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"You slept with her?"

It was four o'clock the next morning. I'd called to provide House with moral support for those despised conferences, not to play Twenty Questions. I should have known better.

"I slept next to her," I interrupted, wondering just how far House's incredulous voice carried in the Ramada's hotel lobby. I mentally checked off all those befuddled, curious heads shooting up at his exclamation. The agitated greeter behind the desk. Some teenagers. Grandparents who are now convinced all younger generations are thoughtless animals. And Cameron, for certain.

"James, what are you doing?"

Either House had just decided to try his best soprano or someone else had definitely grabbed the phone.

"Cameron," I said tiredly, "this doesn't even concern you."

"I have to deal with House for another four weeks, and he has to deal with you. I'm indirectly affected."

That, I realized, was her problem. Of course she's indirectly affected. I'm indirectly affected by lots of things; the manufacturer of my car, House's leg pain, my patients' families—the point is, you can't get caught up in other people's problems, or you're doing the worrying for them.

I leaned back against the couch, realizing how sad it was that I'd started rationalizing to this extent. I missed House's bluntness. As insane as it was, it seemed to simplify everything.

Cameron pressed on, uninhibited, embarking on a litany of "how could you when House isn't even there," and I was tempted to ask if she'd tried anything while I wasn't there, when House snatched back the phone.

"Wilson."

I perked. Last name. Serious.

"Medical question for you."

"Shoot."

He paused for dramatic effect. "How badly contagious... is a conference of dim-witted, suck-up physicians?"

I grinned, then replied in mock panic, "Oh, no. You've been exposed?"

"Unfortunately. We're headed for a two-hour lecture on ethics right now."

"Exposure at that high of a level could prove fatal."

"Yep. And I have a feeling we don't have long. The first half will be a lesson in treating patients as humanely as possible, no matter how stupid they are. The second is learning how to care enough. Cameron, I believe, will be the guest speaker." I could just hear her start protesting in the background.

"Well, obviously, since your speeches have been less than satisfactory."

At that moment, Julie peeked her head out of the bedroom. She'd apparently caught the words "exposed" and "fatal," and seemed a bit thrown by the smile I was wearing.

"I…gotta go," I said into the phone, turning around halfway.

"You're not married to her anymore," House cut in. "Don't I get a say in who you talk to?"

"I'm not married to you, either," I replied blithely. As I hung up, it hit me what a stupid thing it was to say that with Julie standing right in front of me.

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"Who was that?"

"No one," I said quickly, too quickly. Shit. I could've told her it was House and then laughed, and she would've thought it was a joke between old buddies. Now that I denied it, it sounded serious.

Why can't I think of these things beforehand?

"What, there was no one at the other end of the line?" Julie pressed.

"Yeah, I was talking to the dial tone."

Julie watched me fumble for my briefcase and car keys, critiquing me with that guilt-inflicting silence. Being married is like learning to ride a bike you keep falling off of. You know how to do it to the extent that it's fun for a while, even enjoyable, but you can never stay upright on it long enough. Eventually you crash. Still, you know how to ride a bike, and you blindly get back on.

Married or not, it was apparent we were both getting on the bike again. She was in her self-righteous role, her nosey mode, and I was in my "I'm-going-to-be-late-can-we-talk-about-this-later?" role.

"You're seeing someone already?"

"Didn't want to be left out," I quipped, a bit too harshly. I glanced up at her as something painful flashed across her face. "Oh, Jules… I didn't mean that."

She slipped seamlessly into "why-would-you-say-something-so-hurtful" mode as she crossed her arms across her chest, shaking her head pitifully at me.

"Well you might want to tell her I'm moving out of here as soon as possible." She wasn't too upset tofire a glare. "I don't want to indirectly ruin another one of your relationships."

Indirectly, I thought to myself as she retreated to the bedroom, slamming a door that was not hers to slam. That makes things so much more difficult.

I was going to ask if she was leaving for work at some point, but I figured it best to let her irritation fizzle out first. I glanced through the crack in the door for a second before I left.

She was curled up on the bed. I would have thought her asleep had her eyes not been open, staring unseeingly at the piano. The room practically wilted with her depression. I thought back briefly to the woman I'd intermittently held last night.

Hair like pools of gold overflowing to my shoulder; long, exponentially long eyelashes—when she cried, they were ink-black, like someone had scrawled them in for detail. She'd been small, humble, unassuming within my embrace, something House never was or could be. Neither was better nor worse. They just…were different.

She'd leaned close and kissed me, an event which I'd clung to sporadically and then let fly loose, like wind snatching fallen leaves from the ground in late October. But her lips, saccharine lips, had been cinnamon-red and just as sharp. The taste fused to my mouth.

Then sleep seized us both, and nothing more.

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We'd been married for five years, I kept repeating to myself. It rang discordantly in my head, something of a personal record for me. Five years. We'd been married, married. This kiss was hardly new—overused and mundane, if I'm to be honest. It was perfectly normal; a natural response; a way of showing concern and offering reassurance in a time of need.

And she was the one who kissed me, anyway. She wanted me to kiss her back, so I did. Briefly.

And nothing more.

Still, I didn't tell House. I was fairly sure slumber and anxiety had persuaded Julie to show affection; obviously, she didn't feel the same this morning. She was more likely to inflict bodily injury on me than anything else. Her stare drained incalculable depths into my face as she caught me watching her.

"You're going to be late," she said for me, stiffly.

"Are you…going to work?"

Her hands were folded and tucked beneath her head. I wondered if she could smell House's cologne on his pillow. It would've smelled of heavy aftershave, too, had he ever taken up shaving again, which was looking highly doubtful. I half-wondered if the brushburns still showed on my neck, and if she'd notice; and if she had, if she'd question.

If, if, if...

She was still in my shirt and sweatpants. "Yeah. Later. I took off half a day."

Uncertainty made me hesitate. "You have my cell number, right?"

"I don't need a babysitter."

"Right. Just a place to stay."

"And I'll be leaving soon. Maybe Rhonda has a spot at her house…"

I tapped the side of the door aimlessly, looking down at my feet. I don't know why I do that. Maybe I hope the syllables are down there to find. "You know…"

Nope, they weren't. They never are. It's just as hard to talk no matter where you look. I glanced back up at her.

"I'm not making you leave," I said slowly. "You can stay, if you need to."

She didn't answer for a bit, so I figured the conversation was over.

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I stepped outside just in time to notice that the tires of my car had been slashed.