Sorry for the super-short chapter, but I'll be busy all weekend and not sure when I'll be able to post next. Figured this was better than nothing.
A part of him wished he hadn't sent the letter to begin with. Not necessarily because he had shared too much (but he had, hadn't he? especially that part about regretting not asking for her help . . . that made him look like a chump). But no, because sending that letter had now left him with that most useless and feeble of emotions: Hope.
It was Friday and the desk nurse was opening the mailbag, as she always did, reading out the names of patients who had received letters—each of whom responded with predictable squeals of triumph and delight.
Normally, House was completely uninterested in this little tableaux. He would sit in the corner with his headphones on, listening to music or reading a book, barely registering the activity around him. Nolan accused him of only pretending not to care, but that wasn't true. He really didn't. Caring was for those other guys, the losers. The ones with hope.
Today though, while he still hung back, every time the nurse called out a name: "Peterson! Cortez! Warshovksi!" he felt just the tiniest bit deflated.
She's busy, he thought. Maybe she's still thinking things over. She doesn't have time to write. . .
"House!"
He got up and limped up to the nurse, as slowly as he could bear. She handed him the letter with a knowing smile.
"I knew it was just a matter of time, Greg," she said.
He looked at the letter. Handwritten. On Cuddy's personal stationery. It was all he could do not to let out a little shout of joy himself.
Alvie, of course, was immediately all over him.
"Who sent you a letter? Who sent you a letter?" he said, hopping up and down next to House as though on an invisible pogo stick.
"None of your business," House said—and he hugged the letter into his chest, so Alvie couldn't read the address.
"Ooooooh, House has got a girlfriend! House has got a girlfriend!" Alvie sang.
"Fuck off," House said. And he went back to his chair in the corner.
He had an incredible urge to actually smell the letter, which he managed to suppress. But when he opened it, damned if he didn't catch the tiniest whiff of her perfume. How did women do that?
He took a deep breath and read:
House-
I want to start this letter by saying I'm sorry. Yes, I'm sorry. I had no idea you were in such pain. I missed the signs. To be honest, House, sometimes you seem invincible to me. Which is crazy, I know. You're just a man. (Okay, a super brilliant, extraordinarily gifted, supremely annoying man, but a man all the same.) A better friend would've been there for you. And I wish I had been. Truly.
But, in my defense (ha, so much for the apology portion of this letter!), you don't make it easy on me. You put up these walls—these huge, impenetrable walls. And every time I feel like we're getting closer, you push me away.
I'm not here to hash out the past year of our relationship. But I will say this: Ever since the night we kissed, the night I lost Joy, it's been one step forward, two steps back with you. I've never felt closer to you than I did that night. But since then, we've reverted to our usual game playing, our usual tango of evasion and denial, with neither of us willing to give an inch. I so want to put myself out there with you, House. I do. But almost every time I lower my defenses, I get burned.
You once asked me why I cared if you were happy. Of course, I care if you're happy, you idiot. I sometimes think you don't realize how much you mean to me. In some ways, you're always going to be the boy on campus I have a crush on. Nothing will change that. Not your stint at Mayfield and certainly not your hallucination about me. (And by the way, you're not the only one who has fantasies from time to time, pal.)
House, I'm so proud of you for getting off vicodin and I'm even more proud of you for asking for help. I know how hard that is for you. Ironically, I think it might be the bravest thing you've ever done.
So where does this leave us? Maybe when you get out of that Godforsaken place, we'll be able to communicate better. I know I'm going to try. I feel like this could be turning point for our relationship. I hope so.
Yours,
Cuddy
He kept reading his favorite parts over and over again: You're not the only one who has fantasies. . . The boy on campus I have a crush on. . . and, most significantly, Yours.
Was she really his? he wondered.
And he must've had a stupid grin on his face because he looked up and there was Lydia, the nice lady whose sister-in-law was catatonic, the one he had played piano with a few times—and she was beaming at him.
"You look happy," she said.
"I. . . am," he admitted.
"Letter from your girlfriend?" she teased.
"Actually, my boss."
She squinted at him.
"And your . . .lover?"
"No," he said. "Not yet. Maybe. . . Hopefully. Soon."
"You love this woman?"
House felt his face flush.
"I didn't say that," he said, tucking the letter inside his jacket pocket.
"But she's important to you?"
"It's important that I have sex with her," House said. Even as he said it, he felt like a jerk. If he couldn't be honest with Lydia, how could he possibly be honest with Cuddy?
Lydia pulled up a chair, sat down next to him.
"So tell me about her, this woman you want to have sex with."
"What do you want to know?" He was, strangely, eager to talk about Cuddy. Talking about Cuddy, the letter, would make it all more real.
"What does she look like?"
"She's a knockout," he said.
"You can do better than that," she said.
"She's. . . a real woman, you know?" he said, musingly. "She doesn't need to dress like a man to be strong. And that's so fucking sexy to me. She's the strongest woman I know—the strongest person I know. But there's a vulnerability there too, just beneath the surface, that not everyone gets to see. And somehow, that just makes her stronger. It's . . . bewitching."
He looked up. Lydia was giving him a curious look.
"What's that face for?" he said.
"I just asked you to describe a woman you allegedly only want to have sex with and yet you managed not to mention a single one of her physical attributes."
"She also has an amazing rack," House said, quickly.
"Too late!" Lydia said, with a laugh. "You really do love her, don't you?"
House sighed. Fuck it.
"I guess I do," he said.
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