Heart Grow Fonder, a csi fanfic

SARA

I love my husband and I miss him terribly, but I can't help feeling a bit irked at him lately.

Why does it always have to be me who takes time off work to fly to where he is? Can't he just once make the effort to come to where I am?

Where's the man who dropped everything to trek through a jungle to find me? Where's the man I took exotic bug-hunting canoe rides with on my honeymoon? Where's the man I followed to Paris when he was hired to lecture at the Sorbonne?

After I came back to Vegas, we still used to see each other every month without fail. I used to fly to see him every month. For nearly three whole years. That gets expensive. And exhausting.

He hasn't been back to Las Vegas since he left it to join me in Costa Rica. He's been to Paris, Peru, and god-knows-where-else, but thus far not one single trip back to Vegas to see me.

Will he even show up for the hotel and restaurant reservations I'd made for us for my birthday in a month and a half? I hope he will, but I don't hold my breath.

I thought marriage was supposed to be an equal partnership, a give-and-take. You both put in the effort, and you give as much as you get.

Lately I feel like I'm the only one giving. And I'm getting very little in return.

GRISSOM

I don't understand how we got to this point.

I haven't held her in my arms in almost six months. I haven't seen her face, even by Skype, in more than four. I haven't heard her voice over the phone in nearly two. It's been three weeks since her last email, and her last text message was eleven days ago.

If absence makes the heart grow fonder, then Sara must be head-over-heels for me by now.

A snort of derision escapes before I can stop it.

If she misses me as much as I miss her, she'd have come back to me long ago.

But she hasn't...and it seems she isn't going to.

I suppose we're both to blame for the disintegration of our marriage. It's possibly her fault for leaving me again and returning to Las Vegas. And it's definitely my fault for not swallowing my pride and going with her.

But even if I had gone back with her, she'd probably have left me again by now, anyway. It's what she does. It's her pattern.

Sara runs away...and I eventually follow. Until now.

I love her. I always have, and I always will. I just can't do this anymore. What's the point of staying married if you're not even going to live on the same continent as your spouse?

When we'd said our marriage vows, we'd both voiced the 'till death do us part' phrase. But in hindsight, what we should have said was 'till time zones do us part'.

Five days ago I boarded a plane leaving South America and I landed in Miami, Florida for a new assignment a little closer to home.

I'm still waiting for Sara to call or text me back so we can make plans to meet up somewhere like we used to do every month.

I don't think I'm going to hear from her any time soon.

My marriage hasn't really been one for a while now. I thought we would be together forever. I guess forever has to end eventually, too.

I've downloaded and printed out the form petitioning a divorce from Sara, and I've spent the past three hours trying to bring myself to sign it.

I don't want to. But I need to. For myself as well as for her. I need to set her free. And I need to set myself free.

I steady my trembling hand and bring my pen to the first line awaiting my signature.

I suppose it's appropriate that the initials of my name spell out 'GAG', because that's exactly what I feel like doing at this moment.

I am nauseated. I am numb.

It's as if some other entity has taken control of my body and I watch helplessly through paralyzed eyes as the writing implement in my hand forms the characters to create my signature.

My soul fractures with every stroke of the pen.

What I really want is for these divorce papers to scare her just enough that she'll come back to me again.

But I don't see that happening.

So with a crushed spirit, I slip the stack of signed papers into a large manila envelope, and poke that inside a larger USPS Priority Mail envelope.

I address it to Sara at the Las Vegas Crime Lab, as I've always done with things I've mailed her.

The post office gives me a tracking number and an estimated date of arrival. The postal employee gives me a cheerful smile as she processes the envelope for mailing.

I can't smile back, because I know what's in the envelope. This postal worker has no idea what kind of horrible thing I'm mailing to my unsuspecting wife.

Our divorce papers should be in her hands within six days.

I can't let those papers be the only thing Sara receives that day. As sick and broken as I feel, I still love her too much to do that to her.

So I sit before my laptop once again, this time placing an order with a Las Vegas florist that I've used many times in the past.

I always used to send Sara living plants, with roots to grow and keep them alive.

Somehow it seems more appropriate to send cut flowers this time. Stems severed from their roots are a fitting metaphor for the end of our marriage.

Nevertheless, I choose the prettiest bouquet offered on the florist's website. It will set me back over a hundred dollars, but I don't care.

Sara deserves the best, even if the best isn't me anymore.

The sentiment option for the accompanying card leaves me stumped for words.

There are so many things I could write.

"I miss you. Please come back to me."

Or "Don't sign the papers; they were a mistake."

Even just a simple "I love you."

My fingers actually type out all of those words, but they disappear again just as quickly with a few strokes of the delete key.

Two words are all I really need.

SARA

"Sara, these came for you," the front desk receptionist calls out to me as I pass by on my way to the DNA lab.

I backtrack a few steps, and Judy pushes a large bouquet of beautiful flowers toward me on her desk.

"Thanks," I offer her a smile and collect the bouquet by its glass vase. Its arrival is surprising — the only person likely to send me something like this is the man whose go-to move is potted greenery in dirt, not cut flowers in water.

But instead of brightening my day, the lovely blossoms only remind me of how much time has gone by since Grissom and I last spoke.

It's been way too long.

I flush with guilt over having allowed so much radio silence to permeate our relationship. Of course, he hasn't made much effort lately, either.

Until today, that is.

I have no office, no space to call my own in this entire building save for my locker. So I carry my flowers to the break room and set them in the middle of the table so others may enjoy them too.

I pluck the envelope from its plastic holder, expecting the card inside to read its usual "From Grissom".

But the two words on the card are different this time.

"Forgive me."

Forgive him? For what?

I pull out my cell phone and scroll through the contacts to find Grissom's name. But before I can press the call button, my phone rings with someone else on the other end.

I'll have to call my husband later to find out what I'm supposed to be forgiving him for.

I can't imagine what it could be. He's not the cheating type, so aside from that I haven't a clue what he could have done that necessitates an obviously expensive bouquet and a request for forgiveness.

As it turns out, I don't have to wonder for very long, because barely an hour later I receive another delivery from Grissom.

My eyebrows wrinkle involuntarily as I open the Priority Mail envelope and then the large manila envelope within. Is he sending me a magazine? A newspaper article? Why would I need to forgive him for that?

From the manila envelope I pull a thin packet of papers, and a stream of ice hits my veins as I read the bold heading at the top of the first page.

'Petition for Divorce.'

Divorce?

That has to be a mistake. I must have someone else's mail that was delivered to me by accident.

But as I flip through the pages, I see my name and Grissom's in several places.

It's not a mistake.

I can't believe he's blindsided me with this. I can't believe he actually wants a divorce from me.

This same man who proposed to me over a bee hive, who followed me to another continent, who married me in the middle of a jungle, who moved with me to Paris.

Now he wants to divorce me. After everything we've survived through together, this is how it ends?

I look through the glass walls of the building's interior labyrinth, toward the break room where my vase of beautiful blossoms from my husband stands proudly on the table.

Now it's the flowers that confuse me, while the card suddenly makes sense. This is what he wants forgiveness for.

Only Gil Grissom would send his wife divorce papers and flowers at the same time.

The return address on the envelope is surprising. I thought he was still somewhere in South America, but he'd mailed these papers from Miami, Florida.

We're finally on the same continent again. For all the good that does me now.

Somehow I make it through the rest of the day, and after work I take great care to get my flowers home without spilling anything from the vase. I ensure that the envelope that threatens to end my marriage is safely tucked into my messenger bag before I get into my car.

The drive home is a blur, my mind on everything except the road. I unlock the door to my lonely apartment and step inside.

The naturally-lit entrance and the livingroom are filled with greenery — plants that Grissom had sent me over time, every one of the cards having bore the same simple "From Grissom" that he always used.

I walk past framed photos — pictures of me and him together and happy.

I'd never realized before that pictures could lie. Aren't they supposed to be worth a thousand words? A thousand words, a thousand lies.

But I guess there is only one lie. And it's my marriage.

Alcohol is not my crutch. I prove this to myself by dropping my two remaining bottles of beer into the trash and reaching for a can of soda instead.

I want to be in full possession of my faculties as I deal with this bombshell that Grissom has dropped into my lap without warning or explanation.

I down the entire soda before reaching for the envelope. I pull out the pages again, almost hoping the words on them have changed since I first looked at them.

But they haven't, of course. Everything is neatly typed exactly the same as earlier, with the lines for two signatures at the bottom of every page.

Gil has already signed the first line on each page. The blank line on the right side is left for my signature.

All I have to do is write "Sara Sidle" on each line. It should be "Sara Grissom."

But I never took his last name. That was my first mistake. The second was believing him when he assured me he was okay with my leaving Paris without him and coming back to the crime lab. The third was returning to Las Vegas and putting my roots down here again.

I don't want my name on this ugly document. I don't want to dissolve my marriage. I don't want to be away from him anymore.

I want to buy a plane ticket to Miami, Florida where he mailed this abomination from. I want to ask him in person what the hell he thinks he's doing petitioning for a divorce when he was the one who wanted to get married in the first place.

I want to rip this document to shreds. I want to burn it to a crisp and mail him back the ashes.

On every line awaiting my signature, I want to write "I love you" instead.

But apparently he doesn't love me anymore. If he did, he wouldn't be doing this.

Ultimately it's the flowers that end up in the fireplace. Vase and all.

I sign the name I shouldn't have kept to a paper that shouldn't exist.

And I let the tears fall.

GRISSOM

According to the package tracking number, Sara got the papers three days ago. At the very least I thought she would contact me and demand an explanation.

I haven't heard a word from her yet.

Yesterday I spent almost half of my savings account on a good used boat. The broad back end of it currently bears the pretentious title of "Liquid Asset", but I plan to re-christen it with a much more fitting name of "Ishmael" after the character in the book Moby Dick.

If Sara decides to come back to me, it could be fun to live on a boat with her, and have her share in my work if she wants to. And if she doesn't come back...well, there's no point in wasting money on hotel rooms or an apartment somewhere if I have a boat to live on instead.

I've blown off my latest job assignment in favor of hanging around Miami waiting to receive back the papers I don't even want to see ever again.

But that's the advantage of being a freelancer — if you don't want to work, you don't have to work. Of course, you also don't get income, but that's not a problem for me yet.

In no time at all, those wretched papers are back in my possession, bearing a Las Vegas postmark and with my current hotel suite address copied over in Sara's handwriting.

With a pounding pulse and slightly shaky hands I open the envelope, and what I pull out stabs me like a thousand knives right through the heart.

She signed them.

It's not what I wanted her to do. I wanted her to come back, not the damn divorce papers.

For a long minute I consider destroying them.

But she signed them. She must not want to be married to me anymore. The evidence is her physical absence and her inked signature.

What can I rely on, if not the evidence?

Though it makes me ill to do so, I file the papers immediately before anything can change my mind.

And then I check out of my hotel room for good, board my boat, and get as far away from shore as possible...to where nobody can see me and nobody can reach me.

I kill the engine after pushing it hard for two hours, and I let my boat drift with the ocean waves. I am all alone now...both literally and figuratively.

I have nothing that ties me to Sara anymore. Not my name, which she never took. Not even this ring on my hand, because it's a symbol of commitment to marriage, not divorce.

I twist the smooth band around my finger. It holds no value anymore, save for its literal weight of gold.

I have not taken off my ring even once — not since she'd put it on my finger three-and-a-half years ago.

All of a sudden I can't get it off fast enough. It's tight on my finger, and doesn't want to come off. I force it over my knuckle, grimacing as it scrapes the skin.

My clumsy fingers accidentally drop it, and I dive after it as it rolls into a far corner beneath the bench seat that's built into the boat.

I cradle the ring delicately in my palm, wiping away the dirt it collected from under the seat.

I should put it somewhere safe. Or give it back to Sara.

There's a lot of things I should do. A lot of things I should have already done.

And a lot of things I shouldn't have done.

I shouldn't have stayed behind in Paris when Sara agreed to go back to Las Vegas. I shouldn't have given her my blessing to go without me, and I shouldn't have pretended I was alright with her decision.

I should tell her that I still love her.

I shouldn't throw my wedding ring into the ocean.

But I don't do what I should, and I do what I shouldn't.

I don't tell Sara that I still love her, and I throw my wedding ring into the ocean.

The second it leaves my fingers, I regret it. I want to jump in after it to get it back before it sinks to the bottom.

But it's too late. It's already gone. Just like Sara.

My legs weaken beneath me, and I sag helplessly to the floor.

Aside from infancy, I can count on one hand the number of times I've cried in my entire life. And even then, I wouldn't need to use all five fingers.

But as a dark cloud now drifts overhead and releases a soft rain, the water droplets mix with the tears on my face.

It's as if the cloud knows exactly what I feel, and it cries in sympathy along with me.

SARA

I can't bring myself to remove my wedding ring. Grissom was the one who put it on my finger, and it doesn't seem right that I'm the one who has to take it back off.

So I leave it on, even though I'm technically not married anymore.

Besides, if I suddenly show up at work without it, someone is sure to notice and comment on it, and I don't want to deal with that just yet.

They'll want to know what happened. And I don't even really have that answer myself.

So I put on a brave front at the lab, and I must be a good enough actor because it works for several weeks and nobody is any the wiser.

Maybe I'll tell them someday. Maybe I never will.

I scoff to myself, recalling that Grissom and I dated for two years right under everyone's noses, and nobody knew until I got abducted by a crazy serial killer as revenge against Grissom.

To hear Grissom tell it, we'd been together for nine years by then. If that was the case, then we'd been dating since we first met. And we first met fourteen years ago now.

I don't know how he can throw away fourteen years like it's nothing.

Tomorrow is my birthday, and I intend to keep the hotel and dinner reservations that Grissom and I were supposed to enjoy together.

Even if we're not married anymore, there's still a slim chance he might actually show up.

GRISSOM

Today is Sara's birthday. I'd forgotten, and I only remember now because it's noted in my phone's calendar and I got an alert first thing this morning.

With a sinking feeling, I suddenly recall the date we were supposed to have tonight at a hotel in Las Vegas to celebrate. I'd agreed to that reservation two months before I'd initiated the divorce papers, but it had slipped my mind since then.

It seems unreal that I've been divorced for a month already.

I have nothing to celebrate now, being a single man again. But Sara deserves an acknowledgement of her birthday.

In my phone's contacts list, I scroll to her name. My thumb hovers over the call button, and I pause a moment, considering. Instead I hit the message option and type in, "Happy birthday" and hit the send button.

She never replies, and it's not until late evening that I realize the message is stuck unsent in my outbox because of a weak cellphone signal.

Damn unreliable phone.

It'll finish sending it sometime, but it doesn't matter at this point because it'll still be late. I should have just sucked it up and called her instead.

Heavy-hearted, I take a cold and quick shower in my boat's tiny bathroom so I don't have to smell my own stinky sweat all night long.

I'm refreshed on the outside, but not on the inside. My brain is awhirl with regrets.

I lay my head on my pillow, close my eyes, and lie perfectly still. I breathe in and out, I count the beats per minute of the heart within my body.

It's not as effective as counting sheep, but sometimes it works.

I jump awake. I swear I've just felt Sara lay down beside me on the bed.

My arms reach for her, but all they find is my pillow that I've somehow shoved aside in my sleep. Or in my attempt to sleep, that is.

Restful sleep eludes me lately, even though I go to bed tired every evening. I wear myself out during the day hoping it'll make me sleep like a rock at night.

Every minute that I'm not occupied with something is a minute that my brain might stray back into thoughts of Sara.

So as I used to do even before Sara and I were together, I bury myself in my work. It's all I have anymore.

My work today has exhausted me as I expected it to. Yet here I lay becoming more awake by the second though it's still the middle of the night.

Rolling onto my side, I wrap my arms around the pillow and hug it against my chest.

Pretending I don't miss her hasn't been working. Pretending that my arms hold her just might.

SARA

It's my nature to struggle through things all alone. I'd learned long ago to keep my personal problems strictly to myself. The less that people know about me, the better for them and for me.

That's one of the things that Grissom and I have always had in common.

If not for my abduction years ago at the hands of the Miniature Killer, Grissom might never have blurted our relationship status to the rest of the team.

And if not for Ronald Basderic's attempt to destroy my reputation and my life recently, I may never have had to tell anyone about my divorce from Grissom, either.

Nick likes to complain that he's always the last one to know about these kind of things. I'm grateful that he and Greg didn't take sides against me like everyone else seemed to.

In a competition between Team Grissom and Team Sara, I know where I would land. And it wouldn't be in first place.

Everyone here who knew Grissom still worships him a little, and sometimes it feels like even the people who know of him only by name and reputation seem to take his side against mine.

I don't want anyone to take sides. I don't want there to be sides. I want there to be 'Grissom and Sara'...not 'Grissom versus Sara'.

I wonder if he's heard yet what transpired at the hotel that I naively thought he was actually going to show up at on my birthday. I'd bet a month's salary that Hodges gleefully emailed him every sordid detail about the entire case and my supposed infidelity at the first opportunity.

If Grissom knows, he hasn't mentioned it.

It's been four days since we caught Basderic, and every one of those four days has ended with Greg and Nick teaming up to drag me out after work to take in a dumb movie or check out a cheezy tourist attraction or just sit in a coffee shop like a trio of stool-pigeons on some kind of weird three-person date.

They mean well, and I love them dearly, but I need my space.

Tonight I've ditched them early and I drive myself home from the lab in blessed silence. I have plans to soak in a hot bath and do very little else.

My phone chimes with a new text message as soon as I get in the door. I expect it to be Nick or Greg, still begging me to join them someplace even though I've firmly bowed out this time.

But it's not them, or anyone else from the crime lab. Shockingly, it's Grissom, wishing me a happy birthday.

Well, he's only a week late. I'm surprised he even remembered at all. Or cared, for that matter.

My attitude shames me. I don't want to be bitter. I want to be happy. Or at least not depressed.

I inhale a deep, cleansing breath. This is the first I've heard from Grissom since I sent him back the signed divorce papers.

Does he even miss me? Just a little bit?

I may be a chronic over-talker with Grissom, but I am ironically an under-texter at the same time.

"Thank you," is all I reply to his message.

A minute later my phone chirps with another text.

"I actually sent that on your birthday. My phone held it hostage until now."

"It's okay," I answer simply, and leave it at that.

I expect that to be the extent of our conversation today. But he must have nothing better to do at the moment because he sends me another message.

"How are you?"

I laugh humorlessly. How am I? Where do I start?

I don't know how much he knows about the past week, if he even does know. But it's not something I want to talk about right now, so I don't mention it at all and I hope that he doesn't either.

"I'm alright," I text back. "You?"

"Same."

Does he mean the same as me, or the same as he usually is?

Fourteen years of knowing him, and I'm still no closer to deciphering the riddle of Grissom.

GRISSOM

It was good to finally hear from Sara again. We only texted for a minute or two and nothing of significance was said. But it was something, at least.

My boat and I have been slowly making our way north along the east coast of the United States.

Since leaving Miami after filing my divorce papers, I've ventured all the way up near Orlando.

Orlando, Florida happens to be the home of Disney World, purportedly the happiest place on earth.

I'd like to be happy again, but Disney World isn't going to do it for me. Not even with its collection of rollercoasters.

My fuel should hold out until I hit Daytona Beach. Nothing is waiting for me there, but I increase my boat's speed anyway.

I'll find work when I get there. I always do.

SARA

It's been two months since my divorce, and one hour since I took off my wedding ring.

I've taken it off before, of course, for various practical reasons. But it always went right back onto my finger again as soon as possible.

This time it stays off. And I feel almost lopsided without it.

It used to feel strange on my hand when I first began wearing it. Now it feels strange to be without it.

But I still want to keep it close — it's the only connection I have left to Grissom.

I remember a lot of things about the day he put this ring on my finger.

I remember the cooling breeze in the air that refreshed our hot bodies as we stood hand-in-hand before the Costa Rican official who performed our marriage ceremony.

I remember hearing the muted orchestra of the native bugs in the background as we voiced our vows, and I remember being grateful that Grissom's focus was on me and not the insects.

He had the decency to save the bug-hunting for our honeymoon.

I also remember the unbridled love shining in his eyes as he looked at me like I was the most wonderful thing he'd ever seen.

But most of all, I remember thinking that the day I married Grissom was the best day of my entire life.

And it was.

But as happens, life keeps going after the wedding, after the honeymoon, after the settling-down into married cohabitation.

Grissom and I had only eight months of married cohabitation under our belts before Ecklie called us in Paris and I agreed to come back to Vegas to help the short-handed team at the lab.

We weren't together nearly long enough. And now, I guess we never will be.

I hang my wedding ring on a gold chain and fasten it around my neck. It hides beneath the collar of my shirt, and I prefer it that way. It's cold against my skin at first, but soon it warms with my body temperature.

I wonder where Grissom is, and what he's doing. I wonder if he even thinks of me anymore. And if he does, are they good memories?

GRISSOM

"Are you married, Dr. Grissom?"

I sigh to myself at the sudden question. Maybe it was a mistake, agreeing to mentor this young man for the day.

Ethan reminds me of Greg Sanders, with his goofy hair and rather assertive sociability.

He also appears to have no filter or drain plug for his mouth. Every thought that enters his mind one second comes out his mouth the next.

Every thought. Every time.

It's like verbal lightning, flashing quickly and randomly.

His newest inquiry is innocent, but it instantly drags me into thoughts of Sara.

"No," I answer, hoping he'll flash to another topic instead.

"Me either," Ethan volunteers. "Not yet, anyway. I mean, we're engaged but that's it so far. She wants a big church wedding, but I'm more of a backyard vows kind of guy."

I feign interest. "What's her name?"

"Sarah. With an 'h' at the end."

I wish I hadn't asked.

"She's very particular about that. Forget the 'h', and she's like a cat, you know?" He grins easily. "Out come the claws."

"Ethan."

"Yeah?"

I sternly point a finger toward our task at hand. "Focus."

SARA

If anyone takes note of my left hand's lack of wedding ring, they are discreetly silent about it.

The entire lab knows I'm divorced by now, but I'd still been wearing my ring for a while out of habit and sentimentality.

My ring still hangs from its long chain around my neck, a small circle of gold nestled near my heart.

I know it's strange that I still wear it. I'm not in denial that my marriage is over. I'm just reminding myself not to take things for granted.

You never know when everything you have might suddenly be taken away. Or when the person you love might suddenly throw you away.

I should have known our marriage wouldn't last. I should have known that Grissom really wasn't the settling-down, marrying type.

I should have known that one day he'd break my heart.

My hand raises toward my literal heart and grasps the ring that hangs there. I finger it a moment before lifting the chain and removing both items from my neck.

Every day I collect evidence of crimes. The ring I hold in my hand right now is like evidence of a tragic crime, too — the death of my marriage.

GRISSOM

I jerk awake in a cold sweat, my heartbeat pounding in my ears. I've finally got my body trained to sleep again, but with slumber comes dreams of Sara.

And not the good kind.

I've had dreams where I couldn't save her from the Miniature Killer and she died under that car in the desert. I've had dreams that it was her in the glass box buried underground instead of Nick. I've had dreams that it wasn't Warrick who bled out in my arms in an alley, but Sara.

I've dreamt that Sara was lost at sea, and I couldn't rescue her. I've dreamt that ocean pirates kidnapped her, and I didn't get her back alive. I most often dream that she has simply vanished, and I search the world for her, and I never find her.

Tonight's nightmare doesn't involve death or disappearance, but it isn't any less horrifying.

In this dream, I was attending Sara's wedding. And I wasn't the groom.

In five days it will be my fourth anniversary. Or it would have been, had I not thrown away my marriage.

I am a selfish hypocrite. When I filed for divorce I thought I wanted Sara to move on from me. But when I think that she actually might, I feel even more miserable than ever.

If she was dating someone again, surely she'd have the decency to tell me...wouldn't she?

Or would she fall in love with someone else and forget that I even exist?

I don't want her to forget me, even if we can't be together anymore. So I do the one thing that has never failed me in the past.

I send her a plant.

SARA

They say time flies when you're having fun. I don't know about that, but time does seem to fly by when you're separated from the one you want to be with.

How can it possibly be a year already since I last saw Grissom in-person and face-to-face?

We haven't talked in what feels like forever, but out of the blue I suddenly receive a plant. From Grissom. On what would have been our anniversary.

I will never understand that man.

GRISSOM

No man is an island. Unless, of course, that man is me.

I haven't seen another human being in over a week, so when I spot an open-air bar and grill up ahead of me on the beach, I decide to dock my boat there for the night and check it out.

I don't necessarily desire to interact with anyone. I just want to be reminded that I'm not the only person on the planet.

And I'm not. I estimate roughly twenty people total here, sprinkled among the tables in the sand and the surrounding chunk of beach. This looks like it would be a very popular spot for both locals and tourists, so I'm a bit surprised there aren't more people.

But it is still pretty early in the evening. The space will probably fill up with a lot more people once the sun begins to set.

The seasoned aroma of barbecued meat hangs heavily in the air. It smells good, but I can't stomach the thought of food right now so I order a beer instead.

I'm on my fourth one when a woman with long bleached-blonde hair materializes on the stool next to mine at the bar counter.

She's thin and pretty, though a little overdone on the makeup and a lot underdone on the clothing. All she wears over her skimpy bikini is a very see-through mesh dress that leaves nothing to the imagination.

"Hi there, teddy bear," she addresses me, and I almost laugh at how stupid it sounds coming out of her mouth.

I probably do resemble a bear, though more likely a grizzly in the wild than a child's beloved plaything.

My beard has grown out a bit shaggier than I normally keep it. My thumbnail picks at the corner of the label on my beer bottle, and I muse silently that I ought to trim my fingernails before someone mistakes them for a female's and paints color on them.

"I guess you're the strong, quiet type," the woman quips when I don't return her greeting.

She hit the nail on the head.

I send her what I hope is a polite smile and then I pointedly give her the cold-shoulder so she will get the hint and leave me alone.

But if she understands the brush-off — I imagine she's probably never received one before — she chooses to ignore it.

I can't remember the last time I smiled genuinely. I can't remember the last time I saw a certain someone's gap-toothed grin aimed at me.

There's not a gap in sight on this woman's perfect teeth as she tries again.

"Haven't seen you here before."

She has an exaggerated Texas-sounding drawl, not terribly distinguishable from other southern accents to the untrained ear, but to me it sounds a bit out-of-place here on the beach of St. Augustine, Florida.

I wonder if her particular accent is even real, or if she just pulls it out of mothballs whenever she wants to seduce someone. I'm sure she intends it to sound alluring, but it only grates on my ears.

Her bikini top gives me an unobstructed eyeful, and I suspect that her hair color and her accent aren't the only fake things about her.

"Live around here?" she presses intrusively.

She's obviously the type of woman who's accustomed to being the center of attention, and it makes me uncomfortable to suddenly be the center of her attention.

"Just passing through," I respond simply, meeting her eyes again.

She is persistent. And I am not interested. I've investigated enough trick rolls in my lifetime to recognize when one's being attempted on me.

Well...she can't steal my wedding ring, because that's safe and sound at the bottom of the North Atlantic Ocean. She's not getting her hands anywhere near my wallet, and she's not stepping foot on my boat, either.

She's very attractive, but I wouldn't touch her with a ten-foot pole.

"Where ya from?" she prods, so ignorant of the thoughts running through my brain.

Where am I from? I'm from Brokenheartsville.

My head is starting to hurt — maybe from the alcohol, maybe from her pestering. In hindsight, four beers might have been three too many. Especially on an otherwise empty stomach.

I may be slightly drunk, for all of a sudden it seems very important to me to warn this woman against the evils of ending matrimony.

"Never get divorced," I advise her gravely. "It ruins your life."

She blinks, and her eyebrows move in a way that reminds me too much of Sara. "Honey, I think you mean marriage ruins your life."

I shake my head, and it throbs mercilessly. "Marrying her was the best thing I ever did."

"Sounds like it wasn't, if you got divorced," she replies smoothly, leaning closer.

She puts her hand on my arm, and I recoil at the contact.

"My, you're jumpy," she purrs. "I think maybe a little dancin' might just loosen you up."

"No, thank you." I don't want to dance with her, and not just because my head is trying to split in half.

"Oh, come on, honey! Just one little dance — I'll even let you lead."

"Please go away." I want to shout it, but it comes out more like a whisper.

My unfriendly words cause the 'come-hither' look on her face to morph into a sneer in one second flat. "Your loss, honey," she spits, sliding off her stool. "Lousy drunk."

"Don't call me 'honey'!" I belatedly toss at her back. Sara's the only one allowed to call me that. Or at least she used to be.

I need to get out of here. I can't be around people right now.

I pay for the alcohol that I shouldn't have consumed and I hoof it back to my boat. There's a few boats docked, and through my haze I'm extra-careful to get on the correct one.

I make sure the cabin door is securely locked in case of unwanted visitors, and it's with relief and despair that I drop onto my familiar rumpled bed to sleep off my intoxication.

If only I could sleep off the heartache, too.

SARA

I sift through my emails, and my heart skips a beat when I spot a new message from a man of my past.

It's not the man I'd rather hear from, but I open the email anyway. It's from my old friend from San Francisco, NTSB Investigator Doug Wilson.

I haven't heard from him since that time he came to Vegas to work an airplane crime scene with me. I was still married back then and I let him know it, but that didn't stop him from openly flirting with me.

"I thought you might enjoy this article," the email body reads. "P.S...When am I ever going to meet this husband of yours?" (wink wink)

I haven't told Doug that I'm no longer married. I don't want him to know, because then he might ask me out on a date. And I might say yes.

But if there's one thing I've learned from the whole tragedy with Taylor Wynard and Ronald Basderic, it's that I'm simply not meant to date anymore.

It would be rude not to reply to Doug, so I give him a vague non-answer. "He's off saving the oceans right now, so your guess is as good as mine. Thanks for the article."

My life would have been a lot easier if I'd fallen for someone else instead of Grissom. I'd probably have a two-story house in suburbia right now with a white picket fence and a couple of kids in the back yard playing with a dog.

It's a lovely mental image. But that's never been me.

I know who I am, and I know who I'm not.

I'm not a person who lets go easily, even when everyone else already has.

I am a woman who will only ever love one man...even if that man is no longer a tangible part of my life.

GRISSOM

I wake in the morning feeling parched and hung over. Getting up off my bed seems too lofty an ambition just yet so I simply lay quietly trying to remember how to breathe.

I finally manage to drag myself into an upright position, miraculously stand without falling over, and stumble to my tiny galley kitchen to look for something beneficial to put in my stomach to counteract last night's poison.

My kidneys should appreciate the half-gallon of water I drown them in, but all I have for sustenance is a little bit of fruit. The bananas are turning brown, yet the apples appear to be holding up okay.

I choose a red one. It's a bit mealy inside but still edible, and it gives me just enough strength to find my sunglasses so I can go up top and see if there's still a world outside.

It's way too bright out.

Nevertheless I perch carefully on the built-in bench with its vinyl cushion and listen intently to the silence around me.

Unfortunately there are still other boats docked on both sides of mine, with people who apparently didn't imbibe a little too much the night before.

It's not the voice or even the accent that catches my attention...it's the words.

"Come on, teddy bear!"

I cringe, almost afraid to be seen by her again.

But it's not me she's addressing — it's some other guy she's attached herself to and is tugging at the arm of.

They board the boat right next to mine, and I can't help but give the poor man a warning.

"You may want to hide your wallet."

The guy gives me a confused look, but doesn't ask me to clarify. The woman only sends me a scowl, and I'm sure she knows exactly what I'm talking about.

Well, he can't say nobody warned him.

They disappear inside the boat and it isn't long before the amorous sounds of their lovemaking reaches my ears.

I don't want to hear that. Especially this early in the morning.

But I can't block it out with them so close by, and it sparks memories of my own past fun times in bed with Sara.

I feel a familiar stirring south of my belt, and with a sigh of resignation I retreat back inside the cabin of my boat to take a very cold shower.

After spending a day resting and recovering from my hangover, I clean up my scruffy face so my reflection in the mirror resembles a man again instead of a bear.

And I resume my trek up the coastline.

For a couple of days I join a team of nine wildlife rescue veterinarians, comprised mostly of women and half of them single. And a little too pleased to have new male blood in their company.

The tan line from my wedding ring has long since vanished, and now you would never know it was even once there. Women see the naked finger, and they assume that you're available to be snatched up by them.

The truth is that any one of them could snatch me up, if only they were Sara Sidle.

Sara is the only one I want. And she's the one I can't have. And if I can't have the one I want, then I don't want any at all.

It probably is difficult for these women to meet new men out here, spending most of their time on a small island so far away from the rest of the human population.

But my focus is solely on my work. Although all three of the single women are attractive and quite likeable personality-wise, I don't give any of them a second look romantically.

That's why, at the end of my time here, all six of the women have concluded that I must be gay. I suppose their theory might hold water under the circumstances, if not for the fact that I haven't become chummy with any of the three men, either.

And the fact that I pine for the one woman who continues to haunt my thoughts during the day and my dreams at night.

I really don't care what people think of me, so I don't immediately correct their assumption of my sexual orientation. Let them be as wrong as they will be. The only people whose opinion of me matters are my mother and Sara.

I haven't checked my email in two weeks. I don't expect to receive anything from her, but I should at least look at whatever else might be clogging the inbox.

"May I borrow your wifi for a moment?" I ask one of the sweet women whose dinner invitation I've already turned down once.

At her questioning look, I deliberately add, "I'd like to send an email to my wife."

Surprise and understanding flicker across her cute face, and she pats my arm. "Of course. The password is 'rescue', all lowercase."

"Thank you," I reply, and I know that by the time I log back off, the entire team will know that I'm not gay after all.

There's nothing from Sara in my email inbox, and nothing of importance from anybody else, either.

I shut off my laptop without sending anything to anyone.

SARA

The weight of his body on mine is nothing short of heavenly.

It's been way too long since I've been touched like this, and both of his hands are caressing all the right places in all the right ways.

His lips capture mine again before dropping a trail of kisses across my jaw and down to my neck.

My body cries out for him, and as he moves to oblige —

The blaring of my alarm clock rips me from my dream, and Grissom vanishes into the ether.

I exhale a long and deep sigh of frustration and reach over to silence the offending racket.

I've got to get him out of my head.

But that's easier said than done.

GRISSOM

The poetry I'd always appreciated in waxing the virtues of solitude somehow don't relate anymore with the person I am now.

Gone is the misanthrope that I once was, and in its place a lonely man who would sacrifice everything he had if it would bring back the one person who meant the world to him.

Today I've stumbled upon a small used-book store that's almost hidden between a much larger pizzeria on one side and a hair salon on the other.

I used to be fascinated by the smell of books. Old books, not new ones. The paper, the ink, the binding glue — those unique scents were intrinsic to the experience of enjoying a good book.

I step inside the book store, hoping to find something interesting enough that will keep my mind off of Sara for at least a little while.

If I bury myself in a book, maybe I can even go a whole hour without thinking about her.

Near the register sits a girl of perhaps twenty with a college textbook open before her on the counter, and beside her a stack of CDs and portable player with soft rock music filtering from its speakers.

She glances up as the bell on the door chimes, but returns her attention to her studies after a genial smile to welcome her new customer.

As I browse the shelves of books, I pay her and the music no mind at first until a portion of one song suddenly catches my attention and I pause to listen.

"Tell me how am I supposed to live without you...now that I've been loving you so long? How am I supposed to live without you? And how am I supposed to carry on...when all that I've been living for is gone?"

It's exactly what I've been trying to figure out — how to live without Sara.

I've only heard a tiny fraction of the song, but the truth in those few lyrics is enough to pique my interest of hearing the piece in its entirety.

I need new poetry. And what is a song but simply a poem set to music?

"Excuse me," I approach the girl at the counter.

"What can I help you with?" she inquires pleasantly.

"The music you have playing right now — is it for sale?"

She gives me a look of surprise, but shrugs one shoulder. "Sure, if you want it."

"I do."

She swaps the current CD for another one to keep her music playing, and trades the one I've requested for a few dollars in cash.

I failed my mission. I didn't find a book to keep my mind off of Sara.

Instead I've bought music that will most assuredly make me think of her even more.

SARA

It's at a park that I run into a familiar face. Or rather, he runs into me. Literally.

I hear a "Hank, no!" mere seconds before I'm suddenly on my rear in the grass and an ecstatic brown boxer dog is all over me.

My face dodges his gleeful tongue but my hands aren't as fortunate. I must smell just as he remembers because his nose snuffles all over me like he's vacuuming up the scent.

Satisfied that I'm still me, he shoves his head under my arm and pants his dog breath in my face.

"I am so sorry!" A woman apologizes profusely, hauling the happy dog off me so I can get back up. "I don't know what got into him all of a sudden."

"No, it's okay." I catch my breath once I'm on my feet again and I brush myself off as well as I can. "Hank and I are old buddies, actually."

I bend to give his head a thorough rubbing and he laps up the attention, stomping all over my shoes with his feet. He's not a young pup anymore — he was already approaching 'senior dog' status when Grissom got him — but he's still spry enough that you'd never know it.

I knew Grissom gave Hank away to a family with kids before he came to me in Costa Rica, so this must be the mother.

"I'm Sara," I introduce myself to the woman.

She shakes my hand. "Amber."

"Nice to meet you. Hey, would you mind if I took a picture of me with Hank? I'd like to send it to a friend."

"Not at all! Give me your phone and I'll get you a good picture," Amber offers kindly.

I hand over my phone and kneel beside Hank so my arms can hug him around the neck. Fortunately for me, his tongue behaves itself and Amber gets a very nice photo of us.

"Thank you." I stand again and accept my phone back with a smile.

"Of course. Well, we've gotta run, but it was nice to meet you," Amber says pleasantly. "And I'm sorry again for Hank knocking you down. He seems to forget his size."

"Don't worry about it. It wasn't the first time he's done that to me."

I give Hank one more good head rub before they go.

My new photo is a good excuse for me to contact Grissom. I really do think he'll enjoy seeing a picture of Hank and knowing that he's happy in his current home. I just hope it doesn't make Grissom regret not having his dog anymore.

"Look who found me today," I type into the text message field. I attach the photo and hit 'send'.

I don't expect him to reply, but it would be nice if he does.

GRISSOM

I gave up a lot when I left Las Vegas to follow Sara to Costa Rica. I gave up my home, my job, even my dog.

Sara's the one who encouraged me to get a pet, and she was with me when I chose Hank from the shelter.

Hank is the reason Sara sent this photo to me...but her face is the reason I can't stop looking at it.

I miss her so deeply that it feels like there's an actual hole in me. And all the poetry in the world can't close that gaping wound.

There's only one thing I can do if I'm ever going to be happy again.

I have to get Sara back.

SARA

I've never zoned out during an interrogation before, but I guess there's a first time for everything.

It's his hands that capture my attention. They remind me so much of Grissom's.

How can hands that look like his be capable of murder?

Grissom's hands would never hurt anybody. They're gentle. They're loving. They soothe and caress. They wipe away tears. They comfort — they don't kill.

"We have your prints on the handle of the knife," I say, rejoining the interrogation. "And a smear of your blood where the handle meets the blade. You cut yourself with the same knife you stabbed her with. And that bandaid on your palm is an exact match to the box of them in her bathroom cabinet."

Grissom's doppelganger hands clench in anger, and suddenly they don't look anything like the hands of the man I love.

GRISSOM

It's finally happened. I've lost my mind.

Why else would I be boarding a plane to go find a woman who doesn't even know I'm on my way?

It's Costa Rica all over again. And just like that time, I don't tell her I'm coming, because I don't want her to tell me not to.

This is my pattern. Sara runs away, and I eventually follow.

We haven't been married anymore for over a year and a half. It feels like a lifetime since I've last seen her. I don't even know her apartment's address, so I will have to find her at the crime lab instead.

I should have done this a long time ago. I shouldn't have expected her to come back to me every time. I should have been a better husband.

I hate the hassle of changing planes, so I've paid a premium for a nonstop flight from the international airport in Jacksonville, Florida to McCarran International in Las Vegas, Nevada.

I've optimistically set my return flight to seven days from now. I honestly don't know what I'm going to do with a whole week in Vegas, but I hope Sara will allow me to spend at least some of the days with her.

I'd love to spend all of them with her. And after that, eternity.

I find my seat on the crowded plane. I've brought a book to read on the flight, so I retrieve it from my carry-on duffel bag before I stow the bag in the overhead bin.

There's an obnoxious child seated directly behind me who delights in kicking my seat the moment I sit down, and seems immune to the stern look I give him in return.

I sigh and open my book. It's going to be a very long flight.

SARA

I sit at the break room table enjoying a nice reprieve with my two favorite colleagues. Sometimes I feel like the middle child, between protective big brother Nick and adoring little brother Greg.

It's not a bad feeling. It's what I imagine a real family might feel like.

I'm laughing at Greg's detailed horror story of his recent blind date. I happen to glance past him and for a second I think I see Grissom standing a ways down the glass hallway and looking straight at me.

I know it's just my tired eyes playing tricks on me. Why would Grissom be here?

I look at my tablemates again to see if they've noticed him too. But they aren't even looking that direction, and I keep silent about my apparent hallucination.

He's gone anyway when I look a second time.

I want to get up and follow, but I don't chase ghosts anymore.

GRISSOM

She looks right at me, and my heart leaps into my throat. Then she looks away, and it plummets to the ground.

She looked at me, and she looked away.

She looked away.

Like she couldn't stand to actually look at me.

It knocks the air from my lungs, and I slip back around the corner before anyone else can see me too.

I'm such a fool, coming back here after all this time. What the hell was I thinking?

Before she saw me, Sara had been smiling. Laughing, even. She's obviously happier now without me, and I don't want to disrupt that.

If she's happy, I will be happy for her. But I can't be happy without her. It's just not possible.

SARA

I've had a strange feeling I can't seem to shake ever since I thought I saw Grissom in the lab earlier today.

I wish it really had been him. I miss him like I would miss breathing.

I am weak. I am pathetic. I am calling my ex-husband.

It's no surprise when I immediately get his voice mail. I almost hang up, but the sound of his voice on the outgoing message is just too tempting to my ear.

And then I hear the beep, and I have to think of something to say.

"Hey, Gil...it's, uh...it's me. Sara. I just...hope you're doing okay. Stay safe."

I end the call before it can record my voice going all wobbly for him to hear.

GRISSOM

I've paid almost a thousand dollars for my nonstop, round-trip flight to Las Vegas, and now I shell out another hefty sum at the Vegas airport's customer service counter to get my seven-days-away return ticket changed to the next available flight today to go back to Jacksonville, Florida.

My head is pounding and I feel sick to my stomach, and it has nothing to do with the money I'm wasting, though I will probably come to regret that later, as well.

I drag myself onto the plane to return to my boat on the east coast, and I spend the entire flight staring out the tiny window of the airplane and wondering how I managed to screw up my life so badly.

I'm the last person to exit the plane in the Jacksonville air terminal. My legs feel as heavy as concrete, and I have to stop and sit down on a bench in the airport for a minute.

I'm exhausted. I'm starving. I'm lost without Sara.

I don't trust my legs to carry me out of the building to find a cab yet, so I just continue to sit.

I'm in no hurry to go anywhere now. I haven't the strength to climb out of my abyss.

Bodies in the airport move at a frenzied pace around me. I feel out-of-sync sitting here almost completely motionless.

Outside the airport's windows the sun begins to set, and I wonder what time it is, how long I've been sitting here like a zombie.

I pull out my phone to check the time, and I realize I'd never turned it back on since before I got on the plane the first time.

A glance at a clock on the wall tells me that my phone has been off for almost fifteen hours.

And I've been sitting here for nearly three.

I turn my phone back on, and wait a minute for it to find a network signal.

There's a missed call and a voice mail. They're both from Sara. I've been so desperate to hear her voice that I call her back immediately.

She picks up on the first ring. "Hey," she greets into my ear from thousands of miles away, and the sound is so beautiful that I can't help choking up a little.

"Hey, yourself," I answer back, trying to sound as normal as possible.

But I can't fool Sara. "You okay?" she asks. "You sound kind of funny."

"Yeah...I'm, uh...I'm in a bad area right now," I lie.

"Oh. Sorry."

"It's okay," I assure her. "Did you need something?" Like maybe a shovel to bury what's left of my heart?

"No, not really," she replies. "I just...had a weird day. I thought I saw you at the lab earlier, and when I looked again you were gone, and it just kind of rattled me for a while. I think maybe I was a little too tired and seeing things that weren't there."

Her words sink into my brain, and I realize my egregious error.

I'm such an idiot.

She didn't look away because I was there — she looked away because she thought I wasn't really there. She saw me, but she didn't really see me!

Somehow this revelation makes me feel both better and worse at the same time.

"Gil? Are you still there?"

"I'm here," I respond. To acknowledge what she'd said to me, I offer rather feebly, "I've seen you in random places a few times, too."

I don't want to admit that I actually was there in the lab. I don't want to look any stupider to her than I already do. I don't want her to know that I jumped to conclusions, assumed the worst about her, turned tail and ran away without even trying to talk to her first.

It's humiliating, the thought of her knowing that I traveled thousands of miles to woo her back to me, and have nothing whatsoever to show for it because of my own stupidity.

I'm off balance, and it scares me. I've always prided myself on my sense of reason and rationality, and I need to regain my grip on both of those things before I spiral down into certifiable lunacy and lose who I am completely.

It's funny...Sara's genetic history always made her worry for her own sanity. I guess the person she really should have been worried about was me.

If there's something truly wrong with me, I need to fix it. I'm no good to her this way. She deserves better.

"Listen, uh...I'm going to be out of reach for a while," I say into the phone. "But I'll try to text you or something when I can again. Okay?"

"Okay," Sara echoes. "Do you need extra money or anything? I can send some if you need me to."

It's incredibly generous of her to offer, but what I want can't be obtained with money.

I want my wife back. I want my happiness back. I want my sanity back.

I want Sara to ache for me the way I do for her...and yet I don't want her to hurt at all because I know how destructive pain can be.

"I'll be fine," I answer her question. "Thanks."

"Alright," she accepts softly. "Be safe?"

I swallow the lump in my throat and answer softly, "Yeah. You be safe, too."

And I end the call.

SARA

I forgot to ask him if he got the photo I sent of me and Hank. I guess it doesn't really matter if he didn't.

He sounds sad. Or maybe I'm just projecting my own feelings onto him.

Either way, I don't really feel any better after the phone call.

He was the one to end the conversation. I could have gladly talked to him longer, but I don't want to be a bother to him if his attention is on something else.

I can't help but wonder if maybe his attention is on someone else.

Someone that's not me.

I know Grissom dated a lot of different women before me. He's even had a few girlfriends before. And I don't delude myself that he wouldn't date anyone after me, too. He is a man, after all.

I wasn't the first woman to ever be attracted to him, and I know I certainly won't be the last.

If he does find someone else out there...I hope she's worthy of him.

GRISSOM

"Suicide is the ultimate form of selfishness. It deprives the people you leave behind of the chance to say a proper goodbye before you're gone."

I'd never been able to comprehend before how anyone could willingly put an end to their own existence. And then I lost the love of my life. And suddenly I understood what such a devastating void can do to a person, and how desperate they can become to simply make the pain stop.

Sara's very much alive, but the pain I feel at her continued absence still overwhelms me. And I'm tired of hurting. I just want it to stop.

"Has suicide been on your mind?" Dr. Renaud inquires in his trained placid tone. If my words alarm him, he doesn't show it.

I've enlisted the services of a professional psychologist to help me sort through my pain so I can finally stop feeling this way.

I appreciate the work that therapists do...but the stigma that's often attached to the necessity of seeking mental health aid always used to repel me on a personal level. I don't think I'm an arrogant man per se, but I've always taken great pride in my sound mental state...and having to admit that I might suddenly require help in that respect is very unsettling.

I've never been good at revealing my inner self to other people. It's much easier to close myself off than let someone peek through my armor. What if they look inside me, and they're repulsed by what they find?

And then there's the whole monster of having to convert my inner thoughts into actual words for people.

It's not that I'm averse to words — I enjoy the artistic phrasing of them in poetry — but my thoughts tend to process in images more than language...and there's so many words to choose from that sometimes it's hard to pick the most accurate ones to fluently translate the images in my head.

Despite these virtual roadblocks, I know that even a well-oiled machine requires a tune-up every once in a while. So here I am at a figurative mechanic's shop having my engine pulled apart.

I search my own psyche for the true answer to Dr. Renaud's last question. He waits patiently, knowing that my long silence doesn't mean that I'm avoiding giving a response.

"I don't want to end my life," I reply honestly. "I just want to stop missing her so badly."

"What do you miss about her?"

Only everything.

"I miss...waking up beside her. Starting my day with her face as the first thing I see. I miss her confiding in me...trusting me with her secrets."

I breathe deeply, searching for more words.

"I miss the way her eyebrow kinks when I've said something that confuses her. I miss her cold feet touching mine at night because she refuses to wear socks to bed. I miss her hairbrush on the bathroom sink, and her clothes taking over my half of the closet."

I miss holding her, kissing her, making love to her. I miss the way she never lets me win an argument when she knows she's right. I miss the fire in her eyes when she's passionately driven about something. I miss sharing the simple, mundane, everyday parts of life with her.

I can feel the prick of tears coming on and I inhale a shaky breath to force them back.

"I miss my best friend."

"Have you told her that you miss her?"

"No."

"Why not?"

That's the million-dollar question.

"I don't think we have enough time to answer that."

"We have as much time as you need," Dr. Renaud replies gently.

But time comes at a price. And at two-hundred bucks an hour, this first session alone could cost me over a thousand.

The money's not important. I would fork over every single penny I had if it meant getting rid of this agony.

I don't want to get bogged down with details, so I try to sum up the important points in as few words as possible.

"I went to see her. I flew all the way to Las Vegas, Nevada to try to reconcile with her. And due to an innocent action on her part that I misinterpreted as a rejection, I retreated back here immediately without her even knowing I was ever there."

"You didn't see her at all?"

"I saw her," I clarify. "From a distance. She thought she only imagined seeing me. But I thought she saw me and deliberately looked away. And that was more than I could take."

"Have you talked to her since then? Explained what happened?"

"I talked to her once for a minute or two on the phone...after I flew back here again. But I didn't tell her what I'd done. I didn't want her to know."

"Why not?"

That one is easy. "I didn't want to look any more foolish than I already did."

After a beat, I ask a question of my own. "Do you think I should try again to get her back?"

"I can't give you that answer," Dr. Renaud responds neutrally. "Only you can determine that for yourself."

I've been sitting upright on the middle cushion of the patient's couch for a couple of hours already, but now I shift on the long seat and recline on my back before we continue our chat.

I might as well get comfortable, because I'm going to be here for a long while yet.

SARA

I need to let go of him. Or at least let go of the things that remind me of him.

Step one I accomplished this morning. I've put away in a box all the pictures I have with Grissom's face in them. I don't have a single picture up anywhere now.

Step two involved donating most of his gift plants to the pediatric wing of Desert Palm hospital to brighten the place up for the kids who are stuck there.

Step three is getting rid of my wedding ring. I could just put it in the box with the photos under my bed, but I need it out of my home entirely.

I can't even look at it these days because every time I do, I want to cry for what I used to have, that I don't now.

I can't wear the reminder of my failed marriage on a chain anymore. It's a figurative millstone around my neck, and I'm not strong enough to endure its weight any longer.

The best thing to do is simply get rid of it.

I stand outside a rather seedy pawn shop, my once-treasured ring clutched in my hand. I've been standing here for ten minutes trying to work up the courage to go in.

If I don't do it now, I never will. And I need to.

The pawn shop owner examines my ring, tests it for genuineness and quality, considers its resale value.

It's a cold treatment for something that used to be so precious.

"Give you a hundred even," the guy finally offers in his best 'take it or leave it' tone.

I'm sure he thinks that's a generous amount, and I know it's worth far more than that, but I'm not here for the money.

I nod. "Fine."

I collect five twenty-dollar bills, and I exit the pawn shop feeling like I've made another colossal mistake.

I give the entire one-hundred dollars to the first homeless person I see. I can't keep it — it's like blood money.

The loner in me wants to retreat back to my quiet apartment to spend the rest of the day in solitude, but life experience has taught me that it's probably not a good idea to isolate myself too much today.

I send a group text to my two surrogate brothers, Nick and Greg. "You guys want to hang out for a while?"

They both reply back, and we make plans, and I'm relieved that I don't have to return yet to my apartment that the man who used to love me has never once stepped foot in and likely never will.

GRISSOM

It occurs to me that if I just keep heading north, I'll eventually reach Canada. I have nothing against Canada — it's a lot of beautiful country.

But my boat doesn't cross land. It must skirt land by waterway, and the further north I go on the east side of the US, the further away I get from the southern aquatic shortcut of the Panama Canal that would take me to the west side of the continent.

Sara is on the west side of the United States, and I have the strongest urge to turn my boat around and cross over through the Canal so that I can at least be on the same side of the country as her again.

It's a reasonable notion. One that I've been entertaining for some time now.

Thanks to a few long sessions with Dr. Renaud, I feel that I'm back in balance as well as can be expected under the circumstances.

I'm not crazy. My head is sound, my mind is sane. I am simply human.

But I still miss Sara more than ever — nothing has changed that. She was a huge part of my life for a very long time, and she's not an easy woman to get over.

She's always been special. One of a kind. No one has ever caused me to question my own sanity before, and it stands to reason that Sara Sidle would be the one to do it.

I know there's nothing wrong with me psychologically. It's my heart that yearns for her, not my wounded pride and certainly not my bruised ego.

I understand the need for space when a relationship ends. A person needs room to breathe and think without the influence of the other party suffocating them.

But I believe the massive physical distance between me and Sara just makes the separation worse.

Yesterday I passed the invisible line dividing Florida from Georgia. Geographically, I'm getting closer to Sara. But transportationally, farther away.

I don't want to move farther away anymore.

I give in to my urge to turn around. I refuel my boat, I fill my reserve tanks, and I point my vessel south.

SARA

There seem to be two main things that people hold to the highest importance in their lives: their family, and their work.

For me, those two things are nearly one and the same. My family is the people I work with.

Several members are missing from my family now: Nick, Catherine, and Brass, who have all moved on to new opportunities elsewhere. Warrick and Finlay, whose funerals I've attended. And Grissom, wherever he is on this planet while he plays Jacques Cousteau out on the ocean.

The more recent additions to my crime lab family help to fill the holes left by the absent ones, but it's not the same. It'll never be the same.

There's a top position opening up at work, and I feel that the time is right for me to step into a new role of leadership.

I'm going to apply for Director of the Las Vegas Crime Lab.

It's a tantalizing promotion with a hefty pay raise. Not that I need the raise, necessarily, but I don't know that I want to remain a CSI Level 3 for the rest of my life.

Even Grissom never progressed this far in his career, title-wise.

I never thought I would succeed Grissom professionally. Of course, I also never thought I would be divorced from him, either.

We've managed to still keep in touch, though not with the regularity that I would have liked.

But I guess a text or phone call every now and then is better than cutting off all contact completely.

He says he's alright. I hope he really is.

If nothing else, I just want him to be okay. I've accepted that he's probably never coming back.

If by some miracle he actually does, he knows where to find me.

GRISSOM

It's taken a long time, but I'm finally on the same side of the continent as Sara again.

My once-sizeable savings account has dwindled, so I've been contracting just enough freelance work to feed myself along the way and keep my boat fueled and moving without having to dip into savings to cover any financial gaps. I reject any work that may deviate me from my route, and I never linger in one place any longer than necessary.

The Mexico/US border patrol along the southwestern coastline has inspected my boat, found nothing and nobody suspicious or illegal on it, checked my documents and permits, and allowed me to continue on my way without further delay.

My destination is the Port of San Diego, where I've been contracted to collect and document evidence of shark poaching.

I'm so close to Sara that I can almost feel her.

Las Vegas, Nevada is just a one-hour plane ride from San Diego, California. I could dock my boat, hop on a plane, and be in the same city as her in roughly an hour's time.

I'm tempted to, even if only to see her face for a couple of seconds from a distance like last time.

My thoughts spin with the world of possibilities before me. I could sell my boat, and get an apartment near Sara. Even if we never fully reconcile...at the very least, I could still see her every day.

I've lived such a nomadic life these past few years. Since gaining my sea legs and tasting the freedoms of ocean living, it's hard to imagine myself settling down under a roof on dry land again.

But maybe I will someday. Maybe I'll even get Sara back someday.

In the meantime, I have work to do.

SARA

I still have no idea where Grissom is, so I tell Ecklie to grab a globe, spin it, look for the blue, and pick an ocean.

I'm more than a little offended at Ecklie's insinuation that Grissom is an expert on the sadistic mind of Heather Kessler. And I'm equally annoyed that he thinks my ex-husband is the answer to solving our case.

Are we not all trained and experienced investigators? We may not be the genius that is Gil Grissom, but some of us were educated greatly by him for many years.

My team is more than up to the task.

Nevertheless, Ecklie persists and I give him Grissom's cell phone number so he'll go away.

If Ecklie can convince Grissom to come back here when I've been so unsuccessful at it, maybe they should be together.

I need to rein in my snark, and prepare myself for the possibility of Gil Grissom finally returning to both the city and the ex-wife who he obviously wants little to do with anymore.

GRISSOM

I'm back in Vegas again before I'm really ready for it, thanks to Ecklie's ill-timed summons. But at least it keeps me out of jail for trespassing on a marine poacher's boat and confiscating his illegally-obtained shark fins.

My cab drops me off at the main entrance to the Las Vegas Crime Lab, and it's with an unfamiliar sense of trepidation that I enter through one of the double doors.

It's so strange to be walking down these halls again. The building's interior still glows with blue backlight, almost like a giant aquarium with its maze of glass walls.

The last time I was here, nobody knew it. Not even Sara, who still has no clue that I actually attempted to come back for her once.

This time, I'm not back for her. Not directly, anyway. I'm officially back to help a couple of old friends — one whose casino was bombed, and another who is somehow connected to it.

I pause for a moment at the spot where the one hallway splits in two and flows seamlessly around both sides of another narrow glass-walled room placed in the center.

There are many people at work, yet I recognize no one so far. And nobody recognizes me, either, save for one talkative young redheaded girl who waylays me as she passes by. But there's nothing even remotely familiar about her, and I don't care enough to ask her to identify herself.

I barely listen to the words pouring rapidly out of her mouth — it's the chattering itself that holds my attention but only because it reminds me of a certain other female who used to 'overtalk' around me.

Her overly friendly monologue blessedly short, the girl exits as abruptly as she entered and I can't help the confused expression I silently give to her retreating back.

Mentally shaking it off, I turn around to start down a different hallway.

And my heart slams against my chest.

Sara stands before me, not even three feet away.

How many times had I dreamed of this moment? How many times had I rehearsed exactly what I would say?

I want to put my arms around her and never let go again for the rest of my life. I also want to turn tail and run again like the coward that I've been.

"Sara."

Her name escapes my lips like an exhale. I don't know why my voice has a lilt of surprise to it. It was inevitable that I would see her again. I'd expected it. I'd anticipated it. I'd almost feared it.

"Gil," she acknowledges softly in exchange.

How is it possible that she's gotten even more beautiful?

I can't make my brain work to tell her what I should. Instead, I shrug one shoulder a little too casually and say, "I'm back."

Her warm chocolate-brown eyes hold my gaze. "I see that."

If she harbors any ill feelings toward me, they're not reflected in her eyes or her demeanor.

She's just Sara, same as she always is.

Too soon, Ecklie interrupts our awkward reunion, and I wonder what else might have passed between me and Sara if he hadn't.

SARA

He's finally back, and I don't want to scare him off. But he's not back for me, so I want to punish him for that.

The best punishment I can think of for him is making him work the case alongside me. But ultimately it backfires on me, because it really doesn't feel like a punishment for either one of us.

He says he misses working with me. Me, and the bees.

I used to hate bees. And then I got a proposal of marriage while standing over a box full of them.

I'm much more benevolent toward the little critters now, and I take great care not to harm a single one as Grissom and I apply tiny temporary dots of water-soluble color to the back of each bee for the purpose of our case.

"Nice job," the teacher part of Grissom praises sincerely as he stands close at my shoulder like he used to do in the past. "Well done."

I smile widely, because I've always been the type to strive for the gold star. Validation-seeking is a flaw I will never fully conquer.

But I think I've at least improved in that regard, as I sit silently outside under a white canopy beside the man I've loved since the day we met.

I don't bring up the past, and I don't inquire as to our future. I take a page from Grissom's book, and I don't say a word.

GRISSOM

Sara has pulled the mesh of her beekeeper's hat away from her face, and I do the same with mine as I sit next to her waiting for the painted bees to return.

This is the perfect opportunity for us to finally have a conversation. Unfortunately, I still can't make my mouth work right.

My hands open and close, and one of them even almost reaches in her direction for half a second.

I wish our wedding bands were still on our fingers. Mine is irretrievable. I wonder what she did with hers.

I want to take hold of her hand, and caress the soft skin where her ring used to reside. I want to pull my chair up close beside hers and wrap my arm around her shoulders. I want to lay her down in this lush green grass and kiss her senseless.

I want to tell her how wrong I was to divorce her. I want to tell her that I've missed her every second of every day that we've been apart. I want to tell her that she's still my best friend and I will love her until the day I die.

I want to tell her that it really was me that she saw that day. I want to explain to her why I couldn't tell her that before. I want to beg her forgiveness for everything I've ever done to hurt her in the past, and everything I'll probably continue to do to hurt her in the future.

I open my mouth, but Sara speaks first.

"Hey — orange is back."

And just like that, our only focus is the bees again.

GRISSOM

I can empathize with the bomber's pain because I've been there, too. I could never do the horrific things he's done, but I comprehend fully the anguish from which his desperation stems.

I've been the lonely whale, myself. I, too, have traveled thousands of miles to woo back the female who never hears my song.

The difference is that what he thought he had with Heather wasn't real. What I had with Sara was.

You can't get back what you never had. Sometimes you can't even get back what you did have.

SARA

This isn't my first time staring death in the face...but if this goes badly, it may well be my last.

If I'm going to die tonight at the hands of a crazed killer, there's nobody else with whom I'd rather spend my last few minutes on earth than Gil Grissom.

Sometimes I'm not sure where the metaphor ends and the man begins.

He addresses the bomber, but his speech might as well be an arrow aimed at me.

His words are cryptic, as only Grissom can be. But knowing him as intimately as I do, I can easily read between the lines.

There's just one thing I want to know:

How am I supposed to respond to a love song if I don't even know that it's being sung?

GRISSOM

I don't know what I expected, working with Sara again after all this time. Maybe a chance to start over? To find the people we used to be, and attempt to be them again?

Whatever I'd ignorantly hoped for us, it isn't what I receive.

I want her to ask me to stay.

All she gives me instead is, "I hope you find what you're looking for out there. Bye, Gil."

What I've been looking for is a way to get over her.

But I'll never find it. It doesn't exist.

She walks away, and what's left of me shatters.

SARA

I almost don't watch the video of Heather Kessler's official case statement that Lindsey brings me.

But my curiosity gets the better of me, and I pop the disc into my laptop to see what my newest CSI thinks I should see.

Grissom must have forgotten the camera was still recording. His words are so few, but his heartfelt tone says it all.

He's still in love with me. Even after all this time.

And he's so typically Grissom. The man hasn't changed one bit. All the opportunities he'd had these past couple of days to say those words to me...and he says them to her instead.

Gil Grissom, the great communicator.

With a sigh, I look around at my brand-new office — a perk of my recent promotion to Las Vegas Crime Lab Director — the fact not lost on me that this very room used to be Grissom's office for a long time, too.

But I don't want to be where Grissom used to be. I want to be where he is now.

I want to put my hand in his and never leave his side again. I want to rewind the years we wasted being apart. I want to undo every single time that I left him behind.

I want to erase my signature from those damned divorce papers. I want to take back the goodbye that I tossed at him before coldly walking away from him out there in the hallway.

I want to bury myself in his arms and plead for him to stay. Or at least beg him to let me go with him.

His boat's been docked at the port of San Diego in the middle of a job since before he was dragged by Ecklie into this case, and it's more than likely that he's still there right now as he completes his interrupted work before moving on again.

I don't know where he's going next. I just know that I want to be there with him.

In a burst of energy, I gather my few personal belongings together and shove them into my messenger bag. I hurriedly book the next flight out from Las Vegas to San Diego, eject Heather's statement disc from my laptop and return it to its proper envelope, and I shove the laptop into my bag as well.

I spare one minute to tell Ecklie that I'm resigning, and that Catherine deserves to have the job instead. And wanting to waste no more time, I drive from the crime lab straight to the airport without even bothering to pack a bag at my apartment first. It's a relatively short flight, but I sit impatiently in the aisle seat willing the plane to go faster.

If he's gone when I get there, I don't know what I'll do.

A cab gets me to the docks and I get out, my heart in my throat. I take off my sunglasses and look around, and there I spot him.

And as I get closer, he sees me, too.

GRISSOM

If this is another dream, it's the cruelest one yet. If I wake up right now and she's not really here, I think it might actually kill me.

But as her hand takes hold of mine and she climbs over the railing, my other hand reaches for her waist to steady her and help her aboard.

I'm not dreaming.

Sara Sidle stands in the one place I never thought I would ever find her.

She's standing on the deck of my boat.

And she's looking at me with the same love in her eyes that I used to see there before.

There's no awkwardness between us this time. No hiding of feelings.

My hands rest at her hips and I marvel at the sheer ability to touch her again. My heart has been crying out to her for literally years.

And she finally heard my love song.

I want to ask her if she's been as miserable as I have. I want to let her know I'm sorry for all the hurtful things I've done. I want to bare my soul to my best friend, and tell her all the precious little things that I hadn't been able to say to her in the past.

But as always, I can't seem to voice even one syllable.

All I can do is stare at her beautiful face in choked-up silence before sliding my arms around her and holding on for dear life.

SARA

He hugs me so tightly I almost can't breathe, and I hug him back as strongly as I possibly can.

This is where I belong. In his arms, and nowhere else.

Why did it take me so long to come back to him? Why didn't I just do this in the first place? I've been so stupid, so stubborn, so independent.

All that really matters is that I need him, and he needs me. As long as we stick together, whatever problems we have will work themselves out.

I'm never leaving him again. Not until the day I die.

GRISSOM

I can count on one hand the number of times I've been so happy that I thought my physical heart might actually explode because of it.

There haven't been many...but Sara has been the one responsible for every single time.

She's the love of my life. She's my happiness.

I've made a lot of mistakes and wasted a lot of time that we'll never get back. But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to her.

I don't expect that Sara will never leave me again. But if she does, I will follow her. Always. Around the world and back again — no matter how many trips it takes.

It's our pattern. Sara runs away...and I follow.

But she broke her pattern a little bit. This time, she followed.

We stand close together at the helm of my boat as I steer it out of port and aim for the sinking sun on the horizon.

Her hand stays on my arm as if she can't bear to let go, and she sweetly gives her cheek a brief rest against my shoulder.

I turn my head and kiss her temple, and she smiles widely. Whether her grin is from the affection or it's just my beard tickling her, I'm not sure.

What I do know is that this moment, right now, is the happiest I've ever been in my entire life.

I have Sara back. As long as I have her, I have everything I need.

People like to say that absence makes the heart grow fonder. But I loved Sara just as much when we were together as I did when we were apart.

How can you possibly love someone even more when you've already begun at one-hundred-percent?

Still...whether there's any truth to that old saying or not, I think it's best that we don't keep testing it out anymore.

I can't speak for Sara, but I know that my heart could not handle a separation again.

SARA — EPILOGUE

We snuggle together under the blanket on his boat's narrow bed, neither an inch of space nor a scrap of clothing between us.

We've just made up for several years of lonely nights apart, and we're both blissfully sated and thoroughly exhausted.

"I'm sorry."

I peer at Grissom's face in surprise. "For what?"

He inhales deeply, and my arm across his naked chest lifts with the movement. "For everything I did wrong."

"I'm sorry too," I answer softly. "For everything I did wrong."

He kisses me again, long and tender and full of passion. I think he's missed our kissing just as much as I have.

Our fingers twine together gently, playfully. I love his hands, and I know I've missed the touching just as much as he has.

I feel the need to lighten things again after the apologies. "Thank you," I now say to Grissom.

"For?"

"For loving me."

His smile reaches his eyes. "Thank you for loving me."

It's my turn to kiss him, and his arm tightens around me as we indulge in our love.

He rolls us over so I'm pinned beneath him, and I adore the weight of his body on me.

"Can we start over?" he asks quietly, his blue eyes gazing soberly down at me.

I can't help the confused kink of my eyebrow. "How do we do that, exactly?" I'm not being facetious — I'm genuinely curious what he has in mind.

"Starting tomorrow, let's talk," Grissom suggests, completely serious. "I mean really talk. Please?"

I guess there is a first time for everything. I've never known him to want conversation before, much less be the one to initiate it.

"Okay," I agree. Knowing him as I do, I don't have high expectations for it. But I'm willing to try if he is. "Starting tomorrow...let's try some pillow talk."

Another smile graces his face before he claims my lips with his again.

The End