[SVU] If It Isn't Her - Part Three.

Over a week passed. The lights in the apartment turned off, doors locked, curtains drawn: Olivia wanted to forget the outside world. She wanted to force the faces of children, of terrified rape victims, out of her head. The more she helped people the more she felt she was drowning. Who was she to give advice to women who were falling apart when she was hardly together herself?
Chewing on her lower lip Olivia found herself tracing the letters to Alex’s name with her eyes, attempting to will the phone to stop ringing. Alex’s name continued to flash on the caller i.d. as if demanding the writing detective’s attention, but she couldn’t give in. I need this right now, she thought. I need this time to think.
And with that she turned the phone off and sat it back on the desk out of sight.

***

What we had—Casey and I—was less of a relationship and more of a business agreement. We were there for each other when our innuendos became too much to handle, but were no where in sight the moment one of us sneezed or reached for cold medicine. It was more likely that there’d be a handshake between us than mention of the word “love.” At first this was a perfect arrangement, but more and more I found myself uncomfortable in her presence, the kind of discomfort comparable to a hard wool sweater scratching against smooth skin.

I needed resolution, but I was a coward. My fingers fumbled with the buttons on my shirt, I managed a nearly inaudible “I’ll call you,” and found my way out. Outside, the chilly NYC air stinging my skin, I wondered if now, after nearly a year and a half, she was surprised by my exits.

The walls of my apartment, blinking in red reflected light, told me I had made it home safely. My mind couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, not just with Casey, and the entire subway ride home was a loud, rattling blur. Staring down at the red “01” that followed me across my apartment, into my room to strip my clothes off and into an irritated pile on the floor, my hand hesitated in the dark.

“You have one new message.” Beeeeep. Inhale.
“Liv, hey. It’s me… Alex, um. I’m home, I’m—I’m in the city…” Pause. “Listen, I’d like to see you. Tomorrow at noon I’ll be on the bridge—Do you still remember the bridge? Well, I’d love it if you’d meet me there, but...” Sigh. “I love you, Liv. And I miss you. Bye.” Exhale.

Carefully I studied the voice on my answering machine, the voice of a woman who had once made me feel invincible. The message replayed so many times I lost count, but I admit I wasn’t trying. She was different. Alex’s voice shook and stuttered, unsure of herself. Was she drowning too? My heart began to swell, my fingertips ached to feel her skin, and then I remembered why I had tried so hard to forget:

It was late February when she came back to testify, but with her next to me again I could hardly feel the cold wind. The trial was stressful, yet it wasn’t why we preferred a highly inebriated state. Alex and I knew she wouldn’t be staying for good. We knew she’d leave the city again with a new identity and, just as before, our love would be lost somewhere between.

“And when we’re in bed he calls me… ‘Emily.’”

Though the conversation was as strained as my smile, attempting to comfort her and relate and ignore the fact that she admitted to being in bed with a man, I didn’t want her to leave. I wanted to her to come back, fall into my arms, and kiss me like she had so many times before. But she didn’t. She wouldn’t. The next morning, before she left to once again pretend to be someone she was not, she pulled me aside with eyes avoiding mine.

“Liv, I should have said this before. From the moment I got back I should have been honest about what I wanted from you, but everything was just too much too fast.”—She was fidgeting with the ends of her sleeves, taking large breaths between sentences. Considering how nervous she looked now, her face appeared calm and resolute. Her sincerity scared me the most.—“I need you to be my friend, Liv, and that’s all. I need to become ‘Emily,’ or whoever they make me this time. According to the world Alex Cabot is dead… and I need to take the next step and let her rest.”

I had no words. None. I had no tears, no words, no expressions or thoughts. I felt as though I’d nearly collapse, and in lieu of reaching out to steady myself, my body made a panicked decision without consulting my brain or heart: my heels pivoted and she was gone.