Cuddy had the sinking feeling that she was being stood up.
She'd arrived at the restaurant right on time, as usual, and hadn't even bothered to look at her watch for the first few minutes. People ran a little late. It was no big deal. So when the waiter came over and asked if she wanted a drink "while she waited," she confidently shook him off. About 10 minutes later, though, she meekly ordered a glass of wine. Then she asked if she could look over the menu.
Now she was beginning to sense that the waiter—and the busboy and even the other guests in the restaurant—were staring at her with a mixture of pity and concern. Oh, that poor woman is being stood up.
She glanced at her phone, which was more for show than anything else. One of the drawbacks of online dating is that telephone numbers were rarely exchanged.
"Hate to break it to you, but I don't think he's coming," a male voice said.
She looked up. Ah, the perfect witness to her humiliation: House.
"What the hell are you doing here?" she asked.
"Drinking. By myself. But unlike you, I'm doing it on purpose."
"Well, I'm sure my dinner date is just running a little late," she said unconvincingly.
"Or maybe he found out what you look like," House said, sliding into the empty chair next to her. "Or about your personality."
"What makes you so sure this is a first date?"
"Have you ever even had a second date?"
"Very funny, House."
House looked at his watch. "8 pm. And the date was for . . . 7:30?"
"7," she confessed.
"Ouch," he said. "Definitely a no show. Poor bastard doesn't know what he's missing. I happen to know for a fact that you put out."
He winked at her.
Cuddy broke into mock applause.
"I'm impressed House! You made a reference to our one, highly regrettable sexual encounter in record time!" she said.
"What can I say, baby? The memory of that night is permanently engraved in my consciousness—like a naked Lisa Cuddy tattoo."
"You're a piece of work," she said.
He gulped his drink and looked at her.
"You wanna pretend that I'm the date you've been waiting for? That way, you can avoid further humiliation."
"Are you suggesting there's actually something more humiliating than being seen out with you?"
"Cute, Cuddy," he said.
The waiter came over.
"Would the gentleman like to order?"
"No, as a matter of fact, he was just. . ."
"I'll have the lamb chop, medium rare, a side of asparagus and a baked potato," House said. "And we'll take a bottle of whatever it is that she's drinking."
"Very good, sir. Ma'am?"
House raised his eyebrows at her.
"The grilled salmon with cous cous," she said, shutting the menu in defeat.
When the waiter left, House reached across the table and took her hand.
"What are you doing?" she said, jerking her hand away.
"I thought we were supposed to be on a date, snuggums," he said, grabbing her hand again.
"A first date," she said, extricating herself.
"Oh, is that how we're playing this scene? I was thinking it was more like a third or fourth date," House said.
"And why is that?"
"So I can grope you, of course, my little sweet potato pie," he said, reaching for her thigh.
"There will be no groping. Of any kind, House," she said, slapping his hand away.
"You're really not committed to your craft, Cuddy," House said, sulking a bit. "The great acting coach Stella Adler once said the key to a good scene between two actors is that the woman lets the male lead feel her up."
"I'm pretty sure Stella Adler never said that," Cuddy said.
"Well, she should've," House said.
"Saved by our wine," Cuddy said, as the waiter brought over the bottle.
The funny thing was, by the time they had polished off the bottle of wine and finished their food, it was beginning to feel like a real date.
Conversation always flowed freely between the two of them. They were naturally compatible, which is to say: House liked to perform for Cuddy, and she enjoyed being his audience. He always made her laugh.
"I have to admit it, House, you were a better dinner date than I expected," she said, leaning back in her seat a bit, feeling giddily light-headed.
"So dinner's on you?" he asked.
"I'm sure Chad would've bought," she said.
"That's the guy's name? Chad. Chad? Noooo. You just made that up."
"No, it's his name alright. Chad. Single white male. Age: 42. Profession: Investment banker. Last name: unavailable."
"Banker, huh? Okay, we can go dutch," House conceded.
"Deal," she said. She held out her hand for a shake, which he took. But instead of shaking it, he held it, massaged it a bit with his thumb.
"Excuse me, I need to use the ladies' room," she said hastily, pulling away.
He actually stood up when she left the table—which struck her as a charmingly old-fashioned gesture. House had these random episodes of chivalry. He sat back down as she walked away.
When she got out of the bathroom, though, he was lurking in the hall.
"Men's room is that way," she said, jerking her head, knowing perfectly well that he didn't need to use it.
"I don't need the men's room," he said, staring at her ravenously.
"What do you need then?"
"This."
He pushed her against the wall and kissed her. She didn't even bother to resist. The truth was, she'd been wanting to kiss him for the last two hours—hell, for the last 10 years.
And there was something about the roughness of his beard against her face, the warm lushness of his lips and tongue, his hands as indecently all over her as they could be in a public place—not to mention the fact that whole thing was so forbidden, so unexpected—Cuddy had to admit that she had never felt so turned on by a kiss in her life.
As if to prove how dangerous the kiss was, however, a well-dressed elderly woman tried to squeeze past them to get to the bathroom.
"Excuse me," she said, slightly huffily.
They stopped kissing and laughed. They were both breathing heavily, like they had just had run a marathon instead of stolen a kiss in a restaurant corridor.
"Let's get the check and go back to my place," Cuddy said.
"Thank you, Chad," House said.
It was supposed to just be sex.
That's what they both thought. They were grownups, after all, with mutual needs and an obvious attraction. They'd done it before without too much consequence. Surely, they could do it again.
But something unexpected happened, after they had peeled off layers of clothes and stumbled into the bedroom, after House had gone down on her—expertly of course, like everything else he did—after she had whispered to him that she wanted him inside her, and after he had obliged, filling her up, slowly at first and then deeper and deeper, stroking against her until they found an intuitive rhythm, like longtime lovers more than longtime friends, and after she had felt herself beginning to come, that shimmery sensation rising up through her whole body. . . she had opened her eyes to find, much to her surprise, that he was looking right at her.
"My God, you are so beautiful," he had said out loud.
Her breath caught in a gasp.
And after she came, crying out his name into his neck, and falling heavily against him, she realized—oh fuck, fuck, fuck, how did she let it get this far?—that she was in love with him and there was nothing she could do about it.
A few hours later, she heard him groping for his clothing in the dark.
"Where are you going?" she said languorously—she was still half-asleep and still gloriously sated from sex.
"Home," he said.
"No," she said, childishly. "Stay."
"I can't," he said. "Your bed's uncomfortable. It hurts my leg."
"Oh," she said.
He pulled on his t-shirt and boxers. His pants and shirt and shoes had been scattered someplace in the hall.
"Goodnight Cuddy," he said.
She waited for a kiss goodbye that never came.
She kept popping her head in his office the next day at work, but he was never around. Finally, she found him, sitting at his desk, looking over some papers.
"Hi," she said, smiling a bit.
"Hi," he said back plainly.
"How are you feeling?"
"Throbbing headache," he said, rubbing his head. "I'm sure you're hurting, too."
Cuddy thought this was a strange thing to say. They'd had a lot to drink last night—but not that much.
"I'm okay," she said.
"Good," he said. Then he looked down at his desk. "I really should get back to these papers."
"Okay, but we should. . .talk, huh?"
"What about?"
"Global warming," she joked. "Last night, of course. It . . .meant a lot to me."
Now he looked back at her. His face was completely inscrutable.
"Yeah, me too," he said in a perfunctory way. "I'll get back to you."
As she walked down the hall, Cuddy should've been more alarmed than she was. But their connection had been so deep the night before, so undeniable, it didn't really occur to her that he was being intentionally cold.
But he didn't come find her the whole rest of the day, and he didn't come find her the next day either. So at about 5 pm, she went back to his office.
"Where have you been hiding?" she said sheepishly.
"Not hiding," he said. "Just busy."
She cocked her head a bit.
"Do you want to have dinner tonight?"
"I can't," he said. "I have plans."
"House, what's going on with you?"
"What do you mean, 'What's going on?'"
"You're acting weird."
"No, I'm not."
"You're obviously avoiding me," she said.
"No, I'm not."
"I just didn't expect you to go all guys-I-dated-in-high-school on me," she said. She was still so dumbstruck by his behavior that she couldn't quite process what a dick he was being. She kept waiting for him to snap out of it.
"And I didn't expect you to be so . . .clingy."
Now she was mad.
"Clingy? You've barely said a word to me since we had sex."
Her voice was unintentionally and surprisingly loud and they both glanced hastily at the differential room to confirm that no one was there. It was empty.
"What am I supposed to say? Thank you? Okay then, thank you."
Cuddy felt vaguely ill. Her bottom lip began to tremble.
"Oh Christ," House said, noticing. "I knew this was going to happen."
"Knew what was going to happen?"
"That you were going to read too much into our little night of passion. That you were going to get attached."
Her eyes flashed.
"That's complete bullshit and you know it," she said.
He shook his head.
"What did you expect Cuddy? That I was going to be your boyfriend now? That we were going to be some sort of Princeton Plainsboro power couple? Is that even remotely in the realm of possibility?"
"We were both there, House. And we both know that it wasn't just sex."
"You're right. It was great sex. Nothing more, nothing less. Women are always confusing great sex with something more."
She was beginning to feel a little desperate.
"You . . .you. . . told me I was beautiful."
"Any woman who agrees to have sex with me is beautiful," he replied.
His words stung like a slap.
She could feel her eyes pooling with tears. But she wasn't going to let him see her cry.
"Fuck you, House," she said—and stormed out.
An hour later, Wilson came into House's office.
"Do you have any idea what's wrong with Cuddy?" he asked.
House looked at him.
"No. Why?"
"I went into her office and she was crying. Needless to say, that's not like her."
"Did you ask her what was wrong?"
"I couldn't get it out of her. She just said she was feeling a little blue, it was that time of the month, nothing to worry about, blah, blah, blah. But it was obviously something."
"I don't know anything about it," House said quietly.
Wilson peered at him skeptically.
"Then why do you look guilty?"
"Any time a woman cries, I feel guilty," House said. "Force of habit."
Cuddy had managed to suppress her feelings for House before and found that she was able to do it again. But it was harder this time.
Back at Michigan, she thought she was in love with him (she had spent the days following their first sexual encounter in her room, writing angsty poetry, listening to Jeff Buckley, and crying) but it was really just a schoolgirl crush.
But now it was different. She'd always suspected that the real reason she and House hadn't consummated their office flirtation—despite the kind of chemistry you could sense from across a stadium—was because it would be too intense. They were already friends, allies, sparring partners, confidantes. Once they became lovers, where could they possibly go from there except to real love and commitment?
Their night together had only confirmed her suspicions. That wasn't sex. It was making love.
Which was what made House's behavior all the more frustrating. Could he have actually been faking it? Saying the words he knew she wanted to hear? Touching her the way he knew she wanted to be touched? All for another notch in his belt? All so he could brag to the boys that he'd fucked the untouchable Lisa Cuddy?
It was all so completely bewildering.
So she cried. She let it out, rather convulsively—naturally, Wilson had walked in, mid-wail—and she had lied to him and told him it was PMS and then she forced herself to move on.
Eventually, things got back to semi-normal between them. House even attempted to make a sexual innuendo about a somewhat sheer blouse she was wearing one day, but she shot him such withering look, he looked at the floor and never mentioned it again.
The good news was, she was seeing someone new. And not just anyone: Chad, the mysterious no-show from that ill-fated night.
He had emailed her the next day, begging forgiveness. His elderly neighbor had fallen and broken her hip and he had taken her to the emergency room and dealt with the admission and the phone calls and the insurance forms and by the time everything was sorted out, he realized it was 10:30.
It was a decent excuse, as excuses went, and she agreed to give him a second chance. Mostly because she needed the distraction. They were sure to exchange phone numbers this time.
He was strappingly handsome, with anchorman good looks and beautifully tailored clothing, and he was well-mannered and, not incidentally, stinking rich. Of course, he wasn't House, but who was? Lately House hadn't really been House either.
A few weeks after she began dating Chad, Wilson threw a little cocktail party—an informal fundraiser for Doctors Without Borders.
This was her coming out party with Chad and she was proud to have him on her arm—he was clearly a catch. It didn't really cross her mind that House might be at the party—he hated parties. But somehow Wilson had roped him into coming (actually bribed would be the more appropriate word—Wilson had snagged a pair of front row tickets for a John P. Hammond concert which he promised to share with House, but only if he made an appearance.)
House was leaning against a wall, alone, nursing a scotch, when he saw her. He raised his glass in a half-hearted toast and then noticed Chad and realized they were together. He bristled.
She and Chad were already at the stage in their relationship where a kind of physical possessiveness had kicked in—Chad steered Cuddy around the party by her shoulders and occasionally rubbed her back or took her hand.
House didn't budge from his spot on the wall—he'd placed the Dewars bottle on an end table next to him—and just brazenly stared at them, sulking.
Finally, when Chad had to step outside to take a business call from Japan, House approached her.
"Let me guess," he said. "Chad."
"How did you know?" she asked.
"He looks like a Chad," House said. "I can't believe you gave that tool a second chance."
"I'm actually a very forgiving person," she said. "Except for in cases of extreme asshood."
He ignored her.
"He's awfully handsy, isn't he?" he said. "It's like he's trying to make sure the entire party knows that he's had carnal knowledge of you."
"Some men actually stick around after sex," she said. "Then they get to go to parties with me."
'Touché," he said, smiling a bit.
He put his arm against the wall and leaned forward, so she was tucked under him.
"Lose Chad and leave the party with me," he said.
She gave him a look of complete and total disgust.
"You've got to be kidding," she said.
"Of course not," he said.
"You've ignored me for the past 2 months and now that I'm seeing somebody, you suddenly want to hook up again?"
"He's not worthy," House said.
"Neither are you," she snickered.
"Give me another chance. You gave Chad another chance . . ."
"House, you are beyond delusional right now."
"Is this guy bothering you?"
It was Chad, back from his phone call.
"No more than usual," Cuddy replied. "This is Dr. House. He doesn't seem to understand the meaning of extreme asshood."
House glared at her and walked away.
"Real charmer," Chad said.
"Yeah," Cuddy said, watching him.
At some point, House disappeared from the party and she and Chad were able to move about freely. They got into a lengthy conversation with one of the other guests about good investment options overseas, which bored Cuddy to near tears. One of the drawbacks of dating an investing banker, she'd come to realize, was the fact that he would occasionally discuss . . investment banking. But besides that, they had a pretty good time. And everyone seemed to like Chad.
At about 12:15, they made their way to Chad's 7 series BMW.
"I should've know this was your car," House said, staggering toward them. "It looks like the Chadmobile."
He had been sitting on the stoop, possibly waiting for them. He had brought the scotch bottle with him—it was nearly drained.
"Cuddy, I need to talk to you," he said, grabbing her arm. "It's very, very, very important."
"You're drunk," she said.
"You're stupid," he said back. In his current state, this constituted a good comeback.
"Friend, call yourself a cab, sober up, and leave the lady alone," Chad said, with just the tiniest hint of menace in his voice. He was about House's height, but with a much stronger build. Also, he had no limp and he wasn't rip-roaringly drunk.
"She was my lady before she was your lady," House said.
Chad frowned at Cuddy.
"Is that true?"
"No!" Cuddy said. "Well, sort of. . . It's, uh, complicated."
"I'm sure you two will have lots to discuss—tomorrow," Chad said. "Right now, I'm taking Lisa home."
"You're not taking her anywhere," House said. He grabbed Cuddy's arm again.
This time, Chad reacted on impulse: He pulled House off Cuddy and slammed him against the car.
"I said, back off, asshole!" he said.
"Oooooh, he-man," House said, trying not to show that it hurt. He shook himself loose from Chad's grip.
House turned back to Cuddy. "I just need 5 minutes of your time—alone."
"This guy doesn't take a hint," Chad said. "Get in the car," he said to Cuddy.
"Get in car," House repeated gruffly. "You: Cuddy. Me: Chad. Me tell you what to do. Cuddy, I can't believe you're sleeping with this neanderthal."
"That's it!" Chad said, and he reared back and clocked House squarely on the nose.
House was already wobbly on his feet and the force of the blow sent him flying to the curb. His cane skidded a few feet away from him. A small trickle of blood poured from his nose.
"Chad!" Cuddy said angrily.
She collected House's cane and kneeled on the sidewalk next to him.
"Are you okay?"
"Ouch," House said, wiping his nose and trying to sit up.
"Chad, I think you should go," Cuddy said.
"And leave you alone with him? No way," Chad said.
"I can handle House," Cuddy said.
Chad looked at them both skeptically. He was smart enough to realize that there was a whole lot of history sitting on that sidewalk.
"Okay, but promise me you won't get in a car with him."
"I promise," she said, her voice softening a bit.
She had reached into her purse and found a Kleenex, which she was now using to blot the blood from House's nose.
She didn't look up at Chad. She was still angry at him for getting violent. He gave a sort of huffy sigh, got in his car, and peeled off.
"I thought he'd never leave," House said.
"Do you want to try to stand up?" Cuddy said.
House tried to stand, but in vain—he fell back to the curb.
"Sitting is good," he said.
She sat next to him. She took him in—bleeding, disheveled, pathetic.
"House, what the hell are you doing?" she asked.
"Getting you alone," he said, smiling triumphantly.
"What's so important that you need to talk to me alone?"
"Us," he said.
"There is no us. You made sure of that."
"I fucked up," he said.
"Big time," she said.
"I panicked," he said.
"Oh, is that what that was? Because from my vantage point, it seemed more like you got what you wanted and you bailed on me."
"It wasn't like that," he said.
"Then tell me. What was it like?"
House looked down at the curb. He put his head in his hands. Finally he looked at her.
"Being with you that night was. . .amazing. It was one of the best nights of my life and it . . . scared the shit out of me. So I did what I always do when I'm scared. I ran."
Some tiny portion of Cuddy had always secretly hoped this was the case—but whenever the thought drifted in her head, she castigated herself for wishful thinking.
"You were a real jerk," she said.
"I know," he said.
"You hurt me," she said. "A lot."
"I know," he said. "I'm sorry. . . a lot."
"So why now? Why the sudden change of heart?"
"Seeing you with Tarzan. It was eye opening, to say the least," he said.
"Not good enough, House. There's a difference between not wanting anyone else to have me and wanting me for yourself."
"I want you for myself," he said.
He lifted her chin and gently kissed her—first just the bottom of her lip, then her whole mouth.
She kissed back for a second—his neediness was somewhat intoxicating. For a brief moment, it seemed like they might get swept away by another kiss—but she came to her senses and pulled away.
"I'm sorry House, I can't do this anymore," she said firmly. "You know the old expression: Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me? Well, I'm nobody's fool, House."
"No, you most certainly are not," he said.
She stood up.
"Get over me, House," she said.
And she headed back to the party to see if she could find someone to give her a ride home.
That was Friday night. On Monday morning, he showed up in her office.
He had a small piece of surgical tape on his nose from where Chad had punched him. Besides that, he looked no worse for the wear.
"I was wondering if you wanted to have dinner tonight," he asked.
"I'm busy," she said, not looking up from her papers.
"How about tomorrow night?" he said.
"Still busy."
"How about Wednesday?" he asked.
"Busy," she said.
"Oh. . .Well, maybe when aren't you busy."
She looked at him.
"I'll get back to you," she said.
Two weeks later, she found herself back at the Woodside Inn, the same restaurant where Chad had stood her up.
Needless to say, she and Chad hadn't seen each other since Wilson's party. Neither liked what they had seen of the other that night: She didn't like Chad's violent streak, and he didn't like her obvious emotional attachment to the drunk, needy, crazy man.
But because she was a terminal optimist, Cuddy had gone back to the dating site and found a new guy—an MD like herself, who played in an adult rec basketball league, whose profile picture looked a lot like Clint Eastwood.
"I can't even believe that someone as beautiful as you is actually on this site," he had written in a message. "And I'm pretty sure I don't want to live in a world where I haven't bought you dinner."
His hyperbole made her laugh. So she agreed to dinner.
His name was Brad. He was 48 years old and had never been married (which set off a minor alarm—unfairly of course, since she'd never been married herself).
Out of sheer coincidence, Brad had suggested the Woodside Inn. She saw it as a sign, although she wasn't quite sure if it was a good one or a bad one.
The reservation was at 8. She sat down, sipped on her water and waited.
At 8:05, Gregory House approached her table. Not again.
"Bug off, House, I'm waiting for a date," she said.
"I know," he said. "Brad's sick. I'm his understudy."
She finally got it.
"You're Brad," she said, shaking her head.
He sat down across from her.
"It was the only way I could get you to have dinner with me," he said.
"So that really was a picture of Clint Eastwood," she said.
"Photoshopped a bit, to throw you off the track," he said.
"House, you don't look anything like Clint Eastwood."
"Sure I do! Well . . .a little."
"And, I'm, uh, pretty sure you don't play in a basketball league," she said, glancing at his cane.
"Everyone presents an idealized version of themselves online," he said.
"I can't believe I fell for it," she said.
"Me neither," he said. Then he looked at her. "Cuddy, I'm sorry. Let's start over, okay? I'm a jerk, I'm an ass, I'm an emotional adolescent and I'm . . . in love with you."
Her mouth dropped open a bit. He had actually said it. Not when he was drunk, not out of jealousy, not during sex. Just sitting across from her, as exposed as he could possibly be, laying all his cards on the table.
She was still processing this news when the waiter came up to the table.
"Hey," he joked to House. "I guess she forgave you for being so late last time."
Cuddy looked at the waiter.
"Actually," she said, taking House's hand. "We're celebrating. Bring us your best bottle of champagne."
"Right away!" the waiter said, trotting off.
House looked down at their clasped hands.
"What are we celebrating?" he asked hopefully.
"Us."