There Will Be Time
Feb. 3rd, 2009 11:04 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
chainofcloversTitle: There Will be Time
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: These characters are certainly not mine. And I quite pathetically ripped off Eliot's "Prufrock" for the title.
Note: This piece is a continuation of Job Security, my first attempt at writing fic. It isn't totally necessary to read that one, but helps explain the time-line of this piece. Feedback is welcomed, especially since this piece gets a bit dramatic and near-maudlin, which wasn't anticipated when I began writing.
It had been nearly three weeks since Andy had kissed Miranda and Miranda hadn’t freaked out, or fired her, or even flinched too much. Since then, they’d been doing a lot of kissing—rather chastely, Andy noted—on the nights Miranda was around when Andy brought the Book. They always remained standing up, somewhere near the front door, kissing and clutching at each other’s shoulders and backs for a few minutes before one of them pulled away abruptly and they exchanged awkward but increasingly heartfelt goodbyes. And sometimes, usually in the car on the way to and from meetings, their ankles almost-accidentally intertwined, or her fingers found themselves casually entangled in Miranda’s, or Miranda gently, and surely absent-mindedly, brushed swirling patterns onto her wrist and palm. It was strange, suddenly being able to touch and be touched by Miranda: Andy felt like she had made it through a formerly impenetrable glass shield. Still, the initial shock was wearing off, and Andy had started to worry that Miranda was going to remain content with goodnight kisses indefinitely. She had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case, however, and had started carrying in her bag a clean shirt and underwear, rolled up very compactly and discreetly, in the event that she stayed at Miranda’s a bit longer than planned.
Tonight, Andy was receiving confirmation that her worries had been unfounded. She had paid for it, though, with a difficult day at work: Miranda had been dreading her budget meeting with Irv since the beginning of the week, and when she got back to her desk after it was over, Andy could tell by the almost superhuman straightness of her posture that it had gone badly. Miranda called Andy into the office and, without offering a greeting or any information about the meeting, asked for any important phone messages. There were only a couple, and when Andy finished giving her the information she quickly checked behind her to see if anyone was watching through the glass door, went around to the back of Miranda’s desk, and touched her shoulder. “You’re tense—”
“Don’t touch me,” Miranda snapped. “I am absolutely fine.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right, of course,” Andy stuttered, and spent the rest of the day mortified. But tonight, when she arrived at the townhouse, Miranda immediately appeared in the foyer, grabbed the Book and dry cleaning from Andy’s hands herself, thrust them haphazardly onto an end table, and reached for Andy without a word. She grabbed Andy by the hips and walked backwards, until she had effectively angled their bodies so her back was against the wall. She dove for Andy’s mouth with her own, and ran trembling fingers over the buttons on Andy’s coat as if she wanted to unbutton them but couldn’t make her hands do her bidding. So Andy undid her coat and let it slip to the floor, and Miranda sighed and took advantage of the increased capacity for closeness.
“This—” Miranda gasped, disentangling her mouth from a kiss, “is only for home—” Another kiss. “—or the car—” Andy pressed her hands to the small of Miranda’s back and pulled her closer, away from the wall and into her arms. “—but never the office. Our time—” she angled her neck so Andy could kiss the underside of her chin, the place that made her feel feverish and relaxed all at once. “—not Runway time.”
Andy let go and took a step back, grabbing Miranda’s hands as she looked her in the eye. “All right, Miranda. I understand.”
“Good. I don’t mean to be so blunt, but…”
Of course she meant to be so blunt. Andy had never known anyone with so much self-control, and she was quickly learning that Miranda’s self-control wasn’t only about holding back. It was also in her ability to plan and regulate all the words and actions she put forward in the world. Miranda could think before speaking and then, despite the thought and without regret, say the shockingly callous thing that had popped into her mind. And because she did measure her words and her moves so carefully, she seemed composed even as she indulged in her meanest tendencies. For someone who spent a great deal of her time expressing anger and dissatisfaction, Miranda was remarkably calm. And even without anger, if her tone was blunt, she meant it to be.
“It’s okay. I get it. It’s very…” Andy paused, choosing her words carefully. “…responsible of you. Boundaries.” Obviously, Miranda could afford to entertain this notion of compartmentalized time, Andy thought wryly. She, on the other hand, never felt completely separate from “Runway time.”
Miranda nodded, still a little out of breath, and looked Andy in the eye. “Yes. Boundaries. Exactly. But you know, you were being very thoughtful today, just the same. I was tense.” She looked away, and her cheeks grew pink as she said, “If I hadn’t stopped you, what would you have done?”
“I was going to massage your shoulders.”
“You wouldn’t still be up for it, would you?”
Andy grinned. “Of course I would.”
Miranda looked relieved, like a normal person would after delivering a speech or successfully asking to borrow a large sum of money. She led Andy to a sitting room, dark aside from the dim lamp burning in the corner, and sat down sideways on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs underneath her. Andy hesitated a moment, then sat down behind her, took a deep breath, and placed her hands on Miranda’s shoulders. She had learned how to give really soothing back massages at camp, of all places, in a row of teenagers sitting around the cabin, bored with swimming and lanyards and Torah study. Incidentally, it had been the unexpected exquisiteness of Shelley Graham’s fingers on her shoulders that had given Andy the first inkling that she might not be one hundred percent heterosexual. But now, she reminded herself, she had more than an inkling, and needed to focus on the woman in front of her.
“Is it okay if we take off your sweater?” Andy asked softly. Miranda nodded, and lifted her arms so Andy could pull it off more easily. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, only a lacy camisole.
“Mmm, you’re beautiful,” Andy said. She never complimented Miranda, at least not verbally, and worried Miranda would scoff at her or freeze up. But Miranda didn’t say anything and slumped forward in relaxation, and for several minutes Andy kept her fingers moving over the tight knots in her shoulders and upper back. Miranda made a small mewing noise, which must have been involuntary because she was perfectly quiet after that. Too quiet. Miranda’s breathing was even and slow, and when Andy craned her neck around she saw that her eyes were closed. She was drifting off to sleep. Andy felt a brief flare of panic—would Miranda be embarrassed? Would she want Andy to leave? Then she remembered: this was our time. The panic was quickly replaced by tenderness: she had never seen her boss look so peaceful. She thought fast, and resituated herself so her legs were stretched out on either side of Miranda. “Here,” she whispered. “Just lean back.” She wrapped her arms around Miranda’s stomach and reclined against a massive throw pillow. Miranda put her hands over Andy’s, nestled her head under Andy’s chin, and sighed with what Andy thought could be—could be—happiness.
Andy woke up hours later to a gasp from Miranda. “Oh my God, Andrea, what time is it?”
“Huh? Whaa—I don’t know…”
Miranda sat straight up and practically leapt away from Andy’s body. “It must be morning. I can’t believe I feel asleep. I haven’t even looked at the Book.” She paused on her way out the door, her eyes boring into Andy’s. “What are we doing here? What is wrong with me?”
The comment stung, but Andy looked down at her watch instead of trying to answer the probably rhetorical questions. “Miranda, it’s 3 a.m. That isn’t morning.”
“Well, I won’t be able to sleep now. You’re welcome to try, but I have work to do.”
Moments later, Miranda marched back into the room and sat on the edge of the sofa, continuing to share the piece of furniture with Andy in only the most technical sense. As she opened the Book, she muttered pointedly, “I hung up the dry cleaning and your coat.” What is wrong with Miranda, indeed, Andy thought. It wasn’t as if she had neglected to do those things out of laziness; rather, Miranda had been desperately sucking the life out of her and there simply hadn’t been time. And what was wrong with hanging up your own damn dry cleaning every once in awhile?
“I’m going back to sleep.”
“Fine. I’m going to do my work.”
Andrea slept fitfully on the sofa for the next few hours, and woke up to a fully dressed and made-up Miranda sitting next to her, closer this time. She held two mugs of coffee in her hands. “Here’s some coffee,” she said unnecessarily—what else would it have been? Green tea? “I’m feeling better now that my work’s done.” She paused before asking with careful, studied politeness, “How did you sleep?”
“Pretty well,” Andy lied.
“Andy? What are you doing here?” One of the twins (Caroline?), still wearing pajamas, peered her head around the corner and grinned. Andy had every right to get her and her sister into a lot of trouble, and the fact that she hadn’t done so made the assistant a bit of a hero in their eyes.
“Andrea and I had to work very late last night, so I invited her here, for some coffee. And work.” Miranda said quickly. She turned to Andy and a pained apology flashed in her eyes.
“Oh. Huh. Want some cereal?”
“Thanks, but I’d better run if I want to get on the subway in time.”
“Why don’t you just ride to work with Mom?”
Miranda stared into her mug of coffee and said nothing.
“I think I’d better take the subway. Miranda, do you mind if I freshen up first?”
“Cassidy, please show Andrea the way to the restroom. Andrea, your bag is in the closet.”
Andy grabbed her bag and partially changed her clothes in the downstairs bathroom. She gargled with the mouthwash she found in the medicine cabinet, washed her face with hand soap, and was going to leave without saying goodbye when she heard Miranda’s voice calling her back into the sitting room.
“Don’t think I’m ashamed, Andrea.”
Andy bent down and kissed Miranda’s forehead. It was smooth and cool under her lips, like powdered stone. “We’ll work it out. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Miranda didn’t say anything, and Andrea turned and walked away.
***
Miranda had an unusual number of outside engagements that day—so many, in fact, that Andy wondered the schedule had been spontaneously amplified in response to the morning’s awkwardness. It was just as well. With a few hours away from Miranda, Andy started to feel silly rather than horrified about the level of “morning after” intensity following nothing more than a shoulder rub and a glorified nap. She reminded herself that with a woman like Miranda, she shouldn’t be surprised by complications at any level of physical and emotional involvement.
Andy arrived back from a quick bathroom break to find Emily staring into space, mouth agape, phone receiver held limply in her hand.
“Emily, what’s the matter?”
“Miranda called…the twins were in a car accident after school, with their father…”
“Oh no, are they all right?”
“She doesn’t know. They’re in hospital, and of course she’s headed there to see them. Their father—Paul—is fine.”
“Oh no,” Andy repeated. “Oh no.” She paused, weighing her words. “Did she—she didn’t happen to leave a message for me, did she?”
Emily looked puzzled. “Well, she said to tell you and Nigel what had happened and to tell no one else yet, but that was all.”
“Which hospital is it? I’m going there. I’ll call you if we need anything.”
***
Andy had to beg Emily for the name of the hospital and for the cab driver to hurry, so by the time she had to beg the ER nurse to direct her to Miranda and the twins, real tears of desperation were falling onto her cheeks. It was difficult to say whether the tears or the whining wore the nurse down in the end, but the nurse’s willingness to break the rules shifted and she was finally shown to a small room with two twin-sized hospital beds, each one occupied by one of Miranda’s sleeping girls. One was hooked up to an oxygen tank, while the other was breathing on her own and seemed to be resting fitfully. Hunched in plastic chairs, one at each bedside, were Miranda and a man Andy assumed to be Paul. He was dressed in corduroys and a button-down surprisingly shabby for a person who had been married to Miranda Priestly, but Andy had eyes only for her boss. Dismay had left Miranda hollow-eyed and single-minded, and she didn’t register Andy’s presence for a long moment. Andy felt suddenly appalled at her behavior--what was she thinking, barging in on Miranda's personal life even more than she already had?
Finally, Paul turned around and asked, “Sorry, who are you?”
“I’m Andy Sachs, one of Miranda’s assistants...I am so, so sorry to intrude. I just wanted to see if there was anything I can do—anything you need. How are they?”
Miranda’s mouth fell open as she looked in Andy’s direction. It was Paul who continued to speak. “Cassidy over here has been having some trouble breathing, but she’s going to pull through all right.” His voice broke, betraying tears. “Caroline’s doing better. She was pretty banged around when the car hit us, and they sedated her because she was sort of freaking out about Cassidy.”
Andy nodded. She looked for awhile at Cassidy’s stillness and Caroline’s unconscious fidgeting. “They’re beautiful children.”
“Thank you,” Paul said, and rubbed at his eyes.
“Miranda,” Andy said timidly, kneeling beside her. “Can I help in any way?”
Miranda shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “But thank you for being here. How did you manage to leave Runway?”
“Don’t worry about that…I’m going to head back there now, I guess.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, but made sure it was a stage whisper because she had never been able to shake the Midwestern moral compass that told her to mind her manners and avoid telling secrets in front of other people. “I’ll be at my apartment all evening. You’re welcome there, if you need a break from the hospital.”
Miranda gave her a sad-eyed half smile, started to speak, and changed her mind.
***
Andy raced home from Runway as early as she could that evening, after making sure Emily and Nigel knew that the twins were stable and convincing a still-confused Emily to take care of the delivery of the Book. Whether Miranda got to it or not, Andy knew she would want to know everyone had carried on their jobs in her absence. She put fresh sheets on her bed, vacuumed the rug, and did all the dishes that had been piling up in the sink. Once she felt that she could survive a visit from Miranda without being completely humiliated, she checked her personal email account to find the simple vegetable stew recipe her mother had sent her the year before. She reminded herself over and over as she chopped vegetables and thickened the broth that Miranda probably wouldn’t come, but there was a knock on the door just as she was shaking a little extra black pepper into the pot. A glance through the peephole informed her that the visitor was in fact Miranda.
“I’m not using you,” Miranda said immediately, as if staving off accusations. “And Paul insisted that I take you up on your offer; he said he was fine watching the girls for a couple hours and would call me if either of them wakes up. Of course, he would hardly speak to me at the hospital and probably wanted me out of there…anyway, I’m not here just because I need comfort…”
“Hey. Miranda. I’m glad you’re here.” Andy reached out her arms, and Miranda dropped the bag she was carrying. It wasn’t until Miranda was allowing herself to relax into the hug that she burst into tears. As Andy rubbed her back and channeled her mother’s ability to cluck sympathetically, it seemed to both of them that she might never stop sobbing. But after awhile her sobs turned into regular breaths, and she pulled away from Andy with a bewildered expression on her face.
“Um, I made some soup.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“It’s eight p.m., and you’ve been up since three o’clock in the morning. And I’m sure you haven’t had anything to eat since, ah, finding out the news today…are you sure you can’t eat something?”
“Maybe some soup would be nice,” Miranda conceded, and sat on one of the kitchen stools. Andy ladled them each a large bowl and joined Miranda at the counter. They ate in silence for a few moments. Miranda broke the quiet suddenly, saying “It was just so terrifying, watching them struggling. I thought I was going to lose Cassidy. It occurred to me, watching those people hook her up to all these machines, that one twin has to die first. Someday, and it had better be a century from now, one of them is going to have to live without the other.” Her face pinched again, and fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t actually want to talk about this right now.”
“You don’t have to talk about anything,” Andy said through a lump in her throat, her own vision blurred with tears.
“The soup is good,” Miranda said, and smiled wryly. After a few more minutes of silent consumption, she added, “I did want to talk to you about something else. This morning. I just--sometimes--very rarely--I seem to sabotage goodness. I could feel myself doing that this morning. I struggle with pleasure. Giving it, receiving it, talking about it, whatever.”
There was a long pause. Both Miranda and Andy took a deep breath as if they were going to speak, but only Miranda did. She continued, “But I know I should try talking about this. You—” she coughed, buying herself some time. “You make me feel like I don’t have to be unhappy. It’s surprising. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Andrea nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” She took Miranda’s hand, and watched as Miranda’s eyes grew distant. If Andy didn’t act quickly, Miranda was going to close herself off again, revealing something big and then checking out before she had to account for what she had said, before she had to actually engage in an exchange. “So…” she forced lightness into her voice. “Is there anything else you’re weird about, other than pleasure?”
Miranda laughed, a short sharp chuckle. “You, most definitely. Abandonment, apparently, according to a therapist I only saw for a very brief tenure. And food. I’m probably weird about food. But yes, pleasure. It’s embarrassing, even as a word.”
“I don’t actually think you’re weird, you know.” It was a slight fib, but they’d both had a difficult day. “When everything’s less stressful, we should talk more.”
They sighed in unison, and laughed bashfully in unison about having done so. “I want to go back to the hospital,” Miranda said suddenly. “The doctors say it shouldn’t be long before Caroline’s sedatives wear off, and I want to be there when she wakes up. It’s going to take a lot of convincing to get her to trust Cassidy is going to be okay.”
“Do you want company?”
Miranda’s expression softened. “Would you?”
“Of course.”
***
They held hands in the car on the way to the hospital, let go of each other in the parking lot and on the way to the girls’ hospital room, and compromised inside the room with plastic chairs situated very close together, close enough for their knees to touch and their hands to collide every so often, just casually. They were there with Paul when Caroline's eyes fluttered open, and as the girl's parents cried with relief Andy felt with a foreign jolt that for once, there seemed to be time. Time to wait for Cassidy, time for explanations and negotiations, and even, eventually, time for pleasure.
Pairing: Miranda/Andy
Rating: PG-13?
Disclaimer: These characters are certainly not mine. And I quite pathetically ripped off Eliot's "Prufrock" for the title.
Note: This piece is a continuation of Job Security, my first attempt at writing fic. It isn't totally necessary to read that one, but helps explain the time-line of this piece. Feedback is welcomed, especially since this piece gets a bit dramatic and near-maudlin, which wasn't anticipated when I began writing.
It had been nearly three weeks since Andy had kissed Miranda and Miranda hadn’t freaked out, or fired her, or even flinched too much. Since then, they’d been doing a lot of kissing—rather chastely, Andy noted—on the nights Miranda was around when Andy brought the Book. They always remained standing up, somewhere near the front door, kissing and clutching at each other’s shoulders and backs for a few minutes before one of them pulled away abruptly and they exchanged awkward but increasingly heartfelt goodbyes. And sometimes, usually in the car on the way to and from meetings, their ankles almost-accidentally intertwined, or her fingers found themselves casually entangled in Miranda’s, or Miranda gently, and surely absent-mindedly, brushed swirling patterns onto her wrist and palm. It was strange, suddenly being able to touch and be touched by Miranda: Andy felt like she had made it through a formerly impenetrable glass shield. Still, the initial shock was wearing off, and Andy had started to worry that Miranda was going to remain content with goodnight kisses indefinitely. She had a feeling that wouldn’t be the case, however, and had started carrying in her bag a clean shirt and underwear, rolled up very compactly and discreetly, in the event that she stayed at Miranda’s a bit longer than planned.
Tonight, Andy was receiving confirmation that her worries had been unfounded. She had paid for it, though, with a difficult day at work: Miranda had been dreading her budget meeting with Irv since the beginning of the week, and when she got back to her desk after it was over, Andy could tell by the almost superhuman straightness of her posture that it had gone badly. Miranda called Andy into the office and, without offering a greeting or any information about the meeting, asked for any important phone messages. There were only a couple, and when Andy finished giving her the information she quickly checked behind her to see if anyone was watching through the glass door, went around to the back of Miranda’s desk, and touched her shoulder. “You’re tense—”
“Don’t touch me,” Miranda snapped. “I am absolutely fine.”
“I’m sorry, you’re right, of course,” Andy stuttered, and spent the rest of the day mortified. But tonight, when she arrived at the townhouse, Miranda immediately appeared in the foyer, grabbed the Book and dry cleaning from Andy’s hands herself, thrust them haphazardly onto an end table, and reached for Andy without a word. She grabbed Andy by the hips and walked backwards, until she had effectively angled their bodies so her back was against the wall. She dove for Andy’s mouth with her own, and ran trembling fingers over the buttons on Andy’s coat as if she wanted to unbutton them but couldn’t make her hands do her bidding. So Andy undid her coat and let it slip to the floor, and Miranda sighed and took advantage of the increased capacity for closeness.
“This—” Miranda gasped, disentangling her mouth from a kiss, “is only for home—” Another kiss. “—or the car—” Andy pressed her hands to the small of Miranda’s back and pulled her closer, away from the wall and into her arms. “—but never the office. Our time—” she angled her neck so Andy could kiss the underside of her chin, the place that made her feel feverish and relaxed all at once. “—not Runway time.”
Andy let go and took a step back, grabbing Miranda’s hands as she looked her in the eye. “All right, Miranda. I understand.”
“Good. I don’t mean to be so blunt, but…”
Of course she meant to be so blunt. Andy had never known anyone with so much self-control, and she was quickly learning that Miranda’s self-control wasn’t only about holding back. It was also in her ability to plan and regulate all the words and actions she put forward in the world. Miranda could think before speaking and then, despite the thought and without regret, say the shockingly callous thing that had popped into her mind. And because she did measure her words and her moves so carefully, she seemed composed even as she indulged in her meanest tendencies. For someone who spent a great deal of her time expressing anger and dissatisfaction, Miranda was remarkably calm. And even without anger, if her tone was blunt, she meant it to be.
“It’s okay. I get it. It’s very…” Andy paused, choosing her words carefully. “…responsible of you. Boundaries.” Obviously, Miranda could afford to entertain this notion of compartmentalized time, Andy thought wryly. She, on the other hand, never felt completely separate from “Runway time.”
Miranda nodded, still a little out of breath, and looked Andy in the eye. “Yes. Boundaries. Exactly. But you know, you were being very thoughtful today, just the same. I was tense.” She looked away, and her cheeks grew pink as she said, “If I hadn’t stopped you, what would you have done?”
“I was going to massage your shoulders.”
“You wouldn’t still be up for it, would you?”
Andy grinned. “Of course I would.”
Miranda looked relieved, like a normal person would after delivering a speech or successfully asking to borrow a large sum of money. She led Andy to a sitting room, dark aside from the dim lamp burning in the corner, and sat down sideways on the sofa, kicking off her shoes and tucking her legs underneath her. Andy hesitated a moment, then sat down behind her, took a deep breath, and placed her hands on Miranda’s shoulders. She had learned how to give really soothing back massages at camp, of all places, in a row of teenagers sitting around the cabin, bored with swimming and lanyards and Torah study. Incidentally, it had been the unexpected exquisiteness of Shelley Graham’s fingers on her shoulders that had given Andy the first inkling that she might not be one hundred percent heterosexual. But now, she reminded herself, she had more than an inkling, and needed to focus on the woman in front of her.
“Is it okay if we take off your sweater?” Andy asked softly. Miranda nodded, and lifted her arms so Andy could pull it off more easily. She wasn’t wearing a bra underneath, only a lacy camisole.
“Mmm, you’re beautiful,” Andy said. She never complimented Miranda, at least not verbally, and worried Miranda would scoff at her or freeze up. But Miranda didn’t say anything and slumped forward in relaxation, and for several minutes Andy kept her fingers moving over the tight knots in her shoulders and upper back. Miranda made a small mewing noise, which must have been involuntary because she was perfectly quiet after that. Too quiet. Miranda’s breathing was even and slow, and when Andy craned her neck around she saw that her eyes were closed. She was drifting off to sleep. Andy felt a brief flare of panic—would Miranda be embarrassed? Would she want Andy to leave? Then she remembered: this was our time. The panic was quickly replaced by tenderness: she had never seen her boss look so peaceful. She thought fast, and resituated herself so her legs were stretched out on either side of Miranda. “Here,” she whispered. “Just lean back.” She wrapped her arms around Miranda’s stomach and reclined against a massive throw pillow. Miranda put her hands over Andy’s, nestled her head under Andy’s chin, and sighed with what Andy thought could be—could be—happiness.
Andy woke up hours later to a gasp from Miranda. “Oh my God, Andrea, what time is it?”
“Huh? Whaa—I don’t know…”
Miranda sat straight up and practically leapt away from Andy’s body. “It must be morning. I can’t believe I feel asleep. I haven’t even looked at the Book.” She paused on her way out the door, her eyes boring into Andy’s. “What are we doing here? What is wrong with me?”
The comment stung, but Andy looked down at her watch instead of trying to answer the probably rhetorical questions. “Miranda, it’s 3 a.m. That isn’t morning.”
“Well, I won’t be able to sleep now. You’re welcome to try, but I have work to do.”
Moments later, Miranda marched back into the room and sat on the edge of the sofa, continuing to share the piece of furniture with Andy in only the most technical sense. As she opened the Book, she muttered pointedly, “I hung up the dry cleaning and your coat.” What is wrong with Miranda, indeed, Andy thought. It wasn’t as if she had neglected to do those things out of laziness; rather, Miranda had been desperately sucking the life out of her and there simply hadn’t been time. And what was wrong with hanging up your own damn dry cleaning every once in awhile?
“I’m going back to sleep.”
“Fine. I’m going to do my work.”
Andrea slept fitfully on the sofa for the next few hours, and woke up to a fully dressed and made-up Miranda sitting next to her, closer this time. She held two mugs of coffee in her hands. “Here’s some coffee,” she said unnecessarily—what else would it have been? Green tea? “I’m feeling better now that my work’s done.” She paused before asking with careful, studied politeness, “How did you sleep?”
“Pretty well,” Andy lied.
“Andy? What are you doing here?” One of the twins (Caroline?), still wearing pajamas, peered her head around the corner and grinned. Andy had every right to get her and her sister into a lot of trouble, and the fact that she hadn’t done so made the assistant a bit of a hero in their eyes.
“Andrea and I had to work very late last night, so I invited her here, for some coffee. And work.” Miranda said quickly. She turned to Andy and a pained apology flashed in her eyes.
“Oh. Huh. Want some cereal?”
“Thanks, but I’d better run if I want to get on the subway in time.”
“Why don’t you just ride to work with Mom?”
Miranda stared into her mug of coffee and said nothing.
“I think I’d better take the subway. Miranda, do you mind if I freshen up first?”
“Cassidy, please show Andrea the way to the restroom. Andrea, your bag is in the closet.”
Andy grabbed her bag and partially changed her clothes in the downstairs bathroom. She gargled with the mouthwash she found in the medicine cabinet, washed her face with hand soap, and was going to leave without saying goodbye when she heard Miranda’s voice calling her back into the sitting room.
“Don’t think I’m ashamed, Andrea.”
Andy bent down and kissed Miranda’s forehead. It was smooth and cool under her lips, like powdered stone. “We’ll work it out. I’ll see you in a bit.”
Miranda didn’t say anything, and Andrea turned and walked away.
***
Miranda had an unusual number of outside engagements that day—so many, in fact, that Andy wondered the schedule had been spontaneously amplified in response to the morning’s awkwardness. It was just as well. With a few hours away from Miranda, Andy started to feel silly rather than horrified about the level of “morning after” intensity following nothing more than a shoulder rub and a glorified nap. She reminded herself that with a woman like Miranda, she shouldn’t be surprised by complications at any level of physical and emotional involvement.
Andy arrived back from a quick bathroom break to find Emily staring into space, mouth agape, phone receiver held limply in her hand.
“Emily, what’s the matter?”
“Miranda called…the twins were in a car accident after school, with their father…”
“Oh no, are they all right?”
“She doesn’t know. They’re in hospital, and of course she’s headed there to see them. Their father—Paul—is fine.”
“Oh no,” Andy repeated. “Oh no.” She paused, weighing her words. “Did she—she didn’t happen to leave a message for me, did she?”
Emily looked puzzled. “Well, she said to tell you and Nigel what had happened and to tell no one else yet, but that was all.”
“Which hospital is it? I’m going there. I’ll call you if we need anything.”
***
Andy had to beg Emily for the name of the hospital and for the cab driver to hurry, so by the time she had to beg the ER nurse to direct her to Miranda and the twins, real tears of desperation were falling onto her cheeks. It was difficult to say whether the tears or the whining wore the nurse down in the end, but the nurse’s willingness to break the rules shifted and she was finally shown to a small room with two twin-sized hospital beds, each one occupied by one of Miranda’s sleeping girls. One was hooked up to an oxygen tank, while the other was breathing on her own and seemed to be resting fitfully. Hunched in plastic chairs, one at each bedside, were Miranda and a man Andy assumed to be Paul. He was dressed in corduroys and a button-down surprisingly shabby for a person who had been married to Miranda Priestly, but Andy had eyes only for her boss. Dismay had left Miranda hollow-eyed and single-minded, and she didn’t register Andy’s presence for a long moment. Andy felt suddenly appalled at her behavior--what was she thinking, barging in on Miranda's personal life even more than she already had?
Finally, Paul turned around and asked, “Sorry, who are you?”
“I’m Andy Sachs, one of Miranda’s assistants...I am so, so sorry to intrude. I just wanted to see if there was anything I can do—anything you need. How are they?”
Miranda’s mouth fell open as she looked in Andy’s direction. It was Paul who continued to speak. “Cassidy over here has been having some trouble breathing, but she’s going to pull through all right.” His voice broke, betraying tears. “Caroline’s doing better. She was pretty banged around when the car hit us, and they sedated her because she was sort of freaking out about Cassidy.”
Andy nodded. She looked for awhile at Cassidy’s stillness and Caroline’s unconscious fidgeting. “They’re beautiful children.”
“Thank you,” Paul said, and rubbed at his eyes.
“Miranda,” Andy said timidly, kneeling beside her. “Can I help in any way?”
Miranda shook her head. “No,” she said flatly. “But thank you for being here. How did you manage to leave Runway?”
“Don’t worry about that…I’m going to head back there now, I guess.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, but made sure it was a stage whisper because she had never been able to shake the Midwestern moral compass that told her to mind her manners and avoid telling secrets in front of other people. “I’ll be at my apartment all evening. You’re welcome there, if you need a break from the hospital.”
Miranda gave her a sad-eyed half smile, started to speak, and changed her mind.
***
Andy raced home from Runway as early as she could that evening, after making sure Emily and Nigel knew that the twins were stable and convincing a still-confused Emily to take care of the delivery of the Book. Whether Miranda got to it or not, Andy knew she would want to know everyone had carried on their jobs in her absence. She put fresh sheets on her bed, vacuumed the rug, and did all the dishes that had been piling up in the sink. Once she felt that she could survive a visit from Miranda without being completely humiliated, she checked her personal email account to find the simple vegetable stew recipe her mother had sent her the year before. She reminded herself over and over as she chopped vegetables and thickened the broth that Miranda probably wouldn’t come, but there was a knock on the door just as she was shaking a little extra black pepper into the pot. A glance through the peephole informed her that the visitor was in fact Miranda.
“I’m not using you,” Miranda said immediately, as if staving off accusations. “And Paul insisted that I take you up on your offer; he said he was fine watching the girls for a couple hours and would call me if either of them wakes up. Of course, he would hardly speak to me at the hospital and probably wanted me out of there…anyway, I’m not here just because I need comfort…”
“Hey. Miranda. I’m glad you’re here.” Andy reached out her arms, and Miranda dropped the bag she was carrying. It wasn’t until Miranda was allowing herself to relax into the hug that she burst into tears. As Andy rubbed her back and channeled her mother’s ability to cluck sympathetically, it seemed to both of them that she might never stop sobbing. But after awhile her sobs turned into regular breaths, and she pulled away from Andy with a bewildered expression on her face.
“Um, I made some soup.”
“Thank you, but I’m not hungry.”
“It’s eight p.m., and you’ve been up since three o’clock in the morning. And I’m sure you haven’t had anything to eat since, ah, finding out the news today…are you sure you can’t eat something?”
“Maybe some soup would be nice,” Miranda conceded, and sat on one of the kitchen stools. Andy ladled them each a large bowl and joined Miranda at the counter. They ate in silence for a few moments. Miranda broke the quiet suddenly, saying “It was just so terrifying, watching them struggling. I thought I was going to lose Cassidy. It occurred to me, watching those people hook her up to all these machines, that one twin has to die first. Someday, and it had better be a century from now, one of them is going to have to live without the other.” Her face pinched again, and fresh tears welled in her eyes. “I don’t actually want to talk about this right now.”
“You don’t have to talk about anything,” Andy said through a lump in her throat, her own vision blurred with tears.
“The soup is good,” Miranda said, and smiled wryly. After a few more minutes of silent consumption, she added, “I did want to talk to you about something else. This morning. I just--sometimes--very rarely--I seem to sabotage goodness. I could feel myself doing that this morning. I struggle with pleasure. Giving it, receiving it, talking about it, whatever.”
There was a long pause. Both Miranda and Andy took a deep breath as if they were going to speak, but only Miranda did. She continued, “But I know I should try talking about this. You—” she coughed, buying herself some time. “You make me feel like I don’t have to be unhappy. It’s surprising. I don’t know what to do with it.”
Andrea nodded slowly. “Okay. Thanks for telling me.” She took Miranda’s hand, and watched as Miranda’s eyes grew distant. If Andy didn’t act quickly, Miranda was going to close herself off again, revealing something big and then checking out before she had to account for what she had said, before she had to actually engage in an exchange. “So…” she forced lightness into her voice. “Is there anything else you’re weird about, other than pleasure?”
Miranda laughed, a short sharp chuckle. “You, most definitely. Abandonment, apparently, according to a therapist I only saw for a very brief tenure. And food. I’m probably weird about food. But yes, pleasure. It’s embarrassing, even as a word.”
“I don’t actually think you’re weird, you know.” It was a slight fib, but they’d both had a difficult day. “When everything’s less stressful, we should talk more.”
They sighed in unison, and laughed bashfully in unison about having done so. “I want to go back to the hospital,” Miranda said suddenly. “The doctors say it shouldn’t be long before Caroline’s sedatives wear off, and I want to be there when she wakes up. It’s going to take a lot of convincing to get her to trust Cassidy is going to be okay.”
“Do you want company?”
Miranda’s expression softened. “Would you?”
“Of course.”
***
They held hands in the car on the way to the hospital, let go of each other in the parking lot and on the way to the girls’ hospital room, and compromised inside the room with plastic chairs situated very close together, close enough for their knees to touch and their hands to collide every so often, just casually. They were there with Paul when Caroline's eyes fluttered open, and as the girl's parents cried with relief Andy felt with a foreign jolt that for once, there seemed to be time. Time to wait for Cassidy, time for explanations and negotiations, and even, eventually, time for pleasure.
