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Yolanda knows that Trinity will curse her for the rest of her life. But she also knows what she’ll do today—the lone item on her agenda—must be done.
She sneaks a glance behind her shoulder, retainer taken out and teeth brushed. Trinity, from head to torso, is visible in the tiny bathroom mirror, the loss of the usual crease near her eyes making all of this infinitely worse. Her girlfriend’s sheets are clenched in her hand, an unconscious move to keep whatever’s left of what she and Yolanda had the night before.
Yolanda splashes water on her face to wake herself up.
Trinity’s alarm is set for four in the morning, every day. Yolanda would know—her body clock has been permanently damaged (but Trinity would argue, restored) by it. She silences it before moving to the kitchen, already in her scrubs. She goes through the motions. Fixes three slices of peanut butter, honey, and banana on toast, because Trinity will take two. Waters the plants she probably won’t see until tomorrow, taking care to skip the cacti. Prepares the moka pot. Feeds the dog—food, water, fat-soluble vitamins.
“Hey, hey, shh…” she runs her hand through his coat, silently begging him not to make any noise. “Don’t wake up Mom, yeah? She has a long day ahead.”
Too late. From the kitchen, she hears the creak of the bed, the shuffle of feet into slippers they bought together on an impulsive run to the grocery store. The parting of the curtains to let the light in. Trinity yawns with drama and endearing self-pity as she makes the bed. Yolanda’s seen it a hundred times—blanket tucked underneath her chin to fold the ends once, then another to make a smooth rectangle. Pillows fluffed, ready to be thrown back into disorder when the night comes.
She rolls her head clockwise. God, there’s too much tension in her neck today, like always. Well-deserved.
One must imagine Sisyphus happy, even when she’s about to make the biggest mistake of her life.
“Morning,” Trinity greets her, eyes half-closed and voice hoarse. She kisses Yolanda on the shoulder, and Yolanda angles towards her to return the gesture.
Trinity scrolls through her phone for some music. It sets the mood for the day, so she says.
“Oh, look,” she hums. “Close to finishing the album.”
If you miss me
Come and kiss me
I’ve been wishing you were with me all the time
Don’t you worry (I’m not worried)
I’ll be early (I’m not ready)
Take your time, I won’t be leavin’ you behind
“What’s it called?” Yolanda closes her eyes, still stretching. “It’s nice.”
“Ordinary People,” Trinity answers. “Achy? I can put some Vicks on it,” Trinity watches Yolanda make herself dizzy from her head rotations.
“No, cari. I’ll be okay,” Yolanda puts a palm to her nape. The scent of Vicks lasts four, five hours on her. She can’t be carrying that around for so long.
“My alarm didn’t go off,” Trinity muses. “Oh, thanks,” she takes a cup of coffee from Yolanda’s offering hand.
“Mm. You were exhausted,” Yolanda says. Lies.
“Oh, because you exhausted me?” Trinity raises her eyebrows over the coffee cup. “Thank you very much.”
“It’s possible,” Yolanda chuckles. “Hey, uh, listen…I might go in early today.”
Trinity puts her cup down. “Hm? We’re not going in together?”
They milk every last minute in their shared routine in the mornings, often taking turns to take Yolanda’s hybrid Sonata. Sometimes they’ll stop for shitty hot chocolate with way too much milk and not enough cocoa. Anything, just to make the most out of what they have.
“Robby called me in. It’s…you know. Night shift was overwhelmed with the tough cases, and they need a handoff as soon as possible.”
It’s not an easy buy.
“Since when do you kneel to kiss Robby’s feet?” Trinity jokes. Yolanda’s breath hitches, the force of the statement knocking the wind out of her. Jesus. Have mercy.
Trinity, sensing the gap in jest, clears her throat. “Didn’t mean that. I'm sorry. I guess I’ll…I’ll just miss you.”
“I will, too.” Yolanda fills up her backpack. Water jug. Sandwich. Protein shake. iPad. Tissue.
She never packs tissue.
“Get out of here,” Trinity nods her towards the door, gulping down the last of her coffee. “Go get ‘em, tiger.”
Yolanda makes a face. “Thanks. I…”
“...love you. I know. Same,” Trinity shoves her hands into her pajama pockets, a cheesy grin plastered on her face. “See you later.”
You say, “We’re just ordinary people”
Even ordinary people get it right from time to time
You say that we’re no good for each other
“You’re too selfish for a lover”
Either way, I’m right outside
In case you change your mind
—
It’s not an easy day at the PTMC, but when is it ever?
Trinity clocks in a few hours later than Yolanda does, hit with a flurry of pediatric cases—complex head injuries, malfunctioning feeding tubes and pacemakers. Yolanda, meanwhile, pushes aside the ticking time bomb in her mind, hunkering down on operating on sick intestines and fixing collapsed lungs.
It’s for her own good. It’s for her own good. It’s for her own good.
It’s to protect her. It’s to protect her.
It’s the right thing to do.
She repeats the affirmations in her head. Nothing makes her believe any of them.
—
“Love makes fools of everyone”, they said to me
Condescendingly, I’m a fool in love
No calls to make, cause to bellyache when you’re next to me
Self-admittedly, just a fool in love
“Trinity,” Yolanda approaches Trinity, who takes her earphones out. “Break room. Now. Please.”
“Dr. Garcia, I’m in the middle of…”
She looks up from her keyboard.
Is she crying?
She calls over the med student.
“Sutures needed in Room 5. Don’t mess this up, Ogilvie,” Trinity sighs. “I’ll have Dr. Whitaker watch you.”
“Yes, boss,” Ogilvie salutes.
And my restless little heart is falling apart over you
Like I do
Like a fool for you
—
Trinity and Yolanda fall in step towards the break room. The air is heavy. Yolanda is sweating through her scrubs.
“Ga,” Trinity takes Yolanda’s hand. “What’s wrong? Did something happen in surgery?”
“I have something I have to tell you,” Yolanda still won’t meet her eyes. Her grip is weak, her voice shaky.
“Are we…pregnant?” Trinity chuckles.
“Are you pregnant? Secretly married? D…divorced?” The guesses keep on coming, in increasing absurdity.
Yolanda stops her before she can go into dangerous territory. God forbid Trinity is assuming she’s proposing marriage.
As quietly as she can muster, she rips off the band-aid.
“We’re through.”
The silence that follows hurts more than the statement that precedes it.
Trinity bites her lip, unsure of whether to laugh or lash out.
The room seems to sway underneath her.
“We’re…we’re…as in, ‘you and I’? Through with what? Today? Our shift’s ended early?”
“I can’t see you anymore, Trinity.”
“No, you can’t do that.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t do that. Don’t speak to me like a patient,” Trinity warns. It’s the tone Yolanda assumes when starting difficult conversations with families, i.e. the patient is in top-critical condition, or is dead.
“You can’t…it has to be a mutual decision, if a decision at all, and there’s nothing going on that…” Trinity trips up on her words, her mouth going faster than her brain and hammering heart.
“Please,” Yolanda cuts her off. “Trinity, I’m sorry. I’m the most sorry I’ll ever be, and you have to believe me. I just can’t go through with this.”
Trinity Santos is not one to beg.
But she will exhaust every option, every resource she has, if it means not losing Yolanda.
“Langga, I love you. You love me, and there have been zero signs that…”
“There have been many,” Yolanda exhales. “You’ve just been too preoccupied to see them.”
“Then tell me what’s wrong!” It takes everything in Trinity not to shake her girlfriend by the shoulders. If she can even call her that, still.
“I’m not allowed to see you.”
“Who?! Who is not allowing you to see me?” Trinity shouts. “The general public? The Catholic Church? You don’t even believe in any of that! Tell me why you have it in your head that all of a sudden, despite the sunshine and rainbows…”
“Dr. Michael Robinavitch.”
Trinity shakes her head. Nope. Impossible.
“Robby doesn’t care who you date.”
“It matters. Trust me, Trinity. Think of how this looks for you.”
“He doesn’t see it that way! You and I barely work together anymore!”
“But that’s how it started,” Yolanda insists. “We bump into each other. We’re understaffed and it’s hard to avoid you.”
“You’ve been avoiding me now? Right. Right. That’s your thing, isn’t it?”
Twelve stabs in the chest would feel better. Yolanda isn't sure how much time they have left together in this room. Or together, at all. She wants a redo. She wants to write a letter. She wants to slowly distance herself first, to give Trinity reasons to let go the same way she is.
She wants it over with. Now. Now. Now.
Because maybe the shock will make it sting less.
Will make Trinity less likely to come running back.
Will make her less likely to beg for a second chance.
Since this is definitely the worst way to go about this.
“You’re putting yourself in danger, just by being with me. And your mom…”
“I told you not to go there,” Trinity hisses, tears streaming down her face. “I asked you to never go there again. I would cut off my entire family for you. I would stop using my last name…”
“I know that, cari. And that’s why this won’t work,” Yolanda’s voice breaks. “You’re throwing away your life for me, when it’s barely even begun…”
“Don’t you dare try and tell me what my life is. Because, if I haven’t made it clear, it’s you. You’re…you’re what gets me out of bed when I don’t have the strength left in me,” Trinity can barely get the words out. But they’ve been stuck in her for so long, there’s nothing they can do but escape.
“You’re the only one who can calm me down, which I’m waiting for you to do right now, and…”
“I’m a storm,” Yolanda whispers. “You don’t know me well enough. I destroy everything. I’ll only hurt you, and I’d rather not make you wait for it.”
“Wonderful. She’s a self-fulfilling prophecy!”
“You know I’m right.”
Trinity hates how quiet Yolanda’s being. She’s not even putting up a fight.
“I know you despise yourself,” she spits.
“Yeah? Well, so do you,” Yolanda shoots back.
Trinity stares.
I did. I used to, and then for some reason, you made me forget.
The door opens.
“Christ Almighty. I don’t know what this is,” Dana gestures to the two of them, a little thrown off by the red noses and the flushed cheeks, “...but Garcia, Ortho needs you. Some twenty-year-old close to an amputation from a rock-climbing accident; jury’s still out and it’s your call. Santos, child with severe head lac in Room 3. Possible abuse; police are looking into it. I’ve been buying you time but the residents are stretched way too thin. Chop, chop."
Trinity nods, wiping at her face with the back of her palm.
“Garcia,” Dana knocks on the counter. “Don’t let Mel round everybody up to give blood. No time to lose.”
Yolanda has to laugh at that.
She’s just lost the love of her life.
—
“Yolanda, this is an explicit violation of hospital rules.”
“I don’t give her special treatment. I don’t volunteer her for surgeries.”
“Her first day here would suggest otherwise,” Robby rubs his neck.
“I was rewarding her skill! God forbid I choose actually competent physicians to jump in for life-saving procedures, Robby!”
“I don’t think you understand the situation you’ve put your resident in. Her time in the OR, the practice she’s been getting…anybody sees that and sees you and puts two and two together…”
“Hey. She’s your resident. And she’s my…”
“Girlfriend.”
“Yes.”
“That’s got to change. If not for your sake, hers. I’m not above putting a word in for her transfer.”
“You wouldn’t,” Yolanda hisses.
“What makes you think that?”
This was two weeks ago.
—
“Who the hell is in Bed 12…”
Emery parts the curtain, all anger dissipating when she sees who’s occupying the precious room.
“Yola?”
Yolanda is staring at the wall. Not blinking. Barely breathing. Cheeks stained with tears and smudged mascara.
“Why are you here?” Yolanda manages, every syllable flat.
“Robby said the place needed me. Did he mean you, huh?”
Yolanda clings to her suddenly, squeezing her eyes shut.
“Jesus, kid,” Emery sits on the bed next to her and puts her arms out. “Okay, it’s okay. I’ve got you.”
As if on cue, Yolanda breaks. Her head falls onto her friend’s chest, and she stifles her sobs.
"Don't do that," Emery rubs her back, snapping off her gloves to ground Yolanda in the touch. "Let it out. Come on. You'll choke."
Yolanda shakes her head, but the pressure is too much.
Her cries fade into the dissonant cacophony of the ER.
—
Yolanda braves through the rest of her shift, then tosses the keys to Emery. They get coffee, but Yolanda’s cup loses all heat and sweetness when she refuses to drink it.
“My place,” Emery decides. “You don’t look too hot.”
Yolanda leans back on the headrest in the backseat, Emery’s careful eye on her through the mirror.
They stop by Yolanda’s to pick up Corey, her corgi. Yolanda tries to keep the lights off as much as she can help it, making sure not to let her eyes see even a sliver of Trinity’s things. She feels so stupid. She hasn’t even decided on how to give all of it back.
“Didn’t take you for having a loaf of bread as a lifetime companion, Yola,” Emery teases, opening the car door for Corey to go through.
“Shut up,” Yolanda grumbles, collapsing in her seat.
The ride is silent, and Yolanda is comforted by the sight of the familiar brownstone where she slept over countless nights, leaving the chaos of the ER for movie marathons and (good) hot cocoa.
Tonight, however, sleep is the only thing that will take her mind off of things (and maybe not even then—Trinity has long taken center stage of her dreams).
Emery is settled in the living room (her big movie room funded of course by her big surgeon money), popcorn in a bowl and a crispy Dr. Pepper in a tall glass beside her. She looks behind her as she loads up a movie.
“Sleeping over, hotshot? I’m choosing the flick. I’ve had a day.”
Still, Emery nods her over to the seat next to her. They've processed their fair share of breakups in this house, and Emery can sense that this one is hitting harder than all the others combined. That doesn't mean Garcia gets movie picking privileges, but she's getting a little TLC tonight.
“Whatever,” Yolanda sniffles, beckoning for Corey to snuggle up with her.
Big mistake.
Of all 1,217,337 options (that’s how many are on Letterboxd, anyway—don’t ask where Yolanda got that information from), did Emery really have to choose Marriage Story?
Safe to say she weeps through it, and Emery just sits back, amused, occasionally handing her popcorn that she doesn’t eat anyway.
One line sticks with Yolanda.
It’s like a death without a body.
To make matters worse, she decides to finish the only track she and Trinity never got to on the album. Whatever. Crank it up to 1000 tonight, back to 0 tomorrow.
I'm licking my wounds
Blowing smoke on the roof
The thought of you anywhere makes me cry
Sea salt in the cut
It heals, but it sucks
Times change, and people get left behind
Wow. Her fault for believing a little music would heal her soul.
I'd be just about anyone else tonight
Who's not loving you
Who's not loving you
I'd take just about anything to help tonight
To stop loving you
To stop loving you
She cries herself to sleep with her earphones in, the song on loop.
Later, Yolanda jerks awake, the crick in her neck relentless.
It is 4:00 in the morning, and there is nobody by her side.