Author's Note:
Some of this might seem familiar if you've read my first post-Trial And Error piece, called "After The Fall" (also posted here on FFN). For a while I wasn't sure if I should incorporate it into this story or if I should head in another direction with this one, but if I hadn't used the scene the way I first wrote it, I would have felt like I wasn't true to myself. So I decided to actually put it in here with a few minor modifications and additions. You'll see what I mean in this chapter and the previous one.

This is all I have written and planned for this story so far, and I have no idea how long I can keep this story up with so many other ideas floating around in my head. Leave a review and push me if you really want me to go on. :o)

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I thought you should know...

.:. insert picture of Adam sitting on the floor in his shed, his back against a wooden desk .:.

Grace:

Man, I can't stand sitting around in my room. There is just something entirely oppressive about it tonight. I grab my leather jacket and leave. I ignore the rabbi asking where I'm going at this hour. I walk around the block, not really having picked out a destination. Surprisingly, I find myself walking up Adam's street, Alexander Drive. When I look up, I see a light on in the shed. I hesitate for a second or two, but can't control the urge to check on him. Something deep inside keeps ringing the tiny, gentle alarm bell that screams 'suicide family history'.

When I peek through the window, I don't see him. A feeling of uneasy worry creeps up my belly to my stomach. I push open the door, almost too abruptly. 'Rove?' I ask, hearing that my voice is tinged with unfamiliar worry. The question hangs uncomfortably in the silent room for two seconds. I repeat his name. 'Rove, you in here?'

I hear his voice, and the worry is replaced with immediate relief. In a tone that doesn't belie that he's been crying, he abrasively tells me, 'Go away. Just leave me alone.'

Yeah, like hell I am going away now! I carefully walk over to the work bench, behind which I can see him sitting on the floor, his face buried in the sleeves of his burgundy hoody. When hears me approach, he looks up at me, tears fresh in his eyes. I softly say his name, his first name, which still sounds strangely unfamiliar coming out of my mouth. He interrupts in just as harsh a tone. 'I said leave me alone, okay?'

Of course it's not really a question, and I'm not going to answer it, much less do as he says. I approach him, picking up the knocked over stool on the floor, sitting down on it opposite him. I study him. 'I don't think you really wanna be alone right now.'

There is silence, but it's not uncomfortable. It feels like a comfort zone, a place where no words are needed to support each other. The only sounds are intermittent sniffing sounds from him. I can see his shoulders heaving ever so slightly. I resist a sudden urge to put my arms around him in comfort, but decide against it, it would be just wrong.

We sit like this for a few minutes. Then lifts his head, looking up at me, wiping at his tears with his shirt sleeves. In a tone not as abrasive as before, he asks me, 'What are you doing here anyway? Shouldn't you be with Joan?'

I shrug almost imperceptibly. 'She yelled at me for not talking to her after you had told me. Things got a little heated, so I bolted. I think she needs some time to figure things out.' His eyes cloud over with a mist of pain that he doesn't bother hiding. He buries his face in his hands and it's only then I see that his left index finger is completely blood-smeared. I point at it. 'Dude, what happened?'

He stares at it, as if he has forgotten that there was anything unusual about the red stains and little streams down the skin of his finger and parts of his hand. Matter-of-factly but not convincingly, he says, 'I cut myself.'

'Not on purpose, I hope,' escapes my lips. He looks at me with a sudden clarity in his eyes, the first time that I feel like I have gotten through to him since I entered his shed. 'What?' he asks, realizing what I'm implying. 'No, it was an accident,' he denies in a sincere tone, so that I believe him.

I crouch down so that I'm level with him and carefully take his hand. 'Let me see,' I demand. I study the cut, it doesn't look like it needs stitches. 'You got a band aid or something?' He directs me to the first aid kit in one of the shelves and I tend to his wound as best I can with the means I have at hand. He doesn't resist or even flinch as I use the disinfectant on the open cut. When I'm done, I sit back on the stool. Not looking at me, he asks, 'How could I have been so stupid? What was I thinking?'

I know he doesn't mean the cut on his finger, and I wish I had something smart to say to him right now. Something to help him deal with the confusion. But I don't. Nor did I and do I understand his motivations, but somehow I get the feeling he doesn't either. 'I don't have any answers for you, Rove. As far as I'm concerned, I would have to agree, it was a gigantically stupid thing to do,' I tell him.

I see his eyes filling with tears again. 'Grace, she was my best friend. She loved me, she trusted me,' he says just above a whisper. 'And I went and ... and screwed Bonnie. I ... I don't remember how ... well, it kinda just happened. I didn't really want it, but somehow I did. It felt so right then, and it feels so wrong now.' He wipes away a tear from his cheek. 'I destroyed everything we had. Just like that. Why did I take that away? Why did I ever take that away? Why?'

I shake my head. This is one question that I can't answer for him if he doesn't know himself. I can see the remorse spilling out of him, but it's not me he should be telling this to. I hear him ask me, 'Do you think she is ever going to forgive me?'

Good question. I'm not sure myself. Would Girardi forgive him? 'I--' I start. 'I don't know. You really hurt her. I don't think she's gonna forget that so easily. She might forgive you eventually. How long that will take, I can't say.'

He looks up at me with a desperate, almost hopeful look and sniffles his nose. 'What am I going to do now?'

I look back at him. 'You need to give her time.' Almost embarrassed, I fish a kleenex from my jacket pocket and hand it to him. He silently takes it, muttering thanks. As he blows his nose, I look out the window, past the clutter of plastic and metal things stuffed into every vacant bit of shelf or space in the shed. It has long since turned dark outside. I stand up from the stool and extend my hand towards him. 'Come on, Rove, it's late.'

He looks up at me, confusion in his gaze, a colossal question mark written in it. Like an ancient computer processor, he takes a few seconds to process my words. In a whispering tone, he says, 'Yeah.' and takes my hand. I pull him up and take him to the house. I doubt his dad knows what's going on. When we go through the house, I hear the television running in the living room, but I take Adam straight to his bedroom. He doesn't resist or speak, it's as if I'm pulling the strings of a lifeless puppet. I lead him to his bed, upon which he sits down with slumped shoulders. 'Get some sleep, okay?' I tell him as I turn to leave. We both know there is no way he will get a decent night's sleep tonight.

As I am about the leave his room, I remember something. Something that I need to make clear to him. I turn back around and face him. 'Oh, Rove, just so you know. I'm on Girardi's side here. What you did to her, there's nothing to justify that, no excuse to explain that. I thought you should know.'

He looks at me with a blank expression and just nods. Almost imperceptibly, he says, 'Okay.'

I walk down the stairs and leave the house. The door lock clicks into place behind me as the door closes. God, how I hate being put in the position of mediator! I mean, both Rove and Girardi are my friends. As if I don't have enough stuff to deal with at home. But if my friendship with Rove and Girardi has taught me anything, it is that friends are there to help you out when you don't think there is any hope left.

I catch myself silently asking God for hope that somehow Rove and Girardi can work out their problems and maybe even find a way back to each other. Of course there is no saying that they will ever be able to work past this, but there comes a time where you need to have a little faith in God to make things right, to put things back together. I snort out a half-laugh and a small smile plays at my lips. If the rabbi could read my thoughts now...