Walking like a one man army
Fighting with the shadows in your head
Living out the same old moment
Knowing you'd be better off insteadIf you could only
Say what you need to say
-Say by John Mayer

Chapter 4 - Start Over

Nothing happens.

Not just you don't respond.

Nothing.

Happens.

You wait, while you try to get your head around the biggest irony life has ever presented you. You have spent the last four years trying to convince her that you don't want her. And only now, now, when you finally feel like you're ready to admit that you do and maybe take a chance with her, you've succeeded. She thinks you don't want her.

You waiver.

Would it be easier? Would it make your life simpler if you let her keep thinking that? What would it take to make her believe you'd been lying? Are you willing to give it?

Does hesitating make you a coward?

You back off. It's almost imperceptible. Almost. But with scarcely an inch between you any movement is noticeable and she does. The moment is broken and you haven't given her an answer.

You can't.

You don't know what the answer is.

You don't know why you're so surprised. You told her enough times that you don't want her. Insulted her, belittled her, humiliated her in public and private while she ran dozens of titers and gels and helped you saved countless lives. You've insinuated over and over that the whole thing, whatever the thing is, exists only in her head.

But you are still surprised she believes it.

She slides back rapidly across the worn leather seat and gropes blindly for her purse, training her eyes on the table. She lurches from her seat and swoons slightly; you didn't think she'd drunk that much and you can feel that part of your brain that puzzles out symptoms kick into gear. You have to force yourself to stop and consider an alternative even worse than Cameron having some mysterious disease: you've finally pushed her away so hard she's falling.

"Cameron …"

"Don't," she cuts you off and you cringe. You haven't heard that particular tone of voice in a long time. You think Wilson's come close a few times, but there's a very subtle difference in the inflection. Wilson gives an awful lot of himself to you, but not everything. This was the voice of someone who had been willing to give everything, and been turned away.

You hate this voice.

She's still just standing there and you wait. You're good at waiting, you realize. You've been waiting four years. Maybe you waited too long.

"I didn't want to start over. Not again. But I can't keep going here. Not like this. Call it running if you want, but I can't get past this, get past you, when you're right in front of me."

This is different. You've heard this sentiment from her before but this time is different. This time, you think she might really mean it.

"You were right," she says, and you're surprised that sweet little Cameron could sound so bitter and world-weary. "I am pathetic. And naïve and all the other things that stopped you from wanting me. And even though I hate that you're such a coward, I hate that I'm still so pathetic even more. Because from now on, no matter what, every knock on my door is going to sound like wood on wood. Because that's what I'm waiting to hear."

You reach for her, but she's already leaving. You flashback to the nightmares you'd been having. Nightmares of Cameron literally slipping through your fingers. You've never believed in omens or portents, but this is a little too close to your dream for comfort.

You want to go after her. You do. But some part of you, the self-preserving part that's been making all these types of decisions for the last ten years or so thinks you ought to stay. Just let her leave. You'd heal, and so would she. Life would go on and some day you'd realize you hadn't thought of her for a while. And then one day you'd think of her and it wouldn't hurt.

Or so you'd like to believe.

But the more cynical part of you knows that self-preservation is exactly why you've been so completely alone for nearly a decade. Time heals all wounds. That's crap. Ten years avoiding love hadn't healed you. It had stunted you. Crippled you. What would another ten years do?

You push away your drink, unfinished. Self-preservation had done exactly that. Preserved you in the state you were when Stacy left. Angry, bitter and alone.

You think now, the time for self-preservation is done. It's time to start over.