CHAPTER 3
There was a chill in the air on the roof of the hospital, and House was enjoying the mild sting of a crisp breeze against his face. He leaned far over the cement wall, hypnotized by the view below. He isolated his gaze to everything stationary: the trees, the benches, the sidewalks, grass, pillars, parking lot. When he stared very hard, the geometric designs and subtle differences in color and texture that made up the landscape of his bird's eye view revealed themselves to him in greater and greater detail. Objects in motion—cars pulling up the drive to pick up the people waiting on the benches, small groups of hospital employees heading to their cars at the end of their shifts, the occasional wail of a siren—seemed transparent to him as they crept in and faded out of his consciousness as he swallowed himself up in his own reverie.
Twilight was giving way to darkness when he pushed himself away from the wall and paced lazily around the perimeter of the roof. When he reached his starting point again, he slid down to the ground, leaning against the wall, his right leg outstretched and his left drawn up to his chest. He hooked his cane around one of the straps on his backpack and slid it towards him. He unzipped the front pocket and pulled out the familiar envelope. He often took it out from its hiding place on his bookcase when he was alone. He would set it on top of his piano and stare at it as his long fingers gracefully caressed the keys. There were nights spent in a haze of scotch and vicodin with the envelope on his lap and monster trucks on tv. He knew the weight, the texture, the color, the sound, and the smell of the object as intimately as he knew the strings on his guitar. It had elevated in his mind as a mysterious, almost supernatural treasure that was not to be tampered with. He often wondered why. He had long since admitted to himself that he was, at one point, in love with her. But what did that matter? What had changed? The core elements of his life, the normalcy and consistency he secretly relied upon to shelter himself from outside elements, were all the same. Same job, same boss, same apartment, same best friend. He took comfort in all of this, and it allowed him to move on in other aspects of his life. In a very real way, he had moved on from the years during which he spent every day working side by side with Cameron. He functioned just fine with his new team and went through life pretty much as he had before. But for some inexplicable reason, he just couldn't escape the thought of her. The memory of Cameron felt to him like he was going through life wearing sunglasses. She was right there in front of him all the time, coloring his view of the world and influencing every decision he made, but he had to learn to focus his thoughts through her to the real world. He exhaled heavily.
He began to slide his finger slowly under the secured flap of the envelope. He felt as though he was opening Pandora's Box, and was terrified of the consequences. He had never before been tempted to see what was inside. But it was time. He opened the envelope and pulled out a stiff sheet of paper. He held his breath as he unfolded the document. He had no idea what to expect. A typical resignation letter, detached and businesslike? A declaration of love? An ultimatum for her to stay? He swallowed.
He was half disappointed, half relieved as he started to read the letter. While it was impersonal and cold, it was the least complicated scenario. A succinct, efficient formality. His eyes widened slightly as he reached the second paragraph. After his initial amusement at the oh-so-very-Cameron-like tactic of confronting him with a reality he would never care to admit to himself, in this case that he cared even remotely what she would have written to him, his stomach tightened and his breath became shallow. He sat like stone, and read and reread the letter. He was not used to being wrong. His mind ran through the 3 years of their acquaintance at light speed as he reassessed every conversation they had ever had. As uncomfortable as he had been with his feelings for her before reading the letter, what he felt now was infinitely more terrifying. Up till now he was able to convince himself that what she felt for him wasn't real. He was so wrong. He wasted so much time! How would he have acted had he known? Would he have rebuked her even more cruelly or would he have opened himself up and taken a risk on her? His face contorted into a tortured grimace and he dropped the letter and ran his fingers through his hair and locked them there in agony. His leg throbbed and his throat tightened. Damn Wilson for finding this letter! He was now forced to face his worst fear: being vulnerable. He felt out of control, regretful, lost, petrified. All at once, he shoved the letter back into the front pocket of his back, stood up, grabbed his cane, threw his backpack over his shoulder and headed as quickly as he could to his motorcycle. He hadn't the faintest clue how to deal with this, but he knew one thing. He couldn't waste anymore time.
