Olivia Pope has never been interested in social relationships. It was just the natural order of the universe. Accepted by all, questioned by no one. When boys asked her out in high school, the furthest anyone got was to a second date, and usually that was to a diner and not followed by heaving petting on the subway. In college, there were young men who made attempts at pursuing her, and girls who thought she might make a good friend. Inside Corwin Hall at the coffee shop while she studied, on the lawn outside of her dorm, in the hallway of her off-campus apartment in Princeton, other students made small talk, asked homework questions and invited Olivia to social gatherings. Despite her repeated responses, "Thanks, but I'm busy," "I appreciate your offer," "Not today," the offers persisted. And yet, because it was what it was, Olivia was as unconnected as a person could be.

The origin of the disconnect dates to her childhood. Had anyone in her life gotten close enough to learn about her history, they would know that her guarded demeanor is the result of having lived more lifetimes than a young person ever should. Her mother passed away when Olivia was in sixth grade, and her father sent her to boarding school. During her first year there, as a seventh grader, the news of her father's death was delivered to her door by the dean of students. And so, in January of her seventh grade year, as an only child with no living family, Olivia was alone. Surrounded my counselors, classmates and concerned teachers, but alone. What seemed to make sense to her at the time was to study, have a good reputation, be kind to people and make path for herself. She never saw a counselor. She never really made a friend. She just studied. The biggest connection she made was to Cyrus Beene, the director of the Department of Politics at Princeton.

They first met during the first semester of Olivia's freshman year. She had requested the meeting to get on a track to graduate in three years.

Walking into the office, she was reminded of home for the first time in a long time. Having not stepped foot in her childhood for five years, it struck her how quickly the familiarness surrounded her. The wood paneling, the bookshelves, the coffee table crowded with magazines, books and writing utensils. Nice pens, mostly. She stood and waited for Mr. Beene as he finished a phone call.

"Yep, ma'am, I absolutely understand, I can assure you my motivation was strictly professional."

He looked up at Olivia, motioned for her to sit, and rolled his eyes, presumably at the nonsense being uttered by the woman on the other end of the phone.

"I am well aware of the standards, yes. Of course. I simply inquired about your availability because we are looking for…"

He was interrupted again. Another eye roll, this time accompanied by a hand to his forehead.

"Ma'am. I'm going to stop you there. I run the Department of Politics at Princeton. I was hoping you wanted to join our faculty. My invitation to dinner was simply to gauge your interest. As I enjoy having sex with men, I assure you, my intentions were pure. However, given the quickness with which you jumped to conclusions I can ascertain that we probably would have butted heads, and I mean that figuratively, so all is well that ends well."

He hung up, sighed heavily, checked his Blackberry and approached the sitting area.

"Olivia Pope. Thank you for waiting. My apologies, I was hoping to have that cleared up before our appointment."

"I understand, sir."

"Cyrus, please." His outstretched arm was there for her, so she shook it. "What can I do for you, Olivia?"

"Thank you for meeting with me. I am here to request an increase in my course load, as well as a teaching assistant position so that I may prepare myself to graduate in three years."

"You just got here! Why the rush?"

"Sir, Mr. Beene," Olivia began.

"Cyrus."

"Cyrus, I have given a lot of thought about how I might spend my future, and to be frank the sooner it gets here, the better. I am a hard worker, as my records will show, and I am always looking toward the next thing. Right now, the next thing is my graduation from this department and a job in Washington."

"I appreciate your honesty. I'll tell you, three years is going to be tough. I don't doubt your work ethic, but the nature of the courses is such that I am not sure it is possible to take more than you already are. I took a lot at your registration. You already have more on your plate than most first year students."

"I appreciate your honesty as well. Please, though, allow me the opportunity to try. If it is overwhelming, or if my performance is not up the standards of this institution, I will slow down."

"Something tells me it won't come to that."

"You would be correct, Cyrus. Generally, when I decide about the next thing, it happens."

Because Olivia required written approval from Cyrus for most of her academic decisions, they met regularly. Though she did not share anything about her personal life, they often found themselves having conversations about the political issue of the day, or a campus event, or a particular assignment. Olivia found herself looking forward to their meetings. And so, in May of 2004 as she waited on the leather sofa in his office for their final meeting after her graduation, she felt for the first time that she might actually miss someone other than her mother or father. She had never allowed the opportunity since her father's death, and here she was, wondering who she would debate with following the upcoming national presidential campaign.

The door swing open, and in walked Cyrus, talking on his Blackberry, as usual. Almost three years later, Olivia could tell from his tone that this phone call was both personal and professional in nature.

"Tom, look, I hear you," Cyrus waved as he closed the door behind him. "I understand, and the opportunity sounds both challenging and horrifying at the same time. You know I usually cannot pass on things like that. But I'm in good standing here, in line for provost."

Olivia took mental notes while Cyrus listened to the caller.

"Alright, alright. I'll fly out. This is not a promise, or even an indication that I am considering it. But I'll come meet you. Him. Whoever. Have your secretary call mine to work it out. Yes. Princeton, sir. Yes. Goodbye."

"Cyrus, should I be more disturbed that you are into opportunities that are challenging and horrifying or that you were that easily convinced?" Olivia asked with a teasing tone in her voice.

"You know what? I'm not sure. I was just bamboozled by the former governor of California to come meet his son, whom he would like to run for president."

"Tom, Tom, Thomas Grant?"

"Fitzgerald Thomas Grant II, who would like number 3 to be president."

"Isn't number 3 a senator? Why does he want your help? Not that you can't help, but you know what I mean."

"I do, which is why I resisted. Number 3 does not want to be president. Speaking of resistance. He is young, energetic senator who apparently has no interest in higher office despite having the charm and intelligence for it. Boggles his dad's mind, kind of boggles mine, and you know I can't turn down things that confuse me."

"I do. Well, good for you. I wish you well out there."

"I should be wishing you well. Congratulations. You were lovely at graduation and you have represented us well. You are going to do wonderful things at the firm."

Olivia had accepted a position as a strategist at a media relations firm in Los Angeles. It was a long way from Washington, but it was the job that made the most sense to her. She also figured it would help her get to the next next thing, which had yet to be determined.

"Thank you, Cyrus. And thank you for believing in me and helping me get to this point."

"It has been my pleasure, Olivia. Can we have lunch when I get to California?"

It hadn't occurred to her that she would ever see Cyrus again. Part of the allure of Los Angeles was that it was another fresh start, connection free. Still, she respected him and sincerely appreciated his support during her years at Princeton.

"Sure. You have my cell number. I don't plan on changing it. Call me, we'll lunch." She giggled. It sounded grown up and so unlike her.

"Great. Well, my dear, you are going to great things. I'm going to miss you. But I'll see you in California!"

And so it was that Olivia found herself using printed directions to make her way to the address Cyrus had given her over the phone. He had arrived in L.A. in late July. Oliva's job was going well, she had rented an apartment near the ocean, rediscovered her love of swimming and was settling into her quiet live if California. When Cyrus called, she found herself slightly shaken but happy to accept his lunch invitation. She had expected a restaurant, but he suggested the order in at the house where he was staying.

She stopped at a stop sign, glanced at the directions and realized she must have missed the house. Putting the car slowly into reverse, she found a gate with the correct house number. Turning the car in, she expected the gate to open. When it did not, she realized there was an intercom. Before she could call Cyrus, the gates opened. She drove slowly down a wooded lane that ended in a cul-de-sac. The house just beyond the road was, in her mind, the quintessential California mansion. Low rise, lots of windows, modern, tasteful. She stepped out of her car, straightened her white pants and peach blouse and started a slow turn in place. As she spun back to face the front door, she found herself face to face with someone she had seen and heard on television.

"Hello. May I help you?"

Fitzgerald Thomas Grant III. Holding a football and a bottle of water.

"Yes, hello sir. My name is Olivia Pope. I'm supposed to be meeting my friend Cyrus Beene for lunch. Do I have the wrong address? I was sure I had passed the home, but then I saw the gate…" Olivia rambled, leaving her sentence dangling, two things that rarely happened.

"You're in the right spot. Cyrus is inside with my dad. This is my dad's house, actually. I'm Fitz Grant." He put out his hand.

Olivia shook it. Immediately, a wave of nausea overcame her followed by a whooshing sound in her ears. She shook her head slightly to regain her composure.

"It's nice to meet you, Mr. Grant. I just moved to California, but I am familiar with some of your work."

"Fitz, please. The good work, or the work that most people care about?"

"I'm not sure. I know about your work with stem cell research funding and improving teaching programs, mostly."

"The good work. Most people don't know about that stuff. But they're thrilled that I don't want to make traffic worse in L.A."

Olivia laughed. He had a point.

"How do you know, Olivia?"

"Excuse me?" She didn't quite understand what he was asking.

"How do you know about what matters?"

She thought for a minute. She could talk about her undergraduate research, her personal passion for research, the fact that her mother was a teacher before her death, but instead, she said,

"How does anyone?"

The words shocked her. They shocked him. They were left floating there between Olivia and Fitz. After a few moments, he stepped toward her.

"I ask myself that daily. I don't know that I've ever said it out loud, though. I have been struggling lately to hold on to what matters, you know? And defining it, well, that's another issue altogether."

"I'm sure it's a struggle, pleasing constituents while staying true to yourself."

Fitz looked at her. He was about to respond when Cyrus and another man, who by his resemblance was clearly Fitz's father, came out of the front door of the home.

"Olivia Pope! I have missed you, your natural beauty, your East Coast work ethic and your squinty-eyed look as you listen to me espouse."

They embraced. Olivia smiled, realizing she had missed Cyrus, too. The whole time, Fitz just stood next to his father, watching.

"Olivia, this is Tom Grant, and it seems you have met his son Fitz."

"I did, yes. Thank you for telling me in advance I would be having lunch with someone other than you," Olivia said with a hint of sarcasm.

"Just lunch! No need for advanced warning. Plus, you wouldn't have come if I had told you the real reason for my summons."

Olivia jokingly hit Cyrus' shoulder then stepped around him to shake the hand of Tom Grant.

"It's a pleasure, Olivia. I have heard a lot about you."

There was a pause. Olivia wasn't sure how to respond, Fitz was still a statue, Tom was looking at Cyrus, and Cyrus was looking at Olivia. Finally, Cyrus realized he was in charge of this lunch. Meeting. Whatever it was.

"Let's eat! Fitz, you're welcome to join us. Plenty of salmon, plenty of wine."

"I just might. Let me go clean up. Olivia, it was nice to meet you. See you in a bit."

"You too, Fitz."

When Olivia turned to Cyrus and Tom, they both looked as if they had seen a ghost.

"Did he just agree to join us for lunch, Cy?" Tom asked.

"He did. Yes."

"I can't believe I'm saying this, but Olivia might be the good luck charm after all."

With that, they headed inside. Olivia remained standing next to her car, fighting the instinct to flee.

"You coming, kid?" Cyrus called from the porch.

She took a step forward, wondering what was next, not realizing that for the first time in a long time the not knowing was actually okay.