One week. Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Ten thousand eighty miserable, soul-sucking minutes since Lester had last heard Giana's voice, and even then it was through the solid wood door that separated them.
To say he missed her was an insult that flew in the face of the depth of his misery; does the heart know when it's missing a beat? Surely, certainly, there was a phrase in existence that superseded a simple 'I miss you'. It was something he'd sought out, his desperation muted only by his grief, while he strove to make amends with her.
With Stephanie's parting advice ringing clearly in his ear, Lester had refocused his energy; gone was the sad sack who moped around his apartment, whose only objective was to pay for his sins. Now, he was a man with a purpose – to help Giana, however he could, recover from his betrayal. His focus was no longer on gaining his own sense of forgiveness; rather, he was maintaining his week-old vow to help Gia recoup…the cost of which may well be his own peace of mind. It was something he'd had time to acclimate to and accept. The final bit of advice Stephanie had imparted on him struck a chord in him – the only thing that would hurt her worse than the night he gave to two other women, would be his acceptance of her refusal to see him.
Truly, he didn't blame her, not in the slightest; the memory of the hours after having seen her curled next to another man on her porch had ignited a pain that had been too great to navigate. Evenin the hypothetical, imagining her with another man gutted him and left him choking for air, unable to breath around the ball lodged in his throat. And so it was with the memory of this bruising sadness that he excused her and nodded in silent understanding when his calls and texts to her went unanswered.
Lester was no fool; of course he'd known that this wasn't a mountain to be conquered with a few pleading text messages. After giving himself two days to heal enough from his injuries that leaving Haywood alone was feasible, he struck out. Twice, he stopped by her house with flowers and knocked on her door until, defeated, he'd laidthe bouquets on her doorstep and left. He also arranged for takeout delivery to arrive around dinner time and was only mildly surprised when it was reported that she turned them away.
Still, he needed to be sure she was eating and not wasting away with grief, and so he contracted a grocery delivery service to swing by daily with a small bag of her favorites – fresh chicken, tomatoes, fruits and cheeses were brought right to her doorstep. He had guessed, correctly, that she would try and refuse delivery. A well-greased palm can embolden the meekest of us, and the delivery boy had been especially insistent with her. He'd spun a tale of hardship and needing to keep this job to Giana while gently pushing the bag into her hands and she'd reluctantly accepted it. It cost Lester a $20 tip each trip, but knowing that she was at least well-fed was all the consolation he needed.
And finally, shamefully, he'd been reduced to hiding in bushes to catch a glimpse of her. While he could acknowledge to himself that this story may very well not have a happy ending for him, it did nothing to diminish the love he still felt for Giana; he missed her, terribly. Twice now, he'd found a secluded spot and watched her leave work. With her head down, both times she'd exited the building and made tracks for her car. There was no parting chatter with her coworkers, no casual stroll across the lot to enjoy the end of her day – she walked quickly, straight to her car and departed without so much as a glance around her. Nothing whatsoever in her manner indicated anything other than a woman plodding along, just trying to get from Point A to B without falling apart, and that killed him…more than the initial hurt he'd caused, more than remembering the look on her face or the sound of her cries in his apartment that day; knowing that she continued to feel that each day left him desperate to bring her closure.
Now a week out from his rock bottom, Lester was rapidly growing more concerned about her; how was she doing? Did she need anything? Anyone? Stephanie kept in close touch, he knew, but he'd resolved not to involve her more than he already had. Giana needed a friend, an outlet, and he refused to compromise that for her just so he could have some reassurance. Hector was out, and Les was sure that Vaughn McGovern would just as soon shoot him on sight as help him out of this mess. That left one person who could conceivably help him.
The call to Mark Tatum went smoothly. The fact that he was unaware of the current state of things was apparent at his happiness to hear from Lester and his eagerness to grab an early lunch with the man. Steeling himself, Lester drove the hour to Newark and met Mark at a diner near The Landing Strip.
Les was the first to arrive and seated himself as per usual – back to the wall, nearest the rear exit. Some things, he thought wryly, never change. He may well need an escape hatch after Mark arrived and heard what Lester had to say.
When Mark did arrive moments later, it took him a beat to recognize Les. He froze, midstep, and gawped openly at his friend until he shook off his stupor and made his way to their table.
"Holy shit, man, what happened? You look like you went a few rounds with a gorilla…or like you pissed that Tank guy off." Mark was off and running before he'd even made it into his seat, and Lester's answering grimace was the only reply Mark got.
The waitress appeared just then to take their orders while Mark settled at the table. He waited for the waitress to turn and leave before he pounced. "So? Spill, Santos. Why are you all beat to hell?"
And so, Les proceeded to spill. After asking Mark to just listen to the entire story, Lester told him everything and spared no detail, speaking quickly to ensure he got everything out before Mark stormed out of the restaurant – the mission, his return, seeing Giana and her cousin on the porch, the women, Hector's mats session, and his exile from her. Mark began listening to the conversation properly scandalized; by the time Lester was finished speaking, he stared at the man across from him in cold fury, his coffee gone cold and his plate untouched and forgotten.
"You. Fucking. Tool." Was all Mark could bite out before stopping to compose himself. Lester only nodded in silent agreement, waiting for the rest and watching as the anger on Mark's face morphed into different shades of disgust.
"I knew it, I fucking told you that I'd kick your ass if you fucked her over, didn't I?" Lester's only answer was a nod, which served to further inflame Mark Tatum's temper. He pounded the table with a closed fist, making the silverware jump and clatter loudly. Mindful of the attention he was drawing, Mark lowered his voice and hissed, "I don't care that Hector already did the job, you still have one coming from me, you little prick."
He stood to leave the restaurant, his only conscious intention to leave Lester behind, when Les spoke again. "Please, sit. I need your help."
Mark gaped at him for only a moment before laughing mirthlessly, the look on his face anything but amused before sneering at Les. "Do you think, for one second, I'm going to help you out?" He made no attempt to hide the contempt he felt for Lester as he stepped closer to the man, fists pressing into the surface of the table as he loomed over a still seated Les. "You think you're going to get another chance with her, and that I'm going to help you?" Mark had to reign himself in and remind himself that a trip to the cop shop before noon was not on today's agenda. Hitting Lester in a diner, while satisfying, wouldn't be a smart move.
Les sighed and slumped forward, taking a second to close his eyes and roll his neck around his shoulders before dropping his hands into his lap. "No." His answer was simple, a single word, but even through his own anger Mark heard the defeat in it. "I don't expect any of that. I don't expect help, or pity, or for anyone to cheerlead for me. Frankly," Les swallowed hard and blinked several times in rapid succession, "I don't expect that she'll ever forgive me, Mark. But she needs you right now, I'm sure. You're her oldest friend and Vaughn may not be the best sounding board, so I called you to see if you'd help me."
Mark sniffed, distaste for this conversation – or for this man – clear in his voice. "Vaughn wouldn't ever turn his back on his sister, you're bent if you think I'd buy that."
Gesturing at Mark to have a seat, Les remained silent as the two men silently regarded each other. "Please, sit. I think you're making the waitress nervous," he said in a hushed tone, sending a strained smile to their curious server. Mark hesitated for only a moment before grunting and falling, begrudgingly, into the chair.
Lester straightened his shoulders and sat upright before beginning again. "Stephanie told me that Giana was pissed at Hec about this," he gestured toward his own battered body before continuing, "and she wasn't speaking to him. That puts Vaughn in the middle. Steph is checking in with Gia, but Ric just came home too so she's trying to be in two places at once. I called you because she needs a friend who can just be dedicated to her right now. That's it. No ulterior motive, man, I just need to make sure she's taken care of."
Mark couldn't resist taking a shot at the man. "Where was all this concern when you were balls deep in some skank, you asshole? You weren't worried about her then."
Lester's jaw tightened and Mark readied himself for Lester to grow angry at the attack, or defend himself…but nothing like that came. Instead, Les only dropped his eyes to the table in front on him and frowned. "There's no explanation I can give that won't sound like I'm trying to make excuses, and there is no excuse for what I've done. I can't possibly make this up to her, or make this right; all I can do is see that she's got what she needs to see her through it. That's where you come in. Can you just go and check in on her, maybe call her after?" Clearly ashamed, Les sucked in a breath before adding, "I'm worried about her."
"She not taking your calls, then?" Mark, in spite of his new resolve to hate Lester's guts for all eternity, couldn't help the stab of pity he felt for the guy. When Les only shrugged half-heartedly and said, "Can't blame her," Mark had to force himself to respond in kind.
"No, sure can't." His gruff allowance felt almost contrived and inorganic; while he couldn't deny that he felt Les had deserved to have his ass handed to him, the guy was clearly sick over what had gone down. Shaking off any lingering feelings of empathy, he stood and hesitated briefly before giving a single nod to Lester and turning to head toward the door.
Lester sat for what felt like the 12th consecutive hour in the swivel chair facing the monitoring station cursing his cousin. And Bobby. And clients in need of monitoring. And while he was at it, he threw in a few colorful swears directed at the person who invented the frigging monitors in the first place.
Sitting in front of the screens was a special kind of torment for the men who worked for Ranger. The very nature of their job was physical, high-adrenaline and intense. To go from stakeouts and chasing bad guys to sitting like a lump, watching old ladies peruse broaches and earrings at Thrifty's Pawn Shop in real-time was inane; it drove even the most disciplined of the men crazy.
Les was on his fourth monitors shift in two days, and as such was especially cantankerous. Bobby had been hesitant to clear him for shift work; his injuries, while not permanent, were plentiful. Add to the fact that he'd just come back from a mission, and add that to the fact that he was completely shredded after losing Giana and, well, Bobby had hit the brakes on releasing Lester to anything more strenuous than monitors for the time being. Ranger always backed Bobby in medical matters, so Lester found his butt growing roots in the ergo-friendly chair in front of the security screens.
There was a small bit of goodness that came from his monitors sentence, and that was Stephanie. Hector avoided his station like the plague (which he'd expected), and Les was left with the distinct impression that a handful of the guys would have loved nothing better than to harass him, either about bringing those bimbos back to RangeMan or about the beating he'd taken from Hector. But Stephanie had made it a point to be seen at the monitors station spending time with Lester and joining him on his shift breaks and no one, not even Hector, would be dumb enough to abuse Ranger's wife's pet. She brought Les heat pads and, alternately, ice packs for his back, and mundane gossip from outside the RangeMan walls – but never about Giana. The two had an unspoken agreement that Steph wouldn't share Gia's business, and that Les wouldn't ask her to be his go-between for his estranged lover. He just quietly and gratefully accepted the small kindnesses Stephanie peppered him with, gratified in the knowledge that she must be showing Giana the same kindnesses she showed him.
It was during one such visit that Steph let a nugget slip while she was chattering about her day to Lester. "…..and when Val's heater died two years ago, she called Gulekki and Sons and it took them three trips to her place just to get it running again, in the middle of December! I've got to ask around, see who does heater repair work that is reliable…"
Lester could tell by the set of her mouth and the faraway look in her eyes that Stephanie was in the midst of a rambling stream-of-conscious monologue and probably wasn't even aware that she was still speaking to him. Les smiled to himself, enjoying the easy way his friend chattered on before interrupting her.
"Beautiful?" he prodded, gently pulling her out of her own head. "Who needs a heating guy? I've got a friend, he does good work, I can give him a call."
Stephanie's poker face was dreadful, always had been, and so when she started and a look of guilt crept onto her face, Les knew immediately who she'd been thinking about.
"Gia's having trouble?" he asked quietly, dropping his eyes to the monitors while he waited for her response.
"Yeah…I'm sorry, Les, I wasn't thinking and I was just running off at the mouth and – "
He waved off her apology and offered her a tight, forced smile and a gruff, "Not your fault, Steph," before asking if she could watch his station for a minute. Glad as ever to help her friend, Stephanie took Lester's seat while he made his way to an empty conference room to make a phone call.
With a deep breath, Les scrolled through his contacts until he reached Mark Tatum's name and pressed 'send'. He crossed his fingers and hoped that Mark's anger would abate long enough for him to answer the phone, and let a relieved breath out when he did.
"Yeah?" Mark said in lieu of a greeting.
"Hey, man. Listen, Stephanie just told me Gia's having some issues with her heater?" He waited for a reply and when he was met with silence, sighed before continuing. "I've got a friend, I'm sure I can get him there today, but I wanted to check with you and make sure you didn't have somebody scheduled to go out there already."
Lester could hear Mark's hesitation through the lines and closed his eyes, hoping against hope that he would be allowed to do this for her.
Finally, he spoke. "I don't know," came Mark's low reply. "I don't think she'd want you doing that. I told her I'd find somebody, I just have to make a few calls and get a guy out there."
"Meanwhile she's sitting in a house with no heat while it gets close to freezing at night?" Lester's counter verged on snippy, so he immediately backed down. "I'm sorry, you're right; she asked you to do it, I get that you don't want to pass it off to me. But I've…I've got a guy, I can do this. Let me do this, for her. I can't do anything else to help her right now, and it would mean a lot if I could take care of this, Mark."
Lester waited, the absurdity of begging another man to let him take care of Giana not lost on him, until Mark groaned and said, "All right. Geez, spending all this time with G is turning me into a chick; you got me feeling bad for your ugly ass. Make your call, but if she shoots me in the leg for letting you, you're paying my medical co-pay," before hanging up.
Lester stared at his phone, surprise being the most dominant emotion he could pinpoint; surprise at the lack of hostility in Mark's banter, sure, but also surprise at the soft bubble of hope that fluttered just under the surface. If Mark could let go of his antipathy…
Les shook his head, flinging that line of thinking from his thoughts. Better not to go there, he thought, resolved to push past such speculation and make his next call.
Reuben was a handyman with an uncanny ability to ferret out the kinks in anything mechanical; his accuracy and speed at repairs were impeded by a nasty little smack addiction that kept him from achieving any great success in his field, but it did make for a helluva motivator to get the job done quickly, so long as he was paid in cash. After promising to be at Gia's house in half an hour, Lester went in search of Stephanie.
"I need a favor," he announced as he approached the control desk. "Can you be at Gia's in thirty minutes? I've got a guy who can fix the heater on his way, but you'll need to be there to let him in."
With a knowing look and a sad smile, Stephanie extricated herself from his chair and hugged him just a hair too tight and a moment too long for him to deny the reassurance in it. She waved goodbye on her way out the door, promising to make it back in time to take him to Pino's for a meatball sub for lunch.
Feeling somehow fuller, Les resumed his place in front of the monitors and did his utmost to ignore the tiny flare of hope that ghosted down his spine.
It wasn't that Giana was ungrateful;far from it. She appreciated cominghomefrom work to find her heater in good working order (if not the ferret-like man who blinked his too-wide eyes rapidly at her when Stephanie introduced him) and was enthusiastic in thanking her friend for finding a handyman and letting him into her home to fix her furnace. But when Stephanie had hesitantly informed her that credit for the gift belonged to Lester, Giana's good manners flew right out of her head and she felt herself shutting down, fast. Her tired smile slipped, her eyes shifted away and her cheery gratitude died on her lips.
"Oh. Okay," was all she could manage. Thankfully, Stephanie had again shown a great deal of discretion and excused herself shortly thereafter, taking Reuben with her to collect his payment. Giana offered to write him a check but after the man informed her that he worked for cash only, she'd been forced to let him seek out Lester for payment.
Lester, she thought on a sigh. Hiccupping back a sob, Gia locked her front door and set the alarm before making her way into the kitchen for a glass of wine. Of late, she'd done her level best to avoid thoughts of…him. She avoided their favorite restaurant and carefully maneuvered past any black vehicle without glancing at the driver, afraid she would be met with the beautiful green eyes that filled her dreams.
She also avoided any contact with him. He texted and called with unwanning frequency, and a few times she'd dared to read the messages he sent.
- I miss you so, so much.
- I need you more than air.
- I am so unbelievably sorry, baby.
And most often, he simply sent: - I love you.
The masochist in her wanted to pore through the short missives he sent, allow the always constant ache in her chest to spread through her body and consume her as she scrutinized his declarations. Self-preservation, however, dictated that she only scan the occasional text and never, ever dwell on what she read. That would surely end her.
He was careful in his messages, she noted, to never ask anything of her. He simply gave her a direct line or two and left her to decide how to deal with it. She was, she mused as she poured her wine, grateful for that. She couldn't fathom having even an internal dialog about what happened, and questions might force her to think.
While she'd succumbed to the ping of her phone on occasion and read his texts, she was exceedingly careful not to answer his calls and never, ever listened to his voicemails. Hearing his voice…Gia choked on the mouthful of wine she was trying to swallow, the tears filling her eyes as much from heartache as coughing. The mere thought of his voice, the beautiful dulcet tone whose cadence had often lulled her into a lust-filled stupor, was enough to crack the sieve that held her pain in check. One sob broke through her carefully constructed barrier, followed by another. She clapped her hand over her mouth in an unconscious gesture to suppress her grief as she made her way to the couch. Once there, she pulled her favorite throw blanket over her head, let go of her rapidly fraying control, and cried.
The torrent of grief was intense and brief, ending after only a few minutes. Giana could acknowledge, in some sick way, that she looked forward to the small breakdowns she allowed herself. It was the only time she let herself think of all she'd lost and of the love she desperately missed. She'd found that after a crying jag, she more often than not felt some respite from the ache that was her now-constant companion; like the pressure had been relieved, however temporarily, and she could once again function in a world without Les.
With a sigh and a groan, she flung the blanket off and sat upright on her couch. She closed her eyes and scrubbed her face with her hands, weariness causing her shoulders to hunch forward as she debated the merits of ordering takeout versus eating something simple before crawling into bed; Giana McGovern was tired. Too tired, it would seem, to prepare any sort of meal from the groceries he had delivered to her home. This weariness was a bone deep, spirit-rending fatigue that she couldn't seem to elude. With a roll of her eyes and a grunt, she forced herself upright and stomped toward the kitchen, determined to shake off her ennui.
"You worked full time and graduated early with a 3.8 GPA without ever missing a day of class," she scolded herself loudly, feeling more than a little foolish. "Why can't you get your butt in gear, McGovern?"
Her grousing was interrupted by the ping of her phone, indicating a new text message. Trepidation swelled, its presence barely noted against the rush of…something as she reached slowly for her phone.
Hope, you idiot. It's hope you feel, a tiny voice she fought to ignore chided her. As much as she wanted a text from him to affirm she was in his thoughts, she dreaded equally the aftermath of such a message. The screen flashed his name, the mix of agony and relief that now accompanied seeing it greeting her as she opened the text.
The single line, You are everything I need, destroyed and mended her bruised, bleeding heart. Seeing this, knowing he was thinking of her and loving her at this very moment, was a blessing and a curse. This, this was what Giana struggled most with – this warring reaction to each one-sided communication she received. She loved and hated hearing from him, and looked forward to and shrank from the messages he sent. Knowing he loved her lifted her up just as quickly as the reminder of the reason she couldn't love him pulled her back to Earth.
Conflicted, she thought dazedly, staring at her phone. That's the word; I am conflicted. She'd found it difficult to concentrate in the days following The Incident. More often than not, her thoughts trailed off into oblivion and when she was able to concentrate, she found it difficult to retain anything. It wasn't a feeling she enjoyed, and as she stared at the dimming text message, another thought hit her.
I need to make a decision because I cannot live in this limbo forever. It was a truth she'd been evading for days. Dangling over this precipice, ripe with unanswered questions was no way to live.
The knowledge that this choice would shape the course of her future, as surely as Lester's choice had impeded it was a sobering thought. How does one go about determining their ultimate happiness with a single question: Can I forgive him?
Resigned and resolved, Giana sealed the wine bottle and returned it to the refrigerator, retrieving the coffee grounds and starting a pot; it promised to be a long night.
That done, she reached for her phone and, gathering every ounce of her waning courage, she dialed a number she knew by heart.
It was no surprise to her that her call was answered on the first ring, or that she was greeted by a breathless voice. Closing her eyes and offering up a small prayer for guidance, she answered him.
"Hi, Les. Can we meet for coffee tomorrow?"