Wow. Thanks for all the reviews. They were awesome … made my day.
Thanks to Laura Katharine for being the beta for this chapter. She's awesome, too (but you all knew that.)
This is a response to the improve challenge lines for this week at YTDaW.
"I need an engagement ring."
It was a dream. He was still sleeping, but it was one of those times where you knew you were dreaming. It was the same one from the night before and both times he willed himself to remain asleep and change the ending. Each time he failed.
He dreamt of love and Sara and classical music and vegetarian lasagna. It was surreal – the way dreams usually are. Everything was insanely bright and clear and the colors were so beautiful. The skies burst into shades of blue and pink when she promised she would love him forever – and all because he remembered she was vegetarian.
In this dream he was younger – he was the man she met years ago and he was confident and sure and he made her toes curl just by the heat of his gaze. In this dream he never made mistakes, and he never passed up chances.
In this dream his mother could hear his voice and Sara's. She would remark on the soothing nature of Sara's unique cadence and would comment on how lucky her son was to have that beautiful sound wash over him everyday. She would stuff them with peach cobbler and hassle them about living so far away.
Sara's mother wouldn't be in jail, her father wouldn't be dead and she'd never experienced pain of any sort. In this dream she grew up in a happy, loving household. She would tell him stories of her childhood; playing hopscotch with the neighborhood kids, going on family vacations. And when the trip down memory lane ended, she would discuss plans for the anniversary party she wanted to throw her parents next year.
In this dream, he wanted to marry her and make her his wife. Or maybe just be engaged to her for the rest of his life – that kind of promise being more than enough.
But it ended the same as the night before. Him purchasing a ring. Him losing the ring. Jason finding it. Jason offering it to Sara.
The classical music would fade, and his refrigerator would be filled with every meat imaginable. It was weird, because there was even ham, and he hated ham.
The bright colors would slowly diminish to a muted grey as he stood in his living room with empty hands, empty shelves and an empty heart.
He didn't know why it came as a shock. They had been dating for almost eight months. Actually it was seven months and twenty three days. He didn't mean to keep track but one tends to remember the day they stopped breathing. He was a scientist, he knew that the body could not live without oxygen but somehow he was defying science. Sara Sidle always took his breath away, but this time she stole it, quite violently, from his lungs. If he were honest with himself, he would place the blame solely on his shoulders. But he wasn't an honest man; if he was, he would have her by his side.
There would come a point in time when her and Jason would exchange vows and she would no longer be Sara Sidle. She would be Sara Scott. Or Sara Sidle-Scott. At least her initials would be the same. He wondered if she were to be his wife, what name she would use. Would she hyphenate? Would she take his name and then joke about who gets to be called Griss and who gets to be called Grissom? She would probably keep her name as a display of independence; he wouldn't mind. She would always be Sara Sidle to him.
Three days ago she came into work and never said a word about it; she just silently wore her ring and went about her business. A part of him recognized how professional that was and how some of it may have been to spare his feelings. Or Greg's. Or Archie's. Or anyone of the half-dozen men who fell under the spell of that gap-toothed smile.
He left work that day and called in sick the next. Someone else was going to marry her and her gap, her curls and her legs … her light. He knew that he shouldn't take pity on himself, but damn … his soul ached.
His mother told him years ago that his life lacked color and that he had to go out and find it and claim it and make it his. He didn't have to search for that color – she stood in the doorway of his office, she crouched by shoe impressions and dead bodies at crime scenes, she smiled at him from the passenger seat of his vehicle – the wind tossing her hair. He claimed her and made her his; he just neglected to tell her that.
And so here he stands in his living room, beer in one hand and paint brush in the other, trying to change his life with a thirty dollar can of paint. It would take two coats, but that was okay. You don't always get things done on the first try.
When the doorbell rang, he ignored it. Nobody came to visit him anymore, even Catherine's visits became few and far between until they stopped completely. If it was Catherine, she would barge in, look at him with pity, ask if he was okay and then go off with the 'I told you so'.
The ringing didn't stop; in fact the person on the other side was quite persistent and having way too much fun with his doorbell. Stealing himself for the whirlwind that was Catherine, Grissom opened the door and faced the last person he wanted to see right now. Sara.
"What are you doing here?" It was a reasonable question, but he hoped he delivered it without accusation.
"Ecklie needs these signed. He said that there is no way you can be too sick that you can't sign off on the time sheets – I was the only one available to drop them off." She shrugged and walked past him, giving him a once-over before taking in the state of the living room. "You don't look sick."
"I feel sick." He did, and it was getting worse every second she was here.
"Sick people don't drink beer and paint walls. What are you doing?" she asked, squatting down to stir the paint. She knew what he was doing and it irked him that she was trying for small-talk. This wasn't what he needed – not from her or anyone for that matter.
"I'm trying to bring color back into my life," he answered dispassionately.
"It looks good so far. It'll go well with your sofa."
Grissom slowly sat down beside her on the floor; his knees cracking, reminding him of his age and time gone by. He felt rather than heard her soft gasp when he reached over to take her hand, inspecting the ring. "When's the big day?"
"We haven't decided. We're not in a rush."
He still toyed with her hand, flipping the ring around. This isn't her. Gold; marquise cut. He would never buy something like this for her. He would buy her a ring from an antique shop – probably the one in Marina Del Rey, near his mother's gallery. He always loved that shop. The diamonds would be embedded in white gold – a mid century piece that would be beautiful to the eye but practical enough for the job. She would appreciate that.
"I don't want you to marry him." Those words weren't meant for her ears, but they were spoken, much to his disbelief – and hers, apparently.
"Why?" She pulled her hand gently from his grasp and looked away.
"You know why."
"I don't know how you would expect me to know anything."
"If I …" he paused and took a moment to think about his question. It was wrong – very wrong but … "If I asked you to not to marry him, would you still?"
"Yes." Her answer came with no hesitation and way too much confidence for his liking. "I don't have any doubt that you would make me happy, but he makes me happy, too. I made a commitment to him – I don't take matters of the heart lightly."
Her statement opened up a whole new world of pain for him. She held no grievance in her tone - it was almost apologetic. He thought he would be the only one for her, but damn, she seemed so well-adjusted to the idea of that not happening. "Are you saying that I do?"
"No, I just think you grossly underestimated me and my feelings – my intentions."
Grissom watched as she repeatedly pulled the stirrer from the can, apparently finding the way the paint drizzled back in very interesting. He did underestimate her, but maybe he underestimated himself as well. A relationship with her was all he wanted at this moment, and suddenly the obstacles that kept him from her seemed unimportant. He wondered if they ever were.
There was, however, an obstacle of great importance. It didn't matter how much he loved her or if he begged her – she was going to marry this guy. Her loyalty always amazed him, but he didn't know how not to be the one she was loyal to.
"So, how did you do it?" he asked, bringing his knees up to drape his arms over. "How did you stop loving one person enough to love another?" Tell me how to cope.
"I didn't. I just loved … differently. I don't want to stop loving you – I wouldn't recognize myself if I did." She stood suddenly and picked up an extra brush, swiping her eyes with her other hand. It happened so quickly that Grissom almost missed it. He catalogued her movements from the uneven rise of her chest to the slight shake of her hand when she dipped the brush into the paint. This did affect her, and suddenly he felt foolish for thinking otherwise.
"What are you doing?"
"I'm helping you."
A part of him wanted her to leave – her presence only making the ache stronger. The other part him wanted to lock the doors and never let her leave and trail his apologies across her cheek, her neck and collar bone in the form of kisses. He wanted to remove that ring that just kept getting bigger and bigger the more he looked at it. Was it shining that brightly a moment ago?
She was taken.
"Grissom?"
She was no longer his. God, she never was.
"I'm going to get us something to drink," he said, getting up and walking backwards into his kitchen. He needed to regroup; he needed to breathe. With a wry smile, he gestured toward her left hand – her ring that just wouldn't stop catching ever ray of light. "Don't get any paint on that!"
TBC …