Author's Note: Thank you all so much for the reviews - because everyone has been so nice, I've decided to continue this story for a few more chapters. Thank you again for all the feedback. Hope you enjoy a little angst that I promise will turn into some fluff - Jac.
I fidget with the salt and pepper shakers while I listen to Sara tell me about her case. I'm not really listening to her; I'm listening to the inner turmoil that never seems to quiet itself. I'm not sure what has me more upset this morning . . . my case or knowing that I am too damn scared to send her a drawer full of letters.
She notices because she swiftly takes away the salt and pepper shakers. Sara places a hand over mine and smiles. She wants me to talk, but this is one of the first times in my life that I don't want to talk. I don't want to say the wrong words. I don't want to find out if Sara could reject me within a second flat. I don't want to talk about child molestation cases. I don't want to talk about my childhood. I've always wondered if she would think less of me if she knew that I was molested. I know that there is a part of my brain that has always secretly blamed myself for not saying no. The rest of my brain rationalizes that I was too young to even know what was going on. I wish my brain would just savor the silence for a few minutes. I wish it would let me take in how Sara looks this morning, what shirt she is wearing, and how her presence makes me forget that I have all these dark secrets.
"Where were you?" she asks as she squeezes my hand.
"Just lost in thought. I'm sorry. I wasn't trying to ignore you," I apologize.
"What's wrong? You look like hell, Nick," Sara inquires. She has always been the observant one. Sara's elegance with people has always been on the shaky side, but she's always acutely aware of what the people around her are feeling. She doesn't always know what to do about it, but she's always aware. It's an odd comfort to know that I don't have to explain my every mood to her. Sometimes, Sara knows what I'm feeling before I'm even sure how I feel.
"Just tired," I reply. It sounds lame. It doesn't sound at all believable. I know Sara doesn't believe it because she just shot me 'that' look. It's as if she can see through all the smoke and mirrors that I put up to make everyone else at the lab believe I am this continually happy-go-lucky creature. I'm far from being that creature.
"Nick, you don't have to lie to me. Something is bothering you," Sara replies. Sometimes, I think she has a crystal ball. Her intuition is scary because it is always right on target. Maybe it's that I have a face that reads like a book. I doubt that because no one else in the lab seems to see my moods. Only she can.
"Why do we do this?" I ask. It's such a vague question that I'm not sure if she will understand.
"Work, breakfast, or life?" Sara asks. She must have looked into her crystal ball again because I want to tell her my answer is all of the above.
"Everything," I reply just a little too honestly. I'm talking before I even realize that my mouth is open.
"I don't know. Life would be so much easier if I had the answers to those questions. My counselor said something about trying to fill a void in my past, my present, or maybe my future," Sara replies. I know why I'm a crime scene investigator as opposed to a police officer or detective. I couldn't stand to see the faces of abuses and molested children. I spent two years of my life angry and confused. I jumped at the chance to be trained as a CSI. I couldn't look at the sadness in the children's eyes anymore. It reminded me too much of my own sadness. As a police officer, I wanted to help them, but it was always too late to prevent the memories from being seared into their brains.
"Always the optimist, Sara," I tease, but it doesn't really sound like I'm teasing. It sounds like I'm bitter . . . I'm angry.
"That's your job. I'm the hardened, cynical one. Now, let's cut the bull-shit philosophy and move on to what you are really thinking," Sara says. I quiet for a minute while the waitress places our meals in front of us.
"Do you ever feel like you are caught in a relationship purgatory?" I ask once the waitress leaves our table.
"How so?" Sara asks with a raised eyebrow.
"A relationship that doesn't exist anywhere besides your imagination," I reply.
"Who is she?" Sara asks a little more seriously. She asks as if she wants to give me advice on how to win over the woman that lives only in my imagination.
"You don't want to know," I reply.
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't want to know," Sara replies. I can tell that she's generating a list in her head. I want to tell her it's much simpler than that. I can feel the butterflies in my stomach. I've never prepared for the possibility of actually telling Sara that I've spent the better part of four years thinking about her every night before I fall asleep. I think about her a lot. I plan events that she doesn't see as events; I think of the little things that might bring her comfort. I have essentially fully committed myself to a woman that doesn't realize that she has my faithfulness in the palm of her hand.
"Sara," I say knowing that she will probably think I'm just telling her to back off a little bit.
"Sorry, Nick. I don't mean to act like a shrink. I just don't like seeing you this miserable. Whoever she is . . . she's lucky. If she doesn't realize that, she's stupid," Sara replies with a smile.
How do I tell her that she already has the answer to her question?