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 she proven herself? But when she arrives in Graham's office, she discovers that he has something very different in mind … a mission that will lead her to question everything she thought she knew about herself, and compel her to choose between fulfilling her duty and following her heart.

Disclaimer: I don't own Chuck…

Chapter 8: Tabula Rasa

When I finally woke up the next morning, I had to pinch myself to make sure I wasn't still immersed in a freakish dream state. I'd tossed and turned all night, my subconscious populated by a rotating, bizarre cast of characters: Ellie catapulting roasted turkeys at my head, barbed stuffing spraying everywhere like a hail of doughy javelins; Chuck winning me a Styrofoam gun—equipped with lacy ankle holster—from the Playland arcade and challenging me to a quick-draw competition; Graham sitting cross-legged on his desk, shaking a giant Magic 8-Ball, telling me to ask him anything.

Did last night really happen? "As I see it, yes."

Has Chuck really forgiven me? "It is decidedly so."

Can I really have a normal life … complete with a best friend who accepts me for who I am, and an amazing guy who loves me for the same reasons? "Better not tell you now."

I hadn't slept so fitfully since I was five years old, trying to catch Santa coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve. I could remember the exact sensation—wanting so desperately to catch a glimpse of him, but afraid that if I did, it would destroy the magic, that nothing could possibly live up to so much hype. That was how I felt now … anticipating the dawn but terrified that somehow I'd wake up to find I'd invented everything … that Chuck was too good to be true.

I'd jolted awake between each dream, glancing out the window to see if it was morning yet—the first day of my new life. But no … each time, the sky had been dark as the heart of a crow's eye, the unrelenting blackness broken only by the warm yellow glow of the courtyard lamps. I'd sunk back into an uneasy sleep, finally surfacing to see the lamplight fading, eclipsed by the light of the rising sun.

I sat up, my back against the headboard, feeling happier than I could remember being in a long, long time. Maybe ever. A chorus of birds broke the drone of the early-morning-city traffic, greeting the sunrise with as much optimism as I felt. I knew it was too early to be up, but I couldn't contain my excitement and the echo-effect that rolled through my memories of last night.

Yes, Chuck had actually forgiven me. More than that, he'd given me—given us—a chance to start over. Joy filled my entire body, trickling through every vein, warming me like fine wine as I rolled over and hugged my spare pillow to my chest, remembering.

"Your name's … Samana?" he'd said, a hint of disbelief in his voice. "Not Samantha—did I hear that right?"

"You did," I'd assured him, making a futile effort to smooth my disheveled hair. "But I haven't used that name since I was a little girl—before my dad and I hit the road and everything went to hell."

"Well, that aside … it's beautiful." He'd shifted his weight bashfully. "And unique. Which is fitting, considering who it belongs to."

I could feel a blush heating my face as I looked up at him through my lashes. "Thank you."

He just stared down at me … waiting—for what, I had no idea. But telling the truth had worked out well for me so far, so I decided to stick with it.

"Even the CIA doesn't know my real name, Chuck," I said, daring to take his hand in mine. "I told you because I think you deserve to know everything about me, if you're ever going to be able to trust me again. My legal name really is Sarah Walker, though. The CIA made that official as soon as I joined. Would it … would it be okay with you, if you kept calling me that? It's the only identity I've ever known as an adult and it's … something real … at least to me."

"I'll call you whatever you like." He squeezed my hand. "But I'm no fool, Sarah … contrary to popular belief. And it means a lot that you were willing to share your birth name with me … especially since you've never told anyone else."

I smiled at him and we stood in silence, holding hands, breathing in the wine-grape scent of the Catalina Perfume plants that edged the courtyard. After a moment Chuck said, "Sarah—did you really threaten to quit if you were reassigned?"

"Of course." My response was instinctive—but I knew Chuck deserved more of an explanation. "My whole life," I said, searching for the right words, "I've felt alone. Isolated. When I was little, my parents fought so much that I never wanted to invite anyone over. And later—I knew the cons I pulled with my dad were wrong, that I couldn't tell anyone about them … so making friends was hard, since they could never get to know the real me. Plus, we moved over and over. Just when I'd start to trust someone, we were gone. Finally I gave up. It was easier to keep to myself or just have superficial relationships."

Sympathy filled his dark eyes. "I'm so sorry, Sarah. I don't know what would've happened to me if I hadn't had Ellie … or even Morgan, as ridiculous as he can be sometimes. You must've been so lonely."

The kindness in his voice almost undid me. I had to swallow around the lump in my throat before I answered him. "I was lonely … but after a while, it was all I knew, so I didn't even recognize it anymore. It was just part of who I was—blond hair, blue eyes, didn't let anyone in. Then I joined the CIA, and duty replaced close friendships … or anything more. I think maybe that's why I got so good at my job. There was nothing else, so I threw myself into my training to fill the void inside me. I was so used to seeking my dad's approval and calling that love, that I just replaced him with my trainers and Director Graham. All that mattered was excelling at being an agent and pleasing them … until I met you."

Despite the gravity of what we were discussing and my worry that something I'd say would drive him away, I felt content … and shielded. The feeling washed over me, wrapping me like a familiar blanket, cradling me.

"When I met you and Ellie," I said, my voice soft, afraid to shatter the moment, "and then you and I had that amazing conversation by the fountain, I started to realize everything I'd been missing. And I knew the two of you were worth whatever sacrifice I'd have to make. So I told Graham I'd resign if he reassigned me. I wanted to stay with you … but I also wanted to keep you safe."

Chuck tensed. "But your job," he said. "You just got finished telling me how it was everything to you—how it replaced your family, your friendships. You were really willing to give all of that up—for me?"

I let him see the incredulity on my face—my amazement that he'd even ask. "Of course," I said again, shrugging. "I would have given it up in a heartbeat. I still would."

"Thank you," he said, his voice a whisper. "And thank you for helping to clear my name with Stanford. I'll owe you forever for that."

"You don't owe me anything. And I didn't do anything special. You only got what you worked so hard for, Chuck—what you earned."

The glow of the lamps flickered in the breeze, sending shadows rippling through the courtyard. I felt almost as if we were underwater … existing in a dimension separate from the real world. I didn't want to bring anger into the cocoon we'd created, this perfect third place where redemption was possible and maybe—just maybe—Chuck felt the same way about me as I did for him … but I couldn't help myself. A fierce protective instinct had taken hold of me. I wanted to punish anyone who had ever hurt him, to stand between him and anyone who intended him harm. I felt like a wolf, her back to her den, guarding her cubs from whatever might threaten them ... because losing them would destroy her.

"What happened to you wasn't fair," I said, struggling to keep the harshness from my voice. "I just happened to have the right connections to be able to walk it back … but it should never have happened in the first place. That's the important part, the part that matters."

"Sarah." There was no mistaking the heartfelt conviction in his tone. Unlike me, Chuck had never learned to lie—and no matter how difficult his life had been, he hadn't let it break him or close him off from the people he loved. I admired that so much. "I know you went out of your way to help me get my degree … maybe even to get that reparation check. You deserve my gratitude, and I won't let you believe otherwise. You think I'm saving you … well, I could have gone years in a funk, stuck at the Buy More, bitter and feeling horrible about myself, if the weight of that injustice hadn't been lifted off my shoulders. And you did that. You made it happen. No matter what you say, I won't believe anything else … so don't bother trying."

I peeked up at him. He looked so beautiful, his hair as tousled as mine and his eyes fever-bright with the intensity of his emotions. "Okay," I said, one careful word at a time. "I won't try, then. For whatever small part I may have played in setting things right … you're welcome."

He smiled, as if I'd said the perfect thing. "So … if you don't have plans tomorrow night … do you want to come over for family dinner?"

I could feel my face fall. "I don't know, Chuck. Even if you've forgiven me, I'm sure Ellie must hate me after tonight. Why would she ever want me to sit around her table again?"

"You can ask her tomorrow. After all, it was her idea."

It had been Ellie's idea to have me come over … after I'd lied to her, infiltrated myself into the Bartowskis' lives under false pretenses, and hurt her baby brother? Was she planning a postprandial evisceration? I stared at Chuck, unsure what to say.

"Say yes," he urged, as if he could read my mind. "We're starting over, right? Devon's gonna grill … we're having burgers and twice-baked potatoes, and Ellie's making her famous margaritas. She's got a heavy hand with the tequila, but it's not like you'll have to drive home."

Looking at his eager face, I decided two things. First, if I wasn't careful, living across from the Bartowskis was going to turn me into the Stay Puft Marshmallow Woman. And second … yes, I would go.

I said as much to Chuck, who nodded as if he'd expected me to agree all along. "Great," he said. "I'll see you tomorrow, then. Seven?"

"Sure," I said, and he turned to go.

"Chuck?"

He looked back over his shoulder, his expression expectant, and I felt suddenly shy. "Thank you for this chance to be your friend. I promise I won't take it for granted … or wreck it this time around."

He strode back to me and caught me up in a huge hug. "You're more than welcome," he said, pressing his lips to my cheek. He let go before he could see the blush that stained my face … or the way I stood with my fingertips grazing the spot where he'd kissed me, long after he'd crossed the courtyard and gone back to his own apartment.

I'd gone to sleep feeling unbelievably lucky—and I woke up feeling the same way. Filled with energy, I bounced out of bed, hummed my way through a shower, and got dressed. I couldn't wait for tonight—to spend time with Chuck again, to let Ellie see the real me. The despair I'd felt driving home from Sushi Roku seemed as distant as the edge of a foreign land, glimpsed from a boat far from shore. As one of my grandmother's favorite jazz singers, Dinah Washington, was famous for saying—what a difference a day makes.

Whatever the future held, I was strong enough to face it. With Chuck by my side, I was sure I could do anything.

OoOoOoOoO

I couldn't remember ever feeling like an equal when I'd talked to Graham before.

I'd felt many ways: Apprehensive, proud, appalled, angry, frightened, eager. But always, there had been a clear sense of the hierarchy that existed between us. He gave the orders; I obeyed them.

Today was different.

"Report," he said crisply when I dialed his number and his secretary patched me through.

I leaned back in my desk chair, watching the breeze rifle through the fronds of the courtyard's palm trees, and drew a deep, centering breath. Graham no longer held power over me. If he tried to goad me into doing something that made me uncomfortable, I'd quit—simple as that. I didn't care if I wound up working at a hot dog stand or making my living as a dog groomer.

"Well," I said with a certain amount of glee, "I understand that Agent Larkin is relatively green, sir, so I attempted to share my expertise—which he was reluctant to accept. Unfortunately, when I arrived at his apartment the morning after Thanksgiving, I intercepted a woman walking out the door … one with whom he'd obviously been less than discreet. I attempted to create a cover story by stating that I was his wife, and expressing distress that he'd been cheating on me … which backfired when the woman in question appeared during my date with Chuck Bartowski. I was able to salvage the situation by telling Chuck and his sister the truth about my role as a CIA agent—but it was a close call."

There was silence on Graham's end of the line. Over the years, I'd become accustomed to all sorts of silences from the CIA's director—be they contemplative, anticipatory, or something else entirely. This one was coated with a scrim of icy disapproval. I could tell from the way Graham was breathing—shallow, with a hitch on the exhale. He'd been quiet like that in my presence before … right before he gave an agent the axe.

"I see," he said after a solid minute. "All the more reason for Agent Larkin to be called back to Langley. He arrives this afternoon; rest assured I'll be discussing this matter with him shortly thereafter."

"Whatever you think is best, sir," I said, suppressing a grin.

"Anything else?"

"Yes, sir. Ellie Bartowski invited me over for a family dinner—which I will admit is a relief, inasmuch as I wasn't sure how she'd react to knowing the truth about my presence in Burbank."

Graham hummed with satisfaction. "I'm glad to see my confidence in you was not misplaced, Agent Walker."

"Thank you, sir. I will say that I feel the dinner invitation is a test, to some degree. Ellie is a person who values honesty. If I don't remain straightforward with her, I don't think she'll give me a third opportunity."

"Fair enough, Agent Walker. While I appreciate your commitment to honesty, I'm sure that I don't need to reaffirm the importance of circumspection." Graham's voice held a hint of warning.

"Of course not, sir." My gaze traveled from the palms to the fountain in the center of the courtyard … watching the water that flowed from the top into the basin, varying in speed and power, taking the shape of whatever container it inhabited. While I might be fully inhabiting my own skin for the first time where Chuck and Ellie were concerned, when it came to Graham, I still needed to alter my shape to fit what he expected to see. "Being able to speak honestly with the Bartowskis has already proved fruitful. During our discussion about Orion, Ellie shared that she'd previously come across some of her father's work suggesting the existence of Project Omaha as a possibility—at least, from her perspective as a neurologist."

"Is that so?" I could detect a hint of excitement in Graham's voice.

"I thought it seemed promising." Swiveling away from the window, I stood up, pacing the length of my bedroom. "The advanced search engine that Chuck's been working on seems like it might prove to be a useful tool in finding Orion. May I suggest that we be aboveboard about the antivirus and search engine that the CIA retrieved from Chuck's hard drive? The Agency could offer to buy the exclusive rights to the software from him."

"Software which we already have." Graham's tone was dry.

"Yes, but not acquired in an effort of good faith." I tried to sound reasonable, rather than the way I felt—rebellious and pissed off. Not in an effort of good faith was about two dance steps away from saying You stole it from him, and now you intend to use it to your advantage.

"I'll consider it," Graham said—which, I knew, was the best that I was likely to get out of him.

"Thank you, sir."

"I have another appointment in five minutes, Agent. Is there anything else you'd like to discuss?"

"Yes, sir. Has the removal of the surveillance equipment been scheduled? It needs to be done today, while the Bartowskis and Devon are at work." 'Need' was not normally a word that Graham would tolerate hearing me say; he didn't allow his agents to make demands. In this case, however, I hoped he'd be willing to make an exception. I hadn't mentioned the equipment to Chuck and Ellie, figuring there was a limit to what even they were willing to tolerate … but my guilt surged in accordance with every second that it remained in place.

"I am, as usual, one step ahead of you. It's scheduled to be removed in"—there was a pause as he checked the time—"seven minutes. If you have no further concerns, I'll check in with you following your meal with the Bartowskis—say, eight AM tomorrow."

"Yes, sir," I said again, and he disconnected the call.

Seven minutes, Graham had said. I spent them floating around my apartment in what I could only describe as a dizzy fog of happiness. Graham was pleased. Chuck wanted to see me again. And the cameras would be out of his apartment by the time I sat down to dinner with him and his sister tonight.

Six minutes and thirty seconds later, I logged onto the surveillance software for what would be the last time and watched Graham's team extract the equipment from Chuck's apartment. My feed of the entrance was the last to go.

I shut down my computer, grabbed my bag, and crossed the courtyard to sweep the apartment for any bugs that might accidentally-on-purpose have been left behind … but none remained. Satisfied, I locked the door behind me and went shopping for the perfect outfit to wear tonight … the first night of my new life.

OoOoOoOoO

I wore brand-new dark wash jeans and a red cross-front eyelash sweater, in the softest material I could find. Black spike-heeled ankle boots completed my ensemble. I'd put in some serious time with a curling iron, so my hair fell in waves around my face, and used a hint of blush, mascara, and coral lip gloss. Excitement heated my cheeks, making it look as if I'd been more liberal with the blush brush than I'd intended.

At seven o' clock on the dot, I stood in front of the Bartowskis' door and knocked, the irises I'd bought in hand. Three seconds later, Chuck pulled the door wide. He was grinning at me—that blinding, happy smile I'd come to love. He'd made a valiant attempt at taming his dark curls into submission, and he was wearing a forest-green button down and khakis … fancier, I imagined, than what he usually wore to family cookouts. It made me happy to think that he'd wanted to look good for me, too.

"Hey," he said, and I found myself smiling in response. "Thanks for the flowers. Purple's Ellie's favorite color."

She'd been wearing a purple sweater last night, so I'd hoped she'd have a special affinity for the irises—creamy white, with a delicate tracing of purple around their edges. Having finely attuned powers of observation ought to count for something. "You're welcome," I said as he gestured for me to come in.

The house smelled amazing—like vanilla and fir trees. I glanced around and found the source: A single candle, set in the middle of the dining room table, its flame dancing in the small air currents that wound their way through the room. What was it about this place that drew me in so inexorably—a magnet to its pole, a river to the sea? It went beyond my intense attraction to Chuck. I wanted to curl up in a corner of the living room couch with a blanket, a book, and a cup of tea like a magazine advertisement for contentment.

"Care for a tasty beverage?" Chuck said, cocking an eyebrow. "I challenge you to drink a couple of Ellie's margaritas and remain unaffected … even if you are a super-spy."

"I'd love one … thanks." It was the absolute truth. I couldn't imagine facing Ellie without some form of liquid courage.

He led the way into the kitchen, where Ellie stood at the counter, slicing limes. The sharp scent of citrus rose in the air as she spun to face me.

"Hey, Sarah," she said, smiling cordially enough … but I could see the tenseness in her jaw. She might be allowing me in her house … but dinner would be part cookout, part interrogation.

"Hi, Ellie. Thank you for having me," I said, and thrust the flowers at her in self-defense.

The smile broadened. "I love irises. Chuck, can you grab me a vase?"

He gave her a wary look, then ducked out of the room. I heard him rustling around in the dining room, opening cabinet doors, a moment before Ellie set the flowers on the counter and turned to me. "My brother really likes you," she said, in the tone I imagined she would use to present a dire diagnosis. "And so do I—despite everything. Don't screw this up a second time."

Before I could protest that I had no intention of doing any such thing, Chuck was back, vase in hand. He filled it at the sink, and Ellie pivoted, as smoothly as if that was what she'd meant to do all along, and handed me a glass tumbler, salt encrusting its rim. "Enjoy," she said.

"Thanks." I took a sip, and discovered that Chuck hadn't been joking. The lime juice and orange liqueur blended well enough, but there was no doubt that Ellie had been a bit heavy-handed with the Patron Silver tequila I saw sitting on the counter. Even though Chuck had warned me the drinks would be strong, I couldn't help but think that this might be part of Ellie's plan to loosen my lips in order to extract more of the truth. I couldn't blame her if it was.

As Ellie prepared Chuck's drink, I asked him about his day—mainly to divert him from asking about mine, which would have forced me to lie. After all, I'd spent the past few hours dealing with Graham and overseeing the removal of the surveillance … not exactly something I could share.

Maybe it was the liquor—or maybe just the man himself—but I felt warm all over when he gave me his crooked smile, launching into a rambling story about documenting everything that his replacement at the Buy More would need to know. His threat assessment included how to deal with the zombie outbreak that might arise after someone—on a dare—ate the leftover food from the mystery crisper in the break room's refrigerator; Anna's proclivity for breaking out in spontaneous interpretive dance when bored; mandatory feeding times to avoid one of Morgan's 'hangry' episodes; and Jeff and Lester's disgusting behavior, which was as offensive as it was ham-handed.

"Maybe I should draft a manual," he said at last with perfect seriousness, taking a swig of his margarita. "The Chuck Bartowski Guide to Handling the Unexpected, Unprecedented, and Undead."

I giggled, inhaled—and almost choked on my drink. "Excuse me," I muttered, and escaped down the hall toward the bathroom to stem the flood of laughter-induced tears streaming out of my eyes. Standing in front of the mirror, dabbing at my mascara, I tried not to think about how I'd known where the bathroom was without asking. Did I need to tell Chuck and Ellie about the surveillance equipment if it had only been there for a few short days, and I'd personally overseen its removal? I wanted to forget all about it—but the thought that there was still something I was concealing from the Bartowski siblings haunted me.

OoOoOoOoO

Dinner was as delectable as Chuck had promised. Devon, who'd been outside grilling when I arrived, brought the burgers inside on a platter, as ceremoniously as if it held the crown jewels. "Medium rare," he announced, "the only way to eat a burger. Also, hello, Sarah. Nice to see you again."

He set the burgers on the table with a flourish as I helped Chuck grab the condiments and accoutrements: ketchup; three kinds of mustard (regular yellow, Dijon, and spicy brown); mayo; sautéed onions and mushrooms; pickles; sliced avocadoes; and some sizzling strips of bacon that Ellie'd thrown in a pan while I was in the bathroom, doing my best not to impersonate a raccoon. Next came the twice-baked potatoes, overflowing with sour cream, cheddar, chives, and bacon bits.

"And," Devon said, rummaging in the refrigerator and coming up with a cut-glass pitcher, "in case anyone gets tired of Ellie's awesome margaritas—not that anyone would, babe, but you know I like to have a backup plan—I've made my grandma's killer sweet tea. Not that it's, you know, actually killed anyone. And if it did, well, you've got two doctors here to revive you. But seriously, no cookout's complete without it."

He pulled a glass from the cabinet next to the stove and poured a glass, offering it to me. "Guests first."

Obligingly, I took a sip. It was strong, sweet—the sugar so intense as to be intoxicating—and delicious.

"Well?" Devon prodded, watching me.

"It's amazing," I managed, tossing back the rest of the glass. "And it's good I'm not a diabetic. After a glass of this, I definitely don't need dessert."

He grinned, revealing a dazzling display of teeth that had doubtless kept an orthodontist in business, and we all settled down to eat, taking the same chairs we had at Thanksgiving. Even though that had just been a couple of days before, it felt like forever. I'd been a different person then.

"So," Ellie said, reaching for the mayo, "what's new, Sarah?"

It felt like a loaded question—because it was. Still, there was no way she could know about the surveillance removal … was there? What if she and Chuck had set up surveillance of their own?

I was being paranoid. They had no reason to do that, even if Chuck's technical abilities made such a thing an easy task. Taking a sip of the fresh margarita Ellie'd set at my place for courage, I began, "Honestly—" and shot a look at Devon.

Ellie intercepted my glance and nodded, giving me what I interpreted as the all-clear to speak in front of her boyfriend. I'd suspected she'd told him everything; that was, after all, what I imagined someone in an honest, open relationship would do. Suspected and imagined were, of course, the key words here … but I was learning.

"I, um—" It was time to stop dithering and pull myself together. I never dithered. Now would be a poor time to start. "I spoke with the Director and told him that you knew everything. So, now we're all on the same page."

"Good," Ellie said, the single syllable clipped. "Chuck, please pass the avocado."

I wanted to apologize again for lying to them, but I knew that would be pointless. I'd already told them how sorry I was. All that would make a difference now would be proving my worth to them through my actions. So I tried my best to be a good guest, making conversation with Ellie and Devon about their work at the hospital, praising Devon on the quality of his burgers ("the secret," he said, leaning across the table toward me as if—ironically—he might be overheard, "is Worcestershire sauce, kosher salt, fresh-ground black pepper, an egg, and Italian breadcrumbs"), and consuming enough of Ellie's margaritas to take the edge off my self-consciousness.

Ellie, for her part, wasn't slacking off on the margarita consumption, either. "You know," she said, taking a big bite of her burger and then washing it down with a sizable slug of her drink, "I've been thinking about when our dad left. It's such a long time ago, I don't dwell on it anymore … but our conversation last night brought it to mind again."

Across the table, I saw Chuck sit up straight, his eyes on his sister. The last thing I wanted was to make him feel uncomfortable. "Ellie," I began uneasily, "you don't need to—"

"He'd promised to make us pancakes for dinner. Remember that, Chuck?" She turned to face him, and I could swear I saw her eyes sparkle with a sheen of tears.

"Of course I do." His voice was low, cautious. "We were out of eggs and maple syrup. You said you'd be okay with honey instead, but he said he wanted you to be happy—that he wanted to make them the right way. So he left … and he never came back."

Silence fell, the festive atmosphere sucked out of the room as if a black hole hovered over the table. Ellie broke it.

"I couldn't believe he'd leave us willingly, not after my mom abandoned us. But after what you suggested, Sarah—I got to thinking. Maybe he left to keep us safe."

Looking from Ellie to her brother, I could see the dawning of hope on both their faces, like a light shone into a cavern that had been pitch-dark for years. "It's possible," I said, thinking about my own parents. No matter how crappy a father my dad had been, I still missed him. And my mom—well, my feelings for her were like an invasive vine tangled around a healthy plant. The guilt I felt for leaving her—for choosing my father instead—tended to overshadow everything else, but when I could set that aside, I remembered just how good of a mother she'd been. I missed her, more than I was usually willing to admit.

Trying to keep the feeling at bay, I picked up my glass and drained it. When I set it down, Chuck's eyes were on my face, his gaze soft. "You miss your mom, don't you," he said.

I must have been drunker than I realized, because I found myself telling him—telling all of them—the truth. "I do. Sometimes, I miss her a lot. But I feel like I burned every bridge that could lead me back to her. I don't even know if she still lives in San Diego."

Chuck tilted his head, appearing to consider this. "I get that. But I gotta admit, if my dad's still out there somewhere—if he didn't leave us on purpose—I'd do just about anything to have him back again."

His tone was matter of fact … but the sadness in his eyes gutted me, and when I glanced at Ellie, I saw a determined expression settle over her face. "All right," she said, pushing her chair back from the table and standing up—somewhat unsteadily. "That does it. Sarah, come with me."

Baffled, I followed her out of the dining room and into the bedroom she shared with Devon. Holding up a finger for me to wait, she disappeared into the closet and came out holding a lockbox. She set it down on the end of the bed, opened it, and pulled out a leather-bound journal.

"Here," she said simply.

I took the journal from her. The leather was cool in my hands, but I held the book gingerly, as if it were an incendiary device. "What is it?" I said, though I suspected I already knew.

"My father's journal. All of the notes I told you about yesterday. I want you to have them. Maybe they'll help you figure out what you're looking for. I don't know … maybe you can even find him. Either way, Chuck and I—we want to help if we can." Her gaze was steady on mine, the intensity in it unflinching. I was the one who had to look away.

"But why?" My voice cracked. "Why would you trust me with this, after I lied to you?"

"Because of how you looked at my brother, when you saw he was in pain. You love him, Sarah. Maybe you haven't even fully admitted that to yourself yet, but I know love when I see it. I'd say falling in love at first sight is so much malarkey, but I also know how special Chuck is. If there's anyone who's worthy of that, it's him."

The tequila swam through my head, combining with Ellie's words to make me dizzy. I knew I'd fallen for Chuck—but was that the same as love? Did I … could I … already love him?

Whether or not I was willing to admit to myself, I knew the answer. "Yes," I said to Ellie, gripping the book until I felt my nails dig into the leather, "he is."

We walked back out to the dining room together, me pausing in the living room to slip the journal under my clutch. The rest of the night passed in a blur of burgers and margaritas and conversation, Ellie refilling our glasses whenever they got low and Devon good-naturedly protesting how there was still half a pitcher of his grandmother's sweet tea left. Finally, after a dessert of eclairs that Chuck had picked up at a local bakery, I declared that I couldn't eat—or drink—one more thing.

"I'm going home before you need to call me a cab to get me across the courtyard," I said, wobbling to my feet.

After the requisite protests, Chuck offered to walk me home. As we stepped into the courtyard, he offered me his arm—"Just in case you need a little help." I took it, welcoming any excuse to touch him.

"Chuck," I said hesitantly, "are you really okay with looking for your dad? I don't want you to feel pressured into this."

"I wouldn't do it if I didn't want to," he said, looking down at me. There was a smidge of chocolate on his chin, and I fought the urge to wipe it away. He'd forgiven me, welcomed me back into his life as a friend … but did that mean he was still open to something more?

"Sure, I feel conflicted," he went on, oblivious, as I averted my eyes from his face and wished desperately for sobriety. "Hopeful, yeah, but also resentful. But in the end … it's time. With clearing everything up about Stanford, getting my diploma—I just feel like this is the next natural step."

"Okay." We'd arrived at my door, but I paused, wanting to spend as much time with him as I could. "If it's what you really want, then I'll do everything in my power to help you find your father."

"Thank you. But—I had a thought." The openness on his face unsettled me, and once again, I found myself looking at the ground, the fountain, the courtyard lamps—anywhere than directly at him. "If I'm trying to find my dad, then maybe you could look for your mom, too. Maybe this wouldn't be so hard—so scary—if we did it together."

Panic rose up in my throat, choking me. "Find my mom?"

"You can reconnect with her, Sarah. I know you can. If I can, then you can too." He touched my cheek, turning my face toward his. In his eyes I saw a puzzling amount of faith in me—and the strength I would need to make this choice.

"Can I think about it?"

"Of course." That gorgeous smile broke across his face again. I found it—him —irresistible.

Before I could second-guess myself, I grabbed his shirt in my fist, tugged him toward me, and went up on my tiptoes to kiss him. He tasted like chocolate and salt and tequila, a delicious, addictive combination.

I was worried he'd pull away, but instead his mouth moved in concert with mine, deepening the kiss as his fingers wove their way into my hair, holding me close. Startled, I stepped backwards once, then again, until we fell against the door of my apartment. His body molded into mine as if it was meant to be there, and I reached up, twining my arms around his neck, every nerve in my body on fire.

Chuck's hands left my hair, sliding down my body slowly, reverently, until they came to rest on my hips. His touch was so gentle. "Sarah?"

I nodded, too breathless to speak.

"I'm going to go home," he said, leaning his forehead against mine and sounding equally out of breath, "before I debauch you against this door. But I would like to ask—can I see you tomorrow?"

"Yes," I said, and felt him smile.

"I'll call you," he said, and, turning, made his way across the courtyard toward home.

A/N: This is a tough time for everyone, and we hope that reading the latest installment of The Guy Who Loved Me has provided you with some welcome distraction. As long as you keep reading, we'll keep writing! We'd love to know what you think. And if you want Ellie's margarita recipe, we're pleased to provide that too. ;) Next week, we hope to have a surprise or two—an exhumation, if you will. Stay tuned, stay connected, and most importantly, stay safe.

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