Title: Good Enough
Chapter 11
*****
Greg Sanders is standing in my doorway, pizza in hand. I know I should say something, or do something, but I seem to have gone numb.
Finally, Greg says, "Nick? Can I come in, or are we eating this in the doorway?"
"Oh," I say, jolting back to reality. "Yeah, man. Come in."
I hold open the door so Greg can come in. I'm still holding my cordless in one hand, and I can vaguely hear my mom screeching at me.
Greg points at the phone. "You gonna talk to her?"
"No," I say, pushing the button to hang up the phone.
"Nick."
"Yeah?"
"You just hung up on her."
I gaze dreamily at the phone. "Well, it'll give her a reason to yell at me later. She usually has to sit around and think of one."
Greg cocks his head at me. Licking his lips, he says. "I'm gonna stick this in the oven."
Nodding, I say, "Sure, man. I'm going to be in the living room."
I need some time to collect my thoughts. I wanted to talk to Greg. Really. I intended to do it earlier today. But I figured I'd have the time to prepare myself, to plan my words. Now he's in standing the kitchen, and I'm flying without a net. I don't know what to say to him, or even if I should say anything. Maybe if he's not mad at me, I should cut my losses and save our friendship. But then how do I look at him every day, knowing I want to be more than friends?
Letting out a haggard breath, I bury my face in my hands.
After a minute, I feel Greg's hand stroking my hair. "Hey," he says. "You all right?"
"I don't know," I say quietly.
Greg sits down next to me. "The pizza's done," he says gently, pointing to box on my coffee table. "I found some plates."
"Okay," I say.
He's opened a door for me, but I'm not ready to talk. So I grab a plate and load it up with pepperoni and sausage pizza, grateful for the time to think.
Greg's just sits there, watching me for the longest time. Then he finally follows my lead and grabs some pizza.
We sit together eating, but not talking. Every now and then, I see him out of the corner of my eye, trying to sneak a clandestine glance.
After four or five pieces of pizza, Greg says, "So, Catherine told me if I didn't come over here tonight, she was going to drag me over."
"Yeah?" I shift my body slightly. "She was over here last night trying to get me to spill my guts."
Greg grins sheepishly. "Well, you can thank Warrick for that."
I smile suspiciously. "Trying to foist the blame onto Warrick, huh?"
"He was like, 'We're all worried about Stokes, Catherine. Somebody should talk to him.'"
I laugh and shake my head, and wonder if Greg knows about the confrontation between me and Grissom today.
Greg turns his body until he's facing me. "He was concerned after you wigged out in the lab."
"I didn't wig out."
"You wigged out, man." He gazes at the ceiling. "And I'm sorry if I did anything to cause that."
I lean back and look at him. "What would you have done to make me wig out?"
"I don't know," he shrugs. "You were avoiding me."
"You're right," I say. "I kinda was."
"Aha," he says with mock enthusiasm. "You admit it."
"Well, I was, man. I couldn't face you."
He starts savagely twisting a napkin in his hands. "After my theories the other night . . ."
"Yeah," I say. "What were those theories? You never said."
He looks embarrassed. "You know."
"Greggo, I really don't."
Sighing, he says, "You know, Nick. I get mixed messages from you."
I frown. "What mixed messages?"
He leans back and starts balling up the napkin. Then he unfolds it, and balls it up again. Then he unfolds it, and balls it up again. "I get this vibe from you."
Uh oh. Now we've made it to the main event.
"What vibe?" I say, with feigned ignorance.
He throws the napkin across the room. "Half the time I think you're attracted to me, and half the time I think you're repulsed by me."
"What the hell are you talking about? You don't repulse me."
Gazing over my shoulder, Greg says, "I don't know how to act around you."
"How do you want to act?" I ask casually.
Greg stands up and starts to pace. "This is what you do. You do this."
"What?"
"This."
"Speak English, Sanders."
"You send off . . ." He gestures wildly, as if he's drawing something in the air that will make his words clear to me. "Vibes."
"What do you mean?"
"This," he says incoherently. "You send off these vibes and I don't know what you want from me."
What I want . . .
He leans against the coffee table, supporting his weight with his fists. "What do you want?" His words sound angry and bitter. I've never heard Greg sound like that.
"I want us to be friends." It's a partial truth. I do want us to be friends. But at the same time, I want to be much, much more. I want hearts and flowers and sappy love songs.
"Friends," he says. "Okay, pal." He turns his back to me.
"You know," I say, standing up. "You're the one who gives off mixed signals."
He spins back around. "Oh do I?"
"Yeah, you do!"
Greg puts his hands behind his head and paces some more. "I'm not the one . . ."
"What?"
"Stop playing dumb," he snaps, picking up an empty can of soda.
I cross my arms. "I'm not."
He throws the can across the room. Then he walks over to me, closing the distance between us before I can even process what he's doing. Grabbing me by the shoulders, he pulls me closer to him, and then presses his lips to mine.