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"Victoria, where are you going?" comes her mother's sharp voice, in the same tone she uses when she runs into something unexpected in the ED or when Victoria does something she doesn't approve of (whether at work or like right now).
Victoria keeps her head down as she haphazardly shoves clothes into her backpack—a nice travel bag her parents had bought her a few years ago, still holding up from wear and tear. Maybe she's overreacting, but god she's just so tired of everything being about medicine all the time. She wants to be able to breathe in her own home without the looming threat of her mom launching into a long-winded spiel about some surgical case study she read that day.
Honestly, she doesn't even like surgery. It's not like she's bad at it by any means—her skills are fine, or fine enough for a MS4 with no interest in pursuing a surgical residency, and she's plenty smart—but there's a reason why she's avoided any and all elective surgical rotations in favor of literally anything else. Her mother's constant insistence that Victoria follow in her footsteps certainly doesn't help.
"I asked you a question, Victoria," says her mom, exasperation written across her face, arms folded over her chest. She sounds like she's scolding a petulant child. Maybe she is.
"Out," Victoria answers. It comes out more curt than she intends, but there's nothing she can do about that now. She winces, already knowing that her mom will take it as a slight despite her lack of ill-intentions.
Her mom shoots her a disapproving look and for a second, Victoria is sure she's about to get another tirade about how important it is to respect her elders. Instead, her mother sighs and presses a hand to her temple.
"That's not an answer," she says simply and it's almost worse than a lecture. Victoria can feel her disappointment and it's all that she can do to suppress the quiet "sorry" flaring at the tip of her tongue. The placation ready to spill out, to end this before it can spiral out of control. It doesn't matter if she means it or not.
This isn't the first time her mother has tried to strong-arm her. Usually, she can brush it off; she doesn't know why today feels different.
"I need to clear my head." She keeps it vague, not to be rude, but because she genuinely has no idea where she's going or what she's going to do. Her plan starts and ends with "get out of the house and stay away until I feel like a person again" which isn't much to work off of. It could take hours or days (maybe even weeks if she wants to work out every single issue she's ever had, but that seems like overkill).
Her mom huffs and Victoria can't help but let out a soft laugh. For as much as her mom likes to complain about her attitude, she has to get it from somewhere—and it definitely isn't from her dad. She fights the urge to roll her eyes, her sanity waning thin.
"You can do that here," her mom insists. Her commanding facade cracks around the edges. Beneath her irritation is a clear layer of concern because as much as they might argue, Victoria knows her mom loves her.
Victoria knows her mom isn't evil, that she just wants what's best for her, of course she does. She knows her mom is just caring in the only way she knows how: by trying to guide her onto a pre-determined path to success.
The private tutors and the violin lessons and the fencing lessons and the meetings with teachers and counselors to let her skip grades. Schedules planned out to a T, a college fund that didn't run dry, easy access to shadowing and mentors and research, food on the table every night.
She may be a prodigy, but she can't ignore the sweat and blood that helped get her to where she is.
A college graduate at 17, an M4 at 21, a all-but-guaranteed future brighter than all the stars in the sky, a supernova even. No mountains of educational debt to haunt her career, no rent or utility bills calling her name.
All for their brilliant future doctor daughter. The very same daughter who isn't sure if she would've pursued medicine if not for her parents.
She wonders what that Victoria might be like, the one who put her foot down, who lived her life like a normal girl. Does she have a big circle of friends? A boyfriend? A girlfriend? Something to give her life meaning outside of work? Is she happy?
None of it matters, she's not that Victoria, never will be. Nothing changes the fact that being in this house too long, under her mother's thumb, makes her feel like she's physically suffocating.
"I'm going to stay with a friend for a few days." It's for her parents' sake more than her own. She'd rather they not pop an aneurysm worrying about her. For good measure, she tacks on, "I'm not leaving the city or anything. She lives close by."
It's only mostly a lie. She has no intention of disappearing without a trace, but the rest is bullshit. If you don't count classmates and coworkers, Victoria doesn't have friends, not real ones at least. No one who would house her no questions asked if she showed up on their doorstep unannounced less than a week before Christmas.
Where would she even meet someone? With what time?
She doesn't blame her peers for not wanting to hang out with the awkward brainiac whose entire life is just balancing school, medicine, and trying not to be a disappointment to the parents who sacrificed a hell of a lot to make sure she has all the opportunities they never did (whether she wanted them to or not). She probably wouldn't be friends with herself either given the chance.
It doesn't bother her—really, mostly, enough—she's used to it. It's fine, really. She's fine with study sessions and dancing around being asked for favors from her parents as her main social interactions. That's normal and fine.
"I don't like this," her mom says. The crease in her brow has deepened, drawing out the frown still plastered across her face. A pang of guilt runs through Victoria like a hot knife, leaving her chest raw and tight. She thinks she'd see her heart bursting out of her ribcage if she looked down, pericardium exposed, serous fluid dripping down her sternum in time with her pulse. It sure feels like a possibility. "How do I know you're not going off with that boy?"
The guilt dissipates as quickly as it formed. Victoria sucks in a deep breath and squeezes at the straps of her backpack until her knuckles go pale. "I'm 21, mom. I'm old enough to make my own decisions."
Her voice barely sounds like her own. One-year-ago Victoria would've never dreamed that she'd stand up to her mom like this. She almost wishes that Victoria could see her now. She wonders if she'd be proud or horrified. Probably a mix of both.
"Clearly you're not mature enough to make your own decisions."
She can only blink, jaw hanging open in disbelief. "Are you being serious right now?"
"You threw a fit when I said you needed to put your studies before this boy and now you're threatening to what? Run away with him?" her mom argues, tone stern even as she gestures wildly. "None of that is reassuring, Victoria."
"God, mom. This has nothing to do with him!" Victoria snaps. She leaves out the part about Mateo completely brushing off her attempt to ask him out because it won't help her convince her mother. If anything, she'd get reamed on how she asked in the first place or something else not worth arguing about. She shakes her head, hoping her mother can feel herfrustration—it's just a stupid crush on a pretty boy she works with, she's not like in love with him or anything—and pretends not to be hurt at how little her mom seems to know her these days.
Victoria walks out the door and doesn't look back. She does her best to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach as her mother's voice fades to nothing.
* * * * *
Victoria stares at the screen like it has the answer to the world's problems, its bright backlight casting a white glow across her face. Her phone is heavy in her hand as she thumbs over the listing for the umpteenth time.
Private Room Lawrenceville
The apartment in the pictures looks lived in, a far cry from the meticulously clean house she grew up in. Miscellaneous art prints and posters are plastered along tan walls, tactfully arranged to leave a tasteful amount of blank space between them. A line of warm string lights are strung up along the ceiling, soft and twinkling above an olive green couch, almost-matching shade arm chair, walnut coffee table, and grey geometric rug. Mismatching grey bookshelves line the brick accent wall, a TV stacked on top of the sideways middle one. She can make out a messy stack of hard-covers tucked away in the far bookshelf, surrounded by bright-spined novels she doesn't recognize.
The style isn't consistent—pieces clearly not a matching set, probably cobbled together secondhand—but something about it is almost charming, comforting, homey.
She can tell the Airbnb host put in some effort to tidy up before the photos, but not in the overly staged way. Aluminum cans are stashed neatly beneath the coffee table and folded blankets are hanging over the back of the couch, barely perceptible from the angle.
Someone actually lives here, not one of those sterile, godforsaken investment properties that have been popping up over the last few years. It's one of the reasons she chose this place instead of somewhere else. Well, that and the cheaper price point because she is still only a medical student without a paycheck.
The actual room she's supposed to be staying in is bare-bones, but she doesn't need more than that. There's a black IKEA desk and basic office chair in one corner with a matching dresser next to it. The full-size bed sits on a simple metal platform frame, done up with navy sheets that had her second-guessing her decision—she might not have dormed in college, but she heard all about the horror of what lurked beneath college boys' navy sheets.
Victoria is so engrossed in dissecting the dozen or so images that she doesn't realize they've arrived until her rideshare driver loudly clears her throat. Her face goes hot at the realization. She fumbles with her seatbelt and mumbles a quick "thank you" as she lets herself out of the car. She's typing up a message to her host when a set of footsteps comes to a stop beside her. God, usually she's more self-aware than this, but her head just feels screwed on wrong today, threads stripped from turning against the grain. She tightens her grip on her phone as she looks up.
Her first impression—other than the initial terror of being snuck up on—is that the stranger is… pretty. She's wearing a green and white ringer t-shirt, dark jogger sweatpants, and a denim jacket with light blue shoulder stitching. Her brown hair is up in a ponytail, a lazy grin that's closer to a smirk than a smile pulling at her lips. She shoves her hands into her jacket pockets and Victoria can't help but notice how green her eyes are. They're so, so green. Like, almost distractingly green.
"Yo, you Victoria?" says the pretty stranger, cocking her head.
Victoria suppresses the urge to start rambling about something unrelated as the stranger gives her a once over. It takes her far longer than she cares to admit to connect the dots.
"You must be Trinity," she eventually replies.
Trinity shrugs. "I mean, I don't have to be anybody." She laughs at Victoria's scrunched brow and knocks their shoulders together. Victoria thinks it's supposed to be playful, but she's still caught off guard, nearly tripping forward. "Jokes, jokes. No need to take it so serious, Vic."
"My name isn't Vic," Victoria says because it's the first thing she can come up with.
"What, you don't do nicknames or something? It's just always Victoria? Your friends don't ever call Vic? Tori? Vicky?" asks Trinity.
Victoria blinks lamely and shakes her head. She feels a strange need to explain she doesn't really have friends that might apply to and that her parents exclusively call her Victoria, but she swallows the words instead, mouth suddenly dry.
"No, not really," she says, feigning nonchalance. Her cheeks burn beneath the streetlights. "Even if they did, we just met. I don't think we're familiar enough for nicknames."
"Well yeah, but it's like a friendly thing to do," Trinity explains. She sounds amused. "It's like, endearing or something to use a nickname. Makes us more than strangers."
Victoria doesn't understand this woman at all.
"I guess Vic is fine, but don't be surprised if I don't answer," she relents, pulling her jacket tighter around herself. She's honestly not sure how she feels about the nickname. It feels weird, probably because she's not used to it yet, but some small, buried part of her kind of likes it (not that she'd admit that aloud). No one ever has ever tried to give her a nickname before, it makes her feel less freakish prodigy and more normal girl.
Trinity laughs and begins to walk towards the building without warning. Victoria scurries after her, stashing her phone away. Trinity's keys are looped onto a carabiner she pulls from her pocket. Victoria spots a Carnegie Library card, an Iron City Boulders membership tag, and an AARP-branded bottle opener on her key ring; they jangle with each step she takes.
It happens before she can fully process it. One moment she's following Trinity into the apartment building and the next, she's stumbling forward, her foot caught on the abnormally high doorway threshold.
She never hits the floor.
Instead, she falls face-first into Trinity, strong arms grasping her by the shoulders to keep her from kissing concrete. When the realization sets in, she jolts away and almost sends herself tumbling backwards onto her ass. There's no doubt in her mind she looks like a deer in the headlights, gangly and awkward, so grossly out of her element.
God this is so embarrassing. At least it's not as bad as the time she fainted at the sight of that degloved foot, this time she's still standing.
"Woah, careful there, Crash," Trinity says and holds both her hands up in surrender. She's smirking, a flash of an incisor peeking out.
Victoria stares at her shoes, trying to will the ground to open her up and swallow her whole. When it doesn't happen, she keeps her eyes on the bright red fire alarm handle bolted to the wall behind Trinity instead of at Trinity herself.
"Don't call me Crash," she grits out, jaw tight enough to crack a tooth. Maybe it's not too late to find a different place to stay for the night.
Trinity rolls her eyes and brushes her off, completely ignoring Victoria's seething glare. She grins harder.
"Hey, could be worse. Crash is a pretty cool nickname," says Trinity, each syllable falling from her mouth like a drum beat, quick and sharp. "Little Miss Crash and Burn. Kind of has a nice ring to it, don't you think?"
A less emotionally-charged person wouldn't dignify that with a response. They would realize Trinity wants a reaction and put a stop to it. Victoria, on the other hand, is still reeling with irritation from her fight with her mom, which seems to have overtaken her sense of better judgment today.
"Is this how you treat all your guests?" Victoria eventually replies.
The elevator lurches as they step inside and she swears she nearly loses her lunch when it does. Another mark in the "this was a terrible idea" column. Trinity doesn't even acknowledge it. She presses the button for the top floor and leans into the railing, hands shoved into her pockets.
"I don't usually have house-guests."
"Like ever?" Victoria can't help but ask. "But you're an Airbnb host. With decent reviews."
"Five stars is more than decent, Crash," Trinity hums. "Those were mostly for my old place. I just put this one up again for the first time in months."
Victoria knows better than to pry, always ends up with her foot in her mouth when she does. She doesn't like having other people in her business, so she tries to extend that courtesy back. Don't ask, don't tell. It's easy.
Or it's supposed to be, anyway.
"Why?"
Trinity stares at her for a moment, practically dissecting Victoria with her eyes. Then, she shrugs, so incredibly casual that it almost makes Victoria jealous at how quickly she can shift back into this effortlessy chill persona.
"Picked up a stray," Trinity offers up as the elevator doors open.
"Like, a cat?"
"Something like that."
"The listing didn't say anything about pets." Victoria pauses. "Not that I don't like cats or something. I just didn't expect one."
They stop in front of a door labeled 401.
"Don't worry, he's not around right now," Trinity says simply, unlocking the door. She holds it open, gesturing Victoria inside. "Shoes off."
Trinity's sandals hit the ground with a thump as she kicks them off, a stark contrast to the slow and methodical way Victoria lines her shoes up against the wall. Trinity plucks a set of keys from the tray by the door, pockets them without a word.
A small stack of dishes sits in the kitchen sink, but the apartment is otherwise more or less the same as the pictures, Red Bull cans under the coffee table and all.
"Kitchen, living room." Trinity turns a hard corner into a small hallway. Victoria follows. "Room on the left is where you're staying. En suite bathroom. There's another bathroom across the hall if you need it for whatever reason. Room at the end of the hall is mine. I usually keep the door closed. Knock if you really need something, or text. Whatever works." She stops in her tracks and for the second time today, Victoria crashes into her. A surprisingly soft laugh bubbles from Trinity's throat as she steadies Victoria. "Any questions, Crash?"
"Still not my name," Victoria says on principle.
She surveys the aforementioned room. It was eerily identical to the photos, like Trinity had taken them this morning or sometime very recently.
"Cool, didn't answer the question," Trinity snips back. She's leaning against the doorframe now, the lithe muscle of her arms on full display.
Victoria's eyes follow the line of Trinity's forearm of their own accord. Dark ink decorates pale skin, coin-sized patchwork tattoos scattered across a smooth canvas.
A tiger curls around a stem of daisies just above her wrist. A snowflake outlines the edge of her brachioradialis. A lone rose runs across her bicep, a playing card resting a few inches higher.
She wants to know how far up they go, if there are any other tattoos hiding from plain sight.
A blur crosses her vision. She blinks, snapping back to herself as Trinity waves a hand in front of her face.
"Uh, no. No questions," she all but stammers. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment, tongue tacky against the inside of her mouth.
Trinity raises a brow, a snarky comment threatening to slip past her parted lips. She seems to decide against it. She shrugs and pushes herself off the doorframe.
"Mkay. I'm around if you need anything," Trinity says.
Victoria shuffles in place, fingers working around the edge of her phone. "Should I just message you through the app or?"
"I mean, I guess?" Trinity laughs. "Or you can knock on my door like a normal person. Maybe text if you're feeling frisky, it'll reach me a lot faster."
This is a bad idea—just another tick on a long list of questionable decisions Victoria's made in the last 12 hours—but it's what she does nonetheless.
She blurts out, "Should we maybe trade numbers?" Then, to add to the word vomit, "Since you said text, in case you're not in your room or something. For the convenience of communication. Obviously, if that's what you meant."
"Slow your roll, Vic," says Trinity. She hasn't stopped grinning, it's starting to become unnerving. Not that Victoria would ever admit it aloud.
Victoria waits for her to continue, an uncharacteristic streak of impatience flashing through her. Her skin buzzes with anticipation, more anxiety than anything else. She feels like such a fool, like the same awkward tween sitting alone in a college level calculus class with no one to talk to.
When she looks up, Trinity is holding her hand out, staring at her expectantly. Her fingers wriggle and make grabbing motions towards her phone. Victoria doesn't think. She pulls out her phone, clicks it on, unlocks it, and hands it to Trinity without question.
Trinity doesn't say anything, but she hums as she accepts the phone and taps in her phone number. She hands it back, screen open to her freshly created contact.
Victoria snorts at her contact name, a series of increasingly ridiculous emojis that start with a sunglasses face and end with a tongue. Trinity laughs back, with her more than at her—after years of skipped grades and being an awkward loner (mostly by choice), she can recognize the difference like the back of her hand.
"Alright, we all good now?" says Trinity.
"Yeah, thanks. I'll uh. Text you," Victoria answers. "Just going to get settled in and the like." The like? Really? At this point, she's almost surprised her foot hasn't just taken up residence in her mouth. Whatever. It's fine.
She doesn't need to look up from her bag to know Trinity is still there, lingering in the doorway a beat more than necessary. Her shadow stretches across the floor and pulls back, until it disappears completely and only then can Victoria finally breathe again.
* * * * *
There are 12 texts, three missed calls, and three accompanying voicemails from her mother when Victoria finally looks at her phone again. She ignores them, making a point to switch her phone into Do Not Disturb and turn off her read receipts. She doesn't have it in her to fight, not today, not right now. So she ignores the messages and buries herself further into her Anki cards until her eyes hurt.
Time passes by too quickly and too slowly at the same time. Judging by the darkness outside, it's been a few hours since she started. The sunset has come and gone and Victoria finds herself almost disappointed for missing it. Usually when she got into fights with her mom, she'd curl up on a lounge chair on her balcony and watching the sky change colors until she felt like herself again.
This is so much more extreme, but she can't bring herself to regret it, even if all the feelings in her head are still fist-fighting for dominance.
Victoria stands from her chair and stretches out her aching limbs. She wishes she had her adjustable standing desk, but beggars can't be choosers. A sigh escapes her. She has no idea how long she's been holding it in.
The kitchen is empty when she steps in. It's cleaner than it was a earlier, the dishes gone from the sink and the dishwasher rumbling with life.
She stops in front of the sink and looks around. Only then does she realize she has absolutely no idea where anything is.
Victoria makes an educated guess and opens the cabinets on either side of the sink. She finds a set of cute pasta shaped plates and bowls and an assorted variety of cans, but no cups. Not even a mug.
Maybe she should've asked. Oops. It's fine, she can't bring herself figure this out through trial and error. There's only so many places they could be; it wasn't like Trinity kept her cup somewhere weird like under the sink.
Still, she checks there for good measure. Nothing out of the ordinary. Just trash bags, and cleaning supplies.
"You need some help, Vic?"
At the sound of Trinity's voice behind her, Victoria nearly smashes her head against the wooden beam of the cabinet.
"Oh, my bad. You need some help, Crash?" Trinity's voice rings corrects herself. Victoria could practically hear her smirk.
She stands and turns to face Trinity, frowning. "You know, I'm not usually this clumsy," she defends herself half-heartedly. "Where do you keep your drinking glasses?"
Despite Trinity's best effort to maneuver around her, the kitchen is abysmal at best and the layout isn't doing them any favors either. For a moment, a warm body brushes against hers, a careful arm reaching over her shoulder to open a cabinet door.
Victoria is incredibly attuned to their proximity, as temporary as it is. It's hard to ignore the gentle breath that brushes the back of her neck, the calloused hand wrapped around the countertop for balance. No one can blame her, she's rarely this close to anyone outside of work. It's almost novel.
As if reading her mind, Trinity says, "It's okay, I have that effect on women."
A cheeky smile lines her lips as she leans against the counter. She's traded her sweats for dark-wash jeans and a plain white hennley, the whole ensemble pulled together by a brown flannel shirt and khaki jacket. She looks good, swoon-worthy even.
Objectively.
"Are you going somewhere?" Victoria asks instead of acknowledging the statement.
"Nah I just like to wear this at home," Trinity jokes. It's not funny in the slightest, but they both smile anyway. "I'm gonna head down to the holiday market to look for a gift for a friend. Probably walk around a little." She takes a breath, trying to read Victoria's expression. Victoria can see her chew the inside of her cheek. "You wanna come? Looks like you could use a break from whatever you were doing," she offers.
"Studying," Victoria clarifies. She shifts back and forth between her feet, considering her options. She should say no, should study or read a book or maybe even call her mom back. That's what responsible Victoria would do. But man, she's tired of being that Victoria. She wants to be 21, to feel young and dumb at least for a little.
Trinity hums, "Sounds less fun. But what do I know."
"Um, could I get a few minutes to change?" she eventually answers. Her mouth goes dry again, reminding her of why she came out here in the first place.
"Yeah, of course," says Trinity. She gives Victoria a look she can't quite read, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. "I'll grab you some water if you want to go do that."
"Oh, right," Victoria replies with an awkward laugh. "I'll be right back then."
"Take your time, Cinderella. It's not disappearing anytime soon. Last thing we need is you breaking an arm from tripping over your glass slippers or whatever."
Victoria rolls her eyes even though Trinity can't see it and slips back into her room, almost forgetting to close the door behind her. In the bathroom mirror, her cheeks are flushed. A gentle heat that definitely wasn't there when she left for the kitchen creeps up her neck and along her jaw. The cold water she splashes onto her face helps, but it can't erase the incessant buzzing beneath her skin.
What the hell is she getting herself into?
* * * * *
Downtown Pittsburgh is packed to the gills, not that Victoria expects anything different this close to Christmas. The streets bustle with life, a sea of bodies flowing between rows of charming wooden stalls where makers sell handcrafted wares. Despite being born and raised in the city, it's the first time Victoria's ever been to the holiday market. There hasn't been a reason to—she's never had the desire to go and it's not like anyone was waiting to invite her to hang out.
They've been walking around for who knows how long, circling the entirety of the booths and then some after Trinity picks up a ceramic rat as a gift for her friend, just idly chatting about anything except work and school. Trinity was adamant about that and Victoria wasn't inclined to disagree. She can't remember the last time she had an actual conversation with a stranger—because really, that's what Trinity is, right? It's nicer than she remembers, but maybe that's more her present company than anything else.
Trinity is… abrasive yet charming. She's blunt and makes awful jokes (sometimes even at Victoria's expense or her own, more the former than the latter), but Victoria can't help but laugh because it's been a long time since someone didn't treat her with kid gloves or your-mom-is-my-boss gloves.
Victoria learns more about Trinity than she knows about some of her classmates, which doesn't say much, but hey it's something.
She learns about Trinity's two younger brothers, who still live in Daly City with their mom, how she misses California Costcos and good boba, about her college pet fish who died the day after graduation (rest in peace Karolina).
In turn, she tells Trinity about how she picked up a violin for the first time in three years and the current romance novel she's reading. Tells her that she's about to finish school, neglects to tell her it's med school and not undergrad. She even fields Trinity's prodding about her other interests (hobbies few and far between) and her love life (non-existent) with a bemused smile.
She doesn't talk about her mom. Or her dad, for that matter.
It's the first time Victoria's felt like a normal girl in a long time, in forever maybe. She likes it a lot more than she thought she would. She can pretend all she wants, but having someone to talk to without any expectations is nice.
God, what does it say about her that walking around with her Airbnb host is the highlight of her week? Probably that she's more desperate for real human connection than she wants to admit.
(But that's a later problem, not a right now problem.)
The sweet aroma of roasted nuts mixes with the smell of botanicals, spices, and decadent fudge, clinging to Victoria's senses as they weave their way through the plaza. It makes her stomach growl. Loudly. She hopes the rustle of the crowd is enough to mask it, but that thought soon dies when Trinity stops in her tracks ahead.
Victoria has enough awareness to stop before they crash into each other. She refuses to make her uncharacteristic clumsiness a standing (falling?) thing.
"I'm hungry," Trinity suddenly declares. "You want to grab a bite?" She's eyeing up the food stalls with new interest, blatantly avoiding looking at Victoria.
"That would be nice," says Victoria, grateful that they're ignoring the continued complaints of her stomach.
"Have you had dinner?"
Victoria shakes her head. Honestly, she forgets to eat sometimes, gets too wrapped up in her coursework like a good little friendless prodigy.
Trinity shoves her hands into her pockets, lip rolling between perfect white teeth. "Maybe some strudel and then dinner? There's a pretty decent Viet place like a block from here."
Victoria has a sneaking suspicion the suggestion is inspired by how Trinity saw her stop by the booth earlier, drawn in by how wonderful it smelled.
"Sounds good," Victoria quickly agrees, mouth watering at the thought of a warm bowl of pho.
A loose smile paints itself across Trinity's face. She looks almost soft.
"C'mon," says Trinity, cocking her head. She holds out a hand, cool and casual. Like it's no big deal. Like they're friends or something. "It's gotten a lot busier since we got here. Wouldn't want you to get lost in the crowd."
Her smile falters for a second, relief washing over her when Victoria finally accepts the offer. She clasps their hands together, letting Trinity drag her back to the strudel booth without complaint. All the while holding back a smile.
Surprisingly, she's having fun. Like, actual fun, not gaslighting-herself-into-liking-something-boring-type fun. Something about being out in the world and breathing in fresh air, seeing more than the worst day of someone's life with someone who doesn't just see her as her mother's daughter.
They wait in an atrociously long line and end up ordering a cherry strudel and a mulled wine to split. Trinity pays for both despite Victoria's insistence. She's not above shoving Victoria out of the way and tapping her credit card while she protests—it's somehow rude and kind at the same time. Victoria tells Trinity as much, earning a shrug and a shoulder nudge.
Trinity brushes her off with a laugh that makes something strange bubble up in Victoria's chest. "It's whatever. I get the feeling you don't really go out much." She pulls Victoria towards the edge of the path and away from the steadily growing throng of people, her hand finding Victoria's once more.
Victoria's cheeks go hot as she tries to deny it, but all that comes out is a jumbled sputter that only makes it worse. A strong hand squeezes hers, colder than her own. She doesn't miss how well they slot together. Not that she has a lot to compare it to.
"Relax, Crash. It's really no biggie," Trinity scoffs, not unkindly. "It's not like I'm paying for your dinner too."
"I mean, I guess," mumbles Victoria.
"Weird way to say thank you," Trinity retorts and slows her stride to walk alongside Victoria instead of in front of her.
Victoria rolls her eyes almost fondly. "Thanks, Trin."
The nickname falls off her tongue like it's the most natural thing in the world. Trinity's brows shoot up, eyes wide. Victoria opens her mouth to take it back, to apologize for the unearned familiarity. She had assumed it was okay because Trinity has been calling her Crash and Vic and all the names that aren't hers and—
"Told you so," says Trinity, smirking broadly.
It's Victoria's turn to scoff, more confusion than anything else. "Excuse me?"
"You're excused," Trinity replies with a shit-eating grin.
"That's not what I meant and you know it," Victoria grumbles.
"Chill out. Where's the fun in that, Vic?" Trinity hums. "Told you, using nicknames make us friends. It's grown on you, I can tell."
Victoria isn't going to admit she's right, refuses to if only to avoid another I-told-you-so.
"Maybe in the fungus sort-of-way," she relents.
She doesn't dignify Trinity's teasing with another response, instead taking a unceremonious bite of the cherry strudel held up in Trinity's other hand.
Buttery dough cuts through the cloying sweetness of the fruity filling and powdered sugar. The puff pastry melts in her mouth, warm and flaky in all the right ways. A contented sigh escapes her as she savors the bite, the taste of cherry clinging to the roof of her mouth.
For once, Trinity looks lost for words. She just stands there, blinking. Her arm frozen out where Victoria left it, fingers tighter around the parchment paper than they'd been seconds ago.
A flash of pink colors pale cheeks, barely noticeable in the darkness. But Victoria notices. She can't help but notice everything about Trinity in this moment.
The soft gape of her mouth, the blush tinting her ears, the stray locks framing her face, the puff of a breath that dances past her lips.
These are completely normal things to notice about people, in Victoria's humble opinion. It's just, she's never with someone in a non-clinical setting long enough to notice. That's all.
Sure maybe she's noticed some of these things with Mateo at work, but that doesn't mean anything. He's just so pretty, it's not her fault. But that's different. He's Utah and Trinity's just her Airbnb host. It's not the same.
Victoria swallows hard, holding out the mulled wine in offering. "It's probably better warm," she says lamely.
Trinity seemingly ignores her, brows knit in focus. Victoria should find it unnerving, but strangely, she doesn't. She forces down the inkling of disappointment when Trinity releases her hand. Mostly, she's trying to keep her face in check, to keep the confusing emotions inside her and not out for the world to see.
Something compels her to stay still as Trinity reaches out, thumb landing at the corner of her mouth and sliding down and out. Victoria swears she forgets how to breathe.
"Sorry, you had a little something," Trinity murmurs softly, averting her eyes. She clears her throat loudly enough to bring them both back to reality.
Victoria blinks away her shock, the cogs in her brain still processing how shy Trinity looks. "Oh, thanks."
"We should keep walking," says Trinity, rolling back and forth on her heels.
"Yeah, good idea," Victoria agrees.
She lets Trinity take the lead. They don't talk for the rest of the walk. Even without the excuse of the crowd, Trinity finds her hand again and Victoria finds that she doesn't mind, interlacing their fingers without another word. She blames the wine for the gentle heat pooling in her belly.
If being a real person feels like this, Victoria thinks she could get used to it.
* * * * *
"You know, you don't actually have to hang out with me again. I promise I wouldn't take it personally," Trinity says. She sounds like she means it.
It's out of the blue, as they're pulling up the parking garage of her apartment complex.
Victoria purses her lips and frowns, brows furrowing with confusion. She doesn't understand why Trinity is bringing this up now. She thought they had a nice night, or at least, she did.
"I know," answers Victoria. "Is there a reason you're bringing this up now?"
Trinity shrugs, eyes fixed on the opening gate. "Not really, just making sure you knew."
It feels like a half-truth.
"I'm old enough to know that on my own," Victoria argues as a burst of white-hot frustration races up her neck.
"You're like, 12," Trinity jokes, but her smile doesn't reach her eyes, different than before.
Victoria lets out an indignant huff, "For your information, I'm 21, almost 22."
"So, what I'm hearing is I got the numbers right."
"You're awful," grumbles Victoria.
Trinity shrugs again. "I've been called worse."
Sympathy slices through Victoria's chest at the admission, sharp and sudden. She can see Trinity stiffen up, as if she hadn't meant to let that slip. It only makes everything feel heavier.
"For what it's worth, I had fun tonight," Victoria tells her. "A lot more fun than I would've had studying."
"For what it's worth, I had fun, too."
Victoria offers up a hesitant smile. She can't help wonder if Trinity is bad at this whole having-friends-thing too. It makes her feel less alone.
* * * * *
"This was a terrible idea," Victoria all but screeches as her feet slide out from under her. She helplessly squeezes at the guard rail, doing everything in her power to avoid landing flat on her ass on the ice.
Trinity's laughing at her and Victoria has half a mind to pull her down with her if it comes to that. Luckily, it doesn't. With Trinity's help, she's able to get back onto two solid-enough feet, still clutching the rail with a death grip.
"You're doing great," insists Trinity. "You haven't broken a bone yet, that's a good sign."
It brings Victoria no comfort. She glares at Trinity, who's gracefully skating backwards as Victoria struggles to keep up. Every muscle in her body is screaming that humoring Trinity was a mistake.
She mentioned it offhandedly yesterday while they were passing by the rink on the way to dinner that she had never been.
At first, Trinity thought she meant skating at the UPMC Rink. She was taken back at the revelation that Victoria meant she'd never been ice skating ever. Not even once after an entire life in Pittsburgh.
Trinity took it as a challenge—a trend Victoria is noticing—and suggested they go after her next shift. And for some godforsaken reason (her growing boredom and inexplicable lack of anything else to do), Victoria agreed.
Now, she's cursing past-Victoria for putting her in this position.
"I thought you said you haven't been skating in years," Victoria says, eyes fixed on the smooth glide of blades across ice.
Trinity nods. "Haven't been since undergrad," she confirms.
"You're skating too well for that to be true," insists Victoria. "You're hustling me."
"Sweet of you to think that, Crash. But what do I have to gain from doing that?"
Victoria grumbles at the nickname, but it doesn't fill her with the same frustration it did only yesterday. It's less seething, more protest for sport.
"You want to see me make a fool of myself."
Faux offense flood Trinity's features, brows scrunched and hands raised over her heart. She sounds straight out of an overacted Chinese drama.
"You wound me, Crash. I would never. It's so cruel of you to suggest otherwise."
Victoria rolls her eyes and fights off a grin at her dramatics. It feels like she's catching up on the silly teasing and bad decisions she should've made by 21. She wonders how she'll be able to go back to be lonely and studious after the break.
"Okay, then you just wanted to show off," she corrects herself.
"Why, are you impressed?" asks Trinity. Victoria can't tell if she's being serious or not.
"If I say yes, can we go?"
Trinity shakes her head. "Nope," she immediately answers, popping the last syllable for emphasis. "Absolutely not. We paid for an hour and it's only been half. Gotta get our money's worth."
"What if I'm cold?" Victoria probes. She hugs her arms over her chest. The shiver that runs through her is only mostly for show. Windchills make it feel more real than not, brisk winter air striking her skin in waves. She huffs out a breath, can see it condensate in the air. Her teeth chatter.
She's woefully underprepared for the outdoors. Her mistake, a consequence for rushing out the door to avoid a conversation with her mother. In her defense, she hadn't planned on leaving the Airbnb at all.
If not for her borrowed jacket—a rust-colored fleece too dark for her usual color palette—she swears she would have frozen already. Trinity would've had to take her to the Pitt for hypothermia and god that would be so fucking mortifying. She tries to remember who's working right now, tries to think about how they'd react if a Victoria-cicle showed up to chairs, more ice than girl.
Without warning, her vision goes dark. She stumbles, hands scrambling for something, anything to grab onto. They curl around something solid, too warm to be the railing, and hold on for dear life.
Trinity's laughing again. Victoria is sure of it; she could pick it out of a lineup like the back of her hand. She's heard that laugh an absurd amount of times in the last three days. Trinity has a nice laugh and an even nicer smile. Bright, sharp, warm. It's more contagious than pertussis.
Her vision returns less than a second later as Trinity folds the brim of her tossle cap above her eyes. It takes a moment too long for her to realize what's going on.
Trinity stands in front of her, hair mussed, soft brown locks cascading to her shoulders, hands still adjusting the brim on Victoria's head. She looks half-a-second away from shrugging off her jacket and offering that up too. Victoria blinks dumbly at her, ears warm and chest fluttering. She can barely feel the cold nipping at her nose.
"There. Problem solved," Trinity declares matter-of-factly, leaving no room for argument. It almost makes Victoria wantto argue, to push Trinity's buttons to level out the playing field. She doesn't want to be flustered when Trinity seems so nonchalant.
She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out. Better silence than a jumble of nonsense, right Instead, Victoria nods and chews at the inside of her cheek. Her fingers twist into the cuffs of her—Trinity's—jacket, itching to move, to do something.
Trinity grins. She gives the tossle cap one last tug before turning on her heel and skating away. Over her shoulder, she calls out, "Catch me if you can, Crash."
Victoria's never moved so fast in her life.
* * * * *
They sit in the dark of the living room, lit only by the flashing TV screen. It's some Godzilla movie, one of the recent ones Victoria thinks. Not the type of thing she usually watches, but she picked Crazy Rich Asians so it's only fair Trinity got to pick one. The promise to watch To All The Boys I Loved Before next certainly helped.
Victoria loses interest 40 minutes into the movie and not for lack of trying. Every time she tries to focus, Trinity adds some off-handed commentary that inevitably wins over her attention. For a movie Trinity's supposedly seen "a dozen times", she sure has a lot to say about it.
She should be bothered. Usually she gets annoyed when people talk during movies, dislikes the constant stream of interruption.
But this is different. That's not to say she likes talking during movies now—absolutely not—but maybe she doesn't mind it as much if it's Trinity, excitedly telling her some random fun fact or scoffing when a character does something stupid.
Half of the time, Victoria has no idea what Trinity's going on about, but she nods along anyway. There's no expectation. It's strange, but nice. It's surprisingly easy to let her ramble while the movie plays on, to move over and let Trinity colllapse onto the couch and join her mindless movie marathon in the first place.
They're sprawled along the couch, a bowl of popcorn and a bag of chips on the coffee table, bookended by two soda cans and an empty set of bowls, the remnants of boxed mac and cheese coating the ceramic. Victoria leans back against the armrest, head propped up in her palm and her feet in Trinity's lap.
Trinity slouches against the cushions, sinking further into the fabric with each passing minute. Her hand rests on the sliver of skin between the hem of Victoria's sweatpants and the cuff of her sock. Her thumb traces mindless circles over Victoria's medial malleolus. Electricity shoots up the bone each time she does, goosebumps trickling up Victoria's leg.
A far cry from the opposite sides of the couch they started on.
The skinship is unexpected, but not unwelcome. It's innocent, small, insignificant, but there's a growing buzz beneath her skin nonetheless. She's used to touch being uncomfortable—a forced kiss on the cheek, a stiff hug, an awkward pat on the back—it's never this easy. She's starting to understand why people like touch so much. If it was on her terms more often, maybe she'd like it more.
Oh god, is she touch-starved?
Her heels hit the sofa when Trinity stands up. She stretches out her arms, rolling out her neck, and only then does Victoria realize the movie is over.
"I'm gonna grab another soda. You want anything?" offers Trinity.
Victoria tries to swallow, mouth cotton-dry as she sits up straight. "Water would be nice."
"Can do, buckaroo," Trinity deadpans, earning a choked snort.
She return a few minutes later and sets down their drinks. Trinity plops down right over the center of the couch without fanfare. She leans over and clicks on the queued movie, seemingly unaware of how their thighs press together. Victoria wills herself to relax as the intro starts to play.
"You know, I went to summer camp with Lana Condor," Trinity says.
"Really?"
Trinity laughs, "No, I'm just fucking with you."
"Jerk," grumbles Victoria, but there's no malice behind it.
She falls asleep three-fourths of the way through the third movie. She wakes up to her head in Trinity's lap with no memory of how she got there, Trinity's fingers stroking through her hair, and promptly drifts back to sleep, comfortable and content.
* * * * *
It's been five days since the argument. It's the longest Victoria has ever gone without talking to her mom. The fire of anger has faded into a dull ember, hot enough to singe but not enough to scar. She texted her this morning that she'd be home tomorrow and received a plain "ok…" in response. God she hates when her parents added random ellipses to their texts, vows she isn't going to start doing that in her middle-age.
"So, it's your last day," Trinity acknowledges and slides her a mug of hot chocolate across the counter. Victoria accepts it with both hands and takes a sip. She immediately regrets it when her tongue singes at the temperature.
"It is," says Victoria, nodding.
The elephant in the room.
They started this week as strangers, and now Victoria thinks of them as friends. She hopes Trinity does too.
"We should maybe hang out sometime. In the new year," Trinity proposes, fingertips tapping a rhythm into the countertop. She sips from a lovely shark mug, half-coffee, half-hot chocolate. "If that's something you'd want. Or whatever."
Victoria lets out a sigh of relief. While she hadn't expected anything of Trinity, it would suck to go back to only having her cousin to talk to. Mona is great, but it's nice to have a real connection outside of that. Plus, she hasn't seen her cousin in ages. Between medical school for her and law school for Mona, they rarely have a moment to spare.
"I'd like that," admits Victoria. "Maybe we could check out that new art exhibit next month. Or get coffee or something."
"You don't even like coffee," Trinity counters with a grin. "But yeah, that'd be nice."
Victoria shrugs and takes a long sip of her drink. It's perfectly warm and not too sweet. "Gotta put your art history minor to use somehow."
Trinity looks like she's about to say something but she just holds her mug out instead, expectant.
Their mugs clink together in a cheers. Victoria smiles, trying to ignore the static building in her stomach at the sight of Trinity's bashful grin.
* * * * *
Trinity's (human, not a cat) roommate comes home early. He isn't supposed to be back from Nebraska until mid-next week, but instead he shows up to their door at 4pm on Christmas Eve. He looks dead tired, cheeks gaut and dark bags under his kind eyes. They're bloodshot, as if he'd been crying.
He introduces himself with a strong handshake and a wary smile, more mouse than man. "I'm Dennis. Or Whitaker, I guess. Dennis Whitaker."
"Victoria. Just Victoria." Anywhere else and she'd be Victoria Javada, but here, just Victoria is enough.
"It's nice to meet you," he says and hikes his bag further up his shoulder. He turns to Trinity. "Um, should I set up in the living room or? Where's best for y'all?"
Trinity curses under her breath, "Ah fuck, uh, no. No, it's fine. You look like shit, Huckleberry. You should sleep in your room. Vic can take mine and I'll crash on the couch tonight."
"Trinity…" Dennis says, frowning, but he doesn't argue. He doesn't want to push, to talk about it, and Trinity knows it.
Victoria is offering up a solution before she can think better of it. It's in her nature, to fix things, to want to fix things—it's one of the reasons she let her parents push her towards medicine.
"She's right. You should get your room back," Victoria agrees. "But I'm sure Trinity and I could share hers. Just for tonight. No big deal."
It feels like a lie on her tongue, but she can't figure out why.
Trinity's brows twitch. She plays it off with a shrug, shoving her hands into her pockets. "You're literally paying me. It's fine. One night on the couch isn't going to kill me."
"And it's your apartment," insists Victoria. She catches a glimpse of the sidelong look Dennis shoots at his roommate, or maybe she imagined it. Her brain feels fuzzy. "It feels rude to kick you out of your room. My parents taught me better than that."
Trinity bites her lip and Victoria absolutely does not stare, she's just waiting for a comeback is all.
"If you're sure," she relents.
"I'm sure." Now that definitely is a lie.
"Thanks, guys," Dennis cuts in with an awkward laugh. "I uh, appreciate it a lot. I'll see you later, yeah?"
A fist meets his shoulder, a cross between playful and forceful. He winces at the impact. "My bad," says Trinity. "Go get some rest, Huckleberry. Don't come back out until you want to feel like a person again."
Dennis shakes his head, grinning. "You always know what to say, Trinity."
"What can I say? I have a way with words. C'mon, Crash. Let's move your stuff."
* * * * *
Trinity makes herself sparse for the rest of the day. She tided up her room and slipped out as Victoria got settled. They don't see each other again until that night.
Victoria's cross-legged on Trinity's rolling chair, laptop sitting open on the desk as she tries to focus on her notes and not the wall of Polaroids behind the screen. She's failing. Three photos taunt her from above the bezel: two boys she assumes are Trinity's brothers at the top of a hike, boots muddy and smiles wide; Trinity leaning over a pool table, shirt riding up her stomach, tongue poking at her cheek as she eyes the cue ball with intensity, temporary pride flag tattoo on her cheek; a shot of an near empty beach, waves crashing along the feet of a dark-haired figure barely visible to the camera. Only the third is unlabeled.
The bedroom door creeks open, hinges whining with each surrendered inch. Victoria flinches at the sound.
There's a thud, an annoyed groan, and then a flood of light claiming her vision, bright spots dancing across her eyes. She squints, peeks through her fingers. She can make out the vague shape of Trinity and the hand still on the light switch.
"Shit, my bad. Didn't realize you were in here," Trinity mumbles, fumbling with her phone. Simultaneously, the lamp on the nightstand begins to glow as the overhead clicks off.
She takes one look at Victoria looking at the wall, frowns, and quickly wipes it from her face. Trinity doesn't acknowledge her further.
The glass door slides open with a dull whoosh, dragging heavy along the track. A gust of air bursts into the room as Trinity pulls the screen door back. The Polaroids whip against the wall in a flurry, flapping with the breeze. It sends a chill down Victoria's spine, her mouth acrid with the taste of guilt.
She sucks in a breath, tries to calm the harsh thump-thump-thumping of her heart. She knows won't work. She tries anyway.
Before she knows it, Victoria is standing on the balcony, death gripping the handle. Concrete cold seeps through her socks as regret sings in her chest. She doesn't know what she was thinking, doesn't think she was thinking at all. When she looked at the photos, when she came out here, when she stormed out of her house without a plan in the first place.
It's heavy, smothering.
"Join me?" says Trinity. She shifts in her seat and gestures towards the other patio chair. Victoria complies on instinct, brain still on the fritz.
The city sky is dark and starless. Streetlamps glow warm as building lights flicker along the landscape, cars coasting along the streets below, engines rumbling, infusing the air with burnt fuel.
Victoria shivers as the evening chill strikes at her skin, threatening to permeate her bones. She pulls her knees to her chest, holds them tight, and hides her hands in the cuffs of her sleeves. Her prayers to not freeze to death are answered when Trinity passes her something over the end table between them.
"Hand-warmers," Trinity says without prompting. "A few minutes in the cold and you'll be fine."
They're a godsend, like little embers melting away the stiffness of her joints. When she's thawed enough to think again, the stench of alcohol finally strikes her. She makes a face, does her best to keep it neutral to little avail.
Trinity snorts and takes a long sip from her glass. "Chill out, Crash. You're not helping your "I'm a big kid' argument." She leans over to pour herself another finger of whiskey, then offers the bottle to Victoria, who shakes her head.
The promise of liquid courage is tempting, but drunk Victoria is an over-sharer and she'd rather not take the risk when her brain-to-mouth filter is already broken. She doesn't want to know what might spill out between whiskey-loosened lips.
"Geez, it's just a joke," defends Trinity, twisting to fish something out of the small cabinet. She pulls out a green glass bottle with a white foil-wrapped neck and a familiar white label.
"… I love Martinelli's," Victoria admits as the same time Trinity says, "You're old enough for apple juice."
Victoria scoffs at Trinity's smirk, "Okay, rude." She lets Trinity pour herself a glass anyway, savors the bubbling sweetness on her tongue.
Silence looms over them, thick and tight. Less stifling, but still undoubtedly there. She wants to cut through it with a scalpel, take it apart with her hands and put it back together again. For now, her words will have to do.
"Are you okay?" she asks, wincing as she does. It's the last thing she'd want to hear in a situation like this, but she's still new at this whole friendship thing.
Trinity drains her glass in place of an answer, goes to pour another. She sighs, shoulders tense, and fills her cup with sparkling cider instead.
"Yeah, I will be," Trinity eventually says. She swirls her cider with lazy twirls of her wrist, watching the liquid slosh along the walls of the glass.
"I'm sorry," sighs Victoria, holding her glass with both hands, watching the bubbles fizzle up and break. She's not sure what she's apologizing for. Feels the need to do it, for her own peace of mind.
Trinity furrows her brow and looks at her incredulously. "What the fuck are you apologizing for?" She sounds almost offended.
The heat of embarrassment blooms in Victoria's chest and up her jaw, an all-too-familiar burn. It stings even more against the cold.
"That I was snooping at your stuff?" she offers up, choosing her words with obvious care.
A bark of a laugh rips its way out of Trinity's throat. "Dude, I don't give a fuck about that," she says with a snort.
"Oh."
Now Victoria just feels dumb. What the hell was she supposed to say? She's good at retaining and applying information, but no one ever gave her a crash course on being a good shoulder to cry on, she's flying blind here.
She's snapped out of her thoughts, literally. Trinity obnoxiously snaps her fingers right over Victoria's face, waves her hand for good measure. It's all Victoria can do not to bite it—she wouldn't actually, she just wants to see the look on Trinity's face if she does.
"Earth to Crash, come in Crash." Trinity frowns, concern clouding her features. "Sheesh, I'm sorry. You're starting to scare me, dude."
Victoria responds on autopilot. "What the fuck are you apologizing for?" she parrots back.
Trinity rolls her eyes, but the tension bleeds from her shoulders. "It's not worth overthinking," she says, pressing a finger to Victoria's lips to shush her. "It usually isn't. I can see the gears in your head. Chill, it's not always that serious."
She slouches back into her chair, shaking her head in feigned disappointment. It's ridiculous and over-the-top, but her barely-hidden smile is so bright it lights up the whole balcony.
Victoria is stricken with the inexplicable urge to reach over and take Trinity's hand in hers. Her fingers twitch at the memory of the holiday market. She holds tighter to her cup instead, drinks her cider and doesn't sputter it back up.
"Seriously, we're good. I just… don't want to talk about it. I didn't mean to freak you out," says Trinity. She holds out her fist and raises her eyebrows. "We good?
Victoria's fist knocks against it; she nods. She wants to know the truth, the story lurking behind sad eyes, but she doesn't push. It doesn't feel like her place to.
"We're good." She swallows hard. "Maybe now you can pour me a real drink."
A wicked grin pulls at Trinity's lips and it takes everything in Victoria not to let her eyes wander, that fluttery feeling in her chest making itself known. She finally dares to compare it to the butterflies she felt when she first met Mateo, maybe worse.
… Definitely worse.
She watches Trinity pour, watches the flex of her hands, the control. Whiskey flows smoothly into her cup and into Trinity's, time moving slower with each passing second.
Victoria knows this is an awful, terrible idea that can only ever end horribly. But honestly? Right now she doesn't care.
* * * * *
"If you live like 20 minutes away, why are you here?" Trinity finally asks after three drinks.
Victoria sighs and sinks further back into her chair. She squeezes her eyes closed, resisting the urge to hurl over the ledge. She takes a long chug of water instead and waits for her stomach to settle.
"I kind of had a fight with my mom," she eventually replies.
"Oh."
Trinity frowns, fingernails tapping against the glass bottle as if she couldn't sit still. Her voice comes out almost pained when she speaks again. "Do you think it's fixable? Whatever you were arguing about?" she probes, making an obvious effort to keep things vague, to keep them on Victoria's terms.
For all of the disagreements Victoria has had with her mom, they had never been serious enough to completely ruin their relationship. To strain it, sure. But they haven't hit a no-turning-back point. Hopefully they never would.
"I think so," says Victoria honestly.
Trinity nods and pours herself another glass. "Good. She'd be missing out on a lot if she's dumb enough to let you go."
She can't read Trinity's expression, not completely. There's a sadness in her green eyes, mixed with relief at Victoria's answer, but something else hides beneath. Something she clearly doesn't want to talk about.
Victoria doesn't pry, but she hopes that one day maybe, she can hear the full story.
* * * * *
Her memory is fuzzy, pins-and-needles prickling at her face well into the night. Victoria remembers drinking (vaguely) and the disgusted faces she'd make with each sip, the suppressed guffaws from Trinity, the glares she'd shoot back. She remembers hot water drenching her skin as she washed the coconut shampoo from her hair, steam wafting from the shower and fogging the mirror. She remembers a whispered goodnight from opposite sides of the bed and the dimming of the nightlight.
It's quiet now, the cars below few and far between, the gentle sobbing from Dennis's room faded to nothing. She can't sleep, tries every step in the book.
Victoria closes her eyes, counts prime numbers, and thinks of darkness. She waits for the world to fade to nothing. It doesn't.
She doesn't know how long she's been awake, somewhere between hours and minutes even if it feels like eons. Her senses blur together as the remnants of alcohol flush from her system. The acid scratching at her throat has settled into something softer, warmer, but still leaves her throat raw.
She wants to blame the whiskey for the whirlwind of confusing emotions flourishing in her head, her chest, trickling all the way to her fingertips and keeping her awake.
She's drunk, tired, not thinking straight. She's lonely and Trinity is the first person who's treated her like a person and not a doll or a means-to-an-end. She likes the idea of Trinity, doesn't even know her last name. Anything and everything to push down her newly realized crush.
But at the end of the day, Victoria Javadi has never been good at hiding her feelings. Ask anyone. Mateo, McKay, her mom. She wears her heart on her sleeve for the world to see, as much as she wishes she didn't.
In front of her, Trinity groans. She kicks her leg out from under the covers, eyes still closed. A fine layer of sweat beads at her glabella, brows barely creased, lips parted just so—
"Go to sleep, Crash," she mumbles, nearly scaring Victoria out of her skin.
Victoria flinches despite her best efforts, heartbeat thrumming in her ears so loudly she can barely think. Maybe if she stays still enough, long enough, Trinity will drift back to dreamland and let her wallow in peace. Of course it's never that easy.
"Crash," Trinity grunts. Her cheek is smushed against a pillow, voice muffled. She looks so soft and unguarded like this. Vulnerable, almost. Drool crusts at the corner of her mouth, a dark spot pooling along the pillowcase. It's cute. Trinity would probably hate that she thinks it's cute. "Sleep now. Think later."
"Can't," says Victoria.
"Yes you can," argues half-asleep-Trinity. She frowns and Victoria has to physically restrain herself from reaching out and trying to wipe it away, to press her thumb against plush lips and trace their shape. She just looks so painfully soft.
Victoria wants to kiss her. Can feel the want, need boiling up beneath her better sensibilities. She wants and she wants and she wants. Badly. Desperately. Reverently.
It's the alcohol talking.
It has to be. Normal Victoria isn't usually this forward. She beats around the bush in the most roundabout way because she's terrified of wanting aloud. If she says it out loud, admits that she wants to the person she wants, she opens herself up to heartbreak and that's even more terrifying than looking the fool. The memory of accidentally offering to babysit for McKay comes to mind—that one was especially embarrassing, a two-for-one, really.
The lie slips out easily. "It's cold," Victoria says.
She doesn't know what she expects. A huff and a what do you want me to do about it? More blankets? She's just saying it to say something, so she certainly doesn't expect Trinity to throw her arm around her and pull her close.
"I run warm," sighs Trinity, face only inches from hers. Her eyes are still screwed shut, for which Victoria is grateful. She's peaceful, unbothered, a complete contrast to the obvious panic etched across Victoria's face. "Sleep now."
Victoria nods, more instinct than thought, her body already complying. Shoulders loose, eyes heavy. She feels safe, comfortable. She melts into the touch, curling closer, seeking more. Her ankle hooks onto Trinity's, arms pressing together, earning a contented noise. She slows her breathing to the same cadence, lets their heartbeats fall in line.
She knows a crush could be just that. It doesn't have to be deeper; she doesn't have to do anything about it. But god, she thinks she wants it to be more.
"Trinity?" she whispers, voice so quiet she barely registers it. She doesn't get a response.
Her next words are not her own, spilling out like a tidal wave. "I think… if you had kissed me tonight, I would've kissed you back," she admits, a weight off her chest. She feels brave saying it aloud, even if Trinity isn't awake to hear her.
* * * * *
It takes 15 whole minutes for the panic to completely set in.
When Victoria wakes up alone in Trinity's bed, after practically confessing her feelings last night, she tries not to think anything of it, tries to keep a level-head and not let her anxieties get the best of her. There are a hundred different explanations, surely one of them will make itself known sooner rather than later. She brushes her teeth and gets dressed and double, triple-checks she has everything she brought with her.
Still no Trinity.
She finds Dennis in the kitchen. Alone. He's standing at the countertop, eating a bowl of cereal as some show plays on TV. He smiles as she approaches. She smiles back. He looks better than he did yesterday, not that it says much; he sits up a little straighter, smiles a little wider, seems a little lighter.
"Hey, you sleep okay?" Dennis asks innocently.
Victoria blinks, hesitance evident in the stagger of her step. Either he doesn't notice or he's polite enough not to say anything. "Yeah," she answers simply, biting at the inside of her lip. "Have you seen Trinity?"
"Uh, she went out a little while ago. Should be back soon." His eyes shift back to his cereal, spoon mindlessly swirling the floating pieces. It makes her uneasy, even more so when he changes the subject. "You want some cereal? I think we might have frozen breakfast burritos, too."
With uncanny timing, there's a knock at the door.
"That must be her. Probably left her keys here since you have mine," Dennis reasons. He goes to stand, only to be stopped by the wave of Victoria's hand.
"I'll get it, I'm closer," says Victoria, the buzzing beneath her skin back to full force. All she feels is static, can practically taste it on her tongue. It takes her three steps to close the distance and open the front door.
Her jaw almost drops when it's not Trinity on the other side.
"Javadi?" comes a too-familiar voice, incredulous.
Nothing in this world could have prepared her to come face-to-face with Yolanda Garcia, one of her mother's senior residents. Millions of scenarios run through her mind, the passing fear of being tattled on tragically one of them. She shakes them away; she's old enough to make her own decisions. And she's going home today. There's no reason to worry about Yolanda reporting back to her mom.
"Is Trinity here?" asks Yolanda, already back to her usually stoic self. She holds up a small tote bag. "I'm here to return some things." She peeks her head into the apartment and meets eyes with Dennis, nods her acknowledgement. "Whitaker."
"Oh, hi Garcia," he calls back. Another alarm bell goes off in Victoria's head at the familiarity between them. There's something in his voice that Victoria can't place. Sympathy? A warning?
Either way, it doesn't bode well for her. It doesn't take a genius to put two and two together and well, she's a goddamn prodigy.
As if on cue, Trinity approaches from the hall, eyes wide and cheeks flushed at the sight of Victoria and Yolanda in the doorway. She's holding a tray of coffee cups, a plastic bag hanging from her fingertips—probably why she was gone, but Victoria's logical brain has already ceded control to her base instincts. Trinity chokes on her spit, erupting into a coughing fit that only confirms Victoria's suspicions.
Oh. She's read it all wrong. All the shared smiles and little touches. The hand holding and the lingering touches and the cuddling. Maybe Trinity's just like that with all her friends. She should've considered it in the first place. Fuck. She needs to get out of here before things get any worse.
"Uh, I've got to go," Victoria says abruptly, scrambling for Dennis's keys. She drops them in the tray and wedges herself through the small space between Yolanda and the door, deliberately avoiding eye contact. "Thanks for everything," she says to no one in particular.
"Victoria, wait."
It's all so ironically familiar, like a twisted play-by-play of the final strings of the argument that got her here in the first place. She wants to run, to make herself small, to disappear.
A calloused hand wraps around her wrist and squeezes softly. The touch that would've brought her comfort last night—that did bring her comfort last night—is nothing more than salt in the wound, a painful of reminder of her foolishness to think Trinity might possibly want her back. It's the same story every time. She gets in over her head, caught up in the wave of a new crush, only to be brought crashing down when things don't work out for whatever reason. She should be used to it by now.
Fuck, why isn't she used to it by now.
Victoria yanks her hand out of Trinity's grasp, feet moving expeditiously towards the stairwell. She's so focused on protecting herself from any more pain that she barely registers the slosh of coffee hitting the floor, barely hears the "Victoria, please," that follows.
* * * * *
"Where have you—" Her mother's question dies out the moment she sees Victoria's face. Her frustration drops in an instant, making way for concern, brows knit and breath catching as if someone had hurt her. "What happened?"
It's her mom's concern that breaks her.
"You're going to say I told you so," Victoria says shakily, wiping the threat of tears away. She collapses onto the couch, bringing her legs up onto the seat.
Her mom frowns. "Is it about that boy?"
"No. Kind of. Sort of," she tries to answer, searching for the right words. She hadn't considered this part. The coming out part. It's not like Trinity was her first-ever crush on a woman, wasn't even her most controversial crush, but there's never been a time where things had gotten to a point where she needed to tell her family. That was supposed to be a later problem, not a right now problem.
"There will be other boys," her mom says, sounding as uncomfortable as Victoria feels. She's trying though, Victoria can hear it in her voice, and that means everything. "He's one boy. He's not the entire world. When you're done with school, there will be plenty of boys." It makes Victoria laugh, a ghost of a smile pulling at her lips. Neither of them had ever been good at talking about things like this.
Well, if she's going to show this much of her hand, she might as well go all the way.
"I know, I know," replies Victoria. She sucks in a breath and wills herself full of whatever courage she can muster, the burning taste of whiskey stuck on the back of her tongue. "I just, I really thought she liked me."
"She?"
Victoria nods weakly. The room goes silent, the air heavier than it was before, laced with uncertainty and fear and regret. She grits her teeth to keep from shaking harder. She can't lose her nerve now.
Her mother pauses, lips pursed, head tilted, clearly thinking. The anticipation is maddening. If she's going to be disowned, Victoria would rather hear it up front.
Instead, her mom shakes her head and starts walking towards the kitchen. "I'll be back," she says, offering no explanation. It makes Victoria sick to her stomach, another tick to add to today's list of catastrophes.
Time stretches out, seemingly endless as she waits. Eventually, her mom comes back with an armful of dishes. She sets them on the coffee table without another word and then joins her on the couch.
Dal over rice, pomegranate seeds, a glass of water. An I love you if she's ever seen one. You can't mistake it for anything else.
Victoria actually does cry this time. Loud and raw and ugly, everything she'd been holding in for who-knows-how-long rushing out all at once. The stress of Match Day, of medicine, her own insecurities of not being good enough, everything. It's been years since she cried like this, even longer since she cried like this in front of her mom.
Years of compartmentalization, shattered in seconds.
A hand on her back rubs slow circles as a gentle hum fills the air. She cries until she can't anymore, lets herself feel all the feelings she's been keeping bottled up.
It's exactly what she needs.
* * * * *
(Wed, Dec 24 — 11:02) Trinity
can we talk?
(Wed, Dec 24 — 11:07) Trinity
please?
(Wed, Dec 24 — 14:12) Trinity
I hope you're okay.
(Thu, Dec 25 — 00:02) Trinity
merry xmas, crash
(Fri, Dec 26 — 23:39) Trinity
hope things work out with your mom.
(Sun, Dec 28 — 01:01) Trinity
i really don't want things to end on bad terms
or at all I guess I dunno
maybe u do
Maybe you're not even getting these
god i feel pathetic
(Tues, Dec 30 — 17:10) Trinity
thanks for the good review, I guess
I'd rather u just text me back but whatever
* * * * *
Like some scene out of a rom-com, Trinity shows up on her doorstep on New Year's Eve with mulled wine and flowers, but that's where the comparison ends, because Victoria promptly shuts the door in her face. It makes her regret not going with her parents to their usual New Year's Eve fundraiser, but the thought of being surrounded by so many people felt like a nightmare at the time. She would wager this might be worse.
"Victoria, Crash. C'mon. I just want to talk," Trinity calls out through the door.
There's a long list of things Victoria should do—walk away, turn up her music to drown her out, call someone to come pick her up, among other things. Should. She's usually good at shoulds. But a small part of her—a part that should be tiny and insignificant—wants to hear her out. Even if it's exactly what she thought it was, at least she'd get closure, right?
"I don't want to talk to you," she says, loud enough for Trinity to hear her. "Go home."
"It isn't what you think," insists Trinity. A film of desperation coats her voice, its usual edge shaved down and blunted. It feels all sorts of wrong.
Victoria shakes her head. Reminds herself of why she needs to focus on school and not romance. She's over it. Really. Book open and closed. It doesn't have to be more.
"It doesn't matter what I think," Victoria says. Because it doesn't. It's not like she's been thinking about it for days, replaying the week in her head every time she closes her eyes. Even if she was, Trinity doesn't need to know.
There's a pause, a quiet, a sigh. It lingers in the air and for a second, Victoria thinks it's finally over. Ignores the pit in her chest at the thought. It's a double-edged sword. She gets cut either way.
Another knock. One that tries to rattle the hinges and shake her resolve. A desperate plea chasing its wake, "Seriously. I'll say my piece and go. Just… listen. C'mon, Crash. Don't let it end like this. I don't want that. You don't want that."
Trinity is right and Victoria hates that she's right. She folds. It's not her proudest moment.
She only means to crack the door, enough to see a sliver of Trinity and nothing more. Enough to acknowledge but not to encourage. It swings open instead, an inch of momentum giving way to a full arc.
"Hey," Trinity says and stands from her seat on the doorstep. As if she expected to be here for a while. That shouldn't endear Victoria the way that it does, but she's always been a sucker for a grand gesture—the idea, at least. They always seem so romantic on TV or on the page.
She's wearing the denim jacket from the night they met, layered over a thick blue cotton sweatshirt embroidered with Cal in gold script letters. Black straight-cut pants hang from her hips, hem cuffed to the top of her boots to reveal neon teal socks with little flamingo designs. Victoria can see the goosebumps erupted along Trinity's neck, where cold air strikes exposed skin, her hair pulled back into a short ponytail. Even now she's just so pretty. Upsettingly so. It makes it that much harder to be mad at her. Ugh.
"Hey," echoes Victoria, hugging her arms around herself to give them something to do.
Trinity's gaze softens even further. "Nice jacket, Crash."
Victoria freezes. Her eyes dart down to check said jacket, as if she hadn't put it on this morning. "Sorry. Guess I forgot to give it back," she says and goes to shrug off the rust-toned fleece.
"You look good," Trinity says, making no effort to take it from her. She slips her thumbs into her belt loops and clicks her tongue. "Keep it on. Jesus, you're already shivering."
"I can grab another one from my room," Victoria retorts. She tosses the jacket at Trinity, frowns when it falls the ground in front of her. "Seriously?"
Trinity gives a noncommittal shrug. "Told you to keep it on," she says.
The fleece hits Victoria square in the chest. Her instincts jump in, hands fumbling to catch it. Fingertips hook into the soft fabric and curl tight. She glares at Trinity half-heartedly and slides it back on.
"I'm only doing this because it's actually cold," Victoria declares, even as the fading scent of Trinity's detergent sends a shock to her system. She wants it to be known she's doing this begrudgingly. She does have self-respect thank you very much. "What do you want, Trinity?"
Trinity scoffs and rolls her eyes, not unkindly. "To clear the air? Make sure you weren't dead or something?"
"How do you even know where I live?" counters Victoria. Because yeah, when she thinks about it a little more, that part should be concerning.
"I asked Yolanda. Seemed like you two knew each other," Trinity explains. Her face scrunches, a frustrated sigh blowing past her lips. "Okay, wait. Before you jump to conclusions. It's not what you think it is. With me and her."
Without thinking (because Victoria's been doing a lot of that these days), "So you're not sleeping together?" Heat pools in her chest at the accusation, cheeks darkening in a way she'll blame on the cold. A lot's changed in the last week-and-a-half. For better or worse.
Trinity goes red. The tips of her ears flush, a pretty little thing that trails down her cheeks, her neck, a smooth line like the ribbon on a gift. She stutters, swallows, clears her throat. Awkward laughter bubbles up. Whether Trinity's or hers, Victoria isn't sure.
"Okay, well. Yes. No. Yes. But it's not like that," Trinity says, hands gesturing wildly.
Cellophane crinkles at her movements, loud and intrusive. A reminder of the bouquet still clutched in one hand. Snowdrops, drooping from their stems, a burst of green inside white bells. Pink carnations, soft and lovely like the first inklings of sunset, delicate petals ruffled together in a fringe bloom, the same shade as her go-to jacket. Subtle notes of clove and earth.
Trinity follows her eyes, allows herself the phantom of a grin barely more than a twitch of her lips. "They're for you," she says and tightens her hold on the flowers. "I mean, unless you're gonna slam the door in my face again. Then I'll have to go pass them off on Whitaker or something."
Victoria wrinkles her brow, confused. "Just give them to Yolanda?" she says, the obvious answer. Trinity just confirmed their relationship, none of this is making sense.
"Oh my god," groans Trinity with a dramatic roll of her eyes. "Dude, we broke up like. Weeks ago. It was this whole on-again-off-again thing for like a whole year," she finally says.
"What?" Victoria squeaks. She squeezes her eyes shut and takes a step back into the house, hand locked tight around the doorknob. Takes a long, deep breath before opening them again. "Sorry, come again?"
Trinity falters. Her shoulders drop, bravado fading. "Don't make this harder than it already is."
Victoria's breath catches in her throat. "What do you mean?" she says slowly, carefully, each word a landmine threatening to go off at the first wrong step.
"Jesus Christ, Crash. Take a fucking hint," Trinity huffs. She drops the flowers by the bottle at her feet, ignoring the sharp inhale that follows. She takes a step closer, then another, until they're toe-to-toe, close enough to touch, close enough for Victoria to feel Trinity's breath against her skin. This close, she almost looks nervous.
"I'm going to kiss you now," Trinity says in a whisper, so low Victoria thinks she's imagined it. She rambles, "So if you don't want that, you should probably slap me or slam the door or something."
It's Victoria who closes the gap. Hands on Trinity's jaw, palms flat over her cheeks, thumbs resting on the ridge of her zygomas. Trinity's lips are ineffably soft against her own, warm and wet and hungry. An airy gasp escapes her, or maybe Trinity. Someone. It's all inconsequential as Trinity's tongue licks into her mouth, hands fisted in the front panels of her jacket, riding the line between gentle and brash like it's the pocket of a wave, begging to be surfed.
She's panting when they break apart, fingers still tight in Trinity's hair, can feel the hammering of Trinity's heart reverberating in her chest. "Oh, wow," Victoria says lamely, the best she can come up with as Trinity's hands slide down to her hips and pull her closer, the taste of Red Bull tart on her tongue. "That was. Unexpected?"
Trinity drags her bottom lip between her teeth and Victoria can't help but want to bite it for her. It must be written all over her face, because Trinity just smiles, scoffs, "Unexpected? If I came on any stronger, I'd practically be inside you."
Oh. Oh god.
"Well?"
Victoria blinks up at her. "What?"
"I said, are you gonna invite me in, Crash? Or are you gonna make me stand here all night?" She pauses, suddenly shy. Cute. "Uh. Not to assume anything. Or whatever."
"My parents will be home later," sighs Victoria, cursing her own common sense.
"I mean, I thought we could watch a movie or something. Maybe finish To All The Boys," Trinity hums. She waggles her brows, a devious glint in her eye. "Unless you had something else in mind."
Victoria lets out an exasperated breath, smiles anyway. "Okay, Mr. Darcy. Get in here before I change my mind."