It's been over since he asked her to get better. She has been trying; it has been a constant effort. She kept thinking of little reasons, small things, to keep her from sinking under, like she did when she was drying out. She was surprised to find that her system seemed to be working. The days were getting a little better and the nights were getting a little easier.
As she improved, though, the fear began to sink in. She worried that she was taking away all of his defenses and leaving him empty. She was worried that a day would come when he'd need to call on them, to fight his own battle to live, and he'd find them gone; used up because she leeched them away the was salt draws moisture out. She was worried that she's the Dead Sea, deadly in her salinity, if left to linger on the skin too long.
But she was being selfish, because she didn't push him away like she should. She didn't tell him to get out, to save himself while he could. Instead, she allowed him to pull her out of her apartment. After seeing his mother's success, he decided that the key to her well-being lay in sunshine and fresh air. Trailing after him like a reluctant child follows a parent, she went to the Smithsonian, the National Gallery, and the National Arboretum.
Tonight,
though, she has to force herself not to pull on his arm and convince him
to stay home. Better to order pizza and watch a terrible video than go
to a party thrown by the JAG staff in their honor. The Admiral accepted
her resignation, he'd had no choice, at the same time he reinstated Harm.
She wanted to disappear, to slink away quietly from the office, but the
Admiral and
Harriet wouldn't let that happen.
The bar was crowded, packed with office workers and low level government employees celebrating the start of the weekend, and the JAG staff was huddled in a small corner of the restaurant. The tables are packed with finger food and appetizers. She's dismayed to realize that they're the last to arrive and she stopped walking. She didn't want to face them. She tugged on his elbow and whispered under her breath, "Not too late to run. They haven't seen us yet."
"I've got more to worry about than you do," he muttered out of the corner of his mouth.
"Why?" She asked, honestly confused. She tightened her hold on his elbow and forced him to turn around to face her. "They love you. They're happy to have you back in the fold."
He waved a hand, brushing off her comment. "This party is for you."
"And you," she said. "Don't you think it's a little," she stumbled over the word, "weird?"
"How weird?"
"Well," she paused, trying to figure out a way to phrase her sentence without eliciting a wince, "I mean, half of it is a party for someone who ended her career because she swallowed one too many pills."
"Oh." He frowned, his eyebrows sinking low on his forehead and he rubbed a hand over it, smoothing out the creases. "Oh, Mac. I never thought about that." He glanced over at the tables. "Shit," he swore.
He rested his hands on her biceps and examined her face. "We can go. I'll go over and explain and then we'll go."
She gathered the folds of his sweater in her hands and looked down at their feet. She shook her head. "No, I can do this." She forced her voice to sound light. "Don't need another check in the crazy column by becoming agoraphobic."
"They meant well," he pointed out.
"I know," she nodded in agreement. She shrugged and scuffed her toe in a semi-arc on the floor. "Maybe," she looked up at him from under her bangs, "we can pretend it's just a welcome back party for you. Not a welcome back slash good luck party?"
He leaned his head on top of hers. "We can do that."
"Okay." She pulled away from him and straightened her body slowly, one vertebrae at a time. Their friends were still half a restaurant away and the wood floor yawned before her. Trying to control the onslaught of anxiety, she told herself that the people laughing at the tables are her friends. That they've done what they've done because they care. She tried, but she wanted nothing more than to hide.
He reached down and tucked her hand into his. Swinging their hands between them, he pulled her up to the tables. The first few minutes are awkward. Silence punctuated the conversations and people kept sneaking little glances at her. She shifted uneasily each time she caught them, tucking her hair behind her ears or scanning the table tops and the other patrons near them. Her fingers traced patterns in the condensation from the glasses, forming complex networks of water on the table's surface.
She
didn't know when it happened, but slowly, gradually, the cadences grew
more natural; the tension eased as they started to reminisce. Laughter
replaced the silences and she found herself smiling. Beneath the tables,
her fingers squeezed his once and let go. She smiled at him and he smiled
back before returning to the conversation. It relaxed her, made her a
little less frightened to know that she can have these little moments.
Moments where she didn't have to rely on him to remember to breathe. Moments
where he can replenish his strength because he didn't have to carry her.
She can hold herself up tonight and it feels good.