3
After two weeks of conversations and spending time with Brighton he notes many observations. And while interesting, fun, intelligent, witty, and funny are commendable adjectives to describe anyone, they are not ones that would help Booth and Dr. Brennan. However, he does note that not once in all of their conversations does Brighton ever mention her father—not once. She mentions that her mother is a human rights lawyer who lives and works in California, "my mom lives, breathes, eats, and shits law" clarifies Brighton one day whilst they are enjoying a breakfast of pancakes in her dorm. Sweets had stopped by that morning to check up on her and maybe finally tell her who he really was and about his true motives. But when he'd arrived she'd been so happy to see him and had hugged him in her tank top and shorts. She smelled really good—like lotion and incense and shampoo, and the smile on her face permitted him from being anything other than Lance the Economist.
She'd also told him about how she'd lived with her parents until she was thirteen, when she was sent to a boarding school in Vermont, which she hated because she loved California's weather. But she says her parents didn't care, as they never really talked to her about anything. She says that while she hated leaving her younger brother and sister behind, and California itself, there were also, "wonderful advantages to being away…to being free." In a way she does mention her father, but it is always in a couple in reference to both her parents, never in the biographical way in which she talks about her mother.
Every night while in New York Sweets video chats with Booth and Dr. Brennan, giving them synopses of what he has discussed with Brighton. While she still doesn't know who he is, he says that he's really getting somewhere with her and that he doesn't want to rush it, that he finds it odd she doesn't talk about her father. Booth asks why doesn't he just ask and Sweets says, while he doesn't think it'd jeopardize his cover as it is a simple enough question, he also doesn't think it the right route to go.
He also speaks to Daisy every night over the phone. She tells him about how much she misses him and gives him gossip on the others. She asks when he'll be back in a small voice, and when he says he doesn't know she is silent for a bit before saying she understands. She mentions that it must be difficult having to form a relationship with a complete stranger, and he agrees not letting on that Brighton has made it exceptionally easy. That he will even be sorry when it is over and she inevitably hates him and they cannot savage a kind of friendship.
After Sweets has been in New York City for a week his nightly chat with Brennan and Booth is interrupted by a request from Daisy. He tells them he has to go, that the takeout guy just arrived and chats with Daisy. He'd forgotten how beautiful she was with her dark brown hair cascading across her shoulders, her skin pale in the glare of the camera. She tells him she's missed him, and begins to remove her shirt, then her bra.
He watches in awe as she asks him where would he like her to begin, and he clears his throat, not quite knowing what to say.
Lance is not quite sure how he would classify his relationship with Brighton, from a normal person's point of view. From the point of view of the person whom he is pretending to be, Lance Sweets, economist who happened to meet her outside of a café.
When he really thinks about it, he has to admit that he would classify them as a couple that has been 'dating.' Openly dating, as they have not committed to one another or even recognized their meetings as dates; and while they could be classified as a gathering amongst two friends, Lance knows that they aren't. The late nights spent watching movies and falling asleep on the futon in her dorm, the early morning meetings and breakfasts, the debates, the way she looks at him. Lance feels bad about what he is doing, as he knows that there are many layers of armor Brighton had to remove to feel so comfortable around him. She is not the kind of girl who easily trusts, and he notes that something traumatic must've happened early in life for her to do this. And so it is on his fourteenth night in New York City, the night he decides he will leave for D.C. before resuming talking with her again, that he decides to admit the truth.
Brighton has never seen his hotel room, as she thinks he lives in an old apartment building on the Upper Westside under renovation and is currently staying with his parents. However, one night he rents a car to brave the traffic of the city and takes her to dinner at a Mexican restaurant. He'd googled "fantastic restaurants in the NYC area" and while many had come up, this one caught his attention the most. It was located in Brooklyn and had many positive reviews. The overall consensus was the food great, staff friendly, and the feel "cozy."
He picked her up at 7 and his breath caught in his throat. All the while playing this character—half-truth and half lies, he'd constantly reminded himself that, when it was all said and done, she was a patient. Whether or not she knew it yet was not his concern. But as his eyes followed her down the stairs in that black pencil skirt and sleeveless, white-ruffled blouse that was dipped low, he couldn't help but note how gorgeous she was. Her hair was in a severe bun and her signature bangs falling softly in her eyes. She had on kitten heels and makeup—and although it was the lightest hint of makeup, it was still something he'd not seen her wearing in the two weeks he'd known her.
"You look absolutely gorgeous," he said as she shut the door and strapped herself in.
"Thank you, Lance," she said, "I didn't want to overdress but I didn't want to go the jeans or t-shirt route, either. I think I did a good job of straddling the line."
He nodded in agreement, and they drove in silence. They talked and laughed and joked as usual, and while eating dessert (flan and a scoop of vanilla ice-cream), he suddenly grew quiet.
"Hey—you okay?" She asked, smiling reassuringly at him from across the table.
It's now or never, he thought. "I've got something to tell you."
She sucked in her breath, "Oh, what? I mean, we've only known one another two weeks…I wasn't expecting some big secret just yet." She smiles that winning smile of hers once again, and he almost wants to make a joke.
"I don't have an apartment on the Upper Westside." He says, feeling stupid.
"Okay…" She says, looking at him oddly, "so what."
"And I'm not an economist" he continues.
She stops eating and sits back in her seat, "what's going on?"
"My name is Lance Sweets and I do wear a suit for work, I am kind of an office drone as I have my own, and I did graduate from university last year. Only with my doctorate allowing me to practice psychology; my name is Dr. Lance Sweets and I am a psychologist with the FBI in Washington, D.C. I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."
She looks shattered. Her mouth goes slack, her eyes widen, and she puts a hand to her mouth. She looks around and, ever the lady, excuses herself quietly as not to make a scene in the restaurant amongst the other guests. He leaves the bill and tip on the table and runs out after her into the night. He wonders if she's broke out in a run and is far, but she is sitting on the curb in the back, her head in her hands, defeated. He sits down next to her and there is an intense silence.
"I'm so, so sorry, Brighton. I am, a thousand times over." And it is the truth.
"It was all a lie," she says slowly, quietly.
He doesn't say anything, what is there to say?
"The FBI…you work with them—with…with the anthropologist and the agent with the skinny ties. They sent you to talk to me, to lie to me and gain my trust and—"
"No." He says, "They never told me what to say, and it wasn't all lies. Those conversations we had, the jokes, the late nights—"
"Shut up!" She says, and her voice is sharp and deadly low. She sighs. "I won't talk about it. About him, about what happened. Not now and not ever, so those were a wasted two weeks. I'm sorry you had to tell all those lies and pretend to be interested in me all for nothing."
"Brighton, I know you're angry now but I really only want to help you. I want to help you through this. In the two weeks I've known you, you haven't mentioned your father at all, and you seem to pretend as if he wasn't killed right in front of you…it's perplexing even for me to make sense of."
She looks at him then, her eyes shiny and dark. "I didn't ask you to shrink me. You know nothing about my relationship with my father, and you never will." She stands up to leave, and he begs her to at least let him drive her to her dorm. "Manhattan is a long way from Brooklyn" he says.
"I actually live here; I think I can manage paying for a fucking taxi—although the bill will be unbelievable."
"Let me pay for it" he pleads.
"You've done enough, Dr. Sweets!" She yells as she walks away, saying his title like a foreign word with too many syllables for her American tongue.
And as she retreats into the darkness, he can't help the sadness, the emptiness that encompasses him. He usually has the answers to everything, some rational way in which to explain things to everyone. And while he wanted to tell her that he'd told her things about himself—complete truths that he'd never told anyone, and that he considered her to be a friend—a real one without lies or barriers, he couldn't. All he could see was a girl who'd learned long ago not to trust anyone, adding him to the list of the many people she could not trust, and more armor going up around her young heart.
He got the first plane back to D.C. with her heartbroken face still fresh in his mind, determined to make things right, to gain her trust again and find out her truths. It was no longer a matter of doing a favor for Dr. Brennan and Agent Booth, of helping them to find out who had murdered Brighton's father. Now it was something else entirely. It was something he had to do for himself, and most of all, for her.