A Gay Vibe From Me?

Chapter 7

Olivia can feel her own thundering heartbeat hammering against her temples as she lies prone next to the inebriated and vulnerable detective, who, somehow, even in the midst of her extraordinarily drunken state, still remembers that she hasn't yet confessed to the reason she had aberrantly texted her boss on a Saturday, and spun out of control when Olivia didn't reply to her.

Immediately after Amanda's reiteration of the "demons," Olivia finds herself met with intense, halting feelings of both curiosity and apprehension; she buries her head deeper into her pillow in response, inadvertently inhaling the sweet coconut scent lingering from Amanda's sheets. The normally stable and collected lieutenant's palms have begun to pop out thousands of beads of sweat as she grips her own thighs for a sense of release; her jaw locking and her throat constricting, blocking any sliver of air that was previously flowing through.

Somehow, the older woman finds the inner strength to reply to the cryptic sentiment, her head spinning presumably just as much as Amanda's now. "'Manda...I haven't forgotten. And I'm more than willing to listen, honey—in fact, I can't wait but...I think that we should wait until morning to talk...when you're feeling more up to it." She is met with silence.

Unsurprisingly, Amanda Rollins has already fallen victim to the unforgiving grip of alcohol-induced unconsciousness yet again, leaving Olivia to talk only to herself and a sleeping Frannie, who is curled up on the floor aside Amanda's side of the bed. The now-irritated and drained lieutenant liberates an exasperated sigh she wasn't aware she was holding, as she reluctantly tightens her grip to spoon the sleeping blonde. Olivia notes that she is yet again comforted and safe in the fact that Amanda has no idea any of this is taking place, a slight tinge of guilt simmering in her core for holding her without her permission. Olivia continues to struggle for hours to shut her mind off, praying to a god she's not sure she believes in to drift off into a much needed slumber.

Olivia awakens from what she customarily calls a "death sleep" around 10 a.m. the next morning, feeling somewhat rested, but also immersed in panic as she comes to realize that Amanda is no longer passed out next to her. Her hands immediately scramble across the sweat-filled sheets, thoroughly and frantically smoothing down each fold in a despairing attempt to find the missing woman. She knocks over a glass of water as she reaches onto the nightstand beside her to grab her glasses, muttering an internal "thank you" to "past Liv" who remembered to take her contacts out the night prior, amidst all of the chaos.

After Olivia strips the bed of its sheets, and uses the dirty fabric to wipe up the spilled contents, she momentarily settles herself down by sitting back on the bed, and taking a few deep breaths as she cracks the stress out of her neck. During this process, she feels her nostrils flare in retort to the enduring smell of savory breakfast food that has slipped underneath the crack of the closed bedroom door.

"Mmm," she unconsciously states aloud; shortly thereafter realizing it has been hours and hours since she last ate, as her stomach echoes a rumble in unison. In addition, the older, usually poised woman finds herself astounded by the amounts of drool pooling over her lips, as she swallows the excess amount of saliva that has instinctively formed.

She unravels her limbs from the bare mattress, and works to steady her feet onto the cold ground. Clad in a pair of Amanda's yoga pants that clasp tightly around her thighs, an Atlanta Braves jersey that fits all-too-well, and her recently acquired glasses perched atop her nose, she cautiously works up the bravery to open up the bedroom door.

Her line of vision immediately reveals a very perky Amanda, who is standing barefoot in the kitchen that is now draped in a gorgeous sunlight; still dressed in a soiled pair of jeans and a revealing, thin t-shirt from last night. However, Olivia recognizes, the younger woman has added a new piece of apparel to her wardrobe: a red and white-checkered apron.

Olivia cannot believe her eyes: the formerly drunken and unconscious woman who she thought would be severely hungover, is somehow wide awake, and presumably has been for some time, cooking what she assumes will be for the two of them, a hearty meal. Olivia watches in amazement as Amanda's bony arms flay from the stove that is littered with sizzling pots and pans to grabbing condiments out of the fridge and across the counter to fill the coffee pot with freshly-grinded beans. It takes a few moments before Amanda notices her boss standing across a short distance from her, completely doe-eyed and as white as a ghost.

"Happy Sunday?" the younger detective sheepishly questions, a slight blush heating her already-red cheeks that are littered with broken blood vessels, and a hand tightly clasped around a charred spatula, as she cocks her head to the side.

"...Happy...Sunday...Rollins..." Olivia sharply verbalizes; the guarded reply nothing short of a representation for how quickly she has conceptually come to terms with what has happened over the past twenty-four hours. The previously calmer woman immediately feels her muscles tense in guilt, shame, and remorse, as a slew of unkind words spray across her mind: What the hell am I doing here? This is the definition of inappropriate. I should've just slept on the couch. No. I should've just driven her home and left. Why do I always feel the need to take care of everyone? Deflate your ego next time, Liv. I'm not even attracted to her. I'm not a lesbian. Never have been, never will be. I just broke up with Tucker, for Christ's sake. And...Elliot. She physically shakes her head, which tosses her dark, brown strands of hair in all directions, as she pathetically struggles to shut off her brain yet again. This can't happen. I'm her boss. I could lose my job; my life; my reputation. A fucking apron? Why is this so domestic? Why do I kind-of like it? How can she possibly look so pretty right now?

Intuitive cobalt eyes are successful in breaking Olivia's delirium as they dart directly into her hazy brown orbs; Olivia feeling herself utterly dumbfounded at Amanda's recognition of her own mental torture.

"So here's what's on the menu this morning..." Amanda continues, in an attempt to diffuse the awkwardness that has now covered the entire apartment. "Chocolate chip OR blueberry pancakes, your pick; scrambled eggs; rye-bread toast; vanilla Greek yogurt; tater-tots; and, of course, all of the coffee you can drink.

Olivia continues to stand across from her subordinate, feeling ashamed that she is dressed in all of her clothes. She is totally frozen except for the strategic movements of her strong fingers picking at the cuticles on her left hand; a nervous habit she formed as a child and has yet to break.

"Listen, Liv..." Amanda states, thinking that if she had a tail, it would most certainly be in between her legs right now. "I know it's not much...and I have a hell of a lot of explaining to do...but I wanted to at least make you breakfast to express how sorry I am about last night..."

Still, Olivia says nothing; paralyzed by her own thoughts that are now telling her to either run away, or run directly into the younger woman's arms; either way, she needs to make a decision right now.

"I went to the store as soon as I woke up earlier..." Amanda continues, sensing Olivia's growing edginess. "I always wake up early after a night of drinking," she nervously chuckles. "I'm sorry if you were worried about where I was when you woke up to an empty bed...for what it's worth, I appreciate you cuddling me last night. I really needed it."

After this testimony, Olivia decides she needs to leave. Now.

"I...I can't be here any longer," she finally fares to stammer. "I know you want to confide in me, but it's gonna have to wait." The older woman feels herself being pulled in multiple directions; however, the all-encompassing sense of fear she feels tugging at her insides ultimately conquers any rational thoughts. She quickly dashes into the bathroom, scrambling to rid herself of the blonde's sweet-smelling clothes; tears trickling in streams down her face as she sheds the comfortable, clean garments.

Not even a few moments later, Olivia is hurriedly rushing toward the front door, frantically struggling to pull her booties on, and feeling far too mortified to even mutter a simple "goodbye" to the teary blonde, who is now standing worriedly upright with full plates of steaming-hot breakfast food in her hands.

"Liv!" the younger detective exclaims, "Please wait!"

Just as Olivia slams the door shut, Amanda finally finds herself ready to utter the words that have consistently been burning a hole in her throat lately. "My Daddy killed himself."

She is too late. Olivia is already gone.