I glance at the computer screen in front of me. The trial database website glares back at me, daring, mocking, and accusing. Off to my left I hear muffled laughter, the sounds of joy leaking from another room. In my range of vision I see Catherine joining Warrick and Nick in the break room. Their happiness reaches out to me, but does not touch me. It has been long since happiness touched me.
The glass walls here would lead one to believe that no secrets could be hidden, but more lies and unspoken words hide here than any other place.
Some movement to my right catches my eye, and I look, taking any excuse to delay the daunting task that lies before me. I see Sophia, perched intimately on the corner of His desk, and they chuckle together over a book He is holding. I remember when I used to be the woman perched on His desk, or in a chair near Him. No more. It doesn't hurt like I thought. It is numb, it is black, and it is lonely.
Again I face the task at hand. Again, I am alone in my suffering. With great difficulty, I lift my fingers and type Her name: Laura Sidle. Various pieces pop out at me; memories flash before my eyes unbidden, and fear returns to my soul as it did that night.
Multiple stab wounds.
Psychosis.
Daughter.
Foster Care.
Life in prison.
I am lost in the ebb and flow of the past and present. Time escapes me. When my back begins to feel warm, I realize that a sliver of sunlight is creeping through the window. No one has bothered to bid me goodnight. They've all simply vanished back to their pleasant reality of a warm bed and possibly a comforting companion. I have been passed over, left behind, and my solidarity wraps around me with a suffocating weight. Nothing awaits me at home but a bottle of Jack Daniels and a cold empty bed. Why should I go home?
With a sigh I begin to exit the various windows of my past. It still amazes me to think that my entire past, that which makes me who I have become, can be compartmentalized to fit on a fifteen-inch computer screen. As I linger on the transcript of the trial, I feel Him. I wonder where He is, and why He is still here. Then I know He sees me. The hair on my neck stands up. I quickly exit the program and turn the screen off, standing to gather my things. My one thought is how to most rapidly escape His gaze.
"Sara." The word is murmured, almost unspoken, but I hear it, and He knows I did. I lift my face to His, and His eyes search mine, but His ability to judge my feelings has long since gone. I feel His frustration at the loss of this ability, and I watch as His fingers tighten on the case file He carries. My eyes answer for me, and he looks at me curiously, before posing the million-dollar question.
"Why are you still here?" I want to tell Him. I want Him to know. I want Him to hold me and tell me my life isn't just a computer screen's worth of information. That I am more. That it is more. But He will not. So I do not.
"I was just looking up some things for my case. Tying up all the loose ends. You know." I shrug slightly, relieved that confidence permeates my voice. I feel no confidence. Only emptiness and fear.
"Shift has been over for hours. You really ought to go home." He quirks an eyebrow at me, in that trademark way of His, and I feel my anger rise. Who is He to tell me to leave when He stands before me, as engrossed in His work as I was in my pain?
"Why are you still here then?" I ask, as I shrug on my jacket and grab my purse. I step towards the door, giving Him a look that can be interpreted as nothing other than a command to move. He remains motionless. He looks at a spot behind my head and shifts nervously from foot to foot before speaking.
"I, uh, was just about to leave as well. And, well, neither of us has eaten since at least eight hours ago, and, would you like to get some breakfast?" His words rush out, as if He were speaking a single word instead of posing an invitation to partake in a meal at His side. I am temporarily stunned, and then realize that this is nothing more than two coworkers sharing a meal. But inside I feel something more, as if it is not simply a meal, but two lonely, cold souls attempting to bridge the gap between the darkness in their hearts and the light that is love. I suppress this feeling and nod, and a smile spreads across His face. He tells me where to meet Him, and as He walks away, I fantasize that He has said that it is not too late.
On the drive to our meeting place, I ponder the ramifications of His invitation. Just this morning I perceived that He was moving on with Sophia. The evidence was there. Assigning Himself to cases with her, spending extraneous time with her at the lab, and even inviting her to dinner. This did not make me angry. He was not mine; I had no claim to Him. However, something has kept either of us from straying too far from one another. There have been rumors of His tryst with a dominatrix. I have chosen to believe that He would not. Teri Miller came before the dominatrix rumors. I chose to believe He was just friends with her.
I comforted myself with Hank. Hank was nothing like Him. Hank was not intriguing or intelligent or enigmatic. He was a jock, the kind of boy that ignored me twenty years ago. The kind that sneered at me and saw me not for my intelligence or for the fire hidden in my depths but for my plain brown hair, tattered clothes, and quiet personality. I felt something bad with Hank, but I ignored it, pushed it down, because when he held me or kissed me I could pretend it was Him, and I was ok. But then Hank hurt me too. And I walked away scared and scarred, but better for the experience.
Arriving at my destination, I put my car in park, noticing His car was already there. As I walked in, I expected to see Him already at a table, but He was waiting for me by the door. He took my jacket and silently escorted me to our table. When His hand landed on the small of my back, I savored the feeling. I had not felt His hand there in a long while, and I missed its perfect fit and the confidence with which it was placed.
As we sat I wondered again about the meaning of it all, and after we ordered I decided to find the answer to my musings.
"What is this? Are we co-workers now, friends, or more?" It came out harsh and demanding, and again I saw the fear and nervousness in His eyes. But there was something more...there was a hope and a hollowness. A hope for a new life and a hollowness waiting to be filled. The words came out of His mouth in short gasps.
"This is...this is you and me, Sara. This is friends, co-workers, and more. This is...everything." His words seemed meaningless, but pondering the man, I knew what he was saying. He was desperately wanting for me to understand, and I did. I reached across the table and stroked His fingers. He smiled softly at me, and covered my hand with His.
Nathaniel Hawthorne once said: "Happiness in this world, when it comes, comes incidentally. Make it the object of pursuit, and it leads us a wild-goose chase, and is never attained. Follow some other object, and very possibly we may find that we have caught happiness without dreaming of it." Somehow, as I felt His lips slide over mine in farewell, I knew that I had achieved happiness. I had not been looking for it, nor had I even been pursuing it. Happiness snuck up and took me by surprise. It comforted me, surrounded me, made me warm, and filled the void. Then I knew...everything would be alright.