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It was one a.m. when you got the phone call. You were tired and weren't not too keen on answering your landline at this hour, but might as well if you're up, right?
You answer the phone. "Hello?"
"Do you know a—what's her name?" A hand must've been put over the receiver because all you heard was muffled chatter. "Do you know a woman named Mary Kline?"
You paused, taken aback by your ex-wife's name. The divorce is fresh; it's only been a little under half a year (five months and twenty-two days).
You took a deep breath in. "Yes. I know her. I'm a friend."
"There's been an incident."
Your blood runs cold. "What? Is she okay? What happened? Does she-"
You're cut off by the voice saying and address. Then a beep. They had hung up.
You didn't recall ever rushing out the door so fast. Even in the most urgent of moments, you had always managed to at least throw on something appropriate before leaving the house. It had been something that Mary had always despised: how you were never punctual. Despite her efforts, you never really got anywhere on time. On your first date, she thought she was stood up. Turns out you couldn't decide on an outfit. She was relieved when she saw you. Somehow, once the dilemma was relayed, she even laughed about it. You were nervous; how cute. She found your flaws more charming back then.
Now you hoped she was alive to nag you once more. You'd kill to hear her complaints again.
Where were they sending you? A hospital? At least she isn't on the side of the road in some ditch—what if it's worse? Is it a morgue?
Your eyes scan the buildings as you roll down the street they sent you to. It's a town over, but you're familiar enough with the area to know your way around. The roads are barren and so are the parking lots. You don't see a hospital, so you're hoping to at least see a building with some sign of life. Your eyes move from left to right as they sweep across the buildings. They stop on a facility of sorts that seems open. You pull in to the parking lot.
You saw a few people outside. Some man in a lab coat paired with two other people. Another man and… Mary? Your hand fumbles with the door handle. Of all times for it to fucking sticky. You shoved it open and stumbled out. You bolted over to Mary who looked oddly fine. Quiet, maybe. You slowed down as you approached, looking between the three, perplexed. Now that you were closer, you realized the real only real thing "wrong" about her was her slightly disheveled hair and all white clothing.
"Mary… are you-"
"Please just take me home," she cuts you off.
You nod. Questions can be answered later, you suppose.
She walks with you back to your car. You open the door for her just like you used to. It's noticeable that she is thinking the same thing; her gaze lingers on you a few seconds before getting in. You close the door and get in yourself (now the driver side door wants to cooperate).
You applaud yourself for managing to make it a minute into the drive before asking your first question. "Are you okay?"
"Yes," she replies. Short. Curt. She won't even even spare a glance. Is she that shaken up?
"What happened?"
"It's hard to explain."
"You can try."
"It's too long a story."
You pause and weigh your options: push or leave her be.
"Who were those people?" you continue.
"Long story." Mary's voice comes out quieter this time.
"Is anything a short story?"
No reply.
You sigh and focus on the road. She can be as intractable as she wants. It's unlike her though. You used to be the first person she'd tell things to. It bothers you more than you'd like to admit that she's so quiet. You miss her voice.
You sneak a glance at her, finding her asleep. It is late after all. Whatever happened, it must have left her tired. It would be best not to wake her.
You don't realize you were driving back to your home before you pulled into your driveway. Now you realize you probably should have asked where she lives. Regardless, you don't want her alone (and, selfishly, you want at least a night with her before she's gone forever).
You struggle with the door again but eventually get it open. You make your way over to the other side of the car and open the door.
You allow yourself to take her in for a moment. She's dead asleep: lips slightly parted, on the verge of drooling, and her head is lolled against the headrest. Her hair is sticking up, too. She has never looked cuter. Instinctively, your hand reaches out. Your hand pauses halfway. You don't get those privileges anymore. The hand comes up to your chest as you cross them, accompanied by a deep breath. You don't really trust yourself not to do something stupid if your hands are left unoccupied.
You clear your throat. "Mary, wake up."
She blinks her eyes open and sits up. "I didn't tell you my address."
You look away awkwardly. "You didn't. I took you back to our—well, my house now, I guess."
"You should take me home."
"Maybe just spend one night here? I don't know… you seemed a little shaken up back there and maybe you shouldn't be alone." Your voice comes out as uncertain as you feel.
"Do you really think that's a good idea?" she asks in that soft way you assume she only uses with her patients. It makes you angry, honestly, how detached she seems. You don't want her to view you as one of her patients, but, god, if you don't need her help. You miss the comfort that only she could provide. Life without her isn't easy. She might have been the only one who knew all parts of you. Not many people knew about your sexuality—not many were accepting. Before she was your wife, she was your friend, your confidant. But she's not your anything anymore, and no one ever took her place.
She left you so lonely.
Anyone who knew you would say you're insane for saying that. You have friends, family, everything, but it never felt like it all belonged to you—the real you. It all belonged to the part you played.
You just want your friend back.
You relent. "If you want me to take you home, I'll do it right now, but if you think you'd sleep better here, stay. It's your choice." You raise your hands in surrender.
She considers it, tapping a finger against the center console while her spare hand plays with her necklace. She seems conflicted (her poker face was awful).
The smallest, most dangerous spark of hope sparks at the sight.
She gets out of the car.
You smile softly and guide her inside.
Her eyes take in everything the second she steps in. Nothing has changed, really. You have the same decorations, the same crooked coat hanger that Mary had given up on getting you to level.
She runs her fingers over the slope. "This really never bothered you?"
You shrug. "I mean, it's only the doorway. Besides, no one sees it; hosting was more your thing."
She huffed a small laugh. Hosting was her thing, and you despised it. There was never a time you didn't complain while preparing food for guests and cleaning up after, but somehow you fit right in during her gatherings. You easily charmed each and every one of her friends. She was even certain some liked you more than her.
Your eyes playfully narrowed as you stepped further in. "Something funny, Dr. Kline?"
"For someone who keeps on complaining and disavowing ever liking these parties, you seemed very at home in them. Makes me think you're lying."
You roll your eyes at her comment. "I think of those parties as an acting exercise with how much of a face I put on."
She nudges your arm. "Even after you're three drinks in and stumbling everywhere?"
Your faces heats up. "That barely happened."
"It happened every time you got around my friends for too long."
Once you both reach your bedroom, Mary stops in her tracks and stares at the nightstand. What could be out that she hasn't seen— the book. The stupid fucking book.
She takes the book in her hands and examines it. It's relatively new but clearly used (the front cover is curled up). She flips through the pages before she places it down and turns to you.
"You bought a copy?" Mary asks. Her head is tilted in that way that used to make your heart flutter and make you fumble with words.
"Um, well… you only spent, like, months keeping me up with your scribbling and whispering pages back to yourself—not that I minded. I just needed to see if it was worth the lack of sleep. And it was, of course! Never doubted it… hum… really good book."
By the time you built up the courage to look her in the eyes again, you see how pleased she looks. She smiles and looks away rather bashfully.
"You mean that?" she asks.
"I do. It's very insightful and well written. You did good, Mary." You're entirely sincere, too. Her effort reflects in her work.
Mary's eyes catch on your shelf. It was mostly for the books you were planning on reading next or even currently cycling between. Recently, though, it houses your cassette player… with Mary's narration of her book. She's too observant for her own good.
"You even got the audio series?" Mary stepped over to your shelf.
That one was more embarrassing. You got that on a particularly bad night while you were convincing yourself not to call her. Hearing her voice in any way helped—it even helped you sleep better. You hate to admit it, but you've slept to the sound of it more times than you could recount.
You take the time to look around to make sure nothing else will pop out at her saying "look at your loser ex-wife!" while answering. "Yeah. Just… supporting you, I guess."
"That's sweet of you." She looks back at you with a soft smile.
All of this makes you feel like when you first met her. You were enamored with her from the moment you saw her.
This was a horrible idea. You should have driven her home without protest.
You avert your gaze and look at the clock. It's 2 a.m. already. You clear your throat. "It's late. You're tired, probably. You can sleep here, if you want. I'm fine on the couch."
"It's your bedroom," she protests.
"Used to be ours. Besides, you chose that mattress. The bed to really more yours. Just use it for tonight, and help yourself to whatever clothes you want to wear from the closet. Maybe you'll find some of your own left." You leave before she can protest a second time.
Mary is back in your house, and she's still… Mary. You must have no backbone, you think. Because there is no rage, no frustration, no sadness— nothing. Except, well, love. You never stopped loving her.
"Fuck-" you stumble over your rug.
And she's the same Mary that makes you act like a fool, you add to the list of similarities.
You sink down onto the couch with a sigh. Blood is rushing through your veins at ungodly speeds just at the knowledge of her being in the same house. This is going to be a long night.
You lay yourself down flat across the couch cushions and try to get a little sleep.
You rub at your eyes and look around you. Still dark. A groan escapes your lips as your hands come up to cover your face.
You're not used to this. You never slept on the couch when you were with Mary (the best perk of marrying a therapist was that problems were resolved quickly). No, you did sleep on the couch one night. The night when you made… the decision—the night you split? It all sounds wrong. Divorce is two strong for two people that weren't even legally married, but everything else sounded too causal.
It wasn't an awful argument, just a big disagreement on where this life was heading. You were done with hiding and wanted to move somewhere more accepting, Mary was content here. You were adamant on it, bringing it up again and again. Soon after, Mary just accepted that you had different ideals and she… packed up and just left. She stayed with a friend for a bit, you think, but you don't know for certain. It was too painful to ask.
You didn't need to hide anymore.
But you didn't have anything else to hide, either. No part of your heart had to be protected, shielded away from the world.
You wish you had something to hide again.
You push yourself up and make your way to the kitchen. A few beers were left over from the last time you drank with friends. You intend on using them.
You fish out a bottle opener from the drawer and pop off the cap.
"You do realize that people start drinking at five p.m., not a.m., right?" Mary asks as she walks into the kitchen.
You almost drop your beer but catch it before a ton has spilled all over your counter. "Yeah, yeah. I know." You grab a paper towel and wipe the liquid up. "I haven't become some alcoholic since you left me. It's just been a hell of a night. I can't sleep."
Her stillness is noticeable even when your back is turned. The awkwardness is radiating off of her, probably triggering by the first mention of your "divorce."
She takes a seat at the table. "I wouldn't mind one, honestly."
You huff a laugh. "Hypocrite."
You get her a bottle regardless and pass her the bottle opener. The cold liquid flows down your throat as you watch her open it.
She takes a few sips in silence as well, playing idly with the label of the bottle. She's avoiding looking at you leaning against the counter.
She looks up. "You are doing okay, right?"
"Yeah. Yeah, I am. I manage just fine." Your thumb slides back and forth across the sticky counter. "Are you doing okay?"
"I am. Book sales are going okay. They're doing better than expected, actually, and it's bringing in some new clients."
"That's not really what I meant. How are you doing? Didn't something happen? They called it an 'incident' on the phone."
"I don't really want to talk about it, but I'm fine." Her gaze grows more distant. She doesn't look you in the eyes anymore and instead fixates on her beer.
"Can we talk about why they called me?"
That seems to snap her out of her weird state. Color returns to her cheeks and she smiles. She tilts her head down, embarrassed. "It's complicated."
"I think I learned your new favorite words," you laughed.
She returns your laugh easily. Your smile widens and your heart flutters. You bite the inside of your cheek and shy away from her gaze.
"I couldn't imagine who I would've called if not you," she murmurs softly. It's low, intimate in only the way she could make it. It was so quiet that you don't know if she even meant for you to hear it.
"Do you ever imagine what it could've been like if I relented?"
You had let yourself go down that path more than you'd like to admit. There weren't many nights where the thought of calling her and telling her that you didn't need anything else as long as you had her didn't fleet by. You need more than the memories of her.
She sighs softly, almost imperceptible. "I don't think you were unreasonable. It's natural to want a simpler life."
"I'd be okay with it being complicated if I just had you." You hide the mortified expression that follows that sentence with a sip of beer—but you really shouldn't be having any more if you're saying things like that (you're horribly sober, actually; you've barely had any beer).
"What makes you think that you won't be just as unhappy as before?"
"I was being irrational before. I'm naive to think there will ever a place that exists in my fantasies. But there was happiness in my life when you were there."
She frowns, working something out in her head. "I think you're looking upon the past with rose-tinted glasses. It'd be better to try and make peace with the life you—"
"I don't want a therapist right now. I want Mary."
"It doesn't make it any less true. You're romanticizing the past."
You abandon the bottle and walk around the kitchen island to stand beside her. "I know how I feel, Dr. Kline. I'd appreciate if you acknowledged that."
"Sometimes things present themselves in odd ways. I think you'd find that I'm right if you just-"
You brought a hand up to her cheek. "I love you, Mary. I'll never stop. It's okay if you did, but I won't."
Her breath hitches. She looks up at you, conflicted. Her eyes glance at your wrist, then back to your face.
The resolve you had was slipping, but you let yourself indulge in the warmth of her skin for however long she allows. It's still as soft as it was before.
The warmth slips away. Your hand is nudged off, so is all confidence you ever had.
"You should get some rest," Mary says.
You nod and bitterly go back for your beer. With your head hung low, you retreat back to the living room, which, thankfully, isn't visible from the kitchen. You don't want Mary to witness whatever is going to come next whether it be tears or chugging a beer.
Dr. Mary Kline has gotten really good at making everyone but you feel better.
Maybe she's right, maybe she's trying to let you down gently.
And, to be honest, you're way past that. You've accepted that there's no getting over her. You even tried men in attempts to forget her. Not fun. All you've learned throughout that period is that guys turn you off, but girls make you want to fucking kill yourself.
You cover your face with a pillow and groan. You should have moved to Denmark when you had the nerve. Maybe then you'd have prospects, or at least you'd have an ocean between you and Mary, not a shot and phone call.
But you'll always be waiting for her. Deep down, you know that. In a year, you'll be waiting. In a decade, you'll be waiting. If you could, you'd stay waiting in a century—even a millennium.
…but you really hope it doesn't take so long.
Mary clears her throat. You pull the pillow down, embarrassed.
"Could I sit with you for a moment?" she asks.
You nod. So much for "you need to get some rest," but you'll take it.
Your gaze falls on the shirt she has taken from your closet.
Mary looks down at it herself then back up at you. "Oh, I hope you don't mind me wearing this. I found one of my shirts in your closet."
"Your shirt?"
"You took it from me when we started dating."
You tilt your head. "I'm pretty sure I owned that first."
"I bought this, like, five years ago."
"No, that had been in my closet for years."
"Obviously it was in your closet for years. We were married for two years."
"Yeah, that was definitely mine first."
She smiles and rolls her eyes. "Agree to disagree."
Silence washes over you two. The only sounds are coming from outside. The crickets are chirping and the earliest rising birds are beginning to call out. Mary was never partial to the way you always left your windows cracked open, but you enjoyed the sound of nature. She let it slide for you.
You glance at her. "You don't want it back, do you?"
"No, you can keep it," she assures you. Curiously, she follows it up by saying, "would it matter if I did?"
"It's my favorite," you admit.
"I used to wear it more than you."
"I know."
She looks at you questioningly. "Then why do you like it so much if you never wore it?"
"It's the only one that still smells like you. I took it because I was being petty, and I knew you loved it so much. One week after, keeping it was more about being reminded of you than anything else."
What the fuck are you saying?
Your face grows uncomfortably warm and you look away from her. You don't want to know how she's looking at you right now. "Sorry, that was-"
Mary begins to laugh.
Your head snaps up to look at her. "Why are you laughing?"
"You know that stupidly expensive perfume you use?" she asks, grinning.
You nod, confused. Despite the price and availability—which is horrible, by the way, because you can never find it— you love that perfume.
"I took your extra bottle to be petty. I'm sorry about that. I debated giving it back for a while… then I started to spray it when I missed you. Now I'm almost out." She leans her head back against the cushions. "It's just funny we're so similar."
She looks up at the ceiling. Her cheerful expression slowly fades into something more somber. Her lips are set in a frown.
She takes a deep breath. "When the… incident occurred, I was so certain I was never going to see you again. Then they asked me who to call, and I just needed you. I need you so bad." Her head lowers until her hair shields her expression from you. You hear a sniffle.
Practically out of their own volition, your hands come up to pull Mary in. Her head naturally slots itself in the junction of your neck.
She smells just like that stupid shirt, and, somehow, you never want to see it again. You're reminded of how much more potent the real thing is, and that shirt can never compare.
Your hand comes to rest on the back of her head while the other rubs her back. "You're never going to get rid of me, Mary. I'll always be here—and you're always welcome here, too. Our—my—fuck—the door is always open to you."
She lets out a small laugh against your shoulder. "I don't mind if you call it ours or yours." Her head turned to look up at you. Her cheek is pressed flat on your shoulder now. She's not crying anymore, but her eyes are still glossy and red. Your heart both lurches at the sight and skips a beat. You don't know how much it can handle at this point.
The pad of your thumb wipes away the moisture on her cheek. "Thank god. I was on the verge of having a brain aneurysm there."
She hums. "I could tell."
"Is that your official opinion, Dr. Kline?"
"I'm not that kind of doctor."
"Tomato, tah-mah-toe. A PhD is a PhD. Semantics." You shake your head disapprovingly. "So, what's your professional opinion, doc?"
"I'd say you're clinically dramatic."
You nod solemnly. "What's the cure?"
"No cure, but it can be treated."
"With?"
She opens her mouth to reply, then smiles and shakes her head. "Can't say."
"Aw, doc, you'll let me suffer?"
She nods.
"Mean."
You sit in silence for a few moments, soaking up the proximity between you two. It's been so long since you've felt her so close. You almost forgot how warm she was and how good her floral shampoo smelt. If staying here forever was an option, you'd choose it.
When you look at her again, her eyes are closed. Your spare hand comes up to brush her hair out of her face. She grins, but her eyes are still closed.
"Oh, deep sleep you're in, hm?" you tease. Your hand stills on her cheek. "You can go back to bed."
"I want to stay here," she murmurs.
"Okay. We'll stay."
Slowly, her smile fades, her breathing evens out, and she slowly rests on her weight on you.
She's worth it. She's worth the pain, worth the doubt, worth the weird looks—worth it all. You'll endure it all for her. You'll do anything as long as it's for her.