo que me estoy enamorando de ella.”
I think that I’m falling in love with her.
Trinity gasps.
Like an idiot, Trinity gasps. Not loudly, but audibly. Yolanda hears it.
Yolanda hears her.
“Tengo que irme.”
With admirable speed, Yolanda ends the call. Much slower, she places her phone down on the counter and then takes a deep breath, as if to steady herself before turning around and facing Trinity.
When she finally does turn and look at her, she seems… unlike herself. Uncharacteristically unsure. Her eyes meet Trinity’s hesitantly. “You’re up.”
Trinity quite brilliantly replies, “You’re falling in love with me.”
Fuck.
Not even a “Good morning.” Real smooth.
Yolanda squeezes her eyes shut. Trinity instantly feels bad—she obviously was not meant to hear the confession. She especially was not meant to understand it.
But feeling bad doesn’t stop the overwhelming need to know.
“You’re falling in love with me,” she repeats. The six words are different this time. Quieter. Less sure. Questioning.
Crossing her arms, Yolanda glares at Trinity. She has no control over this situation, so she’s panicking—Trinity can tell that she’s panicking as she bites, “How do you know that I’m talking about you?”
Jesus. Low fucking blow. That question alone would decimate any and all security that Trinity feels in their… arrangement or relationship, whatever it is, and in herself, if she didn’t know that Yolanda was making shit up because she was scared.
Because she is scared.
Trinity raises her eyebrows and crosses her arms, too. The action is somehow retaliatory. “Ya no soy interna.”
Yolanda’s arms fall to her side in surrender before she raises them to her face, pressing her palms against her forehead, then dragging her hands down. “Fuck.”
Trinity tilts her head to the right.
“You’re not supposed to know Spanish.”
“We shared a colonizer.”
Yolanda’s eyes narrow. “Don’t try that. You don’t get a whole conversation from the limited overlap with Tagalog.”
“I studied Spanish in high school,” Trinity admits. There isn’t any real reason not to tell her—Yolanda knows that she knows Spanish now. And it’s not like she was hiding it from her. “All of high school, then a few semesters of undergrad. It wasn’t hard to keep up with in California.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“When would it have come up?”
Yolanda seems to take a moment to consider that. Then, she frowns. “I—I don’t know.”
“Yeah.” Trinity shrugs as best as she can with her arms still folded. “Not like I was going to whisper, ‘oh, by the way, I happen to understand what you’re saying’ while you were coming and weaving my name throughout strings of swears.”
“Right.” Yolanda nods in understanding. “Of course.”
Trinity doesn’t know what to say, so she doesn’t say anything.
The two of them just stand there for a moment, looking at each other. Trinity studies Yolanda, trying to read what is written in her expression and notices Yolanda studying her, trying to do the same. She wonders if Yolanda is having more success than she is. By the mild frustration written in her furrowed brows, it doesn’t seem so.
Trinity decides to do something about it, taking a step, then a second, and finally a third, gradually closing the distance between her and Yolanda. Yolanda tracks her movements with a curious expression, the furrowed brows turning into a singular raised one when Trinity stops about two feet short of her.
“Yolanda?”
She swallows, averting her gaze. “Yeah?”
Another step is taken.
“You’re really falling in love with me?”
A shaky exhale is released. Yolanda seems hesitant to answer.
Yet, after a few seconds, she nods, the simple gesture an act of confirmation.
Still, Trinity needs more than that.
“Look at me.”
Immediately, Yolanda looks at her.
“Say it.”
“I’m falling in love with you.”
Whispered. Scared. Small.
Entirely unlike the grin that takes over Trinity’s face.
“Oh my God.”
“Trinity,” Yolanda warns. Not very well, though, not with the way that her voice quivers.
Trinity takes one last step. The two women are now close enough for Trinity to pull Yolanda flush. Close enough for Trinity to see the fear buried in Yolanda’s gaze.
“Just fucking say something already,” Yolanda spits out, the harsh words something for her to hide behind. Trinity sees her, hears her, feels her anyway.
“I have said something.”
“Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Trinity wraps her arms around Yolanda’s neck. She watches Yolanda’s expression quickly turn hopeful, then watches fear just as quickly reclaim her affect.
“Please.”
“I’m falling in love with you, too.”
Yolanda blinks, relief evident, and her eyes well with tears. They don’t spill over but sit there, threatening to do so. It’s almost sweet, Trinity thinks, that it means this much to her. That she means this much to her. Yolanda does not cry.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Yolanda grins, the same way that Trinity did in response to Yolanda’s confirmation. Big and wild. She blinks again, a few tears falling free, then wipes under her eyes. “You are falling in love with me.”
Trinity grins right back. “Is that so hard to believe?” she questions, teasing.
“Kind of, yeah.”
The answer takes Trinity by surprise.
Because it made perfect sense when she realized that she was falling in love with Yolanda. It seemed entirely inevitable.
Who wouldn’t fall in love with Yolanda Garcia?
“Wait, really?”
“Trin.” Yolanda looks at her with a gentle sort of seriousness, though she is still smiling. “It’s not exactly like we’ve been spending our free time talking about our feelings.”
“I mean, yeah, but—”
“Besides, you’re—” Yolanda stammers. “You’re you.”
Trinity chuckles awkwardly. Of course, she’s she. That’s how that works. But she isn’t anything special.
The chuckle must make apparent Trinity’s confusion, because Yolanda chuckles, too. With her, however, the sound is light and warm. Her arms finally find their place around Trinity’s waist.
“What does that mean?” Trinity asks genuinely.
“You’re so good, Trinity,” Yolanda whispers, pulling Trinity against her. “So kind, with that stupid big heart of yours, and so smart, sometimes too smart for your own good, and so fucking beautiful. My beautiful girl.”
Heat climbs up Trinity, coloring everything from her neck to her cheeks and her ears. She can’t help it when Yolanda praises her like this. She also can’t stand it, as much as she loves it. “Shut up.”
Shaking her head slightly, Yolanda uses one hand to cup Trinity’s cheek. Her thumb brushes back and forth slowly, and Trinity finds herself automatically leaning into the touch, eyes drifting shut.
She could stay like this forever.
“Trinity.”
Trinity hums in acknowledgement.
“Baby.”
That gets her to open her eyes. Baby isn’t a novel nickname, but it is new in this context. Out of bed. In bed, pet names are common, but otherwise, it’s Trin at best. Tri and T very occasionally. Trinity uses Yola, Yol, ’lan, and the like.
But Yolanda called her baby, and she is looking at Trinity like she hung the stars, brown eyes warm, the awe in her expression evident.
Trinity leans forward and kisses her.
The kiss is magical. It’s a stupid way to describe it, and Trinity knows that, but she can’t think of any other way to do so. It’s soft and sweet and sure and full of everything left unsaid during nine and a half months of casual.
The kiss is everything.
But what really gets her is not the kiss itself—it is the way that Yolanda hums into her mouth. The way that even in this soft, gentle, blissful, perfect moment, there is still noise.
Noise that travels and reverberates and returns.
Quiero volver, volver, volver.