The Lines We Wouldn't Cross (Queen of the South)

Part 1-Obviously There Was Nothing More To Say

"I hope so", James said in a heavy voice, turning his head to look at her with dark and sparkless eyes.

It was all he obviously had wherewithal to say to her remark that the FBI finding the incriminating evidence next to Gamble's body would help all the boys whose lives Judge Lafayette had screwed up.

Then he walked out, shoulders slumped, gait slow and lifeless, without looking back.

She was sure the guilt she felt for having forced him to eliminate the cop just as a precaution was written on her face, but neither her imploring look, nor her attempt to start a conversation had made him want to say more. Obviously there was nothing more to say! She had made the decision, she had accused him of growing a conscience after having done the same dirty jobs for the CIA...just like Finch had...and she had forced him to kill again, which was the opposite of what she had stood for and the opposite of what she had made him believe.

The sour taste in her mouth had started with Dumas's last words, that he wouldn't hold his breath in anticipation that she would get him out of jail. Dumas had walked out on her, now James had done the same. And the image of Kelly Anne running out of the room this morning was fresh in front of her eyes!

Teresa felt her throat dry and poured herself a glass of water. It tasted sour, she squinted and told herself she was imagining it. But she wasn't: Kelly Anne, Dumas, James! She had lost a piece of her relationship with each one of them today.

She had snapped at Kelly Anne who had been terrified with the level of risk and now Teresa knew the reason, which caused a completely different type of angst to start simmering in her soul.

Kelly Anne had a life growing inside her, a fact that meant an irreversible change in the family's dynamics, a fact that shouted at her that there was more to life than money and power, a fact that screamed that maybe she should be re-evaluating her choices.

Teresa had reacted to her friend's fear as if she rode a high horse, and she knew that's how it looked, but the truth was she wasn't feeling superior to her family. "You're here to advise me, not question me!" she had said without thinking, just responding to the pressure! The guilt felt like a lump in her throat. Why couldn't they understand she needed to win this one?

Suddenly she felt like drowning in this solitude, a dark overwhelming feeling of helplessness. She sat down on the couch and counted from 10 backwards taking deep breaths and slowly letting them out. She needed to release the suffocating feeling that had gripped her and had made her knees weak; the feeling she had had twice before in her life: when she had been told Guero was dead and when James had closed his eyes bleeding out on her lap and she had thought him gone.

Teresa found herself up from the couch and walking in a determined stride in the direction of James's room.

What would she say? What would she expect? How would she keep her distance?

All these questions popped in her mind, and she had no answers, she just knew she needed to tell him how sorry she was, so that he maybe would absolve her of this overwhelming angst. And maybe his understanding of why she had to do these things to win would be the help she so needed but couldn't ask for!

She knocked once, waited and knocked again. She couldn't hear any movement inside and taking a shallow breath, she pressed the door handle.

A few seconds passed before she stepped in and heard the water running behind the bathroom door. He hadn't heard her knock. Teresa's mind raced with the option of staying and waiting.

Could she crowd his space like this? Did she have the right to torture him more with her presence and explanations, the purpose of which was to give her relief? Were they really so close, so that she could do that? Would asking him for his help and understanding be selfish because she was offering nothing in return?

She had no clue; her head was heavy; her heart was beating fast as her gaze lingered over the desk where the only light was on. The half full glass of whiskey, his wallet, watch, cell and gun all lying there. The familiar faint smell of tobacco that had escaped in through the balcony door, left as usual slightly open. So familiar a sight!

Her fingers touched his leather jacket that was hung on the back of the chair as melancholy spread in her veins and watered her eyes. She had met him wearing this same jacket, that had been in another lifetime.

Her eyes fell on the bed where he had discarded his jeans and top. All black, all suitable for a killer. Her killer, her hired gun! Her stomach cramped and she couldn't say when she had taken the three steps to the bed and had picked up his shirt. Her vision blurred as she stuffed her face in it, silencing a sob and inhaling a very familiar scent. Por Dios, it felt heart wrenching!

It took her a few seconds to compose herself and as the water kept running just as loud as before from behind the bathroom door, she realized she had no strength to torture him more with a conversation about the events of the day. She turned to the door and walked out in a serious stride, wiping her eyes before the tears could slide down, closing the door behind her as silently as possible.