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Part 1: Rafael
“Yes.”
By uttering that one word, Sonny Carisi has just tanked the State’s case, plunged the NYPD and the DA’s office into scandal, and up-ended my life for good. Not bad for one syllable.
There are gasps all over the courtroom, and some hushed snickering that I really could’ve done without. I’m probably imagining that I can actually feel the schadenfreude radiating from Judge Kominsky, but there is no doubt he’s awash in it right now. He’s probably torn between being thrilled that he got to witness this moment and bitterly disappointed that he can’t react right now.
As expected, right on cue, the defense gleefully moves for a mistrial. Roger Kressler is actually smiling as he does it, unable even to pretend this isn’t the greatest day of his miserable life. Que maldito idiota. I remind myself that he’s still never beaten me – even this loathsome maneuver is only going to get him a retrial – but it’s cold comfort right this minute.
“Mr. Barba?” Kominsky calls, and Kressler turns to me with a look I’d like to remove from his face with a backhoe. But right now, I have to stand up and respond in front of a courtroom full of colleagues, bystanders, jurors, and – God help me – the aforementioned Sonny Carisi. Every single one of them is holding their breath, avidly awaiting the next line in this telenovela. It’s the first time in my life I’ve ever wanted to bore a courtroom.
“Your honor, the State has made its position clear throughout this entire line of questioning. Detective Carisi is testifying to facts. He is not giving his opinion, he is not theorizing, he is describing what he saw and relating what the defendant told him, which he recorded contemporaneously in his report. His testimony is corroborated by the testimony of Sergeant Dodds, photographs of the crime scene, statements of witnesses—”
“Yes, yes, yes, you’ve argued all of that,” Kominsky barks, waving his hand like the relevant facts are nothing compared to the minor, irrelevant detail Kressler’s just gotten Carisi to admit.
Okay, it’s not minor. It’s fucking earthshakingly monumental.
But not to the case, damn it, and any reasonably competent judge would easily see that and instruct the jury accordingly. Kominsky, of course, won’t. Kominsky is a pin-headed, infantile cretin whose sole qualification for the bench is that he was smart enough to marry the Mayor’s niece.
“The defense’s motion isn’t based upon Detective Carisi’s knowledge of the case, or lack thereof,” Kominsky goes on. “It’s based upon his conduct, and your own, in failing to disclose to this court a very relevant piece of information.”
And there it is. I’ll win on appeal based on that statement, but it won’t help me today. Nothing will. And yet, I have to see this farce through to the end.
“That is a conclusion, your honor, not a fact,” I sigh. Damn, I hope I sound as bored and unimpressed as I’m trying to. “The defense is asking you to accept that conclusion, which is based upon the answer to a single, indirect question. He’s been very careful not to ask any direct questions that might elicit facts. The State has objected all along to this line of questioning, but if this court is actually entertaining such a ridiculous Hail Mary motion, it’s easy enough to disprove that the witness's testimony is tainted. Ask the question. You’ll find that Mr. Kressler can’t establish even a minimal factual basis for his cockamamie theory.”
“Your honor,” Kressler oozes back into the conversation. “You heard the witness’s answer, under oath. It establishes conclusively that his testimony is irredeemably biased toward the prosecution.”
“It does nothing of the kind! He –”
Kominsky raps his gavel several times to shut me up. Yeah, a gavel. Unlike most real judges, he actually has one. The conventional wisdom in the D.A.’s office is that Chester Kominsky doesn’t want to be a judge in a courtroom. He wants to be a judge on T.V.
“I agree. This court is left with no choice but to grant a mistrial in this case. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, thank you for your service. You are excused.”
He bangs his gavel again, prompting me to wonder for the millionth time whether he thinks a ruling isn’t binding unless he does. But I’m actually glad to hear it, because he hasn’t said anything about wanting to see counsel in his chambers. Not that there’s anything to be gained by such a meeting, but that’s never stopped him before.
Everybody’s up out of their seats at once, exclaiming variations of, “Can you believe what just happened?” I hear my name and Carisi’s over and over, and I can feel all the eyes on me as I calmly pull my papers together. I’ve never been so grateful for the litigator’s need to remain stone-faced, no matter what happens. It means I’ve had years of practice, and I am relying on every one of them right now.
I make the mistake of glancing over at Sonny. One thing about Carisi; you never have to wonder what he’s thinking. His eyes are huge, and he’s just sitting in the witness box, still, as if standing up will mean the trial is really over. I don’t go to him. I can’t. Every person in this room is gawking at us, and they all have cameras. But it's okay. Liv and Fin are here, and I know they’ll be there for him.
Speaking of Liv, she’s behind me now, on the other side of the railing between the gallery and the well of the courtroom. She puts a hand on my shoulder and her face registers all the shock I’m trying not to feel.
“How bad is this?” she asks quietly.
“Nuclear,” I mutter. “Can you get him out of here?”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be fine. This isn’t my first visit to the abbatoir, and I’ve been told I say ‘no comment’ in my sleep. Just… take care of him.”
Liv starts to say something else, but I see a clear line to the side door and I mean to take it. I incline my head toward it and she just nods. Thank God for Olivia Benson and her terrifying mental telepathy.
I meant what I’d said to Liv; I’ve had cases hit the rocks before, and I’ve also spent my share of time at the center of media firestorms. Which means I know every devious route between the courthouse and my office. I know Liv and Sergeant Tutuola will take Sonny out the front way, even though they’ll keep themselves between the press and him. That’ll draw most of the circus. So I clench my jaw and head for the most obscure exit I know.
I put on an entirely fake bland expression and somehow keep from running for my life down the hall. No one wandering around will have heard about what happened yet, so all I have to do is keep my composure and I’ll be practically invisible.
It almost works.
Ric “make sure you spell it right” Ostensen from the right-wing rag whose name I can never remember pops out of an alcove on the ground floor. Aside from being a vexatious twat, he’s also seriously overweight, which makes stealth a skill level he has yet to unlock. Needless to say, I am not going to give him anything to work with.
“Hey, Barba, what's up with you and Detective Carisi?”
Incisive and erudite, isn’t he? I just keep walking.
“Come on, what’s the story? Are you gonna re-try that guy? Does he just get to walk? What?”
I push past him and continue toward the door, which is still at least fifty yards away.
“How pissed is the D.A. gonna be about the mistrial?”
Ten yards on, he’s starting to pant and wheeze from trying to keep up with me, and I’m concerned that he’s huffing saliva onto my suit.
“I have no comment. There’s no need to follow me.”
“What about you and Detective Carisi? Is Kressler right? Did he lie for you?”
Just when I’m starting to wish I had on a raincoat to protect my bespoke Italian wool, he finally begins to fall behind. Soon, I’m far enough away that he’s shouting his inane questions between gasps for air, and it’s a good thing he waits until then to shout, “What, are you ashamed?”
I hope I don’t break my stride at all, but I can’t be sure, because I’m seeing red. I’m also seeing Sonny’s face as he sat in that witness box, watching the melee break out after Kominsky called the mistrial. He looked lost and terrified. And radiant and beautiful. I am the opposite of ashamed of the way I feel about Sonny. I just need to get the hell out of here.
When I get to the door, I realize that I’m going to have to give Carmen yet another raise. It’ll be the third this year, and it’s only October, but skills like Carmen’s just can’t be taught. She cannot already know what’s happened, but somehow, she does. Not only that, she’s already guessed which exit I’d use and sent backup.
As I feared, there’s a small crowd of third-tier stringers waiting to ambush me outside the doors. However, there is also a cadre of no less than five security guards from One Hogan Place there, too, and they surround me immediately as soon as I get outside. They’re moving before the skulking goons even begin shouting idiotic questions at me, and they keep me in the middle of a tight formation the entire distance between the courthouse and my office.
I thank them profusely as they deposit me, relatively unscathed, alone in the elevator. As soon as the doors close, I fall back against the rear wall, and that’s when I begin to shake. I knew it was coming. Adrenaline is delightful for getting you through fight-or-flight moments, but the crash afterward is a bitch.
Carmen’s beautiful smile greets me when the elevator doors open on our floor. “The coast is clear,” she says, and we begin to walk together down a hall mercifully still free of curious colleagues or reporters. “But Mr. McCoy has already called. He’s coming down to talk to you as soon as I let him know you’re here.”
The noise I make can only be described as a squeak. Luckily, among all the other roiling emotions that are about to hit me full-force, the humiliation of having made it ranks pretty low. Besides, only Carmen heard it, and she’s heard me make worse noises. She’s also so tight-lipped I doubt the interrogation technique has yet been invented that could break her. She’ll keep my secret.
“Please, for the love of all that's holy, give me five minutes,” I beg as we turn in to the anteroom outside my office, which is Carmen’s domain.
She grins, because she knows that for the joke it is. We both know she won’t rat me out to McCoy until I give her the green light. She closes the door behind us and pulls the shades on either side. She’s already pulled the ones in my office. We can’t lock the office door during business hours, but everyone who’s ever worked in this building knows better than to come in when the shades are pulled. Everyone, that is, except District Attorney Jack McCoy, and I bet even he would hesitate.
"Coffee's brewing," she says.
“You know how absolutely and completely I appreciate you, right?”
“I know, Mr. Barba. I’ll be in in a second.”
Once inside my sanctuary, I toss my briefcase onto the conference table and immediately get rid of my jacket. I leave on my waistcoat and only loosen my tie, because I’m going to have to deal with McCoy in a few minutes. I pour a cup of coffee and finally collapse into my chair. At last, I have my desk between me and the world, and I can begin to process what’s just happened.
The thing itself is simple. Roger Kressler, defense attorney and all-around waste of DNA, represents a subhuman named Kelvin who raped and murdered three little boys. He knows he can’t get this prince acquitted, but said prince rejected every plea deal we discussed, including some that Kressler himself suggested that I would never have agreed to. So Kressler was forced to take this barking dog of a case to trial. Nothing unusual so far; it happens. But rather than lose it like a man, Kressler apparently decided to go after Carisi, and use me to do it.
God only knows what Kressler thinks he knows. But whatever it is, he was desperate enough to take the biggest risk I’ve ever seen an attorney take in the courtroom. I guess he gets points for that. And it paid off for him. Me cogió el culo. He got his mistrial.
The questions started simply. At first, even I didn’t see where he was going with them, and I’ve thought about nothing but Sonny Carisi for over a year now. But Kressler was crafty – by the time I caught on, he’d already led Sonny far enough along the path that Kominsky was hooked. My objections (well-founded and cleverly phrased as they were) went right past him. After that, even as the questions became more and more intrusive and less and less relevant, Kominsky let Kressler keep going.
Poor Sonny. He looked to me for help, and God knows I tried, but there was nothing I could do short of grab him up and run out of the courtroom with him. (Which I very seriously considered. I’ve had fantasies of the two of us as Thelma and Louise. Don’t judge.) And then, in the end, even though I nearly gave myself a hernia objecting, Kressler asked that One. Last. Question.
“Detective Carisi, are you in love with A.D.A. Barba?”
Sonny looked right at me with those angelic blue eyes, his achingly pretty face glowing with candid sincerity, and answered simply, “Yes.”
Sitting here now, behind my desk with a cup of fresh coffee and Carmen protecting me like my own personal Seal Team Six, I can finally think about that. And suddenly, none of the rest of it matters. Sonny loves me. Absolutely everything else is details.
My phone starts to vibrate. I’m honestly surprised it’s taken this long, but I’m not surprised when I see who’s texting. After Carmen, Rita’s got the best radar in the business.
Joder, amo a esa mujer. One of the many reasons I’m glad I’m not straight is that I’d have to choose between marrying Carmen and marrying Rita. Or move to Utah, and I’d wear Crocs before I’d ever do that.
Carmen comes in at that moment, wearing a suspiciously bland expression. She sits in one of the chairs in front of my desk, posture perfect and endless legs crossed primly. “Tell me,” she says.
“You already know what happened. Someday you’ll have to tell me how you do that.”
“No, I won’t. And don’t change the subject. Detective Carisi said under oath that he’s in love with you. In front of you, his entire squad, a judge, and about fifty other people. It’s on the record. So?”
I feel stupid smiling like a mindless dolt, but she already heard that humiliating squeak I made earlier, so what the hell. Besides, she knows how I feel. Among Carmen’s many talents is seeing into my head and my heart like an MRI without all the banging. “So… I guess he loves me.”
“And…?”
“And, I guess that means I better do something about it.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she grins. “Beginning with acknowledging that I’ve been telling you that all along.”
“Nobody likes a know-it-all, Carmen.”
“Don’t be silly. You adore me. Say it.”
“You were right. You’ve been telling me all along that he felt the way I do.”
“Thank you. Now. What are you going to do about it?”
“Well, I—” My phone vibrates again.
I smile even wider and realize my cheeks are aching a little already. Maybe I’m not cut out to get my heart’s desire.
“I’m going to have to talk to him.”
Carmen scoffs. “Oh, for pity’s sake. ‘Talk to him?’ That’s all you got?”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
Now she sighs deeply. She does a lot of sighing over how completely hopeless I am. I’m used to it. Besides which, her sighs are usually followed closely by telling me what to do, and Carmen is not only omnipotent, but omniscient as well. Only a fool wouldn’t take her advice, and I am not a fool.
As always, Carmen has the perfect plan. We’re already hard at work making preparations when my cell goes off again.
Que maldito idiota. What a fucking idiot.
Dios ayúdame. God help me.
Me cogió el culo. He grabbed my ass (Cuban saying similar to “played me for a fool”)
Joder, amo a esa mujer. I fucking love that woman.
* * *
Part 2: Sonny
I guess I musta said an extra Our Father or something, because it’s Dodds drivin’ me home instead of the Captain. Not that Benson’s mad or judgy or anything, just… I’d rather it be Dodds. Even this isn’t great, because he’s laughin’ at me like having to lay my heart bare in front of everyone, knowin’ it was gonna blow the trial, was some kinda neat party trick I did for his amusement.
“You know, this isn’t funny. That asswipe Kelvin’s gonna get bail now. The taxpayers gotta pay for a whole ‘nother trial, and that’s if the D.A. will even retry him. Not to mention I look like a total boob, sittin’ there answerin’ all those personal questions about how close do I work with Barba, and would I say we’re friends, and then he goes and fuckin’ asks me if I love him! Right there, in court! And Barba’s screamin’ bloody murder and the judge is just lookin’ at me like I’m on the fuckin’ Bachelorette or somethin’…”
For a minute, I just hold my hands over my face and pretend I can shut the world out that way. Kids in school used to make fun of my legs, call me an ostrich. I kinda wish I was one now, so I could just bury my head in the sand for the next hundred years or so.
“Carisi, I know all that, but you gotta admit, it’s funny. I mean, you’ve been mooning around over Barba for—”
“I have not been mooning around!”
“Okay, whatever, I just mean, you love the guy, right? It’s not just some crush, or you would’ve said that on the stand. You have serious feelings. And now he knows.”
I groan loud, and for a long time. It feels good. “Would you be willing to swing by the East River and just drown me on your way home?”
Dodds laughs again. “Carisi. Sonny. It’s done, all right? It’s done, Benson knows it wasn’t your fault, and now Barba knows how you feel. You could actually call this a win. Because you gotta know he loves you, too. I mean, nobody spends as much time as Barba does thinking up ways to insult someone unless they’re head over heels.”
I groan some more, because it really does help.
“C’mon, Carisi. It’s really okay. I know you probably feel really… I don’t know, vulnerable or tricked, or—”
“Stripped bare-assed naked on national TV…”
“Or stripped bare-assed naked on national TV. But the important thing is that it’s gonna be okay. Mistrials happen all the time, and this wasn’t your fault. You couldn’t do anything else but tell the truth. And now it’s all upside! Barba knows how you feel. He’s gonna come riding in on a white horse, tell you he feels exactly the same, and then there’ll be a bunch of kinky gay sex, and we’ll all live happily ever after.”
I’m pretty sure I make the windows of the squad car rattle with my groan at that one. Dodds just laughs some more.
We circle my building to make sure there aren’t any reporters, and I make it up to my apartment without having to talk to anyone. There are about three hundred messages on my machine, but I just turn it off, like I did my cell phone. I know I’m gonna have to turn ‘em back on at some point, but not before I take a long, hot shower.
I go to the fridge and pull out a beer, then push the door closed as I turn back toward the living room. On second thought, I turn back around and grab another beer. Fuck it. I carry them both in one hand while I pull my tie off with the other and toss it on a chair in my room. Rafael would cry if he saw that, but he’d also understand. I think.
In fact, now that I’m safe at home, I’m dyin' to know what he’s thinking right now. I’d love to think Dodds is right. I mean, there’s no question that me and Rafael are friends, and he’s the one who kissed me the first time. But a few kisses don’t mean he has deep feelings for me like I do for him.
Still, we do keep finding ourselves horizontal on the couch in his office with our clothes messed up, even though we always stop because we say it would make our lives too complicated. Now that he knows how I really feel, could this maybe change things? In any event, he’s in hot water with his boss now, so I guess ‘complicated’ has already happened.
I hang up my suit because I feel like, if I don’t, my Ma and Rafael would just somehow know. The rest of my clothes end up on the floor of my closet, though. I’m still me, after all. I take my beers into the shower.
It’s blissful under the hot water, and I stay in for so long both beers are empty and I can barely see for the steam. Nobody can get to me here. No reporters, no angry taxpayers, no snippy Human Resources people who will rescind my offer from the D.A.’s office for falling in love with the wrong guy. The problem is, Rafael can’t reach me here, either, and he’s the one person I really want to talk to.
So when I get out and put on some jeans and a T-shirt, I say a prayer and turn on my cell phone. I damn near turn it right back off again. I pay extra for the kind of voice mail where you can see a list of who the messages are from, and there are a hundred and seventy-three. None of them are from Rafael.
He’s not gonna ghost me. This I know in my bones. So what’s happening? Is he even now standing in D.A. McCoy’s office getting his face chewed off? He didn’t do anything, and McCoy’s gotta know he wouldn’t. I’m less sure McCoy knows that I would never lie under oath no matter what, but he surely knows that Rafael would never allow that, anyway.
There’s a text. Thank God. I can feel myself wanting to freak out that maybe it’ll be bad, but I click on it as fast as I can to shut myself up. Time enough to freak out if it is bad. But I knew it wouldn’t be.
I’m shaking like a teenager as I type, and then re-type to correct all the mistakes. Which is sad, considering it’s a very short text.
I feel like a schnauzer on my hind legs, begging. Which shouldn’t bother me as much as it does, considering I told him I love him in front of a whole courtroom full of people like two hours ago. What I get back is:
Shit. Considering what those two syllables do to me, if he wants me to beg like a dog, I’m down.
I decide that I don’t want to see him for the first time after what happened today looking like I’m about to clean out my Pop’s garage, so I pull on a blue hoodie sweater thing my sister Gina gave me for Christmas. She said it would be good for dates and it “brings out my eyes”, whatever that means. I debate about what shoes to wear for so long I start to feel stupid. Then I remember Rafael once told me a story about getting halfway to a date and changing his mind about his shoes, then going back home to change. Doesn’t make it less stupid, but it makes me feel better, and it also makes me smile.
I’m an absolute goner. I know I am. I’m embarrassed as hell about how it happened, but now that I know he’s not mad and he wants to see me, I’m glad he knows how I feel. I got butterflies just thinkin’ that I’m gonna see him pretty soon. At least I think I am. I don’t know if there are reporters lurking around, so it might not be too good an idea for him to come here, but he’ll be all kinds of welcome if he does.
Maybe I have a few more butterflies than usual because of what’s goin’ on, but I always have ‘em when I’m gonna see him. He’s so good-looking I can hardly look away from him, and all his smarts and cleverness show on his face, too. Don’t even get me started on his mouth, because it oughtta be illegal to be that sexy, and that’s before he even opens it and all the brilliant stuff comes out. And I thought that even before I knew he could kiss me stupid without even trying. Jeez, I’m horny already just thinkin’ about seeing him. This is crazy. But it’s the best possible kind of crazy.
I’m going nuts worrying about my hair when there’s a knock at my door, and I’m out of the bathroom like a shot. I don’t even bother to look out the peephole because I’m sure it’s Rafael, and I can’t wait to see him.
Only it’s not. It’s Carmen.
“Ready to go for a little drive?” she asks, her voice even more full of piss and vinegar than usual.
“Uh… I guess. Where are we going?”
“Well, I am going to Central Park West, where a gorgeous man is going to make me linguini and scallops. You are going to Connecticut. Just follow the GPS directions. You’ll be fine.”
She hands me the keys to a rental car and leans up to kiss me on the cheek. “You have a car and so does he, so you can leave whenever you want. But the car’s paid up until Monday night and Liv’s not expecting you back until Tuesday. Have fun!”
She waggles her fingers at me and then she’s gone, doing that mesmerizing runway walk of hers down the hallway and turning to head down the stairs.
For a brief second, I think about the fact that I’ve had two beers, but I realize that I musta burned them off with nerves, because I’ve never been more sober in my life. I can feel my heart pounding as I grab my phone and keys, turn off the lights, and close my apartment door behind me.
The keys have a tag that tells me what kind of car it is, and the license plate, but Carmen’s managed to find a parking place directly in front of my building, so I don’t even have to look for it. Good thing, too, because there are three reporters standing in a little huddle, smoking, and they start yelling as soon as they see me. I just ignore them, get in the car, and lock the door.
Just as I do that, I see a car pull out from somewhere behind me. As it goes by, I see Carmen in the passenger seat and I swear to God the guy driving the car is a catcher for the Mets. I can’t think of his name right now, but I’m sure it’s him.
I expect it to take me a little while to figure out the GPS, but Carmen’s a genius. She’s left a sticky note on it that tells me what to do. Once I’m in, there’s a pre-loaded trip and all I have to do is push the button and a man with a great English accent comes on and starts telling me where to go.
Two hours later, I’m somewhere in Westchester County and there’s more trees than I’ve ever seen. There are houses, but they’re all way back in the trees, or behind fences and at the end of long driveways through big meadows or whatever you call ‘em. They’re too big to be called yards. I wonder where I’m going, but I know Rafael’s waiting, wherever it is, and I’m just about crawling out of my skin with anticipation. He doesn’t have a mansion out here. I’d know if he did, and anyway, I just can’t see him anywhere but the city. It’s beautiful out here, all horses and tennis courts, but it’s not Rafael.
The closer I get, the more nervous I get. Which should sort of put a damper on my horniness, but it doesn’t. They both sort of work together. All I want is to see Rafael. I just want to hear him tell me we’re okay. And after what Carmen said, it sounds like we’re more than okay. Oh, shit, if I’m about to get to go to bed with Rafael, I might just have an aneurysm or something. Which I hope I don’t, or at least I hope I get laid first. Man, I am seriously anxious right now.
And then the GPS tells me, “Your destination is on the left.”
What’s on the left is a big, wrought iron gate in the middle of two massive stone pillars with a six-foot stone fence stretching off to either side for what seems like miles. The gates are opening. How the fuck is that happening? Am I being watched? This is a little cloak and dagger for a hook-up, but then Rafael can be kind of dramatic. Anyway, it isn’t just a hook-up. Not if I have anything to say about it.
I drive through the gates and, in the evening dimness, my headlights illuminate one of those long driveways. It’s leading to a big-ass house, one that could definitely be called a mansion, with almost no lights on inside. As I get closer, I see that there’s some kind of smaller house behind it. That house is made of the same stone as the mansion, but it’s a reasonable size, and it’s blazing with light. It looks warm and welcoming. Best of all, Rafael’s car is parked right in front of it.
* * *
Part 3: Rafael
“I know that, Barba, but it’s been a long time for you. I’m just saying. It’s okay to take it slow.”
“What happened to ‘seriously hardcore sex’? That’s what you were recommending earlier.”
“Well, I meant it then. But now that it’s actually happening, I’m feeling more cautious. Anyway, you should never listen to me when it comes to matters of the heart.”
“Rita, you’ve been married for twenty-eight years. You must be doing something right.”
“Mmmm. I don’t know. Maybe. Or maybe we’re both just too lazy to break up. What kind of wine do you have?”
“Oh, fuck. I don’t have wine. I got beer and scotch. He drinks beer. Shit, do you think—”
“For fuck's sake, Barba, you’re at Geoffrey Bates’s house. There’s wine. Look in the kitchen. I’ll bet you the plea deal of my choice there’s a full wine rack in there.”
“I’m not taking that bet. It’d be unethical.”
“You’re not taking that bet because you know I’m right. Are you in the kitchen? Am I right?”
I’m standing in the kitchen looking around like an imbecile, and there’s no wine rack. When I look down, though, I see there’s a wine cooler built into the center island. I choose to refrain from sharing that with Rita. I don't need a reason. Besides, I think I see headlights on the driveway.
Oh, shit. It’s him.
“He’s here. I gotta go.”
“Are you hyperventilating? You sound like you’re hyperventilating. Don’t hyperventilate.”
“I’m not hyperventilating.”
“Maybe there’s a paper bag you can breathe into.”
“I don’t need a paper bag, Rita. I’m fine. I’m just a little nervous.”
“No need to be. You already know he loves you. Now you just have to tell him you love him, too, which is exactly what he wants to hear. So he walks in, you say you love him, he says he loves you, you say you know because it’s all over the internet already, and then you fuck each other’s brains out. Voilà!”
“Good bye, Rita,” I laugh.
“Have good sex. Make him treat you right.”
“I will.”
“You know something? You might’ve just inspired me. I think my husband might get lucky tonight.”
“Tell him he’s welcome.”
Now she laughs. “’Bye, Barba.”
“Bye.”
Sonny’s car comes to a stop next to mine. I realize that I’m shaking. Forty-plus years old and I’m actually trembling watching my date come to the door. I can’t remember the last time I felt like this. I’m honestly not sure I’ve ever felt like this. I wonder if it’s too soon to ask him to marry me.
I open the door as he’s coming up the walk. He has a blue hooded sweater on, and jeans that look like they’re molded to him from wear. He looks like he should be on the cover of a magazine. Or the centerfold.
“You made it.” Not my best line. I’m nervous, sue me.
“This place is somethin’,” he smiles, and I hold the door open a little more to invite him in. “Where are we?”
“Geoffrey Bates lives in the house. You know, the stock trading app guy? He’s in Thailand right now, but he lent us this guesthouse.”
“Oh, yeah. Heard he made a bundle on the IPO. Guess it must be true. Friend of yours?”
“Rita’s. Had a little trouble with recreational substances. She helped him out.”
“Huh,” Sonny says, looking around. I see the minute it hits him. “Wait, so you’ve been talking to Rita Calhoun about… us?”
I smile at him, because it’s hard not to. “I’m afraid everybody’s talking about us at the moment. That’s why I thought it’d be good to hide out for a few days. Don’t worry. Rita’s one of my best friends. She’s on our side.”
He looks down at his feet and it’s so fucking shy and cute I can hardly breathe. “We have a side?”
“Want a beer? Let’s sit down and talk. Or there’s some wine.”
Sonny chooses wine. We spend a little time looking through the selection before we realize neither of us knows shit about wine and just pick a bottle of red at random. It turns out to be a good choice.
There’s a big fireplace that’s inviting and warm since I figured out how to start the gas fire. I suggest that we sit in the deep, comfortable-looking chairs arranged in front of it. I wait until we’re settled before I start to talk about the reason we’re here.
“I’m sorry about what happened to you today in court. What Kressler did was seven kinds of shit.”
He takes a big drink of his wine, and he’s looking at the fire instead of me. “I’m okay,” he says. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.”
“Sonny, you didn’t embarrass me. There was a lot wrong with that situation, but me being embarrassed wasn’t part of it. In fact—”
I wait until he looks over at me before I say this part. I want him to see I mean it. “I felt a lot of things. I was furious that I couldn’t stop what he was doing to you. I was frustrated with Kominsky. I was worried about Kelvin walking. But the worst part was, I had to focus on all of that to keep from focusing on the only part that matters, and that’s you. What you said.”
Now I have his attention. Here goes.
“I love you, too, Sonny. I'm in love with you. I have been for a long time. I wish things would’ve happened differently, and they would have if I wasn’t such a damn coward, but I’m not sorry that you said it. I’m thrilled that you said it. Especially if you meant it.”
“Of course I meant it, Rafael. I love you. I’m sorry if that got you in trouble with your boss; I never would’ve done that on purpose.”
I have to snicker a little at that, because it’s so Sonny. Also, because I've been looking forward to telling him this next part. “I did get a visit from the D.A. this afternoon.”
“Oh, shit—”
“He says, and I’m quoting here, ‘If Kressler thinks he can get his scumbag client out of trouble by throwing you and Carisi under a bus, he’s about to find out what it’s like to get thrown under a train. I don’t appreciate tactics like that, and I don’t appreciate insinuations about my A.D.A.s, either.’”
Sonny is absolutely gorgeous when he smiles. Adorably, he squeaks like I did earlier when he says, “A.D.A.s? Plural?”
“Of course. He was talking about both of us. It looks like you may have to leave SVU a little earlier than you planned, and he asked me to tell you that you’re welcome to start at the D.A.’s office anytime.”
“Holy shit!” He’s laughing now, face lit by joy and firelight, and he looks like an angel sitting across from me.
Suddenly, he’s entirely too far away. I set my glass down and stand, and he does the same, and the next moment we’re in each other’s arms and his kisses taste like happiness and really good wine.
We’re breathless by the time we finally come up for air, and I’m ashamed to say that I’ve already got my hands under his shirt. But then, his are on my ass, so…
“I love you, Sonny. I’m sorry it took me so long to tell you, and I'm so happy you're here with me now. I should probably send Kressler a fruit basket or something. Maybe I will, just to fuck with him.”
We laugh and kiss for a little while before Sonny murmurs, “I love you, too, Rafael. So much.”
There are a lot of people rooting for us. I’m absolutely sure that every one of them would be quite pleased with the way we spend the next few days.
