"She lies and says she's in love with him—

Can't find a better man."

The next day was a Friday and Alec was at the office. Early in the morning, Gillian sat in a chair downstairs clad in her flannel pajamas sipping coffee out of a pink mug she'd had since college. She had her legs pulled up to her chest and she was holding the phone to her ear as she listened to her mother ramble on about some woman at church.

Gillian's eyes were tired and she was thankful that her mother couldn't see her as they carried out their weekly ritual. For nearly as long as she could remember now, she and her mother had conversed on Fridays—her mother called her at 8am sharp and they both rehashed the underpinnings of the week.

That particular Friday, however, Gillian found herself rather unable to concentrate on the conversation at hand. Instead, Gillian issued all of the appropriate responses—responding only when spoken to and occasionally asking for more detail. When her mother finally finished retelling her story, one that Gillian could not recreate to save her life, her mother's voice took on a particularly concerned tone.

"Gill, what's wrong, honey?" She asks, and Gillian could practically see her mother's eyebrows furrowed in question.

Sighing into the phone, Gillian stirs her coffee—"Nothing, mom, I'm fine." She says, finally, although she doesn't really believe that her mother will believe her or that her mother will let it go.

"I know you better than that, dear." Her mother said over the line and Gillian smiled in spite of herself. Despite any misgivings or grudges she may have once held against her mother, in the past few years they had grown exponentially closer as mother and daughter and Gillian relished the feeling. "You might feel better if you talk about it."

Gillian laughed inwardly at this—everyone always had this idea that talking about things made them easier, somehow. Gillian had found, however, that that was rarely the case. Still, she didn't want her mother to have to worry about her.

Gillian pinched the bridge of her nose and shut her eyes tightly, she said quietly into the phone, "It's Alec." Because she anticipated her mother's question, she rushed on, "We're having…problems." She finished.

Gillian could hear her mother's intake of breath and she imagined that her mother's eyes were shut tightly and her body was held completely still as she asked her daughter, "What sort of problems?"

Gillian deflected as best she could, and then she told a little white lie to her mother. She couldn't, of course, tell her mother the real root of the marital problems she was having with her husband. Her mother would be distressed and upset and she would grow to hate Alec, and Gillian simply could not handle that.

Finally, after a long conversation and short question and answer period, Gillian hung up the phone with her mother and she sat in the chair, hugging her knees to her chest, silently sipping the coffee she'd made for herself which had gone completely cold by then.

She sat there for forty five minutes before finally rising and setting her mug in the sink, heading upstairs and taking a brief solace in the stream of the hot shower that poured onto her back and made her muscles feel less tense than they had in ages.

Gillian arrived to work that day an hour and a half late, her hair thrown up into a pony tail, her makeup barely painted on. She didn't quite bother because she knew, quite honestly, that there would be no hiding the black circles that had developed under her eyes.

As her heels clicked down the corridor of The Lightman Group building, she found herself holding her breath hoping she wouldn't run into anyone—and specifically hoping that she wouldn't run into Cal. She was saying a silent word of gratitude to whomever was in charge of such things as she reached the threshold of the door to her office. As soon as the gratitude was complete, she heard a voice call out from behind her.

"Oi, Foster!" Came the British accent, "Just come in whenever you feel like it these days, do you? Must be nice." Cal said.

When Gillian finally turned to face him, his smile fell and he wished he could take the words he'd said right back into his mouth. His face was a study in concern; hers was a study in many things—sadness chief among them.

"Alright, Foster?" He asked, knowing the answer.

Gillian simply stared at him. She opened her mouth to lie to him—she had an 'I'm fine, thanks' poised and ready on her tongue, but she considered her fatigue which she was beginning to feel in her bones, and she decided that she just didn't have the effort to lie to anyone, least of all Cal Lightman.

Instead, she pursed her lips together tightly, and shook her head in a manner that would have been nearly imperceptible to anyone but Cal.

Cal's face flooded with deeper concern and he ushered her into her office, closing the door behind them. He took her by the arm and guided her to a chair, having her sit down.

"What is it, love?" He asked, as he perched himself on the arm of the chair across from her.

She sighed and bit her lip. The silence was heavy and she wasn't sure she was ready to make this confession—"It's Alec." She said finally, and she watched Cal's face darken as the air became even heavier between them with her husband's name escaping her lips.

"What's he done." It was an odd tone with which Cal asked the question—it wasn't even a question so much as a statement.

Gillian wanted to deflect—she wanted to ease around the subject like she had with her mother earlier in the day, but she realized, suddenly, that she couldn't—didn't really want to, actually. In truth, she didn't quite care what Cal Lightman thought of her husband, and so she gripped the chair with both of her hands and she told Cal what had happened. She told him everything—the whole bitter truth, and when it was done rushing out of her, she sat in silence, refusing to meet his gaze.

Cal observed her quietly, watched as she tucked an errant strand of hair behind her ear and swallowed.

Finally, without looking at him, she spoke again, "I don't know what to do." She said, her voice ominous—"What do I do, Cal?" She asked, still not meeting his gaze—her voice was quiet.

Cal folded his arms over his chest and considered her—he was momentarily at a loss for words. He ran his right hand over his face and squeezed his eyes shut tightly, "Well," He said, "I guess that depends."

Gillian looked at him then and furrowed her brow in confusion, "Depends on what?" She said, her voice barely a whisper.

"Depends," Cal said with a slight shrug, "On whether or not you love him." He said, his eyes boring into hers. "Are you in love with him, Gill?"

The question took Gillian by surprise, and she found that her mouth was hanging open as her mind rushed through a myriad of emotions, all of which passed onto her face. Cal watched as each one settled on her features for a millisecond before a new one scooted in and took up residence—he read them all as Gillian tried to sort out her own thoughts.

She closed her mouth and then opened it again, "I—" She faltered, unprepared for the question, "Am I…" She stumbled once more before finally looking at Cal, "Yes." She lied, her voice soft.

Cal knew—he could tell, of course he could tell. But he said nothing, he simply tilted his head to the side, squinted at her momentarily and tried to keep the sadness out of his voice when he finally spoke, "Well, then," He started, rising from his leaning position and heading toward the door, "There you have it." He said as he swung the door open and walked into the hallway, closing it gently behind him leaving Gillian alone with her thoughts and the heavy air that their conversation had left behind.

And, Gillian thought, leaving her alone with her lie.

tbc