Chapter 3: Eric

The digital display of your alarm clock glowers angrily at you. The numbers have not changed since the last time you checked; still 2:43 a.m., an ungodly hour. You toss uncomfortably in your sweaty sheets, a billion thoughts running through your head at once. You close your eyes, but sleep doesn't come. Instead, snapshots of your late-night-early-mornings with Calleigh flash into your mind.

You nuzzle your face into the crook of her neck, your lips resting on her carotid artery, feeling her pulse reverberate against them. Your hand cups her cheek, your thumb running across her lips.

"Why aren't you sleeping?" she murmurs against your fingertips.

You place a gentle kiss on her shoulder. "Why aren't you?"

She smiles and covers your hand with her own. "I asked you first," she says childishly, frowning slightly to make her point. "So, why aren't you sleeping?"

"Because," you say, dragging out the word as if it was the most obvious thing in the world, "I'm busy." You move your hand to her thigh, pulling her closer.

She turns to face you and rests her head against your chest. Her legs find their way between yours. "With what?" she asks, playing along.

You place a kiss on the top of her head. In a completely serious tone, you reply, "Well, there's this really hot chick, you see, and I don't know how to tell her I want to get into her pants without sounding like a pig." You pause, feeling her smile against your chest. "What should I do?"

She lifts her head to look at you. "Eric!"

"What?" you ask innocently, pulling her in again.

She presses her palms against your chest to protest, so you loosen your grip. She glares at you, but you can tell she's not really angry. "That's not the right way to get me to sleep with you!"

"Who said I was talking about you?" you deadpan, earning a shove to the chest.

"Fine, who are you talking about?" she asks curtly, jealousy dripping from her words.

She protests slightly when you move her to her back and cover her body with yours, but moans and responds eagerly when you kiss her. "Let me show you," you whisper, your breath already short and low.

You open your eyes, your gaze falling on your alarm clock again. 2:51. Three hours. Three hours, thirty-nine minutes before Calleigh's plane lands in Miami.

After her first call, you had stayed at the pier, not trusting your legs to be able to hold you up. You were convinced you had looked like you had just seen a ghost, so you had taken the time to calm yourself. You were still there when she called the second time. Somehow, you had managed to make it home in one piece; you were glad traffic had been light.

You sit up and walk to the dresser, rummaging through the drawers for a clean change of clothes. Your hand brushes against a black silk teddy Calleigh used to wear to bed. You had always known it was there, but talking to her had made all the nights associated with that particular piece of clothing clearer than you can handle.

Shrugging it off, you head to the shower and immerse yourself in the scalding water, allowing a brief moment of simplicity before the unavoidable complications.

An hour and a half later, you're sitting on an uncomfortable bench near the national flights exit at Miami International. You're early, nearly two hours early, so you ignore the constant crowd of people waiting for a relative, friend or business partner, holding up ugly signs with names scribbled in messy handwriting. You wonder what you would write on yours, if you had brought one. 'Calleigh Duquesne, this sign is useless because I could find you anywhere.' Your endless corniness makes you want to shoot yourself.

"Who are you here for?"

You turn to the voice, and you are surprised to find a middle-aged man seated next to you. He is leaning back against the bench, his composure calm and friendly. You think you can use this to take your mind off the impending meeting, so you smile politely and reply, "Someone I knew a long time ago."

He nods understandingly. "Let me guess, a girl."

You laugh, your throat still scratchy, and run your hand over your face. "What gave it away?"

He laughs knowingly and shrugs. "Just a guess." He studies you for a minute. You do not appreciate the scrutiny, but you are in no mood to start a fight, so you let him stare. "You look tired."

"Thanks," you say, a little more sarcastically than you had meant to. You resent him for mentioning it, but you know he's right.

Your phone vibrates in your pocket, and you fish it out. Calleigh. You turn to the stranger, who gives you a nod. You take a breath and answer, but before you can say anything, she's talking.

"I can't do this. I'm sorry. I—I know this is unfair." Her voice is rushed but sharp, her accent stronger than you ever remember it being.

You lean forward on the bench. "What are you talking about?" you hiss, your heart racing. But you know.

"Don't go to the airport," she says, sounding more like she was issuing a warning than an order, her voice eerily panicked.

"I'm already there," you say flatly. "I couldn't sleep." As if stating it makes it more real, you suddenly feel the effects of your sleep deprivation. Your muscles are sore, and you have a splitting headache.

You hear her pacing at the other end. "I'm not on the flight." Of course. Of course she isn't on the plane; she can't use her phone on the plane.

Your heart drops. You cannot believe this is happening. "Where the hell are you, then? And why are you only calling now? Your flight must've left hours ago." Your voice becomes increasingly loud, and you feel a handful of unwanted eyes on you.

"No, I wasn't on a direct flight. I—" She pauses. "I'm in Raleigh," she says with a short, disbelieving laugh.

"Raleigh, North Carolina?!" You are glad nobody you know is around; your voice has turned almost squeaky.

"Yeah," she says quietly. She sighs nervously. "I was supposed to get on a flight from here to Miami, but I chickened out," she admits guiltily. "I just—" She takes a deep, shaky breath. "I don't know, Eric. Maybe this isn't such a great idea."

In another time, another place, you would've mercilessly teased her about admitting to 'chickening out,' but now is neither the time, nor the place. Your brain can only process the most simple of questions. "Why?" Simple to ask; impossibly complex to answer.

She breathes deeply. "I need more time." Her response is hollow, the words empty and lacking meaning. A skeleton, no flesh.

An unexpected fury flares up within you. "Don't you dare say that," you admonish angrily. "You were the one who called me." When she doesn't say anything, you continue, still seething. "You left me, not the other way around." You say this as if she needs the reminder.

She scoffs. "I suppose that means I should feel lucky that you're giving me a second chance?"

"I'm not giving you a second chance." It isn't until long after the words have left your mouth that you actually realize what you have said. You want to tell her you don't mean that, but your pride has other ideas. "I was moving on, Cal." Liar, liar, pants on fire. "Your phone call is the only reason I am sitting here right now, waiting for you to get off a flight that you're not even on." Your head is ringing, your headache and your fatigue dictating your actions.

She is silent for a few moments. You only know that she has not hung up by her unsteady breathing. "I see." She laughs bitterly, her voice stone cold. "I guess it's best that I'm in Raleigh, then."

Only one thing makes its way to the forefront of your mind. You speak before you have a chance to censor your words. "Wait, does that mean you had wanted a second chance?" Open mouth; insert foot.

She breathes in disbelief. "I cannot believe you just asked me that two seconds after you told me I wasn't getting one. Go to hell, Eric."

The click and the silence that ensues becomes one of the most disconcerting sounds you ever remember hearing.

You slip your phone back into your pocket, trying desperately to steady yourself. You try to stand, but your legs won't let you, so you stay seated. You try to regulate your breathing, and this works a bit better than your attempt to stand.

"Her name's Cal?" The stranger is still there, still talking. You are annoyed that he had been eavesdropping, but you imagine you had been talking loud enough for the other side of the airport to hear.

You are in no mood to talk, but you feel the need to correct him, because only you can call her by a shortened name. "Calleigh. I call her Cal sometimes." But you know you won't be calling her anything anytime soon. The realization makes you nauseous.

"That's a nice name." You ignore him, but after a brief pause, he continues, "There's a flight – American Airlines – that leaves for Raleigh in half an hour. You can get there in two."

You stare at him incredulously. He laughs. "I work here," he says, motioning towards the other side of the airport. "At luggage check. Before my break, a few passengers heading for Raleigh had already checked in their stuff. Usually there are a couple of unoccupied seats."

Somehow, you find a strange comfort and trust in this nosy stranger. "Do you really think I should—" Should what? Chase her? What if she is already gone by the time you get there? Should you continue the chase back to Boston? It worked in stupid romantic flicks, but you doubt the validity of such an act in real life, especially when chasing Calleigh. She would probably catch on to your plan and snipe you from afar.

He shrugs. "Follow your gut." He stands and clears his throat. "I'd better get back to work." He pats you amicably on the shoulder. "It was nice talking to you, and good luck."

"Thanks," you say, even though you know you had been less than kind and hadn't been much to talk to.

You watch the nameless stranger leave and realize that you probably should get going too. You feel numb. The events of the past few minutes have not yet fully hit you, but you are sure that once you get home, you'll break. You're still nauseous; you feel the dangerous mix of exhaustion and a weary heart weighing down your body. You're not sure you remember how to pick up the pieces of a fractured life, but you pray it gets easier the second time.

Hope is such a risky sentiment. You had never been much of a gambler, but you were always ready to bet your emotions for Calleigh. You had lost the first time, and you are on the verge of bankruptcy.

You had let her leave the first time around. You had known that she was headstrong and independent, and you had accepted that you didn't have a say in the events of her life, so you had let her go, instead of doing everything in your power to stop her. You weren't one to disregard her decisions, and you were never fully convinced that you had meant as much to her as she had meant to you. Calleigh always hated talking about feelings, and you had respected her too much to push it, so you had lived in the understanding that you'd never know just how much you meant to her. 'I love you' was only ever whispered when one of you needed a little extra encouragement to reach sexual climax – almost never. You had always looked for small signs that proved she really did love you as much as you loved her, and you had been able to pick out little moments that you held close to your heart. When she decided to leave, however, you took it as a huge sign that you had misread all her other signs. After all, you could never imagine leaving her, so if she not only did it, but did it almost too easily, it must have been an indication that you just weren't very important to her. She wouldn't have left if she was happy, and her happiness had meant the world to you, so you had let her do whatever she wanted, because you trusted her judgment.

After the tearful call last night at the pier, you had felt a tinge of regret. You think that maybe your decision not to chase her had been a mistake. Calleigh had always let you see more of her than she had let anyone else, but she had never let you explore her deepest emotional crevices, so when she broke down and had let you hear her cry, you had wanted desperately to be able to turn back time and get a second shot at that night. You had replayed the situation a thousand times in your head, perfecting the ultimate outcome. You think that maybe, she had unconsciously tested you, and you had failed.

Now, a second shot has been handed to you, but under such different circumstances. You have another decision to make, but while the two questions are nearly identical – to chase or not to chase – the conditions are so contrasting that your careful calculations are no longer adequate. Your decision has to be made in the heat of the moment, but you don't know how to do that without Calleigh's rational voice guiding you. You sense, however, that her rational voice is being drowned by her instincts, only occasionally resurfacing for a gasp of air.

Sighing, you wonder if the two of you will ever figure it out. You wonder if it's even worth it to invest the time and energy to set everything straight. Too emotionally draining. Too many gut-wrenching turns on this roller coaster.

You find yourself standing in front of your car at the airport parking lot, unsure how exactly you found your way there. You take it as an indication that your body is unwilling to gamble again. After you pay your parking bill and pull out of the parking lot, as if in a trance, you drive yourself to the long-term parking facility. You snort when you notice the name of the lot: Dolphin Garage. Miami never fails to amuse you. You pay for a week's worth of airport parking and park your car on the third floor, as close to the terminal building as possible. You're not even sure how much money you spend, only that it probably cost you an arm and a leg.

You walk into the terminal building, slightly conscious of the fact that you are empty-handed. You approach the nearest American Airlines counter lean against it. Your height and stature impose an air of authority. The young man sitting on the other side is a little taken aback by your stance. "How can I help you?" he asks timidly.

"Flight to Raleigh that leaves in—" You check your watch. "—eleven minutes. Is it this airline?"

"Yes, would you like me to check for available seats?" Before you can answer, he's already tapping away at the keyboard in front of him. "There are two places left, both first class, but you'll have to hurry. If you have bags to check, you might not make it on time."

You show him your empty hands.

"Okay, I'll need one piece of photo identification, please," he requests, sitting up a little straighter. He seems to be used to urgent passengers trying to get onto last-minute flights. You wonder how many of them had been chasing their ex-lovers across state lines in the naive belief that something would happen. You wonder how many of them had their hearts broken a second time.

You find your driver's license and your credit card in your wallet and hand them to him. You tap your fingers impatiently against the counter while he enters your information onto the computer. He hands you a freshly-printed boarding pass. "Gate E25. Up the escalator to your right," he says, pointing vaguely into the airport. "You'd better run. Good luck."

As you set off, you wonder why everyone is wishing you luck today. You'll take it, though. You figure you can use as much luck as you can possibly get.

Your badge and lack of carry-on help you rush through security. You make it to the gate just before the last person boards. The woman at the gate scans your boarding pass and smiles flirtatiously at you. You don't notice.

On the plane, you are seated next to a teenager who growls angrily when a flight attendant asks him to remove his headphones for takeoff. Better than a chatty old lady, you decide, clipping on your seatbelt and resting your head back. You have a window seat, so you stare outside as the plane pulls away from the terminal.

Only then do your actions start to register. Your stomach is flipping around in your abdominal cavity, and you are suddenly aware how hungry you are. Your eyelids threaten to close, but you hold your eyes open.

When the monotonous pre-flight message starts, however, your fatigue takes over, and you fall asleep before the seatbelt light even dims.

You wake up to a discomfort in your ears. The plane is landing in Raleigh, and the change in pressure causes the inside of your ears to tighten. As soon as the plane is safely attached to the terminal, you're out of your seat. You nearly knock down a little old lady. You hear yourself apologizing, but people are still glaring. You are the fourth person off the plane. It helps that you do not have to remove anything from the overhead compartment. You try to act collected, but your heart is leaping out of your chest. You approach the nearest counter and spot a young woman who looks a little nervous and out-of-place. You think it is probably her first week on the job. Hoping that this works in your favor, you advance toward her.

"Miami-Dade PD," you say, flashing your badge. "I need to get information on flight patterns and plans for a woman by the name of Calleigh Duquesne."

The young woman stands her ground, handing you a practiced phrase. "I'm going to need to see a warrant, sir."

You sigh impatiently. "Look, I can get you a warrant, but by the time I do, she could be across the country. She's not immediately dangerous, but I can't assure you that there's a possibility she will be when she gets to her destination, which is why I need to know where she's been and where she's going." She doesn't look convinced, so you try intimidation. You lean closer and lower your voice. "I'm sure you don't want this to fall on you when she goes through with her plans and it's all over the evening news." You feel bad for lying, but you are desperate.

Her eyes open wide in shock. She looks around nervously. "Are you sure you're a cop?" she whispers. You know then that you've got her.

You nod. "Yeah, I'm a cop. Do you want to see my badge again?" you ask with a hint of menace.

"No, that's fine," she says, fidgeting in her seat. "Who—" She turns to the computer in front of her and places her fingers on the keyboard. "What was the name again, sir?"

"Duquesne," you repeat. "D-U-Q-U-E-S-N-E."

She taps a few keys on the keyboard. "Alright, sir, here you are. Calleigh Duquesne. Her recent flight info tells me that she got on a flight from Boston to Raleigh at midnight last night, which landed on time a little before two this morning," she begins, picking up a pen and pointing at the screen with it. "She was supposed to be on a flight from Raleigh to Miami, which left a few minutes past four and is scheduled to land in ten minutes, but it says here she didn't make it." She narrows her eyes suspiciously. "This woman hasn't traveled by air very much at all. How is she involved in your investigation?"

You sigh, annoyed at all the cop shows on TV that somehow convince the majority of the population that they're all police officers. You raise your voice. "Do you see me telling you which buttons to press on your computer? No, so why don't you do your job and leave the detective work to me. Now, where's she headed?" You don't mean to be so harsh, but you do not want to miss Calleigh by a few minutes just because some ditzy girl takes too long to look up her flight info.

The young woman frowns. "She's… not. Nowhere. She's not headed anywhere."

"What are you talking about?" you snap, craning your neck to see her computer screen.

"She hasn't purchased any tickets, sir. She must still be in Raleigh." The girl bites her lip and swallows anxiously. "Do I need to alert airport security?"

You shake your head. "No, I'll handle it. Thank you."

She nods and watches you rush off. You make your way quickly through the masses of people, your head spinning. You wonder where the hell she could be. You find your phone and flip it open, dialing a memorized number. The rings seem to drag on forever. C'mon, c'mon.

"Cooper."

"It's Delko," you say, because you know Dan Cooper does not have caller ID.

"Delko! What's up, buddy?" Since Cooper moved to late night-shift, you saw less of each other. But now you appreciate that you know someone who works audio-visual at six in the morning.

You pray he's in a good mood. "I need a favor, man."

"You still owe me for that time you passed out in a bar and I had to drive your drunk ass home." Leave it to Cooper to mention something like that.

"What? When?" you ask, genuinely confused.

You hear him shrug. "I don't know, a while ago. You nearly gave me a black eye."

You laugh in disbelief. "You're making this up."

"No, dude, I'm totally serious. I might even have pictures of that night somewhere." You can hear him searching around his lab.

You're not sure whether to laugh or cry. Your exhaustion lets you do neither. "Look, man, I'm roaming. This call isn't cheap. Are you going to help me or not?" You don't actually care about the cost of your next phone bill, only about the time you're wasting.

"You're out of state? Don't you have work in like two hours?" You can almost see the expression of surprise on his face.

"Coop, are you going to help me out or not?" you ask again, letting the words grind through your teeth.

He is a little taken aback by your tone. "What do you need?"

"I need you to run a number for me," you say hopefully. "I need the location."

"For work?"

"No," you reply. He is silent, and it sounds like he is weighing the consequences of doing this for you. "Don't tell me you're suddenly a stickler for the rules."

"Hey, I need this job, alright?" he says defensively.

You sigh in irritation. "Nobody'll ever know, Cooper. Come on."

"Okay, okay. Give me the number," he concedes.

You recite Calleigh's number, which you know by heart despite the fact that you have never dialed it.

You hear him tapping keys at the other end. "This is a Boston area code. Are you in Boston?"

"No," you say, annoyed, "can you just run it?"

"Okay, here we go. Morrisville, North Carolina. You're near Raleigh?"

You ignore his question. "Can you be more specific about the location?"

He suddenly sounds a little distracted. "Uh, sure. Holiday Inn Express, right next to Raleigh-Durham International." He pauses. "You're looking for Calleigh." A statement, not a question.

"Why the hell are you checking out who the number's registered to?" you demand, your voice rising.

"It pops up on the goddamn screen when I enter the number, Delko," he defends. "I'm helping you. How about you don't yell at me?"

You lower your voice. "I'm not yelling."

"I'm just saying, you don't want to be burned twice." He's right, of course, but you don't want to think about it.

"Thanks for your concern, but I know what I'm doing." You don't.

"Alright," he says, unconvinced. "Hey, I see Horatio coming in. You want me to let him know you won't be at work today?"

You hadn't even thought about that until now. "Yeah, yeah, that's a good idea. Thanks, man, I owe you one. A huge one."

"Yes, sir, you do." He pauses. "Hey, Eric?"

"Yeah?"

He takes a moment to answer, but when he does, his voice is sincere. "Good luck with her, and be careful."

You smile, genuinely grateful. "Thanks, Cooper, I really appreciate that."

When you hang up, you're already outside Raleigh-Durham International Airport. Cabs are consistently picking up and dropping off people, so you find an unoccupied one and climb into the passenger's seat.

"Holiday Inn Express, please."

"It's only half a mile away, " the driver supplies in heavily accented English. "There's even a shuttle bus."

You don't think you have the patience to find the place yourself, so you smile politely and reply, "Thanks, but I really need to get there fast."

The taxi driver nods and pulls away from the airport. The ride to the hotel is too short, or maybe it's too long. You pay the driver with a twenty-dollar bill and stuff the change haphazardly into your pockets.

The doorman holds the door open for you and tips his hat as you enter, but you are too distracted to thank him. You head for reception. The man at the other side of the counter smiles up at you when you approach.

"Hi, I'm looking for Calleigh Duquesne. D-U-Q-U-E-S-N-E." You wish Calleigh's name wasn't so complicated, but only for a moment, because you realize that those small oddities were what attracted you to her in the first place.

He doesn't even check the records on his computer. "She just checked in. Room 420," he says, smiling again.

You thank him and walk to the elevator. Nobody else is there, so when it arrives, you stand inside by yourself, listening to your heartbeat racing in the empty air. When the elevator reaches the fourth floor, your heart feels like it's somewhere in your stomach. You have to fight your body's reflex to throw up, and suddenly you wish you had eaten something before you got here, but you don't think you'll have the guts to make it back upstairs if you don't do this now, so you drag yourself to room 420. You stand in front of the door for a long time, building up the courage to knock. Anxiety and anticipation.

Suck it up, Delko.

You knock. You consider the possibility that she is not in her room, and your heart beats frantically at the thought that you would have to wait even longer to see her.

Your heart pounds even harder when you hear shuffling on the other side. The door starts to creak open. You hold your breath.