CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: The Thirteenth Tuesday, We Talk About the Perfect Day

"Do you think perfection is possible?" I asked House the next Tuesday.

House smirked, and I knew that sarcasm was sure to follow that smirk. "Wow, Chase. I've been called handsome, intriguing, brilliant, but never perfect before! Nice way to come out of the closet."

Ignoring his comment, I proceeded to say, "Because I was thinking. About what the perfect day would be like."

"The perfect day?"

"Yeah," I said. "I don't think it would be possible, though."

House tapped his cane rhythmically on the wall as he thought. "What do you think the perfect day would be?"

"I don't know, actually. I can't actually imagine it. I can just feel it. You know what I mean?" I asked.

House chuckled. "Aside from you sounding like a seventeen-year-old wannabe on a marijuana high, what you say makes sense. You can feel that indefatigable joy, but you don't know how to get there. I get it."

I nodded. "I think I'd go back to Australia."

House, surprised, looked at me. "Why?"

"It's my home."

"Chase, you've been living in America for what? 25 years?"

"Something like that," I answered.

House asked, "Well, what would you do back in Australia, then? Haven't you made all your friends and opportunities here?"

"Look around me, House. I don't have any friends, and I don't have any opportunities."

House looked hurt. Not his usual feigned hurt, but bona fide hurt. "No friends?"

I sighed, realizing the mistake. "Besides you, of course."
House smiled again. "What about Cam-moron? Didn't you say things went well with her last week?"
"Yes, they did, but…well, I guess I'd consider her my friend, but…"

"But like you said, Australia is your home," House finished.

I shrugged. "I don't know if it's just that, though. I just want to get out of here. I just feel trapped so often, and I feel like there's something out there calling me. My purpose isn't done. And I think that my perfect day would be spent finding that purpose, wherever in the world it may be. I just want to feel what you've felt all your life, like something you do matters. That fulfillment, that passion. I would want to be surrounded by friends and family and love of every kind, paternal, fraternal, romantic, platonic…just an abundance of love…that would be the perfect day."

After a moment of silence, House spoke. "I think I know what my perfect day would be."

I leaned in, intrigued. "What?"

"Hearing this may make you go into anaphylactic shock, so I'd be careful if I were you," House said. I rolled my eyes and smiled. "Okay. My perfect day would be a day when the sun is shining brighter than it ever has. Birds are singing…Rolling Stones' songs," he chuckled. "And I get out of bed, my leg fully healed, and walk…no, run…to Princeton-Plainsboro Teaching Hospital. I walk in and see my good old friend Cuddy, sporting a lower-cut blouse than usual, if that's possible. I see Wilson…I see us walking down the hall, talking and laughing. He was the only one who could make me laugh. And then I walk into my office. There's you, doing your silly, little crosswords. Cameron, answering my emails, and Foreman, handing me a file filled with information about our next patient," House looked down thoughtfully. "That's my idea of a perfect day."