It hurt like becoming, and it was as easy as being born, maybe because Beatrice didn’t have a single say in any of it.
Sometimes when she was tucked away in the darkest corners of her thoughts, Beatrice wondered if God was real at all, because how could He ask her to resist something this unstoppable?
personally very compelled by the concept of trinity who has been very independent for a long time being a reluctant guiding light to victoria as she strives to come into her own away from her parents
[i would blame 4/20 with the direction this went in but i'm not even stoned yet lmfao]
//
'are you sure?'
you roll your eyes. 'yes.'
dennis pipes up from where he's sitting halfway out your window so that you can victoria can fit on the fire escape. 'trinity's good at this stuff.'
'yeah, i bet,' victoria says. 'also, trinity?'
'uh, yeah?' dennis says. 'we're not at work.'
victoria starts to say something like your first name is— but you decide to be gracious enough to not let her finish that sentence. 'hey,' you interrupt, lighting the joint, 'either you want to hang out with us and celebrate 4/20 away from your parents or you don't.'
'fine.'
'plus, you have no idea what you're doing, and i do.' she still looks a little nervous as you take a hit and hold it, then pass the joint to dennis. you let the smoke out slowly, feeling your body already start to relax: your shoulders first, always, and then the constant, grinding pain in your left knee, your wrists, the stiffness in your hips.
dennis has gotten better after a year and a half, although his tolerance is still shit. but he barely coughs at all. you wink when he smiles proudly.
you take it back from him and then hand it to victoria. 'you know i would never, like, actually let anything happen to you, right? we're just going to watch drag race and eat a bunch of pizza and snacks.'
she nods, tries to settle herself, then takes it from you.
'we've gone out before; i've made sure you stayed safe.'
'but this is… drugs.' she whispers the word, which is so uncool even dennis laughs. 'and also, mel and samira handled things that one time you got really drunk after garcia—'
'crash,' you say, 'you're wasting the weed.'
'fine,' victoria says, then pulls on the joint. she tries so hard to actually hold the smoke but she ends up coughing hard. 'oh my god,' she chokes out, holding the joint up in the air for you to take.
'i smoked better than that at, like, fourteen, but good first go.' you take another hit, close your eyes for a moment, and then hand it to dennis. 'better than huckleberry. he coughed so hard i thought he was going to throw up.'
dennis rolls his eyes and takes a drag, this time not coughing at all.
'but look at him now. a pro.'
he passes it to victoria. 'you'll get the hang of it.'
'plus,' you add, 'this is nice flower. it'll be a chill body high. you probably won't feel anxious at all.'
'probably?'
'once again, crash, you're wasting the weed.'
'just pull slowly,' dennis says, and, to her credit, victoria does do much better this time. she still coughs but it's not violent, and she's able to actually keep some smoke in.
you all take another hit and conversation drifts: to work, to the guy dennis has been texting with that he met at the fucking feed store, to a brief stint about geopolitics before you all decide it's too fucking depressing and scary to talk about high.
victoria bows out after that, but her eyes are red and heavy and she's leaning over unevenly to one side, so that's probably a good idea. dennis waves you off when you offer him more and so you finish the joint yourself. none of you have work tomorrow, so it's an ideal night. it's even getting warm, finally, so you can be in shorts and a hoodie rather than all bundled up outside.
'alright,' you say, letting dennis help you up without even having to ask him first, a small dignity, 'there's snacks and snatch game calling our names. let's go.'
you actually are a kind person, and you also don't want victoria to eat shit onto your bedroom floor, so you help her through the window. she pauses when you steady her to look at you very sincerely, and then she gives you a hug. there's no use in rolling your eyes or fighting it, and, whatever, physical touch is comforting sometimes, so you wrap your arms around her too.
'thank you,' she says, quiet and sincere.
you hum, and she sighs, then backs up. 'for what, though?'
she shrugs. 'seeing me as a person and not just my parents' daughter? i don't know. even if you're kind of mean about it.'
you're genuinely touched. 'oh.' you nod. 'well, it's my duty to bully everyone into being cool. big sister credentials and all that.'
'you're a good big sister,' victoria says, and you fiddle with your hoodie strings so you don't start to cry.
you're saved when dennis annouces, 'pizza's here!' from the living room. still, you squeeze her shoulder once before you head out.
you make sure to steal a slice of pizza out of dennis' hand, and you have victoria toss the ceasar salad and put the bags of chips she brought into bowls and bring everything, including the brookies dennis had gotten shockingly good at making, over to the coffee table, and you queue up the episode.
mel texts the group chat to see how victoria is doing, and samira says she's trying to get off from shift on time so she can come over if you're all still awake.
it's literally only 7 pm, we will still be awake in an hour or two lmfao, you send.
YOU might, you watch victoria type out, but i can't wait to go to sleep
baby's first joint, you respond to many heart and laughter reactions.
do it, samira says, santos' bed is nice anyway. always smells good
victoria's jaw drops; dennis just laughs.
GO BACK TO WORK, you respond, and mel sends a bunch of crying laughing emojis.
'trinity—'
'—you are not on a first name basis with me right now—'
victoria grins. 'if we have wine, will you tell me everything?'
'oh my god, you're talking over the show.'
'you have every word katya says in this episode memorized,' dennis rats you out.
you sigh. 'fine. it's just been, like, three times. it's not—'
'—do not say casual,' dennis says.
'i can evict you whenever i want, you know.'
victoria is absolutely delighted—'i knew it!'—and dennis looks way too smug.
'get the fucking wine, crash,' you say. she scrambles up, trips over the blanket and just barely catches herself. 'be more careful than that when you have a bunch of glass in your hands,' you say at the same time as dennis asks, 'you got it?'
victoria nods and comes back—safely—with three stemless wine glasses and a bottle of skin contact wine.
'this is the best day of my life,' she says in a toast.
'you're just high.'
'happy 4/20 to me!'
you can't help yourself; you smile. you eventually facetime mel, who you had invited but the smell gives her a headache—brunch tomorrow, you'd happily decided as a follow up.
samira texts you privately, hey, sorry. it's busy and i was being silly and i didn't mean to, you know… and then, rapidly, actually, i kinda did. i'm really sorry because i know you value your privacy and getting to tell people things when you feel ready. but you should know that i like you and i don't want to sneak around
you thank god for the amount of weed you'd consumed already because that's the only reason you're not showing it to dennis and giggling right now.
yeah, you type, thanks for acknowledging that. your therapist would be so proud. but it's ok. whitaker and mel know. crash is annoying as hell regardless
you invited her over, samira responds.
yeah bc otherwise she's just going to be at her parents' house stone cold sober on the best day of the year. that's too pathetic for me to allow
🙄 whatever, you text. and ig for the record i like you too. i don't want to sneak around either
'earth to trinity,' dennis says. you put your phone away, probably too quickly because they both look at you with matching grins.
'shut the fuck up and watch the show,' you say. it's a shame no one is scared of you anymore, honestly. you've lost your touch. 'it's homophobic if you don't.'
'oh my god,' dennis grumbles, rolling his eyes, and victoria just laughs.
you wait a very respectable three minutes before you glance at your phone again. samira has hearted the message and texted, i'll be over in 20
your brain screams at you that it's stupid to let people in like this, it's reckless and it will only hurt you more than you've ever been hurt before, it'll hurt you so much that you'll actually die this time. but you lock the fuck in—that's what you tell your therapist when she says "grounding"—and pay attention to the soft rug against your feet. dennis' knee shoved into your thigh while he explains katya and trixie's podcast to victoria, the easy sting of the wine on your tongue.
'samira is coming.'
'yeah, i bet she will be,' victoria says, dead serious, and you and dennis are both silent for a moment before you can't help but burst out into laughter.
he gives her a high five while you lean over him and shove her. you corral both of them—you threaten to not share the brookies—into turning back to the tv eventually. samira buzzes a few minutes later and you get up to let her in. she looks exhausted when she comes out of the elevator and then down the hall, still in her scrubs, but she's let her hair down how you like it the best and your heart does a stupid fucking flutter in your chest.
'hi,' you say.
'hi.'
you're just in the threshhold, which you're high enough to think might mean something: a moment to cross over, a welcoming, a becoming—something new; home.
dennis and victoria can definitely see both of you and are not being subtle about it, peering over the edge of the couch, but samira looks so tired and so beautiful.
it's easy to kiss her, right there in the open, without any expectation of more. she smiles into it and kisses you back.
'hi,' she whispers.
'hi again.'
you decide dennis is cut off for the night because he starts cheering, which leads to victoria also cheering, which leads to you flipping them off but samira is blushing and she's so pretty you honestly don't actually give a fuck. dennis tried to sneak a boy out the other morning before work and then scuttled around all day so you couldn't interrogate him, so whatever.
you lead samira to your room while dennis and victoria excitedly chatter on and on. she lets you take her scrubs off, then her bra, and you kiss her once more. none of it is sexual—you're crossfaded and she's too tired to want to do anything—but it is intimate, sweet, younger than you've felt in a really long time.
'i didn't bring pajamas,' she says. 'sorry.'
'why are you apologizing? i love seeing you in my clothes.'
her smile is gentle, a little giddy. she puts on a pair of sweatpants and a soft green baby tee, one you know she likes because she's stollen it before. you get another joint from your tin and hold it up, then open your window and help her out after she nods with a quiet thank god.
you pass it back and forth; she tells you about her day, about how her talk with her mom went last night—tentative steps that you'll never get to have but she should try to; she asks about your pain since you were sore the other day.
it's not as impossible as you'd feared, a year and a half ago, to lean into her while it's quiet and the city rumbles away, hushed, beneath you. dennis and victoria are talking loudly enough that their voices float out, happy.
'i wanna say it in person,' she says, soft and, in that moment, where you steel yourself for something bad, even though you know the drop isn't coming, she's bathed in the city lights and pretty much everything.
you nod.
she cups your jaw in her palm. 'i like you.'
your head swims. you close your eyes because otherwise you're going to cry. 'okay,' you croak, and she laughs—not unkindly, and gently, and she wipes your tears with her thumbs when you just let yourself cry. 'i like you too.'
she laces your fingers together and just lets you rest in it until you straighten. 'they've been unattended for too long.'
samira understands; it's grown, over time, but you're not as dissimilar as you once thought. 'how's your first 4/20, victoria?' she asks once she's helped you back inside. you kick victoria off the couch and onto the floor so you can sit next to samira. she whines about how come whitaker gets to stay on the couch and you just shrug.
'i've earned it,' dennis says, and samira laughs.
the night floats on, easy and a little loud. you file away this thought as one definitely fueled by your favorite indica, but after you put away the food and say goodnight to dennis, who goes into his room, and victoria, who is already settling in on the couch underneath a blanket, after you climb into bed with samira, who is so easy to curl up around—you haven't had a family in a really fucking long time. she kisses your forehead, already mostly asleep; for once, your wrists don't hurt. it's not so scary, you think. it's not so bad.
samira is sitting in the locker room when you finally finish your shift. she has her head in her hands and startles when you come in; she wipes her tears quickly and turns away.
'don't cut your breakdown short on my account.'
she frowns.
'i mean it. that case with mr balaji was really rough earlier,' you offer, trying to sound as sincere as you can. it was hard.
'oh.' samira clears her throat. 'yeah.' she laughs just once, mostly in exhaustion. 'today was… not great.'
'for you,' you say. 'for me, on the other hand, it was awesome.'
'you had a meltdown in the stairwell about that kid—'
'—okay, well, i didn't even cry, and also, that was, like, 8 am—'
'—and i haven't seen garcia around the ED for anything other than consults lately—'
'—damn, okay.' you can only laugh, even though samira immediately looks guilty. 'low blow.'
samira grimaces. 'i got carried away. sorry.'
you shrug. 'ran its course.'
samira raises a brow. 'sure.'
you start changing into a pair of loose cargo pants—shared between you and whitaker at this point—and a baby tee, nothing interesting or even nice. it's tricky, sometimes, changing when someone else is here; you're not ashamed of your scars, but you don't need everyone knowing that about you. you turn away from samira but she busies herself getting her clothes out of her locker too.
'are you and whitaker doing anything tonight?' she asks once she's retrieved her bag and an unexpectedly messy pile of what looks like a long sleeve shirt and shorts.
'no, he's spending tonight at the farm, so i'm free. finally.'
'i heard he's officially on the lease.'
'yeah, well. i don't want to find a roommate that's even worse.'
'sure.' you button your pants and look over to where she's struggling slightly with her shirt. when she pops her head out, her hair is falling out of its bun, a little frizzy and a mess. you fight the urge to reach out and fix it for her, which you file away deep, deep down. 'you could just live alone. find a one bedroom.'
you know yourself well enough by now to be completely aware that living alone would probably lead to an irreversably bad outcome, but samira doesn't need to know that. 'but then i'd have to move. i'm too busy and too tired.'
'tell me about it.'
you were going to go home alone tonight. mel is busy and you don't really want to go out; you've had a building headache for hours. it hasn't been as bad lately—you're going to therapy, which is unfortunately helping; dr al-hashimi is actually much cooler and more competent than you'd thought at first—but still, you haven't thrown away the few scalpels you keep in a little box in your closet. you spend hours on your roof every week. it's still nearly impossible to sleep through the night.
you think of the last stupid session you'd had with your therapist, the stupid lucy daucus quote dennis had annoyingly sent you on tiktok: go to the party. you can't just self-care your way alone. you hate it, it makes your skin crawl, but you are quietly resolute that you want to go another day without a new scar. 'are you busy tonight?'
samira's brow furrows as she looks up from where she's gathering her scrubs. 'me?'
you shrug. 'yeah?'
she considers for a moment. 'i was going to get takeout…'
'and then?' she's really pretty when she blushes rolls through your head like the fucking espn ticker.
'go home?'
'alone.'
'maybe take a bath.' samira rolls her eyes at your expectant stare. 'it was a long day.'
you don't argue that. 'what takeout were you going to get?'
'dosa, probably.'
'well, we could get those and then take them to a brewery i like. they don't have a kitchen so outside food is fine, and the patio is nice. have a beer, then go take your bath?'
samira fiddles with the handles of her tote. 'okay.' she takes a fortifying breath and you fight the urge to take the offer back, fight the deluge of thoughts that fight their way into the front of your mind: she's just being nice; she doesn't like you at all; she hates you, actually, and you're forcing her into this; she's going to leave as soon as she can. but then she smiles, and things quiet in a way they haven't really quieted before. 'that sounds nice, actually.'
'great,' you say, a little too rough and a little too fast, but it's fine, because she doesn't take anything back.
/
apparently the uncle—mithran, he introduces himself—who runs samira's favorite dosa place knows her well; he has her order ready when you both walk in and then is delighted to double it. they speak a language you don't know, but you get the gist that samira explains you're a doctor too, because he thanks you for the work you do in perfect, accented english, and then adds an extra green chutney to the to-go bag with a wink in samira's direction. 'it's her favorite,' he tells you.
'good to know,' you say, and the blush on samira's cheeks sticks in your mind again—and it doesn't leave when she drives to the brewery, when you tease her about her taste in music and so she puts on bollywood because you can't, in any ethical way, tease her about that. whitaker had taken your car to the farm so you're glad to have the ride, especially because the brewery is just a few blocks from your building, so you can walk later.
your favorite server, luis, is there tonight, and he comes around the bar to give you a hug, and then you introduce him to samira. after you both order and she goes to get a table, he grins.
'shut the fuck up.'
he shrugs. 'she's cute. that's all i'm saying.'
'she's my colleague.'
'okay, but she's still cute.'
'bye.'
he laughs as you take your beers and walk to the table. she's set out the food nicely, and she's also gotten you two waters. you put the beers down and sit, and then lift yours for a toast.
'cheers to this fucked up day ending on a less fucked up note,' you say.
samira laughs, relaxed now that she fully can tell this isn't a joke or prank or whatever. 'i'll drink to that.'
and then it's easy. you share your food and talk about being from different coasts: things you miss, things you don't miss. after your first beer she talks about her mom, and after your second beer you talk about yours. there's a live band that starts to play inside but it's not so loud on the patio, mostly nice, but you still lean closer to each other so you can hear. she makes fun of your vape but she takes a hit anyway, then makes more fun of you because, 'what the fuck flavor is that, trinity, oh my god. are you fifteen years old?'
'beggars can't be choosers,' you say, shrugging to hide the sliver of embarrassment that creeps up your spine—it's not your fault pineapple e-juice was on sale.
you're debating whether or not it's completely stupid to get a fourth beer at last call when samira sits back and crosses her arms, really looks at you for a moment. 'garcia is a fucking idiot,' she says finally.
you blame the fact that you worked a bazillion hours this month and also have had three beers and also can't fucking sleep for your very coherent, 'what?'
samira honestly seems equally as surprised, but she doesn't backtrack, just finishes the last dregs of her beer and then says, 'you're so smart. you're kind, when you want to be.' she pauses. 'you're pretty.'
it's something, to be called pretty rather than hot or sexy or even beautiful the way garcia liked to do when she was feeling especially generous. 'well, so are you.'
samira laughs, like, really laughs, her mouth stretched into a happy grin and her eyes lit up, finally. you don't think you've ever seen her like this, not once, at work. 'you can just say thank you, you know.'
you shrug. 'but i mean it.'
she softens, takes your hand for a moment. 'we're drunk.'
'speak for yourself.'
'santos.'
'you can call me trinity, you know.'
she takes a breath. 'okay. trinity.'
you take stock of what you want to do: kiss her, take her home and take off your clothes and let her be rough, or soft, or whatever the fuck she wants. it could be simple. it could happen once and not again; you could go back to being dr mohan and dr santos—ships in the night.
'do you want to do this again sometime?' you ask instead. it comes out small and vulnerable.
but samira's smile softens. 'yeah, actually. i'd really like that.'
