THE BUG COLLECTOR-- PART ONE
THE PITT X THE BEAR CROSSOVER
dr robby x f!reader read on ao3 | the bug collector masterlist content: 18+ mdni, reader is mikey berzatto's widow, discussions of suicide, suicidal ideation, death and grief, domestic violence (verbal, emotional, physical), discussions of pregnancy/fertility/conception, substance use disorder, drugs, alcohol, cigarettes, smoking, mental illness, minor age gap? i would say reader is in her early forties, robby's in his fifties, dysfunctional family, reader is orphaned, berzattos something like found family, reader's nickname given by berzattos is bug, brief mention of unspecified child abuse, likely medical inaccuracies, broken heart syndrome, swearing words: 13.5k synopsis: wracked with guilt and shame that could rival that of a devout catholic's after your husband ends his life, you decide to follow in his footsteps by abandoning the life you've built together. packing up your things, you flee to pittsburgh, leaving behind both chicago and the only family you'd ever known. but grief cannot be outrun, robby knows that better than anyone. one day, maybe you'll stop running long enough for him to show you. a/n: well. i said i would do it, didn't i??? anyway this one is super niche who knows when i will finish it if ever this is mostly just the set up ahhhhh idk why i'm so nervous about this when i know no one is going to read it lmao. i'm having fun with it though and i really love writing the bear characters! mind the tags pleaseeeee and take care of yourselves. if you like this one please let me know or i fear it will be abandoned <3 syd
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud, for grief is proud and makes his owner stoop. To me and to the state of my great grief, let kings assemble; for my grief's so great that no supporter but the huge firm earth can hold it up. [Throws herself on the ground.] Here I and sorrows sit; Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it.
-The Life and Death of King John, William Shakespeare
The morning of the day the world ended, you were thinking about leaving Mikey again, for probably the hundredth time. You'd pulled out your suitcase from under the bed, unzipped it, sat on the floor, and stared at it for over an hour.
Mikey had been sweet the last few days, but that wasn't uncommon. He could usually sense when you were thinking about leaving, when you got tired of begging him to come home. When you didn't engage in the fights he stoked. When you stopped going through his things so you could flush the drugs down the toilet.
The last few days, as he normally did when he sniffed out your thoughts, he was kind to you. Did the things he always had in the beginning stages of your relationship, like make you coffee, kiss you goodbye, made sure he was in the bed with you at night when it was time to go to sleep. He hadn't been sober for much of it, but there was almost nothing on this earth that could make him want to be sober for more than an hour in that last year.
And so, much like every other time you had planned to leave Mikey, you sat staring at an open suitcase wondering if you were making the right decision.
But then the phone rang and you tore your gaze away from the suitcase to see Natalie calling. Part of you was tempted to ignore it. The Berzattos had taken you in like you were practically their own long before you and Mikey had even thought about dating. Leaving Mikey wouldn't just be leaving Mikey, it'd be leaving the only family you'd ever known. Natalie, the only sister you'd ever had.
Wracked with guilt, you stared at her contact photo long enough that it almost went to voicemail.
"Hey, Nat, what's—"
You remembered thinking as Natalie screamed almost unintelligibly into the phone that it was a joke. A prank. You were already thinking about the long speech you'd give Mikey, Richie, and Fak, surely the perpetrators of it.
"Natalie, slow down." You stood up, still calm and in denial, although just one finger on your free hand trembled as you walked toward the safe where Mikey kept his gun. Your gun, you knew, was exactly where you'd left it. In its own safe tucked away in your nightstand. You had just checked for it this morning, because sometimes Mikey took it without asking and if you were leaving you wanted to take it with you.
But that morning, you walked with purpose toward's Mikey's "office," if one could call it that. It was a single folding table and more papers and boxes than you could understand. Scattered throughout it were the occasional photo in frame, like your wedding photo.
Your eye caught sight of it as you walked over to his safe on the lone bookshelf. There was a crack down the middle of the glass of the frame. Mikey had thrown it a few weeks ago. Not at you, you'd maintain, just towards you. You'd been meaning to get around to replacing it.
As Natalie sobbed frantically in your ear, you unlocked the safe and—
No gun. Just a single, folded piece of paper that read: BUG in messy scrawl you'd know anywhere.
Distantly, you knew Natalie was calling your name, but you put the phone down with a shaking hand and then reached for the paper.
You unfolded it, smoothed out the wrinkles, and there were just three sentences written out.
I'm sorry. Carmy will take care of everything. I love you.
And then the world ended.
***
When the world ended, you ran. Mikey seemed to have had everything figured out before he blew his brains out on the State Street Bridge and so there was no use for you. He left you with nothing. Except the house, which you had put up for sale within weeks.
"Bug, hold on—hold on—I don't know why he left me everything," Carmy was saying frantically as you were packing your things into your pickup, "He was fucked up, he wasn't thinking straight, obviously, or he would've left the restaurant to his fucking wife."
"Carmy," You sighed, "It's fine. I never wanted the Beef anyway."
"Okay, but, I could use your help. Where the fuck are you going anyway? Does Richie know you're leaving? Natalie?" At the look on your face he leaned his back against your truck and dug around for his cigarettes, "Fuck," he muttered, "You're gonna make me tell them, aren't you?"
You hadn't seen Carmy for a couple of years by the time Mikey ended it, but he looked worn out since the last time you saw him. He'd lost some weight and the bags under his eyes were heavy. It had been cruel for Mikey to strap him with a fucking floundering sandwich shop when Carmy had been working at one of the best restaurants in the world. He idolized Mikey. You knew immediately he'd never get rid of it like Natalie asked him to.
And so the cycle would continue. The Beef would curse Carmy next—No, that was terrible to even think, to put out into the universe. Carmy was different. He'd be fine.
"You don't need me, Carm," You said quietly, accepting a cigarette from him, "You have Richie."
He scoffed, "Richie's a fuckin' idiot, he doesn't know how to do shit."
"Richie knows more about that place than I do. Fuck, he probably knew Mikey better than I did at the end."
You felt Carmy's eyes on you, but didn't turn to meet them.
"That's not true." He said finally, "You knew him better than anyone."
You hummed, "He was planning this for weeks and weeks and I had no idea. Not a fuckin' clue," Finally you turned to him, "So what does that say about me, Carm? About our relationship?"
You weren't sure what it was you wanted from Carmy. Reassurance that he didn't blame you? For someone to say out loud that it wasn't your fault? That even though you'd been revolving around Mikey like he was the Sun for practically your entire life, how could you have been expected to notice when his light dimmed?
Carmy didn't say any of that and he wouldn't because you both knew it was bullshit. If it was anyone's job to notice that Mikey was well and truly slipping, it was yours.
And maybe you had been so busy thinking about yourself that you hadn't noticed. Or maybe you hadn't wanted to notice. The implication was the same and if they wouldn't condemn you for it, then you'd do it yourself.
"If you won't call Sugar, you should at least call Richie." He said quietly, "He's been a fuckin' bastard lately and he hates me right now so please don't make me be the one to tell him that his only other friend has left town without a trace."
You couldn't talk to Richie. You hadn't been able to look him in the eye since the day it happened. If anyone would be able to see right through you to the truth of it, to see your failures, it'd be Richie.
"Why's he mad at you?"
Carmy shrugged, "Think he's just pissed Mikey left it to me. Doesn't matter how many times I've tried to tell him I never fuckin' wanted it. Not without Mikey."
Ah, yeah, that sounded like Richie. You hadn't wanted the Beef either, but you understood the resentment anyway. The truth that came with it, that Mikey had never really seen the two of you as family.
"He'll get over it," You said swallowing, "You're family."
Carmy didn't say anything to that, "Could you at least tell me where you're going?"
The youngest Berzatto, you'd always had a softness for Carmy. It was you who'd intervened on his behalf whenever Mikey and Richie were being too hard on him. When he left for Paris and then Copenhagen and finally New York, Mikey was proud of him, of course, but you identified the resentment. That Carmy had been able to get out. The same bitterness that had simmered below the surface and led you to drop out of NYU and come back to Mikey.
That seemed like lifetimes ago, now.
Sighing, you dug around in the cab of your truck until you found a pen and a notepad. Quickly, you scribbled down the address of the apartment you'd be renting and then handed it to Carmy.
He squinted at it and then up at you, "Pittsburgh? What the hell is in Pittsburgh?"
Nothing. Nothing and no one who knew you. A one bedroom that didn't have any traces of Mikey in it. Not a single soul who knew who the Berzattos were or what a Chicago Beef was. Well, maybe they'd know what a Chicago Beef was.
You dropped your cigarette and crushed it beneath your boot before walking back around the truck to the driver's side.
"You should sell the Beef," You said, climbing into the truck.
"Are you ever gonna come back?" Carmy asked, leaning into your window as you started the truck.
You swallowed past the lump in your throat and turned to him, "I feel him. Constantly," You said softly, "Like a fucking weight on my chest. I just need to be somewhere where his ghost isn't suffocating me."
He nodded and pushed off the side of your car, "Well, we'll miss you here. Don't know how we're gonna do it without you."
You felt the muscles of your face soften. Carmy could be both so much like Mikey and nothing at all like him, "Carm, you're gonna do so amazing," You nodded reassuringly and lowered your head to force eye contact with him, "Mikey knew it. I knew it. Everyone in this city knows it."
"If he knew it why didn't he ever bring me home to run it with him, huh?" There was the heat back in his voice, the classic rage only a Berzatto could carry, pulling behind him like a boulder on a rope, so used to its presence he sometimes forgot it was there. Until now. Until forced to examine all the ways in which we'd let him down. "Instead he left me with a—a fuckin' failing restaurant with no money and—and the only living person who was fuckin' keeping it afloat's leaving too."
"Carmy—"
"No, just—just fuck off then, alright?"
Your eyes burned. You didn't want to leave things like this, but you knew he'd be upset. You had planned to leave without telling anyone to avoid all of this mess, like a coward, but Carmy had shown up out of the blue, planning to ask for your help. Instead, he'd been confronted with you packing your life away. Running. Leaving him the same way he felt like Mikey had. Didn't you know what that felt like? So easily you'd perpetrate the same violence against him if it meant escaping its echoes yourself.
"I'm sorry." You said weakly, not knowing what else to do or say. You were sorry. But you weren't sure you'd survive another second under the suffocating weight of the grief.
Carmy wasn't looking at you now. Hands on his hips as he stared off into the sunset. A police siren wailed in the distance.
"Don't expect me to keep it from the family." He said finally, "When they ask, I won't lie for you."
There had been a time when Carmy would have lied for you as easily as the river flows down the bank. It was amazing the things Mikey could continue to take from you, even from the grave.
You swallowed and nodded, "I understand."
He stood there stoically as you started the truck. Your eyes filled as you looked at the house you and Mikey had shared for twenty years in the rearview mirror. The rose bushes you'd tended to by the stoop. The stubborn crack in the foundation that Mikey attempted to fill himself every few years. The beers you'd shared and cigarrettes you'd smoked with Richie and, later, Tiffany in the backyard. You couldn't imagine that anywhere else would ever feel as close to home as those four walls and the laughter and screaming and crying that settled in the foundation like mold. It would have collapsed one day anyhow, even if Mikey hadn't been the one to issue the final blow.
"Carm," You called over the roar of the engine. You saw the moment he hesitated, when he stubbornly wanted to deny you the desire to look into his eyes, but he looked up. "I'm sorry he left such a mess, but you don't have to be the one to clean up after him. If you don't want to."
He nodded, seeming to consider it, then, "You know that's not true," He said, squinting against the light of the setting sun, "I begged him to let me work at The Beef for years so he gave it to me," He grinned sardonically, "Fuckin' bastard."
You did know it wasn't true. Carmy would clean up any mess if Mikey was the one to make it. But you had to say it anyway.
"Take care of yourself, Carm," You shifted the car into drive, "I love you, bear."
When he looked back at you, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Eventually he nodded, "Love you too, bug."
With that, you pulled off the curb for the last time and watched the Chicago skyline fade in the rearview mirror.
***
As long as you could remember, you always wanted to be married. It wasn't as if you'd diaried about the wedding you'd throw, the type of dress you wanted. You didn't create long lists of baby names to one day share with your future spouse. You didn't imagine the life you'd share or the house you'd one day live in.
To you, it was the one sure way to ensure you belonged to someone. That you mattered to someone. The fantasy of being loved and wanted and adored and taken care of by someone. You had always hated being alone. As you were passed from foster home to foster home, some of them the source of recurring nightmares over the years, the best ones where you were treated with cold indifference, it was this fantasy that kept you going.
It was Uncle Jimmy who had introduced you to the Berzattos. You were living at one of the very bad foster homes at the time, suffering through the fourth grade, your marks were tanking and you barely spoke to anyone at all. You had taken to not going home after school, instead, wandering the streets of Chicago until the sun rose again in the morning. Sometimes people took pity on you, assumed you were homeless and bought you a meal. You spent a lot of time in the library during this period. But even libraries closed at night.
And so you'd walk and walk and walk. Up the river, down the river, along the pier, through the park. On one night, you were particularly tired. You hadn't been back at the house in about three days. You were hungry and your feet hurt and you were starting to smell from the lack of a shower. The streets were usually quiet at night and this night you made the mistake of walking out across the road without checking for cars.
You remembered the squeal of the brakes and the smell of burnt rubber against asphalt—And then the yelling.
A heavyset man climbed out of his car, red in the face and started bellowing at you about looking both ways before crossing and didn't your parents teach you how to cross the street safely?
The lack of sleep had you irritable and on top of that, you were frustrated that he hadn't hit you. You hadn't intended to be hit, but your immediate thoughts were that if you had been hit, you could have at least gone to the hospital and been doted on. You'd have a safe place to sleep and something to eat. But the hood of his car had barely grazed you.
"You think if I had parents I'd be walking around in the middle of the night, dick wad?" You'd shouted back.
The man quieted and took a closer look at you. Then, he looked around at the empty streets, checked his watch to see what time it was, then sighed heavily as he looked back at you. His eyes traveled from your dirty sneakers, up to your face, streaked with dirt and hair that hadn't been combed or washed in many days. His nose wrinkled in distaste, but you weren't embarrassed. You would happily take being hungry and dirty and smelly over being in that house.
"Get in the car," He said finally with a jerk of his head.
Finally, you had the good sense to revert from rabid dog back to scared child, "Wh—What?"
"Get in the car," He said slowly, "I'm not gonna hurt ya, kid. Are ya hungry?"
At the mere mention of food, your mouth watered. You nodded.
He nodded, "Thought so. Come on, get in. I know a place."
Reluctantly, you climbed in the car. Looking back on it, you thought you'd been smarter than getting in a car with any stranger. But you hadn't slept in days and the ache in your chest that longed to be taken care of by an adult, any adult, twinged at the man's offer.
You were quiet as he drove through Chicago to River North and didn't take offense when he rolled down the windows, assumedly to air out your smell.
You remembered vaguely that he took the car ride to lecture you about how it was unsafe for a girl your age to wander the streets at night like that. But you only sat quietly, the exhaustion fully setting into your bones now that you'd sat down.
He parked along the curb across from a home that had a single light cutting through the dark of the night and unceremoniously got out of the car, gesturing for you to follow. It took a lot of effort for you to pull yourself from the safety of the car, but you managed, trailing after the man like a sick puppy.
You had only known him less than thirty minutes, but you clung to his pant leg as he spoke to the adults who answered the door—another man who had the same mannerisms as the man who almost hit you, whose name was apparently Jimmy, and a very heavily pregnant woman behind him who watched you with a gentle expression on her face. More gentle than you could recall anyone looking at you before. Uncomfortable, you averted your gaze.
Jimmy turned back to you and crouched in front of you, "You see the nice lady behind me?"
You looked over your shoulder to the woman again, who was still looking at you with a soft smile on her face. You nodded.
"She's gonna let you shower and get you some food, okay?"
"What're you gonna do?" You asked immediately, afraid he was already intent on abandoning you.
"I'm gonna have a beer with my friend over here—" He nodded towards the other man, "—and make sure you're looked after."
You swallowed, "You'll still be here when I get out?"
He nodded, "Promise."
You had been lied to by many adults in your life and so your instinct was to distrust him. You couldn't explain why as you looked over the planes of his face, the bags under his eyes, the ginormous glasses that framed them, and the wrinkles beside them, you trusted him. You allowed the woman—Donna—to coax you down the hall.
As she led you to the bathroom, you remembered at the end of the hall, a cracked door and two eyes illuminated by the hallway lights, watching you. Donna, following your gaze, had sighed and said, "Mikey, back to bed. Now." And then the door had closed. That was the first time you laid eyes on Mikey Berzatto.
Later, freshly showered and stomach full of baked ziti, Donna led you back to Jimmy, who smiled at your wet hair and clean clothes (later, you'd learn the clean clothes were Mikey's).
"Feeling better, kiddo?" Jimmy asked.
Yawning, you nodded. You were feeling better, though you were on the verge of falling asleep. Jimmy took you home that night, telling you stories about the Berzattos as he drove. At first when you got back in the car, he'd intended to take you back to The House, but after you refused to give him the address to the point of tears, he'd sighed and began to drive to what you presumed to be his own house. You realized as he drove that you were in the same neighborhood as The House, but you didn't mention it to him, afraid he'd insist on taking you back.
That night, he let you sleep on his couch and at your insistence, he slept in the recliner across the room.
A lot could be said about Donna Berzatto and Uncle Jimmy, the people they became, the people they hurt, but you would always have a soft spot for them for this day, if nothing else. You felt, and you'd tell them for many years after, that they saved your life that night.
You understood the issues Mikey, Sugar, and Carmy had with their mother. You'd witnessed first hand her near violent mood swings and the unforgivable way she'd spoken to them. You'd joke with the siblings for many years after that the only reason she'd been so sweet to you that night was because she'd been pregnant with Sugar. But despite it all, nobody could say that Donna didn't love her children. She hadn't been able to love them the way they needed, and at least in the case of Mikey, you hypothesized it led to his demise, but she had loved them nonetheless. And this was more love than you had witnessed at any time up until that point.
So it was no surprise then that you dug your grubby fingers so deeply into Unc and subsequently, the Berzattos.
And since it had been what you'd wanted so fiercely for as long as you could remember, the decision to drop out of Tisch at NYU, giving up your free ride to come back home to Mikey when he proposed your sophomore year had been an easy one for you to make. Even when Jimmy gave you hell for it.
"I know that I gave you shit for fuckin' going to school for performing arts," He filled the phrase with disdain, "But it's still an education. For free. And you're just gonna throw it away for that fuckin' idiot kid—"
"Will you give me away?" You asked, interrupting his spiel. You had always intended to ask him, but it was easiest to ask now, when you could distract him from all the ways in which you were a disappointment. You weren't his kid, but he had always treated you like it. Before you'd accepted the free ride to NYU, he'd offered to pay your full tuition to any university you wanted.
"Fuck," He'd sighed and ran his hands over his face, displacing his glasses, "You're fuckin' killin' me here, kid."
You grinned, sensing a retreat, "So that's a yes?"
"I just don't understand why it has to be right now. Are you pregnant?"
You rolled your eyes, "I already told you, no. I can pee on a stick for you if you want."
He waved you off, "Then there's no reason this can't wait until graduation, huh?"
You sighed, you didn't want to explain to him the childlike fear that if you didn't marry Mikey right now, he'd lose interest by the time you came home. This felt like the one chance to get everything you wanted. Namely, the Berzattos, legally by contract. And Mikey. The only boy you'd ever loved. You could always go back to school or go to school in Chicago. You might not get another chance with Mikey.
"Jimmy, please."
He stared at you for a few moments and you felt it when he gave up. His shoulders drooped and the muscles in his face relaxed and he slowly shook his head, "Alright, kiddo. Fine. But I'll only walk you down the aisle if you promise me one thing. You listening?" You smiled and eagerly nodded, already thinking you'd won, "You don't let Mikey handle the money."
You frowned, "I don't understand."
"I mean, you can let him handle the money, or what he thinks is the money. But I need you to promise me that you'll keep your own money that he won't have access to."
"Unc, what the fuck are you talking about?"
He looked down at his hands, clasped in front of him on the table, "You know I love Mikey. I love the Berzattos, his father was always a good friend of mine… But the fact of the matter is that they've never been good at business. And now that The Beef is Mikey's and you intend to marry him, that means it'll be yours, too."
You frowned, "Yeah, okay. I know that."
He nodded slowly, "And you understand that if something goes wrong, any money issues will also fall on you. Any debt. This could ruin you—"
"Everyone loves The Beef—"
"The best restaurant will not survive a mismanagement of money, sweetheart. I know you understand that."
You set your jaw stubbornly and sat back against your chair, "So, what, you want me to bet on my future husband's failure and create a secret escape fund?"
"Yes, that's exactly what I want you to do."
You rolled your eyes, but he grabbed your hands across the table, "Listen to me. I know you're smart. You're smarter than him and at his worst I think he'll come to resent that—"
You didn't want to hear this, "Jimmy—" You tried to pull your hands away, but he squeezed tightly.
"At his best, Mikey is a good man. He'll make a good husband. But when things get hard—and they will get hard—I just need to know that you are capable of taking care of yourself. Promise me."
It was scaring you, this talk. You knew what he was really saying underneath it all. You'd had many conversations about the Berzattos with Jimmy over the years. He was like a father to you and so you'd always kept whatever he'd told you under lock and key. Even from Mikey.
He did love Mikey. He loved Donna, loved Mikey's father, loved Nat and Carmy. But he had also seen the family at their worst. And you knew he worried that you'd truly become a Berzatto, and everything that came with it. The mental illness, the substance abuse, the disappearances, the often violent endings. The circular curse of being a Berzatto in this town.
You swallowed, "I promise," you said quietly, "Am I just gonna be another Berzatto to you now, Unc? Just a lovable pain in the ass?"
He chuckled, but shook his head, "No, sweetheart. You've always been a Kalinowski to me anyhow. You'll die a Kalinowski."
You thought about this conversation twenty years later in your new Pittsburgh apartment, sitting in the open window with a lit cigarette in your mouth and an open Peroni beside you. The apartment was empty, just hardwood floors and a mattress on the floor. Your valuables scattered across the floor and in boxes. Your gun in its safe by the head of your mattress.
Everything else you'd gotten rid of. Mikey's presence too consuming. You'd barely been able to convince yourself to take your clothes, able to look at every piece and identify a memory with Mikey, both good and bad.
That was the dress you wore to your twentieth anniversary dinner. There's the shirt he nearly ripped apart in his rush to get it off you and fuck you against the wall when he got too drunk three years ago after a night out with Richie. These are the jeans with the tear at the knees from when he shoved you down the porch steps after you talked back to him in front of the family—
Your phone was ringing again. You'd made a game out of trying to guess if it'd be Natalie, Jimmy, or Carmy. The fact that Richie hadn't tried to call you told you enough about where he stood. You knew he blamed you for Mikey, could see it all over his face at the funeral. That was fine, you thought it was your fault too.
You had a running theory that following Jimmy's advice, squirreling away cash every month into a secret bank account, had cursed your marriage and Mikey. Right now you felt that it was Jimmy calling. He tried calling you more often than Carmy, but less than Natalie. Natalie's voicemails were always the hardest to listen to.
You watched the phone screen as it rang and rang, then signaled that voicemail was picking up. New Voicemail - Uncle Jimmy.
Immediately, you picked up the phone to listen to his message. You didn't like to admit it, but you still liked to hear the sound of his voice, you found it soothing.
"Hey, kid, it's me." He sighed into the receiver, "Carmy says you've gone to Pittsburgh. I don't know what the fuck is in Pittsburgh, but I'd appreciate it if you'd pick up the fucking phone so I know you're alive. Or at least… Look, I—I know how hard it must be for you right now with Mikey—Well, I guess I don't know. Not really. But you could at least let me try...To understand." He paused for a few moments and then sighed, "If you could just text me proof of life, I won't bother you. I get it, you don't wanna talk, message received. I just… Wanna make sure you're okay. Alright?" There was another pause, a longer one this time, just the sound of his breathing, "I love you, kiddo," He said finally, "Call me back."
You put the phone down for a few minutes and looked out at the sunset. The apartment you'd rented was fine, but you'd rented it for the view alone. You could see one of the big bridges that crossed the Allegheny. Being close to the river reminded you of home. Sighing, you picked up the phone again and took a picture of the view, tangerine sky warm and inviting as it stretched across the bridge.
Opening your text thread with Jimmy you attached the photo and typed simply Alive. Then hit send. Jimmy liked the message—something you had taught him how to do. You watched the speech bubble pop up and disappear repeatedly. Then, nothing.
You would call Jimmy again eventually, just not today.
Today, you watched the sun set over Pittsburgh and then fell asleep on your bare mattress in the middle of the room, ambulance sirens lulling you to sleep like an old friend.
Later in the night, you'd wake and reach for Mikey's warmth only to grasp at the empty mattress. Blinking your eyes open, you'd remember where you were and that he was dead. Staring at the ceiling, your lower lip wobbling, you'd commence your new nightly routine of sobbing and wailing into your pillow. Both cursing Mikey and murmuring that you loved him until your body collapsed with the fatigue of grief.
***
It took months to get the book truck up and running. First, you had to find the perfect truck within your budget. Then, you got busy gutting it and building shelves into the walls. You were very slow and very bad at this and got easily frustrated whenever you remembered Mikey could've had this done twice as fast as you.
You ended many of the days in the beginning crying with splinters in your hands and itching to call Richie. He wasn't as handy as Mikey, but he was close. And he'd probably know how to make you laugh while he helped you anchor the shelves to the walls.
But you couldn't call Richie. You were hours away and he didn't wanna hear from you. You felt more alone than you'd felt since you were a child and Jimmy coaxed you into his car.
It was nearly February again, nearing the anniversary of the day the world ended when it was ready. You'd gotten enough inventory, you spent nearly all your savings getting it up and running while you worked in the meantime as a barista at a local coffee shop.
But once it was ready, when you'd outfitted it with a mini fridge and a Breville so you could also sell coffee, once you'd gotten all the correct licenses, you drove out and picked a nice spot near the river to set up shop for the day.
No customers the first day, but that was expected you supposed. It was cold, a brisk breeze coming in off the river, bare trees bending to its will.
But then there were no customers for weeks. People would stop and look, like you were a zoo exhibit. You sold the occasional coffee, but your inventory remained stagnant.
And then as winter was beginning to thaw into spring, a tall, bearded man approached your table. At first you didn't notice him, Shakespeare's King John in your hand, spine bent in half as you murmured one of Constance's monologues to yourself. A local theater would be putting it on later in the summer and at your therapist's urging you were auditioning later that week.
You hadn't been on a stage in something like twenty years, but your therapist reminded you it was just for fun. And a way to excise your grief.
"King John?" She asked when you told her about the audition.
You nodded, "You know it?" It was about the only Shakespeare you didn't know.
"Yes," She said and then stared past your shoulder at nothing, "Yes, let me know what you think of Constance."
When you got to her monologue where, lost in her grief she swears she's not mad, though she wished she was for that would be better than the hell her grief had wrought, you were sold. You would not and could not play anyone else.
So you were lost in her monologue, muttering under your breath when the tall, bearded man approached. For a moment when you noticed him you thought you had done such a fantastic job of getting lost in the bottomless well of your own grief, you'd conjured Mikey.
And so, you must have uttered his name because now the tall, bearded Not Mikey was frowning at you, "Sorry… Have we met?"
You blinked, "Oh, no, sorry I—I thought you were someone else. How can I help you?"
He peered behind you at your van—truck—whatever you wanted to call it, then back at you, "I haven't seen you here before."
You sighed and sat back in your chair, "Look, I can show you the licenses if you want, I'm allowed to park here—"
"Oh—No—" He laughed nervously, "Not what I meant, just—I'm pretty familiar with most of the vendors around here. I was just wondering if you're new to the area?"
You opened and closed your mouth for a moment, eyes trailing to where he had a badge clipped to his hoodie. An emergency medicine doctor at Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center. Michael Robinavitch. Michael. Mikey. A shiver ran down your spine and you crossed them in front of you. It was an incredibly common name, you reminded yourself.
Looking back up at him, you rescanned the lines of his face, found softness in his creases and warmth in his eyes. A bone deep exhaustion that you recognized in the way he held himself, as if he were right now leaning against the boulder he'd been pushing up the hill.
Growing up with the Berzattos and Jimmy had always given you a healthy skepticism of authority, which included doctors, but something about him, the way he carried himself, made you feel like you could trust him.
Or maybe it was just the visceral reminder of Mikey.
You swallowed, "Sort of, yeah. I moved here almost a year ago."
He nodded, "From whereabouts?"
"Chicago."
He raised his eyebrows, "Well, Pittsburgh must seem pretty quaint comparatively. How long were you there?"
The strangest things could trigger the grief. For example, the way the sun was shining in this stranger's face with Mikey's namesake, for just a moment his broad chest was Mikey's. His beard the same one you'd run your fingers through. His lips the same ones that you'd kissed for decades. It felt like a punch to the gut and you physically recoiled.
Politely, he acted like he hadn't noticed, waited patiently for a response to a question you could barely remember him asking.
"Um," You said slowly and pulled your eyes away from him, "My whole life."
"Why'd you leave?"
You pulled your gaze back to him and noted all the ways he was different from Mikey. Different nose, shorter hair, more freckles, slightly taller. Cataloguing them put you more at ease. Your shoulders relaxed and you sat back in your chair, "Trying to outrun a ghost." You said honestly.
You expected him to laugh or mock, but he did neither, only nodded and offered you a soft smile, as if he understood. Clearing his throat he asked, "Do you have coffee?"
You nodded, "Just an espresso machine. I can make you an Americano, a latte, or just a shot."
He requested an Americano and you were back with it in just a couple of minutes. He handed you some crumpled bills and then began to back away from your table, "I hope you're done running."
And then he was gone. You frowned after him, unsure what to make of his cryptic message, but after a moment simply shook your head.
You forgot about him for a while, the stranger with Mikey's name, but it wouldn't be long before your paths intersected again.
***
Natalie had been calling you repeatedly for hours. You weren't sure why you were still avoiding her, still avoiding all the Berzattos and Richie and Jimmy. It just felt like once so much time had passed since you last spoke the scarier it became to break it.
I'm calling for your own good, She texted when you continually denied her calls, In a couple of hours you're gonna wish you'd picked up the phone.
You frowned at the message. What could she possibly mean by that? But you had left your phone in another room and so were seeing the text hours later. As you thought about dialing her or texting back, there was a knock at your door.
"What the fuck?" You muttered quietly to yourself as you got closer to the door and heard the familiar sound of arguing outside your door.
Looking through the peep hole, you saw Carmy and Richie, between them, a Black woman you didn't recognize. She had a baby face, clearly younger than Carmy even, her braids tucked away beneath a silken scarf tied at the nape of her neck. Small hoops dangled from both her ears and she appeared to be trying to mediate an argument between the two men.
For a moment, you considered slowly backing away from the door and pretending you weren't home. Carmy being here was a mild inconvenience. You didn't know who the other woman was, but she seemed to be some sort of new addition to the fucked up Berzatto circus, unaware that any attempt at mediation between Carmy and Richie would just lead to her becoming collateral.
It was Richie you most dreaded seeing. Richie who you couldn't quite bear to look in the eyes.
But as you backed away, there was more aggressive knocking on the door and Richie's voice raised over the cacophony, "Bug, open the fucking door, I know you're in there I can smell those fucking hippie-dippie flower sticks burning."
You glanced back at your table where your incense stick was indeed burning, the scent of citrus and florals drifting through the apartment.
"Shit," You murmured, and then Richie was banging again.
"Bug, I swear to God—"
"I'm coming, shut the fuck up!" You shouted and then blew out a long breath between your lips before walking back over to the door and opening it.
All three people on the other side quieted immediately upon seeing you. Carmy and Richie stared open mouthed at you as you stared between the two of them, none of you knowing what to say before the woman between them thrust her hand towards you.
"Hi, I'm Sydney. I'm Carmy's business partner. It's nice to meet you, finally."
You took her hand, warm and soft in your own, noticed the way Richie rolled his eyes behind her back. Carmy watched her with a sort of quiet reverence, like he was afraid she was too good to be true. You wondered if he was aware of the way he looked at her.
She had a sweet smile, had an eagerness to her that you instantly found endearing, "Hi, Sydney," You swallowed, "Wanna tell me what these doofuses are doing at my apartment?"
She opened her mouth as if to explain, but then the two men immediately started talking over one another, words climbing in volume until they were again shouting over each other.
You rubbed a hand over your eyes, "My God, shut the fuck up!"
Just then, a loud banging could be heard from the wall next to your apartment. You sighed. It was a noise you'd become intimately familiar with over the last few months whenever your elderly neighbor, Mrs. McGraw, was displeased with you. She'd take her cane and bang the rubber bottom of it against the wall three times. Sometimes more, depending on how egregious your offense was.
"Sorry Mrs. McGraw!" You called and then turned your attention back to Richie, Carmy, and Sydney, "If you can manage to keep your voices at an indoor level you're welcome to come inside. Otherwise, you can get in the car and drive back to Chicago."
Carmy and Richie stared blankly at you and Sydney's eyes darted nervously between them before she smiled at you and leaned forward conspiratorially, "Please don't make me get back in the car with them." She whispered.
The corner of your mouth twitched, but before you could say anything else, Richie shoved Carmy lightly, "Well, you heard her, Bobby Flay, get in there."
Carmy turned around to face Richie, "Cousin, I swear to God, you put your hands on me one more fuckin' time—"
"What're you gonna do, huh? Run and tattle to Natalie again?"
Sydney sighed next to you, "I miss Natalie."
Your stomach twisted painfully as you thought of her texts this morning. In a couple of hours you're gonna wish you'd picked up the phone.
You swallowed past the lump in your throat, "Me too."
Once everyone was inside the apartment, you closed the door and then turned to face them, leaning your back against the door, "Well? What're you doing here?"
Carmy and Sydney stared at you quietly, but Richie couldn't seem to look at you. It was expected, but it still made you feel sick. It had been Richie who had nicknamed you Bug, all those years ago. You'd resented it then, but hearing him say it again had warmth spreading through your chest.
"Um," Carmy looked off at Richie and then back at you, "How… are you?"
You scoffed, "You came all the way down here to ask me how I am?"
"You don't answer your phone," Richie said quietly, looking down at his feet as he ran a hand over the back of his head.
You rolled your eyes, "And how would you know that? You've never called me."
He shrugged, "Why bother when I know you won't pick up?"
You clenched your jaw, "This is not all on me."
"Really?" He laughed, still barely able to meet your eyes, but when he did his gaze seemed to burn holes in you, hot and accusatory, "Only one of us packed up her shit and crossed state lines, ran like a fuckin' coward, abandoned the only family she ever knew when they needed her most—"
"You didn't fucking need me!" You shouted indignantly, "You couldn't even fucking look at me—"
"Both of you, shut the fuck up!" Carmy interrupted. Sydney stood wide eyed behind him, arms crossed over her chest. She may be Carmy's business partner, but it was clear she hadn't yet adjusted to the Berzattos, "This is not what we came here for," He said firmly, turning his attention to Richie, "Right, cousin?"
Richie shook his head and rolled his eyes, turning away from you. And it hurt. You didn't think you could feel much of anything after Mikey. It had felt like free falling when you found out, the pain constant and never ending. Every morning you woke up, you still forgot for those few precious moments of delirium. So truly, Richie's obvious disdain should have felt like a tap on the shoulder in comparison. But it stung.
Richie had been your first friend. He would deny this, but it was him who convinced Mikey to let you hang out with the two of them when it was clear you weren't going anywhere. He would say you hadn't given him much choice, but you knew it was something else, something deeper. The Berzattos, for all their issues, at the bottom of it all there was always love. It was the reason kids like you and Richie, who had never known any kind of affection, latched on to them.
And you knew he recognized it in you—the desperation, the longing—the same way you saw it in him.
So now the pain ballooned in your chest knowing he didn't feel that same sense of comradery anymore.
"Why are you here, then?" You asked sharply, "I told you I'm not coming back to Chicago."
After a moment of silence passed, Carmy cleared his throat, "Cousin, do you wanna tell her? Since it was your idea?"
Richie sniffed, nose scrunching up his face, "Nah," He said, and walked towards the door, "I'm going out for a smoke."
He left you, Carmy, and Sydney standing alone in your apartment. You felt you must have been visibly struggling to conceal the effect Richie's rejection had on you, but neither of them acknowledged it.
You cleared your throat, "Carm, could you please just tell me why you're here?"
He sighed and ran a hand through his curls, "We're redoing The Beef, we closed for renovations except for a sandwich window. It's gonna be a real restaurant."
You softened immediately. This was what Mikey had always wanted. To make a real restaurant with Carmy by his side. It was a shame he'd never get to see it, "Carmy, that's amazing."
He nodded, "It's gonna be called The Bear."
Your chin wobbled, but you stiffened your jaw and nodded, "Mikey would've loved that." You said softly.
Carmy looked away from you and cleared his throat, "Anyway, Uncle J, Syd, and I have been talking about franchising the sandwich part of the operation. And since you have a ton of experience running The Beef, Richie suggested the guinea pig should be opened here. In Pittsburgh. With you essentially running it yourself."
At first, you thought maybe you'd heard him wrong. But he stared at you expectantly. Your brow furrowed and you scoffed, "No."
Carmy opened and closed his mouth, "I don't understand, I thought—I thought you were upset Mikey hadn't left you anything and—And I wanted to make that up to you—"
"That's not your responsibility and I told you I never wanted The Beef. Mikey knew that."
You felt the panic beginning to flood your chest. If Carmy had talked about it with Jimmy already that meant they'd probably already put money into it, money you knew Carmy didn't have because Mikey had driven the place into the ground towards the end. A common fight you'd had in the last few months was you asking why there was so much money missing when you sat down to reconcile the books.
He shook his head, "Bug, we did all this for you. We already picked a location—"
"Well you should've fucking ran it by me first!" You shouted, your chest tightening painfully in response. Subconsciously, you brought a fist up to your sternum and rubbed firmly, "Who the fuck buys a sandwich shop without first talking to the person you want to run it?"
"It was supposed to be a surprise!" Carmy shouted back, "And you haven't exactly been easy to get in touch with!"
Suddenly, you felt the walls closing in on you. You had given up everything to make sure you wouldn't be stuck at The Beef. The place you felt had killed Mikey, your best friend, the love of your life. The Beef had stolen a lot from you, from Mikey. It had destroyed your marriage, it had taken away your education. The stress of it and the importance Mikey and the Berzattos attributed to it had led you to turn to alcohol and drugs on more than one occasion. You could not and would not go into business with the Berzattos again. You loved them, but you knew it would kill you. You'd sooner disappear a second time, this time across the country. Maybe fake your own death, change your name.
These thoughts raced through your brain and the edges of your vision were beginning to go fuzzy. This was when you realized both that you were struggling to breathe and that Carmy and Sydney were both in your face, concern in their expressions.
You were on the floor—How did you get on the floor? Weren't you standing just a second before?
Then it was Richie in your face, Richie's hands on your cheeks and then helping you back to standing. You thought he might be shouting, at you or Carmy, you weren't sure, but in your disoriented state, you happily leaned into him when he wrapped your arm over the back of his neck, holding your weight with the side of his body.
"Thanks… Richie…" You mumbled, but were too preoccupied by the the intense pain in your chest and the feeling that you were slipping far away from yourself.
You thought as you slipped away again, you heard his voice, "Come on, stay here, Bug. I need you."
But the harder you fought the darkness, the stronger it became until inky black shadows consumed you.
***
Robby had always been as careful as possible not to cross any lines with patients. Everybody could repeat the ethics of it, knew it was a big No-No. But nobody had warned him how difficult it would be as a thinking, feeling, human being not to think or feel too much about another human being on the worst day of their life.
In your case, when Robby met you, it wasn't the worst day of your life. Not exactly. The way you'd describe it to him later was that the worst day of your life had stretched and expanded over months like warm taffy and when you met him it was like it was finally tapering off. Like coming down from a bad trip. But that came with its own set of issues. The reality of it had begun to truly set in for you.
Nobody had warned him that, in practice, keeping a professional boundary would prove near impossible when he came face to face with you. With someone who had faced what to many others would seem insurmountable tragedy, but to you what seemed like the inevitable conclusion of your marriage to which you shrugged your shoulders and tossed up the middle finger. Packed up your things and began running from the grief.
What you hadn't expected was that your life would follow you here, to Pittsburgh, no matter how you tried to shake it.
And what he hadn't expected was seeing that mess play out in front of him and deciding he wanted more of it.
That day when Richie wheeled you into his emergency room, his eyes widened upon seeing you, "Oh," He said, "It's you."
You had managed a smirk that turned into a wince, "Nice… to see you again… Dr. Robinavitch."
The man behind you eyed him suspiciously, "You two know each other?"
Before he could answer, you had chimed in, "Yes, Richie, I'm not a recluse. I am capable of making friends."
Your tone was so aggressive, he didn't have the heart to correct you or explain to this man that you had only ever met on one other occasion.
"I know you can make friends, you just suck ass at keeping them."
You were insisting you were fine and that you wanted to leave even as he watched McKay set the EKG up on you. Even when she listened to your heart and noted the irregular rhythm.
Your troponin levels were slightly elevated, but not at the level they'd typically see after a heart attack, even though all your symptoms seemed to point in that direction. And when they did the coronary angiogram, there was no evidence of any blockage.
"What're you thinking?" Robby asked McKay quietly and she frowned.
She shook her head, "No idea. I was hoping you would know. Everything points to heart attack, but her arteries all look clear."
The truth was, Robby had a hunch, but wasn't quiet sure yet.
"Can you walk me through what happened again if you don't mind?" He asked you, lowering himself to the stool at your bedside.
You seemed irritated, but indulged him nonetheless.
"Well, I was trying to enjoy a peaceful Sunday morning before these bozos—Not you, Sydney—Interrupted and tried to dump a sandwich shop franchise on me—"
Richie scoffed, "You can't act like this came as a surprise when you and Mikey had been talking about it for ages—"
"Yes!" You wrang your hands as Robby watched your heart rate climb, "When we were desperate for money! And then he went and killed himself instead!"
"Well believe it or not him offing himself has done fuckin' squat to improve our financial situation so we're back at franchising—"
"And that's fine! But I don't want any part of it!"
"Woah woah woah—" Robby put up his hands to quiet the room, "I'm sorry… Who's Mikey?"
Richie frowned and turned to you, "Thought you said you were friends?"
You glared at him stubbornly, "Believe it or not, Richie, telling everyone I meet that my husband blew his brains out isn't exactly a great icebreaker."
Robby sat, stunned for a moment as you and Richie stared each other down. The other man, with brown curls and startlingly blue eyes, watched them with the annoyance and boredom of a younger sibling, leaned over his knees. The woman who had come in with them sat anxiously next to him, hands clasped tightly in her lap.
"Doctor," The younger man started after the silence fell, "Could you just tell us if she's gonna be okay before they kill each other?"
Robby clasped his hands together and turned his attention back to you, "Was today the first time you've noticed any symptoms like what you experienced today?"
You opened and closed your mouth, then looked around in thought, "I've never… lost consciousness like the way I did today. But… the chest pain and shortness of breath… Started happening when my husband died."
Robby rubbed at his beard and looked at you, "You are showing signs of heart damage, but not a heart attack. You don't have any blocked arteries which, along with the obvious signs of heart damage, we'd need to diagnose a heart attack. Now, as I've said there's damage that appears to be isolated to your left ventricle. McKay, when do we usually see damage isolated to the left ventricle?"
There was a lengthy pause behind him and then, slowly, "Takotsubo… cardiomyopathy?"
Robby nodded, "Exactly, or you might know it as broken heart syndrome."
Everyone in the room stared at him blankly, "Well, what the fuck does that mean?" You asked finally.
"McKay?"
"It means you're gonna be fine," McKay said, flashing you a reassuring smile as she walked over to the computer to chart, "Onset of broken heart syndrome symptoms typically appear immediately following an extremely emotionally or physically stressful event. Left untreated, it can continue to cause damage if the stress isn't mitigated properly. We'll order you some medications to improve your circulation and reduce inflammation and we'll monitor you for a few hours while we wait for a room to open up upstairs. You'll need to be admitted for monitoring for two to three days so we can make sure we got the diagnosis correct and that you're improving. Robby?"
Robby nodded, "That all sounds good. Your symptoms should improve pretty immediately once the medications start working. We'll also have you come back in a few weeks to make sure the damage is healing properly."
"Sorry," Richie said and then scoffed, "Are you saying she literally has a fuckin' broken heart? I coulda fuckin' told you that."
Robby smiled, "No, it's just the name due to the cause."
"Why don't you guys go back home?" You said softly and then forced a smile, "Sounds like you have a lot of work to do."
Carmen ran a hand over his face, "No, we'll stay until you're okay to leave."
You sighed, "Carmy—"
"Look, you can up and move yourself to another state, but you fuckin' piss me off with the—The implication that you're no longer a Berzatto because Mikey's dead. You were a Berzatto long before you ever married Mikey and you'll continue to be until we're all dead. You understand?"
Despite his harsh tone, you softened at what he'd said and slowly nodded, "Ok, Carm."
Robby cleared his throat for a moment, "Um, I can show you guys to the cafeteria if you'll be staying—"
Richie snorted, "Yeah, thanks, but no thanks, Doc. We'll figure something else out. None of us will be eating hospital food."
You smirked, "Sorry, Richie, I don't think we have any Michelin star restaurants in the neighborhood."
"No," Richie said and went to stand behind Carmy, clapping him over the shoulder, "You have something better. Your own personal Michelin star chef."
"Cousin," Carmy shrugged out from under Richie, "What did I say about not fuckin' touching me?"
"You know, we really are behind on menu…" The woman next to Carmen, Sydney, said softly.
"Yes, Chef," Carmy said tiredly with a sigh, "Heard."
"Here," You said, fishing in your bag for your keys, "You can at least use my kitchen."
"I told you, we're staying."
You nodded, "I know. I'm only a block away, the hospital will call if anything happens," You turned to Robby, "Right?"
He nodded, "Absolutely."
"See?" You looked back at Carmy, "Go on, I'll be fine."
Carmy stared at you for a few more moments before giving in, taking the keys from you and kissing the top of your head as he did. Sydney followed him out of the room, waving awkwardly as she left, leaving you and Richie and Robby.
Robby busied himself with finishing the charting McKay had left after putting in her orders, glasses perched on his nose, he pretended not to be eavesdropping.
"I'm gonna pack up your shit in your truck for you," Richie was saying, "And then we can drive you home when you're ready."
You laughed harshly, "The fuck you will. I'm not going home. This is my home now."
"Your home is with your family. When will you get that through your thick fuckin' skull—"
"Can you look me in the eyes and tell me you don't blame me for Mikey?" Richie went quiet. Robby felt like it was time for him to exit the room, but he found himself glued in place. The two didn't seem to notice him.
"I blame myself." Richie said finally.
You scoffed, "I was planning to leave. When I found out I was packing a suitcase." You swallowed, "Richie, I was so busy thinking about how I was going to leave I didn't even notice. I didn't hear him take his gun. I don't even remember where he told me he was going. I've—I've wracked my brain over and over trying to remember what we did that morning, before he left, and I can't—"
"Okay—" Robby interjected as the alarms started going off to indicate your rising heart rate, "I'm really sorry, but I have to advise that you avoid, for a while at least, conversations that you think may upset you."
Richie cleared his throat, "That's alright, doc, I need to step out to make a call anyway."
"Richie—" You called, but he was already gone, leaving just Robby alone with you.
"He hates me," You said, sounding dejected.
Robby opened and closed his mouth, "He's grieving, I imagine. Same as you." He paused for a moment, then, "I'm sorry for your loss."
You took in a slow deep breath before meeting his eyes, "Thank you. And I'm sorry."
He frowned, "For what?"
"For bringing my trainwreck of a family into your ER."
He smiled, "Believe me, I've seen much worse. Besides, you did warn me that you were running from ghosts. It seems I met a few of them today."
You stared off into the distance for a few moments, "I love them, I just… Can't stand to look at them when I know—" You stopped yourself and looked down at your hands.
Robby didn't know you well enough to talk you down from this. To say it wasn't your fault and have you believe it. So he didn't try. Instead, he again sat at the stool next to your bed.
"If you're up for it, I'd love to hear about him. Your husband."
You smiled at him with watery eyes and sniffled, "We were high school sweethearts. He was my first crush, my first boyfriend, my first everything. My second friend, after Richie. He was my best friend." You swallowed, "He was so funny, he was the sun in every room he walked into. Everyone revolved around him, his light. He would've done anything for me, for the people he loved.
"When I was in college in New York, I once called him up sobbing telling him I didn't have enough money for food and I was ashamed to ask anyone for money. He hung up the phone, cooked a fridge's worth of food for me for hours and then immediately got in the car and drove to me."
"Sounds like he really loved you," Robby said softly.
You nodded, "Yeah, I think so. Most of the time. But I think I failed at loving him. At the end."
Robby slowly shook his head, "I doubt he'd agree with you."
You smiled kindly, but he could tell you didn't quite believe him. Clearing your throat, you reached for your phone on the table next to you, "Sorry, but do you mind if I make a call?"
He shook his head and stood, "Not at all. I'll be back to check on you soon."
***
Alone, you took a deep breath and dialed Natalie's number, anxious and biting at your cheek.
"Well, it's about fucking time," She huffed as soon as the receiver clicked over.
"Hi Nat." You said softly, closing your eyes at the sound of her voice.
"I wanna be pissed at you, but Carmy said you're in the hospital."
The corners of your mouth twitched upward, "I'm okay, permission to be pissed granted."
She was quiet for so long on the other end of the line, you thought maybe she'd hang up on you, but when her voice came through on the other end again it the devastation in her tone broke your heart, "How could you just leave like that? I needed you. I thought we were sisters."
Your eyes burned and you sniffled, "We are, Sugar."
"I expected it from Carm, you know? The isolation, the refusal to pick up his phone. But not you. And then I have to find out secondhand you left the state?"
"I know," You nervously toyed with the rough hospital blanket, "I'm sorry."
Her breathing wavered, "Are you ever coming home?"
You pressed your lips together and looked outside the door to your room. Watched Robby pass, his eyes meeting yours briefly through the glass as he continued walking. Something about him soothed you. You thought maybe it was his unflappable demeanor, something he had to have working in this place you imagined.
"Bug?" You were pulled back by Natalie's voice.
"I don't know." You said finally and took in a shaky breath, "I miss you." You said honestly. She said nothing for a while and you worried you'd really upset her again, "Nat?"
"I'm pregnant." She blurted out.
You sat stunned, mouth open for a few moments, "Natalie, that's… Congratulations." You said, trying to stifle the ache in your chest. You could be happy for her, you told yourself. You didn't have to make it about you and Mikey. But still, you were glad she couldn't see your face as you felt something crack in your chest.
"I want you to be her godmother."
You fought tears as you stared up at the ceiling, "I would be honored," You said, swallowing past the lump in your throat.
You talked for a few more minutes, promising that you'd make it home at some point, if only to visit, and hung up the phone.
It took only moments for you to dissolve into deep, hyperventilating sobs as the memories of desperately trying to conceive flooded your memories. How besides Mikey, the only thing you'd wanted most in this world was to be a mother. The way towards the end, when it was clear you'd never successfully carry a child to term, you could feel the resentment from Mikey. Another string between you frayed and snapped. Yet another way you'd let him down.
You felt the familiar constricting in your chest as your breathing began to become irregular and labored. Then the alarms were going off and before you knew it Robby was above you again, face flooded with concern. His voice came in and out as he tried to talk to you and then to the doctors and nurses around you until your vision grayed out again.
When you woke next, Richie was pacing in front of your bed.
"Stop that," You said, voice scratchy, "Making me dizzy."
He stopped his pacing and turned his attention to you, "Would you stop fuckin' passing out?"
You smiled, "Sorry."
"Doctor said you took a phone call and then you went down again."
It came back to you slowly, but this time, when the wave of grief hit you, you breathed through it, "I called Natalie. She told me she's pregnant."
Richie had been a good friend to both you and Mikey when you were going through the challenges and heartbreak of infertility. But when you'd found out Tiff was pregnant, it'd been hard to be around them. And you knew it was hard for them, too, not being able to celebrate with their friends. You wished you'd been better.
But Richie's face softened, "M'sorry, Bug. I know how badly you wanted that."
You shrugged helplessly, trying to be dismissive, but dissolving into a weepy mess anyhow.
Being in that hospital for two days surrounded constantly by Richie, Carmy, and Syd—who you easily grew to adore as well—you cried more than you had since you moved. And the more they resigned to the fact that you weren't coming home with them nor would you be running a sandwich shop up here, the easier the interactions became.
The hospital staff grew to like Syd and Carm specifically because they began bringing extra meals for your favorite doctors and nurses. They'd even gone back downstairs to the ER to give Robby a couple meals.
Which was how Robby ended up back in your room upstairs during your last night here.
"Hey," He said, knocking his knuckles against your doorframe, "Can I come in?"
"Of course," You said, trying to stifle the immediate feeling of safety that flooded you at the sight of him.
"I, um, was hoping to see Carmen and Sydney to thank them for the food." He said as he grabbed the stool and pulled up to your bedside.
It shocked you, the way disappointment rushed in with the realization he wasn't here for you, "Oh," You said, hoping you hadn't visibly deflated, "They just left, they'll probably be back in a bit."
"Also wanted to check in on you." He said, smiling, "Have they convinced you to go back to Chicago?"
You shook your head, "No… No, I like it here."
He exhaled, "Well that's a relief, where else am I gonna get my Americano on a walk by the river?"
You grinned, "One day, maybe I'll even convince you to buy a book."
He smiled and nodded, "I'd like that." Then he stood, took a step away from your bedside, "I'm glad you're feeling better."
"Thank you for your help."
"'Course," He said, and began backing out of the room, "I'll see you around."
See you around. It sounded like a promise, one you hoped he intended to keep.
***
The next time you saw Dr. Robby was for your follow up appointment. You were seeing your cardiologist, but Robby poked his head in when you'd been there only ten minutes.
"Hey," He said, whole face lighting up at the sight of you, "Heard you were here, wanted to see how you're doing."
Your cardiologist looked vaguely annoyed as he stood up from his stool, "She's fine, Robby," Then he looked back at you, "No more smoking, please," He said earnestly, "Or drinking."
You winced, "Yeah, sorry."
As your doctor left, Robby walked towards you, an amused smile on his face, "You experienced something resembling a heart attack not two weeks ago and you've been smoking and drinking?"
You drew the curtain closed, Robby just on the outside so you could change, "I've been smoking and drinking most of my life, started when I was eleven. I quit for a while, when we were trying to have kids." You swallowed past the lump in your throat, "But I figured I deserved to take it back up again when Mikey killed himself."
You pulled the curtain back and sighed, "Sorry, I need to figure out a… gentler way to say that."
He shook his head, "You don't have to censor yourself for me."
Huh. That was… pleasantly surprising. You tilted your head slightly, "There's a look people usually give me. When they find out about Mikey. I can never tell if it's because they think I'm damaged or they assume that it was my fault. But you've never looked at me like that."
He scratched the back of his head and turned his head away from you, "I had someone close to me… end their own life. I suppose I… understand the feeling that comes with it better than most."
You were gathering your things, but stopped to look back at him, "I'm sorry for your loss, then."
He shrugged, "It was a long… long time ago." He cleared his throat, "Anyway, I actually wanted to see how your house is… If you're prepared for the storm we're getting in a few days."
You noted the quick subject change, but snorted, "You afraid of a little rain, Robby?"
He huffed, "It's not 'a little rain'. They think the rivers are gonna overflow. They're projecting a lot of flooding and damaging winds. Do you live alone?"
You narrowed your eyes and gave him a teasing grin, "I'm not sure you're supposed to ask a widowed woman that."
He flushed a deep crimson and you almost felt badly for teasing him, "If you're comfortable, I could take a look around. Maybe board up your windows. Friday night?"
You opened and closed your mouth, felt yourself panicking. Was this a date? It'd been a year since Mikey and Lord knew your relationship had long been over before then. Even if the love had never quite left. Even though it still lingered in every breath, in every crack and crevice and beat of your heart.
And then you remembered—
"I—Sorry, I can't Friday. I have rehearsal. I'm—I'm in a play down at PICT."
He raised his eyebrows, "Oh! What show?"
"Uh, King John. Shakespeare."
He nodded, "I'm familiar. Who are you playing?"
"Constance."
He almost smiled, then nodded, "Yeah, I can see that. How about Saturday?"
"Sorry?"
"Saturday? To stop by your place? Help you prep for the storm?"
"Oh—" You had already forgotten, "Sorry, um, yeah—Sure, okay."
He pulled his phone out and handed it to you and you put your number in, hesitating each time, hearing Mikey in your ear as you did.
Look at you, Bug, he taunted, like I was never even here.
The guilt stirred your stomach the whole way home, his ghost on your shoulder all night, never letting you sleep, "He's just being nice," You whispered, but it sounded like you were begging the silence.
"He's being neighborly," You pleaded with the darkness.
There was no reply.
When you grew impatient, tossing and turning on your mattress, you crawled out onto the fire escape and lit a cigarette.
***
There was a moment, nearly a year before Mikey died, where your fights changed.
For most of your lives, there had been a familiar cadence to them. You accused him of something, he'd deny it, try and laugh it off. The more you'd insist, tone raising in pitch, he'd get mean. He'd jab his knife repeatedly between your ribs and you'd foolishly grip the hilt and pull it out over and over, never noticing that it allowed him to twist the knife repeatedly.
But in those last few months, something changed. You couldn't put your finger on it exactly, what changed in you, why you started allowing the knife to stay where he thrust it the first time, stemming the blood flow. Never giving him the chance to stick his fingers in the open wound. You used to be all bark, no bite, but lately you had begun to snarl when he got too close.
Maybe it was that by that point you'd packed up your things on three separate occasions, even stayed elsewhere a night or two. Not that Mikey noticed, too high to note your absence.
The week before, the week that had you sitting on the floor of your bedroom again the day they found his body, had come close to finding you both in repeated cycles.
He came in late that morning having been out drinking and taking God knows what drugs and you were at the sink washing dishes. He sidled up behind you, slipped his arms effortlessly around your waist and kissed the back of your neck. He reeked and you tried not to flinch away from him.
"Let's go to bed baby—Aren't you ovulating?"
You lightly pushed his arms away, "I'm not doing anything with you until you take a shower."
"Looook," He whined, pulling his phone out of his pocket to show you, "I track your cycle, I know it's time—"
"It's not, actually," You said, probably a little harshly, and walked away from him.
After a moment, he followed you, "What d'you mean?"
You could feel it already, even though you hadn't yet told him what you knew would send him off the deep end, you could feel the air around you crackle and pop as he walked behind you.
"I'm not ovulating anymore." You said slowly, still refusing to look at him, "I'm on birth control, I asked my doctor to put an IUD in a few weeks ago."
The silence felt dangerous. You did your best not to seem afraid, but truth be told, you were. There was no telling what Mikey would do these days. How he would react when he didn't get his way.
When he laughed, you flinched, then chastised yourself for it internally.
"Very funny, Bug."
"What's funny?"
"It's a funny fuckin' joke. That you would do somethin' like that without talkin' to me first."
You clenched your jaw, "I don't need your permission to regulate my own body."
When you finally turned to him, his own jaw clenched, mirroring your own.
When he spoke, his voice was quiet, deadly calm, in a way that unsettled you, "We've been tryin' for a baby for… for months… for years."
You nodded, "And lately I find myself grateful to not be carrying the child of a deadbeat addict."
You regretted it immediately, didn't recognize the words as they left your mouth, their only purpose to wound and maim. You weren't sure you recognized yourself anymore.
But before you could even open your mouth to tell him this, to apologize—white hot pain stung, biting into your cheek. It took you a few seconds to realize that Mikey had slapped you. The skin of your cheek burned hot as you clutched it beneath your palm.
When you looked up at him, your vision blurred with tears, he looked just as stunned as you, "B—Bear?" You whispered, voice hoarse and confused.
"Baby, I—" Mikey looked down at his hands as if they'd betrayed him, "I'm so sorry, I don't know—" He shook his head helplessly, falling to his knees in front of you, "I didn't mean it, Bug. Please, I didn't mean it."
He sobbed, hugging your legs like a child. What am I doing? You wondered, not for the first time, What are we doing to each other?
Still, you felt an aching tenderness for him. You could still remember the Mikey who could make you laugh when you were crying, who carefully removed bugs from your first apartment instead of killing them. Mikey, who'd vowed to love you in sickness and in health with tears in his eyes in a cheap banquet hall when the two of you were still twenty one and dumb. Mikey who made love to you in the bed of his truck, in a field miles and miles out from town, and then pointed out the constellations to you later as you laid on his bare chest. Mikey who had always made you feel like the most important person in the room.
Mikey had always been a bit rough around the edges. He'd never been the same after his father left, but he'd still been Mikey. Up until a beer a night turned into a six pack turned into a few bumps of cocaine on the side.
But in this shell of a man who crumpled at your feet, you could still see the boy you fell in love with. Still, even though you were beginning to understand there was something that had broken beyond repair between you, you couldn't help the urge to mend.
You sank to the ground beside him, running fingers through his hair and pulling him to you. Whispered that it was alright, that you knew he didn't mean it. Calmed him enough to get him into the shower and into bed where he slept for the whole day.
It was the first time he laid a hand on you, but it wouldn't be the last. Up until the end, you still tried to convince yourself it could be salvaged.
Mikey was always remorseful, but he could never seem to accept that he needed help. And on the rare days he could admit that something was really wrong, you couldn't convince him that he was capable of change.
In the end, it became obvious to you that he didn't love you enough to get help. Not only was he intent on self destructing, he seemed to want to take you down with him.
You loved Mikey. You would always love Mikey. He was the love of your life, your soulmate, your best friend, your husband. Nothing would ever change that.
But you couldn't deny that along with the seemingly unending devastation, his death brought you a morsel of relief. And you weren't sure you could ever forgive yourself for that.
