Title: Good Enough

Chapter 3

Author's Notes: Spoilers for "Overload."

"I've been meaning to call you, Mom."

When I got home from work, there was a message from my mother on the answering machine. So, like a good son, I called her back. Big mistake.

"We were starting to wonder if you were alive, honey," my mom says, in a long-suffering voice.

"Well," I say patiently, "you know, with my hours."

"Yes, honey. I know about your hours." She pauses. "You could change shifts."

Shaking my head, I open the refrigerator. "Actually, I like the one I'm on." This is an old argument. One of many my mom and I have.

"It's just that we miss talking to you, Nick. Honestly, I was starting to wonder if you were avoiding me."

Not a thing to eat in the house, I think.

I start to rifle through the take-out menus. "Now, Mom, why would I be avoiding you?" She's right, though. I have been avoiding her. I went to Texas for a visit a few weeks ago, and we had a disagreement. Well, actually it didn't get that far. My mom chose to ignore the issue completely.

"I feel like you were upset when you left," she says.

You think?

I let out a breath. "I'm fine."

Lately, I haven't been a hundred percent, so I took a few days off and went to see my mom and dad. I've been trying to work through some stuff for a while now. I guess I figured the best way for me to do that was to face my problems head on. When I was a kid, my mom left me with a last-minute baby sitter, and to make a long story short, the sitter did some things to me. I'd locked that secret away for a long time, but it got dredged up when I was on a case a while back. I told Catherine about it, and telling her helped. But ever since then, it keeps coming back to me. Every time I'm on a case involving child abuse, or if I see something on the news. So, while I was in Texas, I had the bright idea to try and tell my mom what happened to me. She didn't want to hear it.

"Nick," Mom says, "Have you considered transferring back to Texas?"

Not on my worst day, I think.

"Not really, Mom." I glance over my shoulder when I hear the doorbell. "Hang on Mom. Someone's at the door."

I hurry over to my front door, thankful for the interruption. Opening it slightly, I find Greg standing on the other side. Greg and a pizza. "Hey," I say, breaking into a grin.

"I come bearing food," Greg says.

"I'd like to kiss you right now," I say.

Greg smiles broadly. "I knew you'd admit it someday," he says.

Grinning, I avert my eyes. The only times I can say what I'm really feeling is when I'm being a smart ass.

"Is somebody there?" Mom asks.

"No, Mom," I say. "I've finally snapped, and I've started talking to myself."

She sighs. "You don't have to be flip."

Taking a step backward, I let Greg into the house. "Come on in here, man."

"It doesn't sound like your hours prevent you from having a social life," Mom says.

"Mom," I groan. "He works with me. We keep the same hours."

"I should call my mom," Greg mutters. "Right after that root canal I've been meaning to get."

Fighting back the urge to laugh, I say, "Look, Mom, I got company, so I'm going to let you go."

"Wait a minute honey," Mom says. "I've been meaning to ask you. Did you get that promotion?"

"Not yet, Mom."

"Hey, Nick," Greg calls from the kitchen. "You got any soda?"

"Yeah, look—"

"Never mind. I found it."

"Why not?" Mom asks.

I frown at the phone. "What do you mean why not?"

Greg walks into the room. "I'm sticking the pizza in the oven to warm it up."

"Cool," I say.

"Why haven't you got that promotion?" Mom prods. "Is there something you're not telling me?"

I look at Greg, who's leaning comfortably against the archway that leads into my kitchen. Loads, I think to myself.

"Listen," I say out loud. "I'm going to let you go."

"Nick, you haven't answered my question."

"I'm hanging up." I place the receiver back onto the cradle and cross my arms. "Greggo, let's eat."

"So, are you gonna talk to me or what?" Greg asks.

I glance up from my current slice of pepperoni and sausage pizza. "About what?"

He stretches his arms and crumples a napkin. "You know. Whatever was bothering you today. Or the past few months."

"I'm sorry about today," I say. "I've been tired."

"Oh, don't give me that excuse," he says severely.

I stare at him. Greg doesn't usually raise his voice, so when he does, I pay attention.

He shifts his body so that he's sitting closer to me. "You've been snapping at people, Nick. You've been depressed."

"I'm not depressed."

He ignores me. "You were late to a scene today."

"There was an accident," I protest.

"You were late for a scene, what, last week?"

I exhale. "And every CSI has been late to a scene at one time or another."

"But it's not like you."

"And how do you know?" I almost spit the question at him.

"I'd like to think I know you pretty well," he says quietly.

We sit, not speaking for I don't know how long. Then Greg puts a hand on my shoulder and rubs the muscle. It feels good, so I lean into it.

"Look," he says. "I'm just a little concerned. Not to mention confused. I mean, you act edgy around me, and I don't know why." He glances at the ceiling. "Although I have a couple of theories."

My breath hitches. "What theories?"

He licks his lips and opens his mouth to say something. Then, abruptly, he pulls his hand away. "Ah, what does it matter? We're fine, aren't we?"

"You and me?" I shrug. "Yeah, we're good."

"Okay, cool." He shifts uncomfortably. "So, why waste time with my theories?"