thanks: go to jenbachand who is phenomenal in many regards, though this time my thanks are for a beta. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.
The windows were where she spent her most time, between the elegant silk curtains that were hung beneath precisely draped valances; too extravagant. Sitting in them, she longed for a cigarette between her fingers, to watch the smoke puff out and curl to disappear into the night sky. Perched on the ledge, she longed for age twenty, when possibilities were laid out before her, when her life wasn't so set in stone.
And to think, this is what she had longed for the better part of her adult years.
Back in San Francisco, back in the way-back-when, she would cherish the moments at the window, watching the people milling about on the ground below. Back and forth, to and fro. It was so simple to allow her mind to wander, to create fictitious identities about the strangers who passed.
It was the same in Paris; Parisian window-gazing was no different and for some reason, that made her incredibly depressed. Women and men, en route to destinations that she didn't even bother to fathom; anything was better than being stuck in a strange apartment, alone becoming more and more the housewife, something she absolutely dreaded.
It was when she was stirring the fourth ladleful of homemade vegetable stock into her risotto for one-Gil wouldn't be home that evening, dinner with a colleague that he'd had on the books for weeks-that she snapped. Well, it was something like a snap; perhaps a slip, a falter, a tremor of something inside of her that made her realize, she was slowly becoming less content with the life they'd made. The life he'd made and she'd agreed to.
God, she didn't even know he could speak French.
When the opportunity to lecture at the Sorbonne had arisen, Sara had ultimately taken it very lightly, after all, they'd just relocated together. They'd packed up and moved to a comfortable residence in Chicago. There was a house, a dog and damned if she wasn't going to paint that fence a pleasant shade of off white that was just... picturesque. But alas, just when she'd managed to change their magazine subscriptions and had their first Netflix delivered he'd received the email.
And what kind of wife would she be, saying no to such an opportunity. To her husband.
The scope of the shift that their lives had taken hadn't really hit her until they were on the flight; it manifested itself in a panic attack that she rode out in the claustrophobic confines of the lavatory. Her breaths had come hitched and she had to force them to fruition, demand that her lungs accept the air that she was hastily heaving in. She had to calm down, put on a brave face, tough this out. Sara had assured him, after all, that there was nothing wrong with picking up and moving to the other side of the ocean.
Nothing at all.
She would follow him anywhere.
They ended up staying the first evening in London, to wait out the time for their flight to Paris the next day. Gil ordered a lavish room, lavish food. He kissed her differently, harder. Sara couldn't determine if the passion came from his thanks or his hopes that she would one day forgive him for the upheaval he'd caused.
How she wished it were the latter. But, it had to be the former, for as selfless as Gil Grissom was, Sara knew that he didn't assume that this transition had caused her any grief; quite the opposite. Then again, she hadn't given him any reason to think that.
There was psychology behind it, of course, reasons that she hadn't admitted to him just how much she wanted to remain in Illinois, to settle down literally, put roots somewhere. Perhaps she didn't want to speak the words because it was still so hard for her to believe them. That she wanted what everyone wants, some stability. Perhaps she hadn't said anything because she felt she had no right asking for that kind of stability, especially after the stunt she'd pulled two years previous when she'd up and left him without so much as a goodbye.
A little self-flagellation, a masochistic emotional torture for her to keep it all bottled up. And maybe, just maybe, she didn't tell him any of this because she felt she deserved it. Or that she had something to prove to him, had to prove that yes, he was everything to her and yes, she'd follow him to the corner of the earth and back if that's what it took.
But when they had arrived at the subletted flat in Paris, as soon as her bags had hit the floor, she longed to be back on the other side of the pond, curled up in the new lounger she had purchased. She longed for things that she barely had had time to get acquainted with: deep dish pizza, the route she'd mapped to run, the pharmacy. Sara wanted permanence and structure and time to sort out the things going on in her head.
Of course, she wanted to want the life he wanted for them both in France. She wanted to be enamored of the antique four-poster in the bedroom, and be charmed by the cobblestone and brick and enthralled with the history, the beautiful people speaking a beautiful language. But it all felt newspaper-thin and fabricated, like a fairy tale that she'd mistakenly stumbled into.
Someone else's dream life.
Of all her bad qualities, the propensity to try and stay the course when it was killing her inside was possibly the very worst. But stay she did; she pretended to relish in waking in the large bed beside him, feigned delight when he would bring her breakfast in bed. Sara tried desperately to seek out interesting cafes or points of historic interest that would spark her awe, render her speechless and thankful for being able to reside in such a city.
But the revelation never came and as he became more and more embroiled in academia, she was left more and more to her own devices. Sara didn't hold it against him, didn't think that he realized what he was doing, that he'd devoted so much of his time to his colleagues, his students, the city. It wasn't his fault, really, that she was so unhappy, but her own for not talking about it.
Relegated to her own devices, she read and read, had journals from the States delivered at high cost; she fed her brain everything she could get her hands on, to keep it from lingering on just how unhappy she'd managed to make herself.
After dinner as they sat on the stoop of their building he would say, "I love you, and I love you here."
"I love you, too," Sara would say, omitting that she almost-hated him for moving them here, that she mostly-hated herself.
When the phone call from Conrad Ecklie had come through, she had surprised herself at how eagerly she chatted, relishing the ability to speak with someone who knew her, no matter how intrinsically. He talked briefly about the article that she had gotten into Forensics Quarterly and asked about Gil and how he was doing. It was fifteen minutes into the conversation before he mentioned the status of the lab, asked for her advice. Was there anyone she could recommend for the position?
Truthfully, all of her acquaintances in the forensic field had much better positions, most in federal employment and she wouldn't have even attempted to make those calls. Everyone else was at the Vegas lab, and so, sorry, she really didn't know anyone.
That's too bad, we're really backed up here. Catherine's running at half-staff, techs are being overworked, we're even considering putting some of them out into the field.
Sara blinked at that, thinking about how eagerly Greg had jumped at the chance to be out in the field. But Greg was driven, he was smart, he had the qualities that a good field agent would need. She wasn't sure about the other lab technicians. True, they were all fabulous at their respective jobs, but who would replace them if they were to transition to the field?
"Conrad, I may have a solution, if you're willing to hear me out..." And that was that; he'd accepted her offer as though that had been the intent of the call all along. The sense of purpose that overcame her, the loosening in her chest, the contentment with her choice rose up in her.
It wouldn't be easy leaving him again, for more reasons that she cared to analyze. A large part of it was that she was terrified of his reaction, terrified that she knew him better than anyone else in the world and she still didn't know what to expect of him. Her thumbnail was bitten to the quick as she forced herself not to pace as she waited for him to return home.
A glass of wine, two and an hour later she could hear him climbing the creaky stairs. Heart in her throat, breath coming in nervous pants, her mind went blank. He came in and they discussed his day, but she didn't really hear any of it. It was only when he concluded and she realized that she had absolutely nothing to say about her own day, about the twelve hours she spent alone while he was at work... that it finally came to her. "I got a call today..." she began and it all followed along.
When she lost momentum, all she could think to say was, "I think I can really... help them out," and she didn't even convince herself. "And the position is purely temporary."
Gil took a deep breath and glanced away from her, "I won't even bother bringing up the fact that I spoke those words to you some years ago." His voice was gravelly, and in it she sensed more than just a trace of hurt. Was she an awful person, not being affected by that? By her husband hurting? She wondered if she would be a bad person, just packing up and leaving without his blessing. When did she become a woman who needed the acquiescence of another to do something she wanted to do? "I'm not going to say no, you know that. I'm not going to ask you to stay."
His gaze met hers and she held it for as long as she could. It took all of her strength not to add, 'I never asked you.' When she broke away, his eyes were heavy and sad, not at all in harmony with his voice.
Harsh words rasped past his lips, "So this is it, you're doing it again?" After a beat, he added, his voice hoarse in weakness. "Leaving me?"
Suddenly, her chest tightened and she felt much the same as she had on the airplane. Wasn't there a way to leave without leaving him? Promises for the future would do nothing, would hold no weight for him because she'd promised so many futures so many times before. She wouldn't cry because that wasn't in her anymore, she didn't have it in her to cry. "Gil, it was never about you." Though the admission could have come out harsh, the words rang soft and true.
Words that they both knew were true.
"I know that," he whispered and wiped his hands on his pants, stood abruptly and walked out of the room in haste.
Sara stood alone in the living room, the weight of the decision she'd made not too heavy on her shoulders, certainly not heavier than the band around her finger felt at that moment.
She flicked the match with the tip of her thumb, a skill acquired as a youth, and lit the cigarette. Holding it in between index and middle, Sara studied the hard-packed tobacco and the way the embers ate away at the edges of the paper, bit by bit.
Sara licked her lips and took a long drag, angling her chin up so she could better stare at the sky. "You smoke, now?" he asked, voice low and confused, standing in the doorway like he was afraid to step back into the room. She said nothing, instead releasing her breath to watch the blue smoke curl and climb its way out of sight.