Chapter 2: Calleigh
You listen to the rings with a quickened pulse, reasoning with yourself, mentally listing why you should hang up and pretend this hesitation never occurred. But when his voice finally comes across, you freeze.
He sounds tired, like a man worn down by the trials of time. You try to say something, but your heart catches in your throat, so you keep quiet and listen to his even breathing. You tell yourself he will probably hang up soon, at which time you would do the same and forget this ever happened.
You drive yourself insane with the anticipation of the click to end the call. When you finally realize he wasn't hanging up, you try your hand at words, but your voice comes out scratchy and weak. His breathing deepens to long, uneven strokes, and you panic, the what-ifs running through your head. What if he was pulling a late shift and was in the middle of an important interrogation? What if he was on a date?
What if he was in bed with someone?
You curse yourself for still seething at the thought. You remind yourself that he can sleep with whomever he damn desires, but the images have engraved themselves in your head, and the surge of jealousy doesn't dissipate.
When he says your name, the mixture of emotion in his voice overwhelms you. In one syllable, he makes your head spin, scrambling the organized compartments of your brain. The relevance of his current activities becomes clear to you; whether or not he is in bed, you have his full attention.
You still want to play it cool, but the rhythm of his breathing betrays his tears, and the realization that Eric Delko, your brave Cuban ex-best friend, ex-lover is crying becomes too much to handle, and your own sobs escape your lips. For the first time, if only momentarily, you question your decision to leave. You think calling him was a mistake. You think you can't do this right now.
You think you miss him so, so much.
Your mind screams at you, berates you for showing too much emotion already, but your heart wants something different, and in moments of this magnitude, the heart always out-bluffs the mind.
So you tell him. "I miss you." The 'so much' catches in your throat, or maybe you stop yourself, attempting a semblance of control. Either way, the words are lost, but you know that even without those words, he has caught your quiet urgency.
His reply – I need you – makes your hand fly to your mouth to cover up the half-gasp, half-sob that seeps through.
Dontsaythatdontsaythatdontsaythat.
Please.
Too raw. Too real. Too much. And suddenly, you're back to four years ago, his bed, your couch; his lips on your earlobe, his tongue at your neck, his fingertips doodling just below your breasts. Your moan, his breath. He is everywhere except where you want him, trailing blazes across your skin. A hundred times, a thousand ways. You close your eyes, but you smell him over you, under you, inside you, so you have to open them again. But it's too late; maybe it's always been too late.
"You, you are my messy lover."
His comment catches you off guard, and you hear your own words from that night at the pier echoing in your mind. You're not sure how you find the voice to tell him what you already know: he is there. You wonder how often he goes, but you think that maybe this is his first time since you left, and the unhappy coincidence that you've called him at his most vulnerable is just that: a coincidence.
You miss the normalcy of your conversations, but an innocent query into the state of his being brings another unexpected onslaught of tears. You rush something that's part explanation, part apology, but you have neither the words to explain nor the ones to apologize. Yet, he knows. He knows what you mean, and he knows what you feel. He knows you, and you sense that the two of you still share more than you had wanted yourself to believe.
When he asks you to come home, your mind goes into overdrive, but before you can process the request and weigh the consequences, you impulsively agree. Your spontaneity scares you, because you have never been one to speak or act before you think. Had he asked you to jump off a building with the same desperation, would you have complied immediately?
You get your answer when he asks you to get a one-way ticket, and you concur before you have a chance to consider the implications behind this decision.
As soon as you press 'end' on your phone, your whole body aches for his voice. You wonder why you had told him you needed to go, because while you had a backlog of reports to fill, they could wait. Eric—
You swallow, feeling the lump in your throat.
You stare blankly at the pile of reports in front of you, your tears still hot on your cheeks. Your outburst of emotion had caught you off guard; you don't even remember the last time you had cried. If you hadn't heard the falter in his voice, you would've held in your own tears, because crying meant weakness, and you, Calleigh Duquesne, was anything but weak. His quiet sobs had surprised you though, more than anything else. The only other time you remember Eric crying was at Speed's funeral. Even then, he was silent. If not for the tears that rolled from his eyes that day, you wouldn't have even known he was crying.
You hadn't planned on calling him. In fact, you had nestled your way into that tiny niche between emotionless words and hollow smiles. But somehow, your fingers had found their way to speed dial – one, stillalways first – and had pressed the phone against your ear. When you had changed phones and had to transfer your address book, you had only kept one number from your life in Miami. Nosy colleagues who thought it was their business who was in your speed dial would ask who 'ED' was with a suggestive raise of the eyebrow. You had always smiled, told them it was an old friend and given them a glare, warning them never to touch your personal belongings again.
Life in Boston was good. Peaceful. It was surprisingly easy to adjust to. You only missed Eric when you thought of him, so you busied yourself with work. At an early age, you had learned to install a switch on emotion. Moments with Eric had begun to put the switch into disuse, but it was all too easy to tweak and stick back into commission.
After you had broken the news to him that evening, you had made your way to the Miami-Dade crime lab one last time. Horatio had still been there – did that man ever sleep? – to greet you with a sad smile, and had reassured you that he'd inform everyone of your departure. You had made him promise to go to each person individually – not Eric – and he had nodded in understanding. The people you had worked with every day, especially the ones you considered good friends, had deserved more than that, but you hadn't wanted to be ensnared in messy goodbyes. Sometimes, you wonder if you had hurt them by leaving, and how much, but then you flip the switch and bury your nose in evidence, just in time to block out the wave of guilt. Those waves are little more than tiny ripples lapping at your feet nowadays, anyway. Somewhere along the way, your independence climbs to the top of your priority list, and you figure everyone you leave behind will move on.
Your reputation as the 'bullet girl' follows you to the Boston crime lab, where their day-shift ballistics expert had filed for retirement a few days before you had asked Horatio to look into having you transferred. Your new co-workers had welcomed you with open arms, helping you discover the beauties of Boston. Eventually, you hold the landmarks and small quirks of Boston close to your heart: the Harbor Islands National Park replaces the Everglades, and you get used to months of snowfall.
But you had strayed from the Harborwalk; it reminded you too much of Miami and your pier.
You had dated a few men, at the insistence of your new friends, but they had all been scared away by your fascination with guns, or had suffocated you with their constant need for your time and attention. It was frustrating that they couldn't read your body language and tone, and after so many years of him, you get annoyed when you have to spell everything out.
After your latest breakup, you had come to accept that you would spend the rest of your life alone and end up like one of those crazy cat ladies once you retired. You would never find the one, because the men who weren't intimidated by your demeanor were arrogant assholes. You needed someone to give you the control you craved, without worshipping the ground you walked on, all the while gently keeping you in check when you had your off days.
The realization that your one chance may have slipped out of your grip had hit you harder than you would have imagined. You could still feel him under your fingertips.
That was when your hand had reached for the phone.
Needing to take your mind off the conversation, you make your way to your bathroom and stand in front of the mirror for a moment, staring at your reflection. You turn on the faucet and splash some water on your face, welcoming the way the cool liquid mingles with your drying tears. You use a small washcloth to wipe your face, erasing any impressions of weakness. Before leaving the bathroom, you study your reflection again. Your eyes are still bloodshot, but your cheeks are tinted a healthy pink. You shake your head. You had just been crying, after all; of course your cheeks are flushed.
But on your way back to your desk, you fight the urge to grin.
You reach for your phone again and dial a different number. The next ten minutes becomes a blur, and you are barely able to focus while your boss grills you about your sudden resignation. You're pretty sure she mentions 'professional' and 'two weeks notice,' but your preoccupied mind offers only polite, generic responses. Finally, she gives up and simply asks you for a copy of your resignation letter to be mailed or faxed to her office.
Next, you call the airport and find out that you can be on a direct flight to Miami at eight the next morning, or take a flight that leaves for Raleigh in two hours and transfer. Without giving it much thought, you opt for the transfer option; despite the fact that you will be traveling all night, it will get you to Miami by five-thirty tomorrow morning.
As soon as you hang up, you start to panic. Suddenly, you feel like you're in the middle of the ocean with weights around your ankles. You consider calling him and telling him that you had made a mistake, that you absolutely cannot, will not catch a flight to Miami. How could you face him? How would you answer his questions? You can't stand the thought of not being in control of your emotions, not knowing what to say, acting on impulse rather than rationale. You can see it playing out now: you meet him at a restaurant, maybe a coffee shop, and sit down to have a heart-to-heart, maybe cry a little. And then what? If he gets the answers he needs, would he finally move on? Would you? Would you ask Horatio for your old job back? Even if you told him that you and Eric were a thing of the past, would he give it to you? What made you think you could deal with working together again anyway?
And what if he doesn't move on? What if he wants a second shot? Could you? Your better judgment says no.
Your actions say yes, as you press your phone against your face again. Your heart beats a little less quickly than last time, but you're still anxious, a feeling very unfamiliar to you. After a few rings, he picks up.
"Hey," he greets, his voice calmer now. He must have recognized the number this time and had prepared himself. You wonder if he's still at the pier, but you don't ask, fearing you'll start crying again.
"Hey." You smile, much more comfortable when neither of you are in tears. "I got the ticket." Well, no ticket, but you have confirmation of your flight.
"Wow, already," he says, evidently surprised.
You squirm slightly in your seat, suddenly aware that maybe you sound too eager. "Yeah, I know it's soon," you reply defensively, your voice trailing off anxiously.
"No, no. It's great," he reassures you. "When does your flight land?"
"Five-thirty."
"Tomorrow afternoon?"
"Tomorrow morning, actually." Way too eager. "You don't have to pick me up or anything. I just figured I'd look around for a place to stay."
"Stay at my place," he replies casually. You sense that he doesn't realize the implications of his offer until after the words have left his mouth. "Or actually, I could help you look around," he backtracks lamely.
But visions of his one-bedroom apartment have already sneaked their way into your mind. You pride yourself on having a photographic memory, but now it only serves to provide you images of his naked body pressed against yours, his gentle but firm fingers exploring your curves. You swallow. You wonder if it'll ever be easy. "Thanks, but I don't want to upset your daily routine," you say carefully. Everything has to be said with a dash of caution now. Every word holds another hidden meaning, the implications of each chosen phrase is held under a microscope and dissected until verbiage becomes nothing more than a slew of meaningless letters. "Give me a week or two to find somewhere to live and finish moving all my stuff over." You're stalling. You think he knows this.
He is quiet for a moment, and you wish you can see his face, because you had always been able to read him like an open book. "I just need to see you, Calleigh," he says quietly.
You bite your lip. Always straight to the point, still holding his heart out in his open palms. "Eric—"
"Can I pick you up?" He pauses, then clarifies, "From the airport."
No. Nonono. Not ready. Not yet.
"You work tomorrow," you say pointedly.
He laughs. "I work every day."
You smile. "Good point."
"I'm just going to pick you up and drop you off at a hotel or whatever. Then I'm heading straight to work. H would probably get a hernia if I showed up any later," he says with a snicker. He stops talking then, waiting expectantly for your reply. Even 1,500 miles away, you sense his restless anticipation.
You sigh and take a deep breath. No more hiding. "Okay," you concede. There's an underlying understanding that you've okayed more than just a lift to a hotel.
"Miami International?" he asks, referring to the airport.
"Yeah." You're silently glad that there would be someone there to pick you up. The one thing you had hated most about arriving in Boston for the first time was that you had to walk out of the airport alone. It had made you feel like you had no one, and you remember the unsettling feeling of being small in a new city.
Suddenly, from the corner of your eye, you catch your wall clock. Both hands are hovering near the eleven. Crap.
You shoot out of your seat and head for your bedroom. "I have to go. Right now." Your voice comes out a little more serious than you had intended.
"What, like to the bathroom?" he teases. "Go ahead. I'll stand here and whistle 'til you're done." You can almost see his goofy grin.
You laugh in spite of yourself. You are relieved that time hasn't affected his sense of humor. "Eric, I'm going to miss my flight."
"I know, you'd better go," he says softly. He sounds like it's the last time he'll ever get to talk to you. "I'll see you tomorrow morning."
Too soon.
"Get some sleep," you urge, even though you know sleep is the last thing on either of your minds. You don't want to hang up, because you know that as soon as you do, reality will rear its ugly head and you'll have to think about where you're headed.
"I'll try," he says, more for your sake than anything else. "Thanks, Calleigh."
You're not sure why he thanks you, and you think that maybe he doesn't know why either.
"Later, Eric."
You find a dusty old duffel bag from the back of your closet and pack a change of clothes and a few daily necessities into it. All of your appliances and most of your furniture belong to your landlady; you make a mental note to call her later. You decide that you'll get someone to ship your stuff later. Besides, you need to leave something resembling a life here, in case returning to Miami turns out to be the biggest mistake you ever make. You move around the apartment quickly, unplugging everything in sight. You call for a cab and grab your bag, still unable to believe that you had made such an instinctive choice. Standing at the door, you glance at the place you'd called home for the past four years one last time, before flipping off the final light switch and locking the door behind you. You bid your Boston life goodbye and head for the stairs, your fingers crossed under the handle of your duffel.