Part 2
Sara hated flying, as much as she'd ever hated anything. It wasn't so much fear of the plane crashing – she knew the odds of that were infinitesimal – as it was disgust with the plane itself. They didn't wash blankets or pillows between passengers. She always ended up seated next to some dirty old man who kept "missing" the armrest he grabbed for. She could never fit her legs in the space allotted to her, and the person in front of her always decided life would be more comfortable if they put their seat nearly in her lap.
She particularly hated flying when it involved her catching her flight when she should have been asleep or at work. Her flight today had departed from McCarran International in Las Vegas at 7:30 in the morning, which handily covered both of those problem times. To top it off, her seat was in the last row of the plane, against the back wall, making her unable to put her seat back more than an inch, and placing her all of two feet from the bathrooms.
By the time she stepped off the plane in Newark, New Jersey, Sara would have been quite pleased to kill the next person who spoke to her – perhaps kill them using her carry-on bag, which now had a broken zipper and a ripped lining. She dragged her pathetic-looking load up the terminal . . . and up the terminal . . . and then down the hallway . . . She eventually had to stop a bored-looking security guard and ask him to point her toward the baggage claim, then toward the escalator he used in his directions to the baggage claim.
If it were humanly possible, Sara was even angrier when she finally wrenched her suitcase off of the belt – it was the last one out, of course – and dragged it to a corner, looking around suspiciously for thieves (this was New Jersey, after all, and everyone knew how dangerous it was). Jeff wasn't anywhere in sight, and the layout of the baggage claim wasn't conducive to people-searching.
Muttering nasty things about the East Coast, she tugged her suitcase another fifteen feet, settling against the nearest wall and deciding that her brother could damn well call her when he arrived. As if on cue, her cell phone rang.
Flipping it open, she snapped, "Where the hell are you, J?"
A cough. "Uh . . . who's Jay, Sara?"
Sara's eyebrows shot up and she gave the phone a suspicious look. "Grissom?"
"Erm, hi," he managed sheepishly.
"Why are you calling me this time?"
"I just wanted to see if your flight went ok, and whether you were set up for vacation. I can, uh, mail you anything you might have forgotten."
He hadn't yet figured out that she wasn't only on vacation. What to say? "Uh, no, Gris. I think I have everything I need. And I can buy anything really necessary. I'll be in New York, you know."
"Oh." Silence. "So . . . how was your flight?"
Sara was torn. She would have liked to chat with Grissom – god knew that she couldn't do that when she was at home – but she was propped against an airport wall in what she considered to be one of the least safe places in America, waiting for a brother who was supposed to have met her here twenty minutes ago. "It was fine," she finally said. "Listen, Gris. Not that I wouldn't like to talk to you, but I'm waiting for my ride and right now I'm trying to guard my suitcase and purse from the Mafia."
Grissom chuckled. "I think you're safe from the Sopranos in the airport, Sara. Are you waiting for your brother?"
"Yeah. Ok, hmm . . . I need to hang up, Grissom. I'll talk to you later or something." Without waiting for his response, she hit the "end" button and closed her phone, which immediately rang again. "What?" she demanded, opening it again. "Did you forget to say 'um' again?"
"Whoa, chill out Sara! I just wanted to find out where you're waiting for me. I had to park far out, so I figured I'd call instead of wandering around the airport."
"Well I'm standing by the baggage carousels at" – she looked up to check the nearest sign – "Exit 2. So get your ass up here, because I'm already feeling homicidal. And I'll remind you that I know how to get rid of a body."
Jeff laughed. "Right-o, sis. I'll be there in ten minutes or so. Be ready or I'm gonna tell Mom."
"Jerk," Sara said, grinning, and hung up the phone.
Sara's eyes were beginning to cross as she stared at the road and tried not to cringe as people cut them off right and left. "Um, Jeff?"
"Yep, what?"
"How much farther? This is way past my bedtime."
"Night owl," he mocked affectionately. "We're almost there – look for signs for Montclair, why don't you, if you want to feel involved."
"You need to look for signs?"
"Nope. But I figured it'd keep you entertained."
She groaned. "I hate you."
"You're not allowed to hate me, Sar. I'm giving you a roof over your head. Oh, speaking of which . . . did you give up your apartment in Vegas? Is this whole thing for real – I mean really for real – or did you just need to get away for a while?" He swung the car onto the exit ramp for "Grove St., Montclair." "Ten more minutes, I swear."
"I can't stay awake that long."
"Deal, Sara, geez! Now answer my question."
She scowled at him, then sighed deeply. "I don't know if it's for real. My lease isn't up on the apartment until the end of next month, so I have some breathing room, but I'll tell you that right now . . . right now it feels for real. Las Vegas wasn't good to me, J. I was weird before I moved there and I think I came out of it even weirder."
He reached over to squeeze her hand. "You're not weird, you're my little sister. I raised you this way, kid. You're going to have to tell me about it eventually, though, you do know that?"
"I know. Just not today. I'm too tired and too strung out and I think my brain is on strike." Having thus dismissed the issue, she gave up on fighting her fatigue and allowed her eyes to drift closed.
"Deal." He paused, turning into his driveway. "Open your eyes, kid. We're here."
She'd never seen her brother's new home. In fact, she hadn't seen him anywhere other than at their parents' house for close to eight years. "This is your house?" Sara gaped at the looming three-story Victorian house in front of them. It was huge. It was huge and it was beautiful. "My god, Jeff, how much did this cost?"
"More than you're ever gonna make working with dead bodies! I kept telling you shoulda stuck with the industry instead of going government. You could be making millions at 3M or Lockheed-Martin or something, but you still haven't got rid of that annoying idealism."
"Shut up. I happen to love my job. At least when I don't hate it. Or hate my coworkers. But other than that, I love it."
"Up and out, Sar. I'm so not carrying you in if you fall asleep in this car."
"I have this entire room to myself?"
"Dude, Sara, you have this entire floor to yourself! If you haven't noticed, I, a single man, live in a freaking huge three-story house. Even with the foosball and pool tables, I couldn't use up all this space. So make yourself at home, and like I said, if you need more room I'll fix things up."
A breath escaped her as she set down a suitcase and reality began to sit in. "Jeff . . ."
He wrapped his arms around her and squeezed. "I know, Sara. You don't have to say anything. I'm your brother, I love you, you know no matter how dumb you are I'll be here to pick you up. Maybe I'll laugh at you a little, but I'll be here."
Sniffle. "Thanks. It wouldn't be the same if you didn't make fun of me."
He released her and, with a pat on the head, left her to herself. "You want me to wake you up for dinner?"
"No, that's ok. I think I'm going to . . . sleep." She watched her brother's retreating back until he reached the stairway, then quietly shut the door to her room. She was incredibly tired, but there was no way she was going to get to sleep today. After a moment's consideration, she dug through her carry-on bag and retrieved her laptop. Noticing with pleasure that Jeff had a cable connection in this bedroom, she plugged in and booted up.
Two hours later, she re-read what she'd written and bit her lip. Did she really want to send this e-mail to Grissom? It was more . . . open than she would normally have been, to him or anyone else in Vegas. The distance between them was acting as a buffer, though, and from 2500 miles away, the words flowed more easily.
Grissom,
I just wanted to write and fill you in on the stuff I couldn't talk about when you called earlier. Before you ask, yes, I'm home safe with Jeff. His place is amazing – I think it has more square-footage than the CSI lab in Vegas. Guess I did go into the wrong line of business! I don't know if you know this, but my brother and I both went totally the opposite of the way our parents wanted us to, but it was different opposites. You know where I ended up, and Jeff ended up doing the New York "Hollywood" scene – he writes and researches for one of those political talk shows. Must pay good money, considering this house. I have a whole floor to myself!
So . . . what else. Well, the flight sucked, but you know I hate flying to begin with. The dirty old man this time was more grope-y than usual, and I spent half of the time trying to curl myself into a ball that was all elbows. I'm telling you, if I get my chest or thigh grabbed "by accident" ONE MORE TIME . . .! And the chick in front of me had her seat in my lap from the second the plan took off. I really had to fight the urge to lean over the top of her seat (which was two inches from my head) and say, "Gee, am I in your way? Would you perhaps like me to shrink myself any more? Or would you rather just be wearing this disgusting thing that they call a meal when I slop it over your head?" But like I said, I got here safely and Jeff's got me set up in helluva nice place, so I can't complain.
How are things back at the labs? I hope you're dealing ok with Greg now that I'm not there to charm him into doing what you want! Maybe you can practice your charms on him now that I'm gone, huh?
Ok, maybe that wasn't as funny as it sounded in my head. Well, that's not the real reason I'm writing you right away, anyways. The real reason is this:
I wanted to remind you that my vacation time here is open-ended. I guess I just think it's only fair to tell you that I have to do some heavy thinking about whether I'm coming back there or not. Don't freak out on me or anything, please. I just need to think about it. Lately Vegas is making me feel . . . wrong. Trapped, maybe, or aimless. I'm not sure, I just know that I'm not happy there lately. *shrugs* I can't really explain it. You'll just have to take my word for it and try to understand.
I'll definitely keep e-mailing you (and you can tell the others that I'll be writing to them too), so don't you start acting like I'm "being Sara" again, 'cause I don't want to hear it.
So, fill me in on Vegas stuff and I'll tell you about how Jersey is. I'll talk to you soon.
Regards,
Sara
She read it for a third time, still worrying her lip. Was it too open? Too matter of fact? She knew Grissom was going to flip out when he read it – she'd have to remember to carefully consider answering the phone when caller ID showed his number. She really didn't want to have to deal with all that "The lab needs you" shit again. Whether the lab needed her or not, this time the decision was hers. She wasn't going to let anyone else influence it.
She clicked send and hoped she was doing the right thing.