It's late November 2003, and Agent Sarah Walker has been summoned to a meeting with CIA Director Graham. The CATS have just been disbanded, and Sarah hopes that this discussion will be the beginning of her career as an autonomous agent with more responsibilities—after all, hasn't I proven herself? But when I arrives in Graham's office, I discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything I thought I knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.
Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…
Chapter 7: Purgatory
As I watched Tiffany weave her way through the crowd, an invisible hand clasped over my mouth and an equally ghostly hypodermic of adrenaline pierced my heart, unloading in an instant. I felt my ribs heaving as if bound by ropes, straining to inflate my lungs. My head was a carousel of fears spinning out of control, each one pushing my mind further and further into blackness. I wanted to run away, but my limbs felt bound as well, and the hangman—currently making her way toward us—held a tight grip on the proverbial loose handle, ready to spring the trap door that lay beneath my feet.
When Tiffany finally arrived at our table, she planted her hands on her hips. Her glare sliced like razor blades as she looked me up and down with pure contempt. I could practically see the flames licking up in her eyes, ready to ignite anything they came in contact with.
Much as I wished she was anywhere but here, I couldn't blame her for her reaction at seeing me and Chuck in this intimate setting. She had every right to be angry with me, after I'd just torn into her to make a point and teach Bryce a lesson—another ridiculous deception that was now coming full circle.
My mouth went dry as her focus shifted to Chuck, who just sat there, frozen, like a marionette whose strings had been severed. Then her eyes locked back on mine, her mouth opened, and pure venom spewed out. "You've got some nerve, you know that?" she spat, "—giving me a bunch of shit … calling me a hussy for sleeping with your husband when I had no idea that Bryce was married. But here you are—the hypocrite-hussy-extraordinaire—out on a date and holding hands with another man! Don't even try and deny it. I saw the way you were looking at tall, dark, and curly here. What is this?—some kind of sadistic payback?"
Chuck yanked his hand out of mine like I'd burned him. "Wait. You're married?"
"No," I said, glaring daggers back at Tiffany. "I'm not."
"Yes, you are! You're a liar and a cheat." She tossed her hair, which would've been more effective if it had actually moved. "I don't care if Curls here is really cute. He deserves better than this—better than you. He deserves to know the truth … just like I did. I can't believe you had me feeling bad about wrecking your marriage—but it looks like you're doing a great job of that … All. By. Yourself."
"Hold on. Hold on. Hold on," Chuck said, putting a palm out in front of him as if to derail the freight train that was Tiffany. "Did you just say 'Bryce'? As in, Bryce Larkin … from Connecticut?"
"Not sure where he was from," she said. "I'm ashamed to admit it, but I never got his last name. We didn't really … talk … all that much. Dark hair, blue eyes, rugged good looks—almost as cute as you."
"That's not a very common name, Sarah," Chuck said as he turned to me, disillusionment clear in every line of his face. "Please tell me she's not talking about the same Bryce who got me kicked out of Stanford. The guy who stole my fiancée and destroyed my life?"
I couldn't lie to him—not after my epiphany. "Yes, Chuck … that's who she means, but Bryce and I aren't married. Far from it."
Tiffany snorted. "Then why did you turn up at his apartment the morning after Thanksgiving and tell me you were his wife?"
Chuck set his coffee cup on the table with a clink. "The morning after Thanksgiving? After you and I—after we—"
"Chuck," I said, desperation filling my voice, "I can explain. It's not what you think, I promise. I was starting to tell you, when she came up to our table."
Tiffany crossed her arms, shaking her head. "Don't listen to her, Chuck. She's so full of shit right now. Of course she'd say that after getting caught. She's just using you to get back at her husband."
His face crumpled. "I knew this was too good to be true."
"Please, Chuck. If you would just listen—"
He got to his feet, pushing his chair back from the table. "I can't believe you would do this to me, Sarah—after everything I shared with you—after everything we shared with each other. No—you know what? Actually … I can believe it. You'd think I'd be used to it by now. As soon as a little good luck falls my way, something always comes along to knock me on my ass and put me back in my place. What I can't believe is that I was stupid enough to think someone like you would ever want to be with someone like me. I'm such an idiot."
"No, Chuck." Tears stung my eyes. "Don't say that."
He pulled his wallet out of his pocket and threw some cash on the table along with his car keys. "That should be enough for dinner. I'll just take a cab or something. I'm sorry … but I can't do this right now."
"Come on, Chuck," Tiffany said, smirking at me as Chuck slipped on his blazer. "I can give you a lift."
Before I could say another word, they both turned and fled, heading for the door—straight through a group of thirty-something patrons who scattered like a flock of startled birds. I sat, my eyes glossy with tears, watching the best thing that had ever happened to me walk away … with another woman.
OoOoOoOoO
I drove Chuck's car back to Echo Park in total silence, sunk deep in misery. Just thirty minutes before, I'd been ecstatic, thrilled to be spending time with Chuck and reveling in the experience of my first-ever date … with a guy who'd clearly put a lot of thought into making the evening as special as it could possibly be. Being with him had felt so natural, as if I'd finally found the place where I belonged. I'd forgotten to be nervous, forgotten how worried I'd been that I wouldn't know how to act—even allowed myself to forget, if only for a few precious minutes, that I had to tell him the truth about who I really was and why I'd come to Burbank. For a little while, I'd just been a girl on a date with the amazing guy I'd fallen for. And even when I'd known it was time to tell him everything, I'd still hoped he'd understand.
Of course, that had been before Tiffany had swooped down upon our table like a vindictive bird of prey, scooping up Chuck in her manicured talons and flying right out the door.
I couldn't blame Tiffany—but God, the woman's timing couldn't have been worse. Another ninety seconds, and I would've at least told Chuck the basics. As it was, I'd had to sit there, helpless, as the warmth drained from Chuck's face and his eyes clouded with disappointment. The devastation in his voice … the self-incrimination … all of it was my fault. And to make matters worse … instead of cursing me out or calling me names, he'd floored me with his restraint. He'd even left me his car keys, so I could be sure to get home safely … even after he believed I'd betrayed him.
I didn't blame Chuck either, for believing the worst of me. He'd only just met me, after all. I just hoped he would eventually give me the chance to explain the situation and try to make things right.
My eyes blurred with tears, so it was hard to see the road. The red light in front of me shimmered, distorted, and I slammed hard on the brakes. All I needed was to wreck Chuck's rental car on top of everything else.
Stuck at the light, I smacked the steering wheel hard in frustration, accidentally hitting the horn and drawing the attention of two teenage guys who were making their way across the street. One of them peered closer at me, and elbowed his friend. "Hey, gorgeous," he called over to me. "Smile!"
If there was one thing I hated, it was being told to smile by a random guy—especially someone who was barely out of puberty. I couldn't help but compare the kid's behavior to Chuck's. He'd been such a gentleman, opening my car door for me and paying me compliments that didn't make me feel gross and dirty, like I needed to peel off my skin and sanitize it before stepping back in.
Guys had commented on my looks ever since my makeover—usually in a way that felt like it was much more about their own gratification than mine. Chuck was the first one who'd made me feel seen rather than objectified, cherished rather than drooled over. Without him, the world felt drained of color—back to the sepia shades that had defined my existence before I saw Chuck's picture in his dossier. The problem was, before, I had no idea what I'd been missing. Now I knew, and it hurt to think of having to go back to that existence.
The light changed and the boys made it safely to the other side of the street. Dashing away my tears with the palm of my hand, I pulled back out into traffic. I wanted to get home before Chuck did, so I could intercept him before he got into his apartment … but what if he wasn't going home? What if he and Tiffany were in some hipster wine bar right now, sipping Shiraz and bonding over their shared disgust with me? I could just see that bimbo looking deep into Chuck's eyes, placing a hand on his arm in support, and then …
When I thought about what might come next, the image went dark. I couldn't stand to picture it.
The car felt suddenly claustrophobic, and I rolled down the window, taking a deep breath. The scent of frying meat from the taco stand on the corner filled my lungs, nauseating me. What if I couldn't fix this? What if Chuck never wanted to talk to me again?
I would lose him. And I would have to crawl back to Langley with my tail between my legs … if Graham would even take me back after this.
My job. My pride. And Chuck. I stood to lose everything … even my faith in myself.
I stomped on the gas so hard, I heard a creaking sound as the heel of my stiletto threatened to crack. My seatbelt was snug across my chest, pinning me—but I welcomed the sensation. Right now, it felt like that belt was all that was holding me together … as if without it, I would scatter into a thousand trembling molecules of mercury: Volatile, amorphous, and poisonous to everyone I encountered.
Merging onto the 405, I passed one car after another, pushing the Accord to its limits. The roar of the engine echoed the scream I felt bubbling up in my chest. After a second, I let it loose. My howl filled the car, my desolation and rage shaking the windows and sinking deep into the upholstery, surrounding me on all sides—as if I'd crawled into the belly of the beast. Except in this case, the beast was me, and there was no escape.
Why had I waited? Why hadn't I told him the whole truth when I had the chance?
I knew why, of course. I hadn't wanted to wreck things—our ice skating and arcade adventures, our romantic dinner. It was ironic—and so, so stupid.
The exit for the I-5—the road that would take me to Burbank—was just a mile away. Pressing hard on the gas, I eased the Accord into a tiny space between a Jeep and a Camry, then checked my mirrors and shot across another lane. At least I had control over the car. Right now, it felt like the only thing I could control.
Maybe this was what happened when you loved someone—or deeply cared about them. It was too early to say I loved Chuck … wasn't it? How could you love someone you'd just met a few days ago? However I chose to label what I felt for him, I knew one thing for sure—it made me vulnerable, prone to thinking with my heart rather than my head. Prone to taking stupid risks. This wasn't me—the seasoned agent who plotted all of my actions five steps ahead, who always had a cool, calculated game plan and emotional detachment to match. I felt like a stranger occupying a Sarah Walker-shaped body.
Gripping the steering wheel, I forced myself to think. Who did Chuck love and trust? The answer to that one was easy: his sister, of course. Picturing how Ellie would react to my betrayal made my stomach clench … but if I was able to get Ellie to understand, then perhaps Chuck would, too.
Merging onto the I-5 with renewed determination, I began to rehearse what I would say. But no matter what I came up with, the bottom line was simple: I would utter whatever words I had to if it would bring that beautiful smile back to Chuck's face and the light back to his eyes. The thought of the mental oubliette he'd plummeted into was too much for me to bear. My pain merged with what I knew he must be feeling, tangling together until it hurt for me to breathe. I would do anything, say anything to make it stop … to make him happy again.
Even if it meant losing him forever.
OoOoOoOoO
When I got back to Echo Park—even though I knew it was a violation of his privacy—I couldn't resist checking the surveillance feeds, vowing to myself that it would be the last time I'd ever do such a thing. I clicked through each one. To my utter relief … and disappointment … Chuck wasn't home. Only Ellie, who was involved in the scintillating task of cleaning out the refrigerator. God, the woman was a neat freak. By the time she was done, Devon could've used the fridge to perform open heart surgery.
Restless, I kicked off my stilettos and changed from my dress into a t-shirt, jeans, and some ankle boots. I dumped the dress in the laundry basket and started pacing the room. I even ran cold water over my wrists, which I remembered my grandmother saying was a surefire way to calm down in a pinch.
Newsflash, Grandma: It didn't work.
Two minutes later, I was back in front of my computer, clicking through the feeds once again, just in case Chuck had showed up while I was freaking out. He still hadn't, so I pulled up the camera at the entrance to Echo Park—again. It was pointless, given that the system was set up to alert me through my watch when anyone entered or left the complex, but I had to do something.
This damn watch… It was an awesome piece of technology, but right now it felt more like a handcuff than anything else. I wanted to rip it off my wrist and hurl it at the wall. Instead, I paced the bedroom, running my hands through my hair, muttering to myself. I felt like a coil that had been wound too tight, ready to spring loose at the slightest provocation.
An eternity—or perhaps a half-hour—later, the camera revealed what looked like a brand-new black BMW that pulled up to the curb and sat there idling. I zoomed in and saw Chuck and Tiffany … talking. And then talking some more. What the hell did they have to say to each other that hadn't already been said? I felt my muscles tense as I watched. Were they affirming all that they had in common … expressing gratitude that they'd found each other … making plans to see each other again?
Fighting back a rising wave of jealousy, I zoomed closer still. Both of Tiffany's hands were on the wheel, her candy-apple-red-polished nails poised perfectly at ten and two. As for Chuck, he didn't look like a man in the throes of newly-discovered passion. His face wore the same somber look he'd had when he left the restaurant.
Feeling like the worst kind of voyeur, I sat there watching for another five minutes. Finally Chuck got out of the car and headed for Echo Park's gate. He'd only gone a couple steps before the passenger-side window of the BMW scrolled down and Tiffany leaned over, presumably calling to him. When he came back, she handed him a piece of paper—her phone number, if I had to guess—which he tucked in his pocket without examining. Waving goodbye to her, he turned and headed for home once more.
If I've ever had an ounce of courage, let me show it now. I drew a deep breath and stepped out of my front door just as Chuck walked into the courtyard.
His head jerked up, his eyes widening in surprise. "Sarah," he said, and he didn't sound angry—just hurt and resigned. "You could've given me my keys later. I told you, I'm not ready to talk right now."
How was it that executing top-secret missions—some of which had involved infiltrating the inner circles of the Russian mob and others which had entailed jumping out of honest-to-God airplanes—was easier than facing Chuck in this moment? I cleared my throat, knowing there was no going back after this. "This isn't about your keys, Chuck—although here they are." I tossed them at him, and his hand came up in reflex to pluck them from the air. "Can you please get Ellie and come over to my apartment? I have something very important to tell you both."
"Seriously?" He clenched his fist around the keys. Even from where I stood, I could see that his knuckles were white.
"Please, Chuck. If you don't want anything to do with me after you've heard what I have to say, I'll totally understand. But at least hear me out. If nothing else, to protect you and your sister."
His eyebrows lowered. "Protect us? From what? You're not making any sense."
"I know. And I know you have no reason to trust me." That one stung. "But this once—can you please do what I ask?"
He shook his head, looking beleaguered.
"Please," I said again, not caring how desperate I sounded. "Chuck, please."
Taking a few steps back, he folded his arms across his chest. "Fine. I'll be right back. Hold on."
I waited outside, my heart pounding, until he reemerged with Ellie right next to him. She looked confused; Chuck just looked apprehensive. I wondered what he'd told her during the brief moments he'd been inside. Surely that wasn't enough time to explain the whole Tiffany-and-fake-marriage debacle. If it was, Ellie's expression would be murderous rather than bewildered.
"Sarah?" Ellie said, looking me over. "What's wrong?"
"Not here," I said tersely, a false smile pasted on my face for the benefit of the cameras.
They followed me into my apartment, where I gestured for them to sit on the couch and then stood in front of them, wondering how to begin. Finally I decided to just start with the truth.
"I lied to you, Ellie," I said, looking her dead in the eye.
She tilted her head to the side in puzzlement and stayed that way, like a robot that had been given a command that didn't quite compute. "Lied? How?"
"I didn't move out here to start over after escaping an abusive ex-boyfriend. My estranged mother's not dead, at least as far as I know. And my father didn't abandon me, either. He's in jail after conning the wrong people and getting caught."
Ellie reanimated herself, scooting forward to the edge of the couch. "But—"
"I'm an agent with the CIA," I said in a rush. Better to get it out and get it over with. "I was sent here to get close to both of you."
Now they were both looking at me like I was crazy. Chuck ran his hand through his hair, leaving it a rumpled mess. "Wait … what?"
I sounded like a paranoid lunatic who'd spent the past thirty minutes comparison-shopping for the most effective tinfoil hat on the market. Well, there was nothing to be done about that. In this case, truth was definitely stranger than fiction … and I was so tired of all the lies.
"I promise I'll get to that, Chuck," I said, bracing myself. "As hard as this is for me, I want—no … I need to tell you both some things I've never told anyone. Not even the CIA knows everything I'm about to say."
They sat, silently, staring up at me as I began to speak. "I told you I was from DC. In a sense, that was the truth—I flew here from DC, and the CIA's Langley office is located in Virginia, just outside the Capitol. But I've only lived on the East Coast since I was 17. I was born in San Diego."
Ellie swallowed hard. "What? Why would you lie about that?"
"I'm a professional liar, Ellie. It's what I'm trained to do. But I promise I'm not lying now. If I was, I'd be a lot more comfortable having this conversation." I pulled a chair over and sank into it, thinking I'd seem less intimidating if I wasn't looming over them. "If you don't mind, I'd like to start at the beginning. I think my story will make more sense that way."
The Bartowski siblings folded their arms across their chests in eerie synchrony and just looked at me. Nervously, I cleared my throat and began.
"I didn't have a great childhood. My parents argued constantly, usually about my dad's incessant scheming, what a bad influence on me he was, how he spent all of our money. My mom was mad at him all the time." I have to repress a shudder at the memory: Lying in bed, trying to sleep as my parents' voices rose and fell in their room down the hall, spiky with rage and punctuated with slamming doors. "Back then," I say, shoving the memory away, "I thought my dad was the coolest. He was the fun parent. My mom was always laying down rules, telling me what to eat, what I could watch on TV, where I could go, that kind of thing."
Sitting up straight, I launched into the rest of the story. Might as well get it over with as quickly as I could. "They split up, and asked me to choose between them. I was only seven. I chose the parent who gave me chocolate cake for breakfast and promised me adventures. It destroyed my mom and wrecked our relationship—but as far as I know, she is very much alive."
"You lied about your dead mom?" Chuck's voice rose and cracked on the last two words.
"Well, technically, my undead mom. But yeah." I couldn't look him in the eye. "My dad promised me adventures, but what he gave me instead was a life on the run. He was a grifter. We went from town to town, constantly changing names to avoid the authorities, never putting down roots or forming attachments. Pretty soon, I was helping my dad with his cons." These memories were even worse: an eight-year-old girl deliberately riding her bike into the street in the path of a car to collect the insurance payout; a ten-year-old distracting a senior citizen coming out of a bank so my dad could snake his cash. "At first, I didn't understand how wrong it was. It seemed like a game. But later, even after I understood the way it affected the people we conned, how it caused them real hardship, I didn't stop. I was good at it—and I wanted my dad's approval more than anything. He was proudest of me when I learned the tricks of his trade … and I mistook that pride for love."
When I glanced at Ellie's face, the pity I saw there almost undid me. "That's horrible," she said, her voice soft.
"He got caught eventually," I told them. "A con went sideways and he came to the CIA's attention. Turns out, they'd been watching him … and me. I tried to run away, but the deputy director—he's the director now—caught me. He promised to protect my father from people who would harm him and to keep me out of juvie if I joined the CIA. I was seventeen. I agreed."
"You joined the CIA when you were seventeen? Is that even legal?" Chuck didn't look hurt anymore. Now he just looked shocked—and sorry for me. I wasn't sure which was worse.
"No," I admitted, "but I didn't know that then. I felt trapped … because I was. My father went to jail, and I went to the Farm—where CIA agents receive their training. I worked hard, and I became … not to brag … one of the most successful agents the CIA has ever had. I graduated at the top of my class and got assigned to an all-female squad. For a while, things were great—exciting, like the adventure my dad had promised me. But then, one of my teammates … one of the only friends I'd ever had … betrayed me. The team was disbanded after that, and I came back to Langley. Less than a week ago, I was reassigned to this mission and given my first partner … Bryce Larkin."
Ellie shot backwards so quickly, the couch smacked into the wall. "What?" she said, just as Chuck said, "So you just met Bryce? You're not married?"
"Married?" Ellie said, her eyebrows nearly meeting her hairline. "Chuck, what are you talking about?"
"There was a misunderstanding," I told Ellie. "Chuck, I did see Tiffany at Bryce's apartment, but it wasn't what you think. I was there to go over the mission parameters, and he'd gotten on my nerves the day before because he kept hitting on me. When I saw her coming out of his apartment, I decided to mess with him and act like I'd caught him cheating. It was just to teach him a lesson … I'd warned him about keeping a low profile, and here he was, having a fling the very first night we were in town. If I'd ever suspected it would backfire the way it did, I would've kept my mouth shut. The last thing I ever wanted was to hurt you."
Chuck's mouth opened, then closed again. Finally he said, "So, to be clear—you've never been with Bryce?"
I squared my shoulders. "I've never been with anyone. Not the way you mean. And definitely not Bryce."
A series of emotions rippled over Chuck's face—disbelief, relief, and … finally … happiness. "Then what happened between us—"
I couldn't reassure him quickly enough. "Everything between you and me—it was real. That's the whole reason I'm sitting in front of you, having this conversation. I told the director how I felt about you, and he was going to reassign me—so I threatened to quit. I'd rather leave the career I've been building since I was a teenager than give up on the possibility of being with you … of having something real. And I made it clear that if I stayed, it was contingent on having Bryce reassigned as my partner. I couldn't continue working with him after what he did to you."
I could see Chuck's chest move as he took a deep breath—but all he said was, "You said 'reassigned to this mission.' What mission? And what does Bryce have to do with all of this? Don't tell me he's a CIA agent too."
"Oh, he is definitely a CIA agent," I said grimly. "An obnoxious, inappropriate one—but an agent just the same. Everything that happened with Professor Fleming and Stanford—it's all connected. Fleming wanted to recruit you into the CIA based on the score you'd gotten on a test they'd administered … but someone intervened on your behalf, and Bryce shut it down. That's why he framed you and got you kicked out of Stanford … to protect you. Or so he claims."
Chuck's hands clenched the fabric of the couch so tightly, I heard it give under the strain. "Someone intervened? Who? And why?"
If the rest of the story had been difficult to tell them, this was the worst part. "Your father," I said, and heard both Bartowskis suck in a sharp breath.
Ellie spoke first. "What are you talking about?"
"He's in hiding, Ellie. He goes by the code name Orion—and he's the only person alive with any hope of completing a highly classified project with national security implications."
"I can't believe this." Chuck shot to his feet, pacing the length of my living room. "How is any of this possible?"
Ellie didn't move, but every line of her body sang with tension. "Tell us everything you know," she said, her voice as rigid as her posture.
It was my turn to take a deep breath. "If you had any doubt as to whether I'm telling you the truth, or how much the two of you have already come to matter to me … all I can say is, I'm putting my life in your hands. If you want to make sure I never see the light of day again, all you'll have to do is let someone in the government know what I'm about to tell you."
Chuck froze in place, staring at me. "What are you saying? They'd kill you? Lock you up somewhere? It's that serious?"
I hated that he'd been dragged into this world—my world—but as long as he was here, it was my responsibility to make him understand. "Let me tell you about the Omaha Project," I said, and told them everything I knew.
When I was finished, Chuck looked even more disbelieving than he had when I'd confessed I'd never been with Bryce—with any guy—before. "That's not possible," he said. "It sounds like something out of one of my graphic novels."
"Actually," Ellie said slowly, "it just might be. I've read papers that allude to the possibility—and I found some notes of Dad's in storage that suggest he was looking into building some type of 'learning computer.' I thought it was just in the planning stage … but maybe he accomplished more than we ever imagined."
"But we haven't seen Dad in a decade," Chuck said. "Even if all of this is true, what could you possibly want from us?"
This part was tricky. "Originally, the CIA wanted me to gather any information that might help us locate Orion and coax him out of hiding. I don't want to do anything behind your back or that would make you feel uncomfortable. Personally, I don't care if you cooperate at all. I just wanted to tell you the truth—and have a chance to start over … if you'll give it to me."
Ellie got to her feet, walking over to put an arm around her brother. "We need some time to think. This is a lot to drop on us out of the blue … and you already admitted you're a professional liar. Maybe you are telling the truth now—but we let you into our home … hell, around our Thanksgiving table … under false pretenses. I'm sure you'll understand that we need some time and space."
"I do understand," I said, because what else was there to say? "Thank you for hearing me out."
Without another word, she tugged Chuck toward the door and opened it. Right before they stepped outside, he looked back at me, his expression wistful … almost as if he wished he could stay. But he didn't resist. He let Ellie pull him out the door.
It closed behind them with a click that sounded as final as anything I'd ever heard, and I buried my face in my hands. I'd done the right thing … I knew I had. But I still felt awful.
What if I'd told the truth, and lost him anyhow? What would I do then?
I had to believe things would work out somehow. But believing that required something I'd never had much of.
Faith.
OoOoOoOoO
The rest of the evening dragged interminably. I cleaned my already-spotless apartment, caught up on paperwork, and did everything I could to pass the time. Finally I ate some Ben & Jerry's and crawled into bed, feeling miserable. Sleep eluded me. I lay flat on my back, watching the ceiling fan revolve. It went in a pointless circle, just like the hamster wheel of my thoughts: Will he forgive me? Should he? What will I do if he doesn't? Tears slipped down my face, and I didn't bother to wipe them away.
Then I heard a soft knock on the door.
Hope flared in my chest, a faint, flickering flame. I grabbed my gun from under my pillow and went to see who it was. If Bryce Larkin was at my door, I was going to shoot first and ask questions later.
But when I looked through the peephole, Bryce wasn't on the other side. Instead Chuck stood there, shifting from foot to foot in his Converse sneakers, his hands deep in his pockets.
My heart started to pound triple-time. I shoved the gun into the back of my waistband and ran a hasty hand over my hair, trying in vain to smooth it. I was sure I looked awful—tear-stained face, messed-up hair, rumpled clothes. It didn't matter; at least it was honest. I wrenched the door open and stood, gaping at him.
He gave me a hesitant smile. "So," he said, before I could speak, "I thought about what you said. About starting over. And I had an idea."
I was far from an expert when it came to relationship conversations, but this didn't sound like he was telling me he never wanted to speak to me again. The spark of hope flared brighter. "Yes?" I said, my voice hoarse from tears and disuse.
His smile widened. "Hi," he said, extending one hand to take mine. "I'm Charles Irving Bartowski. My friends call me Chuck."
It was more than I could have dreamed of—he was wiping the slate clean, taking us back to the very beginning. I felt my lips rise in a smile that echoed his own.
I owed him the truth. I would give him everything.
"Hi," I said, and took his hand. It enfolded mine, warm and confident and sure. "My name is Samana Elisabeth Wozniak. But my friends call me Sarah."
A/N: This has been a challenging week for everyone—and especially challenging (but also wonderful) for us as Emily recovers from her successful surgery. We are so relieved her pathology results were excellent but of course also concerned for our extended network of friends and family as the world confronts the wreckage of COVID-19. We're sorry that we weren't able to reach out to you individually to thank you for your reviews on our past chapter as we normally do … we'll resume that practice this time around! Hopefully this chapter will entertain, uplift and distract you during these unprecedented times.
As always, thanks for reading—and please keep your reviews, follows, and favorites coming our way! They really do make this all worthwhile.