No Greater Love than Mine

by Harper Bliss

  “Seriously, though,” Jackie says, “How are you feeling? Right shoulder was it?”

  She rests her dark gaze on me. An intricate pattern of crow’s feet creases around her eyes. It catches in the light of the candle on the bar. It makes her look as though I’m seeing her in a dream.

  I pull a face that’s supposed to confirm what she just said. I take another sip and make a deal with myself. I shouldn’t have agreed to this drink if I’m not going to say anything.

  “Yep, hit me just next to my vest. The shooter had aim, I’ll give him that.”

  “Did they get him?” Her brow furrows, giving her a concerned look. There was a time when I’d have given anything to have her look at me like that.

  I nod. I don’t want to talk about the shooting. If I’d wanted to do that, I would have stayed in therapy. “What you asked me earlier,” I say. “Whether I found someone after you.” I stare into the dark-honey liquid in my glass, then look up at her. She still has the same expression on her face, but perhaps it’s now laced with a hint of trepidation. “Have you? After your divorce?”

  “Not really.” She swings toward me a bit more. “I mean, I tried, but, you know.”

  “When you tried, do you mean you dated men? Or women?”

  She chuckles. “Wow. Still as direct as ever.”

  Something in me wants to mirror the smile on her face. “I assure you that I was trying to be circumspect.”

  “I dated both,” Jackie says. “Rather unsuccessfully.”

  “Really?” It’s hard to believe. Jackie may have broken my heart, but she’s still a striking woman. I never really stood a chance against her advances.

  “Is that so surprising?” She raises an eyebrow.

  “I thought suitors would be lining up for the likes of you.”

  She sends me another smile, a dazzling one. “After Michael and I divorced, I just wanted to be on my own.”

  “When did you divorce?”

  She thinks for a second. “Thirteen years ago.”

  “That’s a long time to be alone.” I drink again because I need time to process this information. Jackie has been single for thirteen years. I don’t know why the number of years shocks me so. Or is that a pang of regret rushing through me?

  “Maybe I’m like you. Married to the job.”

  I shoot her a quizzical look. “Was that in my file as well?”

  “I can read between the lines.”

  “What else did you read between the lines?” I’m not a fan of therapists—for which Jackie is one of the biggest reasons—but I’m curious nonetheless.

  “You refused a promotion seven years ago. I guess that means you’re still not sick of flirting with danger.”

  “I hardly refused.” My reply comes too quickly.

  “I don’t much care for reading between the lines, anyway. I’d rather hear all about it from you,” she says.

  “All about what?” I trace a finger over the rim of my glass.

  “You.” Her voice is husky. It must be the booze.

  I burst out into a chuckle and shake my head. “Let’s not pretend,” I say. “We won’t see each other again after tonight.”

  “If that’s what you want.” Her glass is still half full, so it can’t be the Scotch making her sound so audacious. Or maybe it’s too strong for her—maybe she’s one of those women who have drastically curbed their alcohol intake after fifty. But she looks too damn good in a bar setting for that. That tumbler of Scotch sits too naturally in her hand. My gaze stops at her hand. An image of her fingers approaching my mouth flashes before me. Those fingers skating along my lips. I couldn’t get enough of them, yet I was only granted one night with them.

  “Do you want something else?” I have to ask. She’s practically forcing me.

  “I wouldn’t mind seeing you again.”

  “Why?”

  She flicks her tongue over her upper lip. “Because… it almost feels like serendipity. Like too good a chance to pass up.”

  “A chance at what?” I try to conceal the indignation that rises in my chest, try not to let it reach my voice. I fail.

  “I don’t know, Angela, but…” She does that flick of her tongue again. “I know I hurt you, probably beyond repair, yet I’d like to try.”

  I shake my head. “A chance to make yourself feel better about how you treated me back then?”

  “No, God no.” She inclines her body forward a bit. “A chance to explain. A chance to tell you that… it was hard for me too.” A crack in her voice. “So incredibly hard.”

  “I don’t need an explanation. What good will that do me now?” I finish my drink. I slip off my bar stool. “And you don’t deserve the relief of giving me one.” I turn away from her. “Jimmy, can you put these on my tab. I’ll pay next time.”

  “You’re leaving?” Jackie asks.

  “Yes.” I cast one last glance at her. “So you know what that feels like.” With that, I’m out of there.

  4

  Jackie

  “Mom, please,” Carl says. “I know you don’t believe in the institution of marriage anymore, but I’ve yet to make all my mistakes. Pay attention.”

  Two days ago, I was much more excited about my son’s upcoming nuptials. Then I saw Angela again. She’s been on my mind ever since. I can still see her walking out of that dingy bar, leaving me there on my own, feeling totally out of place. Despite her injury, she walked out straight-backed, without so much as a glance behind her.

  “I’m really not the person to ask for advice on this.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” Jeffrey, Carl’s best friend—and soon to be best man—says. “You just have to do the Mom thing and nod at appropriate times. You don’t even have to pay that much attention, Jackie. Just enough to make Carl feel loved and sufficiently noticed.”

  I want to make a bridezilla comment, but I fear it would hurt Carl in his current state. Ever since he started planning this wedding, about three years ago it seems, he’s been gradually losing his usually outrageous sense of humor.

  “This one or this one.” First he puts an off-white pocket square in his blazer pocket, then a pale pink one.

  “The white one,” I say.

  “The pink one,” Jeffrey says at the same time.

  Carl rolls his eyes and sighs dramatically.

  “This is not helping.”

  “Honey, I know the right color for the tiniest piece of fabric seems hugely important to you right now, but let me tell you, in the grand scheme of things, it means nothing.”

  Jeffrey makes a loud buzzing sound. “Wrong thing to say, Mom.”

  “Fine,” I say on a sigh. “Go with the pink one.”

  “Jeff, darling, can you give us a minute,” Carl says.

  “Sure.” He plucks his phone out of his pocket. “I’ll use it wisely to find my future husband on Grindr.” He sashays out of the room.

  “What’s going on with you?” Carl asks.

  “Nothing, honey. I’m sorry.”

  “You can’t fool me.” He puts the pocket squares on the table and sits down next to me. “I know I’ve been going nuts over this wedding, but I can still tell when my momma’s upset.” He tilts his head the same way I do. A subtle incline meant to convey empathy. He’s too much like me, my son. “Is it the wedding?”

  “No, honey.” I’ll need to give him something, even though he has no idea of Angela’s existence. “It’s just some work stuff. I’m subbing for someone and some of the cases are… not as straightforward as I’d like them to be.”

  “Like what?” He rubs his chin—one of his father’s moves.

  “You know I can’t talk about that.”

  “I’m not buying it. You have work stuff going on all the time, but it never makes you so absent-minded. Your favorite son’s getting married.” He grins, baring a row of perfectly white teeth. “Unless…” He leans his shoulder into me. “It’s something else.” He makes a spectacle of examining my face. “You’ve got that loo
k about you.”

  “What look?” I’ll be the first to admit that seeing Angela again has thrown me, but surely not to the extent that my son can read it off my face.

  “You’ve met someone.” He quirks up his eyebrows. “A gay son is a perceptive son. Never forget.”

  I chuckle, hoping I can laugh his comment away. “It’s nothing. Now back to you. What were we on? Pocket squares, was it?”

  “You’re a fool to think I’m letting you off the hook so easily.” He gets up and pivots toward the table. “This conversation’s not over, but, for now, we can get back to me.”

  “Let’s get Jeff back in. He’s better at making sartorial decisions,” I say.

  Carl nods, but before he calls for Jeffrey, he whispers, “Is it Sondra? I know you really liked her.”

  If only, I think. I shake my head. The irony is that if I’d left my husband for Angela twenty years ago—which seemed like a gigantic impossibility at the time—I would probably not be so close to my child. And he wouldn’t even have noticed how seeing her again has affected me.

  I stare at Angela’s phone number. It’s right there in front of me, in her file. Her personnel file picture, taken a few years ago, staring back at me—again. Yesterday, before leaving Roger’s office where I’ve been spending half days, I almost took the picture out of her file and slipped it into my purse. Until I realized we live in a digital age and I snapped a picture of it, so I’d have it in my phone. When I got home I was afraid to look at it though, because I feared what it might do to me.

  It’s not just her eyes that undo me. It’s the complete absence of a smile. Police officers are not supposed to smile when they get their picture taken, but in Angela’s, there’s not even the slightest hint of joy. Her eyes, though piercing, are dull. The corners of her mouth drawn tightly, deeply down. There’s such acute sorrow about her and I can’t help but wonder: did I do this to her?

  It’s a ridiculous thought. No one stays sad for twenty years over what was basically a one-night stand. Yet this is the thought that persists in my brain, that’s been swirling, messing with me, since I saw her again.

  It’s why I want to call her.

  So I do.

  She picks up after the second ring. “Detective Hill.” Her voice is emotionless and direct, like her.

  “Hi, Angela. It’s Jackie.” My heart pounds in my ears.

  “Yes.” She says it like a statement.

  Maybe this was a big mistake. I’m not sure how to get the words past my lips. Even though we only spent a short amount of time together, I can so easily imagine the scorn on her face.

  “Did you have something to say?” she asks.

  “Yes, um, I wanted to say that, um…” I’ve turned into a stuttering teenager. “You’re off the hook for therapy. I’ll sign the papers and give you a positive evaluation.” What am I doing? Committing fraud to please her? Is my guilt really still that big?

  “That’s nice of you.” A hint of something else in her voice.

  “But I also wanted to ask if…” I take a deep breath. “If you’d go to dinner with me.” I spit out the words as fast as I can, lest they retreat, robbing me of any chance to see her again, forever.

  “Is one a condition of the other?” Angela asks.

  “Sorry?”

  “Are you blackmailing me into having dinner with you by not requiring me to follow through with the therapy?”

  “What? No, Angela, I’m not blackmailing you. I won’t force you to have dinner with me. I’ll draw up the necessary paperwork and send it to the HR department at the end of next week, after you should have had your last session, regardless of us seeing each other again. You have my word.” I brace myself for a snide remark about how worthless my word is.

  “Okay,” she says. “When?”

  My heart leaps all the way into my throat. I debate inviting her to my house, but it’s too much. We need neutral ground. “Tomorrow night? I know an exquisite Greek restaurant in Silver Lake. I’ll text you the address.”

  “Okay,” she says again, like this is a business transaction.

  “Eight?” I can’t believe she said yes.

  “I’ll be there.” A short silence follows. “But, Jackie,” she says, “don’t go getting any ideas in your head.” The dry thud, with which she ends the call, rings in my ears for minutes after.

  5

  Angela

  “You never told me how things went with Roger,” Harriet says. We’re eating sloppy tacos and drinking beer at a bar around the corner from the Hollywood police station, a monthly tradition we started when we were partnered up, and have kept going since.

  “Roger Bradley has been suspended.”

  “Already?” Harriet sips from her bottle of Dos Equis.

  “Guess who’s taking his place?”

  Harriet shrugs. “Clearly, I’m out of the loop.”

  “Jacqueline Cooper.”

  Harriet puts her taco down. “No shit.”

  “Oh, yes.” Once, probably on one of our taco nights, I got so hammered, I told Harriet all about Jackie and how she so cruelly broke my heart.

  “What happened?”

  “You know. We came face to face after all these years. Some of the old anger resurfaced. She tried to apologize. It was all very messy and awkward.”

  “But she’s still your therapist?”

  “On paper.” Even though she’s my boss, I don’t bother lying to Harriet. There’s no point.

  “What does that mean?” She takes another long drag of beer.

  “It means I’m having dinner with her tomorrow night.”

  Harriet brings her bottle down onto the table with a loud bang. “You’re having dinner with Jackie Cooper?”

  It sounds crazy to me too. I give Harriet a slow nod. “It’s Jackie Smith now.”

  Harriet chuckles. “Well, well.”

  “Not like that.” I can’t help a tiny smile from spreading on my lips.

  “Like what?” A smug grin appears on Harriet’s face.

  “It’s not a date, it’s just…” I have no idea what it is. “She asked me and I said yes.”

  “Good for you.”

  “We’ll have to see about that.” I’m not even sure why I agreed. Maybe twenty years is long enough to put what happened between us behind me.

  Harriet nods. “I know she did a number on you.”

  I shrug. “Water under the bridge now.”

  “And we all get lonely sometimes, even die-hard single ladies like yourself.” She twirls her bottle of beer between her fingers.

  “Oh please, not the loneliness speech again.” I reach over and stop the spinning of her beer bottle mid circle. “You’re only on your second beverage of the evening and we’re going there already?”

  Harriet emits something between a chuckle and a scoff. “Just because we’re no longer partners doesn’t mean that I no longer look out for you.”

  I give her an offended eyebrow raise. “Last I checked, I was plenty old enough to look out for myself.”

  “You know what I mean.” She cocks her head.

  I shake mine. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m fine.”

  “I know that, but maybe I want better than just plain old fine for my bestie.”

  I dramatically puff some air out of my cheeks. “How about you give me some department gossip instead of wishing all kind of things for me.” I narrow my eyes. “Although I’m not sure you’re the right source for that, seeing as you had no idea Roger Bradley has been suspended.”

  Harriet taps a finger against her temple. “There’s only so much space in here.”

  We both burst out into a chuckle. Mine is mainly born from relief because we’ve changed the subject from my non-existent love life.

  When I get home, after drinking quite a few more beers than my doctor recommended while still on painkillers, I don’t go through my usual routine of gulping down a glass of water, brushing my teeth, discarding my clothes on the nearest chair, and falling
into bed pleasantly tipsy.

  I head into the spare bedroom which doubles as a study and unlock the bottom drawer of the desk. When I stick the key, which I keep in a separate spot, into the lock, it doesn’t immediately want to turn. It’s been that long since I used it last. I twist the key back and forth until the lock snaps. I open the drawer. It only holds one item. A group photo.

  I look at the twenty-year-younger version of myself first and conclude I could have aged worse. Not taking a promotion that chained me to a desk has a lot to do with that, although opinions on that vary. And a gunshot wound to the shoulder hasn’t exactly helped with my youthful complexion of late. Still, it could have been worse. No middle-age spread and the wrinkles on my forehead have been kept to a minimum.

  Yet, I do see something in that picture of myself that I no longer see when I look in the mirror. Wonder. Hope. The very expectation of a life filled with love.

  My gaze wanders to the person all the way on the right. The instructor who was tasked with teaching a group of reluctant police officers all about the psychology of domestic abusers. She stands tall, her gaze focused, her shoulders back. Her hair was long then, slung over her left shoulder. Jacqueline Cooper, now Smith.

  The picture was taken at the end of the week-long seminar, when I had already fallen head over heels in love with her. Maybe that’s what I see in my glance. And maybe that’s why I’ve failed to find it there ever since.

  Because she gave me all the hope in the world, only to take it away again after giving me the most delicious taste.

  I run my fingertip over the picture, as though it will allow me to feel her skin again, the way it felt against mine, so promising and intoxicating.

  It still stings that she’s been divorced for thirteen years. During those years, did she think about contacting me? Does she keep pictures like this one as relics of a past that never turned into a future?

  With a sigh, I put the picture away. That’s enough reminiscing for one night. And I must get my beauty sleep. After all, I’m meeting Jackie for dinner tomorrow evening. The words don’t sound right in my head. Like a great impossibility—the greatest of all. Because how do you sit across from someone to enjoy a meal together, when you’ve had to cut that very person out of your heart in order to survive?