Chapter Fifty-Two
Barrett
Women broke down in my office with some frequency.
Women upset on the off chance their husbands were cheating. Women being told that their husbands were, in fact, cheating. Parents with missing children, begging me to find their babies through the mascara ribbons streaming down their faces.
It was commonplace, part of the process, something that had never really bothered me before.
Maybe, to some, that made me sound heartless or cruel or something of that sort.
I just had no connection to those people.
They were part of a job. Their pain was a part of the gig I had signed up for.
If you couldn't handle it with some sort of detachment, then this was probably not the line of work for you.
All that said, I never really understood it when men talked about not knowing what to do when women cried, about feelings of helplessness.
But watching Clarke walk in with a look of complete devastation before simply crumpling on the floor, I finally got it.
I stood there behind my desk for a shamelessly long string of seconds before I unfroze, striding across the room, going down on my knees in front of her. My arms moved out in slow motion, going around her shaking body, pulling her forward until she fell into me, hands still covering her face.
They stayed there for a long moment before they went around me, squeezing tight.
There was a time in my life—really, the majority of my life—that I loathed hugs, that tightness, the scent of someone else's perfume, the rough scrape of their clothes on my skin, the sensation of being trapped.
My mother never pressed the issue, instead respecting my space because she simply got me that way.
There was a long span in my life where I had complete autonomy over my body.
Then I went to work for Sawyer. Which meant I met Marg—the motherly figure who ran his office. She didn't quite believe in the idea of personal space, and I forever found myself pulled into her embrace.
Turns out, it wasn't exactly loathsome.
Then Sawyer met Riya. And eventually, her pregnancy hormones made her extra affectionate too, so I found myself in her arms more than a few times.
It was alright.
Maybe sometimes even nice.
But I certainly was never the type to initiate it, invite it. It was always thrust upon me.
This, this was new for me.
I was coming to find that a lot of things were new for me with regard to Clarke.
The way I found her invading my thoughts even when I was trying to focus on other things.
The way I seemed a lot more capable of reading what she was feeling without her having to say it.
The way that as soon as she walked away from me, I wanted her to come back.
The way that, even after having gotten physical with her, I wasn't done; I wanted more.
It was all new.
I had decided, after she had left earlier, when my mind was riddled with ideas of getting her naked and sweaty again instead of tracking down the cheating husband, that I was just going to... go along with it, not analyze it, let things play out however they were going to.
It was pointless to try to analyze things when they simply made no sense to me.
It was strange to feel so out of my depth with regard to my personal life. Then again, I never really had a personal life before.
Keeping people at a distance was a particular skill of mine.
The last thing I wanted with Clarke, though, was space. In fact, the closer she was, the more comfortable I felt. There was something soothing in her presence. It was something I could get used to, something I wanted to get used to.
To have that, I understood enough about interpersonal relationships to know there was a give and take. If I wanted to take that comfort, then I needed to give her what she needed as well.
In this moment, she needed my arms around her; she needed my neck to cry into; she needed my arms holding her together as she seemed to break a little.
"What happened with your dad?" I asked when she finally seemed to take a deep breath, calming herself down.
"Remember my instructor from the academy?"
"The dickhead who was on your ass then lied about you? Yeah, I have a vague recollection," I told her, watching as she pulled back, giving me a wobbly smile as she swiped at her cheeks, her eyes red, skin pink from the salt.
"Yeah. Well, it turns out he's my father's buddy. And he..."
"I can put two and two together," I assured her when her lip wobbled again, like she was struggling to get the words out, to reiterate the ugly truth.
And it was ugly.
No one wanted to know that their parent had actively worked against them.
It was one thing to know that they were disappointed in you or they didn't approve of your path in life.
That was perhaps a part of most parent-child relationships.
But how many people could say their parental figure actively worked to sabotage them? Kill their dream?
"That really sucks, Clarke," I told her, watching as her brows drew together as she watched me, making me wonder if I had said the wrong thing. I was often good at that.
"You know what? It does suck," she agreed, nodding. "It doubly sucks because we were just finally starting to get on good terms. I was thinking about asking him if he wants me to help him spruce up his place a little. Then he drops this bomb into our relationship..."
"Just to play the devil's advocate here for a minute, do you think his actions were out of maliciousness? Because he wanted you to fail? Because he wanted to see you unhappy? Because he wanted to fuck up your relationship?"
"No," she said quickly, with certainty.
"So you get that he was doing it out of a misguided urge to protect you. You said your father regrets what the job stole from him. He probably thought he was saving you from looking back on your life and seeing the things you lost or denied yourself because of an obsession with the job."
"I see that," she agreed, sighing heavily. "It doesn't make it okay, though."
"No," I agreed. "It doesn't make it right, but it helps you understand why he did it. And, not for nothing, Clarke, but..."
"But what?" she asked, her eyes narrowing slightly, and I was pretty sure that meant I wasn't actually supposed to tell her what I was thinking.
I was never very good at keeping my mouth shut when I had opinions.
"But if you look at it objectively, do you really think you would have succeeded as a cop? Wait—” I cut her off when she tried to interrupt me.
"Hear me out. You're impulsive. You don't like being told what to do.
Being a cop means there is a chain of command.
You can't be going off on your impulses.
Do you really think you would have been able to work like that? For the rest of your life?"
To that, she sighed, shaking her head. "Maybe not."
"So maybe this was not the worst thing to happen. It led to a job that is much more suited to your, ah, unique style."
"Careful there, buddy," she said, smirking. "If we want to start talking about unique styles..."
"Hmm," a new voice said, making us both jolt, having been lost in our own world, not hearing someone else come in behind us. "Yeah, a crying girl in front of you. That seems about right," Sawyer said, rocking back on his heels, smirking down at me.
"Judging by the cockiness and smart-ass remarks, you must be Sawyer," Clarke told him, slowly getting to her feet. Sawyer liked that—someone who pushed back at him, it was why he and Riya worked so well; she never put up with his shit.
"Judging by the bruises and your utter lack of experience in the field, you must be Clarke."
"Inexperienced I might be, but we brought down part of a major mob syndicate. Pray tell, what can you brag about? Being the sole reason a woman can challenge her prenuptial agreement?"
To that, Sawyer threw his head back with a chuckle. "I like this one, bro. Try not to fuck it up," he said as I moved to stand beside her. "That's actually why I am here."
"What? You mean you didn't come here simply to dazzle us with your charms?" Clarke asked, deadpan.
"Kenz sent me over here. Why the fuck I became her errand boy, I don't know.
.." Oh, he knew all right. Kenzi simply wasn't someone you really said no to.
She wouldn't accept that answer. "Anyway, she's having a last-minute dinner.
Something about a crockpot. I don't know.
I just know there's food and other adults around. "
Sawyer loved being a father just as much as Riya loved being a mother.
That said, their lives revolved around five-minute storybooks, noisy toys, and dreaded musical children's TV shows on repeat.
No matter how devoted a parent you were, it seemed you needed some time to just be a person, have adult conversations, let someone else coo over your kids for a while.
"You guys didn't eat yet, did you?" he asked, knowing I kept odd hours.
"I, ah, just had cheesesteaks," Clarke admitted.
"Which means she will just have two servings instead of five," I clarified, watching as Sawyer's eyes moved between the two of us, something unreadable passing there.
"Will Brock be there?" Clarke asked, likely hoping he would, so she knew there would be one person there she knew and would feel comfortable around. Though she had happened upon Kenzi at the laundromat that one time too.
"He wouldn't pass up a home-cooked meal."
"What are the chances he'd bring my doctor from last night?" Clarke wondered aloud.
"You kidding, slick?" Sawyer asked, eyes dancing. "It's already been eighteen hours. He's moved on to three other girls by now."
"Besides," I chimed in, "Brock is forbidden from bringing any of his conquests after the game night fiasco."
"Game night fiasco?" she asked, all the sadness gone from her eyes, and that was reason enough to answer her.