Chapter 4: Calleigh

The Boston Logan Airport is bustling with activity when you arrive. You had packed light, and your duffel fits under the weight and size restrictions for a carry-on, so you bring it with you. You pick up your boarding pass and make your way through security. You find your gate; thankfully, you don't have to wait very long to board. You try to sleep on the flight, but your brain is trying to reorganize the parts scrambled by the events of the past few hours.

The woman sitting next to you tries to start a conversation with you, but you're less than courteous. She goes on anyway, showing you pictures of her children and talking openly – a little too openly, in your opinion – about her ruined marriage. "The trick to a successful relationship," she says, "is to lay everything out on the line. My biggest mistake was not communicating how I felt. I loved my husband, of course. I still do, but I never told him that. By the time I came around, he was already finding that comfort in another woman's arms. I was too late." She smiles sadly. "Biggest regret. So I adopted a mantra for myself: now or never."

You think that her husband is a complete ass for cheating on her, but it's not your place, so you hold your tongue.

When your plane lands in Raleigh, that is the only part of your flight that you remember. Now or never.

There's a two-hour wait for your next flight, so you wander around the airport for a while. You stop at the duty-free shop and purchase a bar of chocolate for yourself. You stand in front of the jewelry counter for a long time, looking at rings. You consider buying one for Eric, but you're fully aware of the implications of that, so you admire them from a distance. A salesperson tries to help you shop for a watch by asking you if you are looking for anything specific. "Waterproof," you hear yourself saying. "It has to be waterproof. He's a swimmer."

You walk out of the shop with a Timex Ironman Triathlon Bodylink, a modest watch that you think will suit his active lifestyle. You find your gate and sit down to wait for departure. You try to stay awake, but the adrenaline has worn off, and you drift in and out of consciousness.

Blood. Everywhere.

You try to breathe but you can't; you try to scream but your throat is caked with dried and drying blood. Tim, John, Jake. Accident, suicide, coma. There's blood on Ryan's shirt. Is he next? Keep your distance.

Eric is too close. Stay away. He moves closer. Moves closer, closer, closer.

Closer than the trio combined.

For a month and a half after John Hagen's death, you see blood.

Everywhere.

Now you remember why your transfer request was signed and dated, your signature blurred by a solitary tear.

You feel a hand on your shoulder. You open your eyes to see an airport employee standing in front of you, gently shaking you awake. "Miss, are you waiting for flight 348 to Miami?"

Speedle's gun, misfire. "No."

She gives you a strange look. "You're not Calleigh Duquesne?" She pronounces it kay-lay doo-kwes-nee.

Hagen's gun, headshot. "No."

She looks like she wants to ask you why you are sitting there, but she decides against it and leaves. A few seconds later, the PA system springs to life. "Calleigh Duquesne, flight 348 to Miami is leaving in five minutes. Please make your way to gate 45." Your name is pronounced wrong again. You stare blankly at the door to your flight until it closes.

Berkeley's gun, unloaded, sitting next to him in his hospital room, next to his badge and a bouquet of dying flowers.

No.

You take out the watch that you had bought Eric. It is now encased in a velvet box, which you stroke gently. Maybe you'll mail it to him later, you think to yourself. It's a bad idea, but you've had plenty of those recently.

You stand up and start pacing the gate, your duffel bag slung over your shoulder. Passengers for the next flight are already arriving. You bring your phone to your ear. You don't even pay much attention to the conversation. You only know that he is angry; very, very angry. You think he hates you. You don't blame him. Maybe his irate voice in your ear will make it easier to return to Boston and forget about everything. You hope that the only remnants of the past twelve hours is a lighter wallet, but you doubt it'll be that easy.

Even though you are displaying all the physical signs of agitation, you feel a measure of calmness flowing through your body. Your inner tranquility scares you beyond words.

You wander around the airport for another hour and a half, sitting at various terminals, watching normal people with normal lives doing normal things. A tiny toddler stumbles at your feet and grabs you for support; the mother smiles apologetically. A paper airplane hits you on the back of the head; a group of rowdy ten-year-olds giggles ruthlessly. A man asks you for the time; you resist the urge to tell him it's written in big block numbers on a screen on the wall. The PA system periodically calls out a flight number, a destination and a missing passenger. You wonder how many of them are avoiding ex-lovers with the crazy notion that they'll inevitably end up hurting everyone they love. The velvet case is still being toyed with between your fingers. You stuff it back into your bag, pushing it as far in as it will go.

You consider buying a ticket back to Boston, but you've already quit your job, and you think you need a vacation. You've never been to Raleigh before, and you don't mind playing tourist for a little while, so you make your way out of the airport. After poking around for a while, you ride a shuttle to a nearby Holiday Inn Express. The doorman is busy answering another tourist's questions, so you open the door yourself. You wait in line at reception. When you get your turn, the man on the other side ogles you and smiles creepily. His hand rests on yours a few moments longer than appropriate when he hands you your card keys. You want to show him the barrel of your gun, but you spot a surveillance camera in the corner of the lobby.

An attractive man holds the elevator door for you and compliments your hair. You thank him and tell him that his shirt brings out his eyes. He asks you how long you're staying, and with whom, and you reply that you have no timeline, and that you're alone. Wink.

You don't feel like yourself, but you need something to take your mind off Eric. Flirting works. He gets off on the third floor, but not before asking you for your room number. You shake your head. "I'll find you if I'm interested." Open for interpretation, not open for discussion.

Your room is small but comfortable. You turn on the lights and check out your bathroom. Before you can even settle in, there's a knock at the door. Dropping your duffel, you pull the door open slowly, without even looking through the peephole.

Your heart stops. Your jaw hits the floor. You can feel your pupils dilating. Your head starts spinning.

At first, you think your eyes are playing tricks on you. You think that maybe your severe sleep depression has finally shown its signs, and that's why Eric Delko is standing in front of you, his hair disheveled, his face tired, his mouth slightly open. You blink, rubbing your eyes with the back of your hand, wiping his face from your memory. He is still standing there. Suddenly, your whole body is weak, and you can barely hold yourself up. You grasp for the doorframe clumsily. You want to slam the door in his face, but your arms are suddenly jelly, and rationally, you know that won't solve anything. Your heart feels like it's about to burst in your chest cavity. Your lungs are compressed and it becomes ever more difficult to breathe.

He clears his throat. "Can I come in?" he asks, his voice guttural.

You try to say something, but your heart is still lodged in your throat, so you shake your head violently. No.

He sighs and forces a laugh. "Calleigh—"

You want to tell him not to say your name, because you can't bear to hear it fall from his lips, but you can't find your voice, so you try to tell him with your eyes.

He stares back at you with an intensity that burns straight through to your core, and you have to look away. He leans toward you, and you reflexively back away. "Please," he murmurs softly. He pauses, running his left hand down his face. His right is clutching the doorframe. His voice lowers even more, his tone apologetic. "I didn't mean what I said before."

You feel tears stinging the back of your eyes. You will them not to fall. "How—" How did he find you? How can he put his life on hold for you like this? And why?

"Can I come in?" he presses.

The hallway light casts his long shadow against your body, and you writhe uncomfortably under the darkness of his form.

Too close.

Still unable to form a coherent sentence, you nod and open the door a few inches more. He slips through the door and closes it behind him. The room is all of a sudden way too small, and you are painfully aware of his presence and proximity. You try to ignore the small flutters in your chest every time you look at him. He is exactly how you had remembered him: his dark skin smooth, his brown eyes piercing, his lips plump. His hands are in his pockets, and he is looking around the room nervously. The silence becomes suffocating. You move to the window and keep your gaze locked outside, leaning against the bottom of the window frame for support. You try to say something, but your throat is parched.

"I like your haircut," he offers in an attempt to break the uncomfortable silence.

You run your fingers self-consciously through your blonde hair, now shoulder-length. "I think I'm going to grow it back."

"No, keep it, it looks nice," he says sincerely.

You turn to look at him. He's still standing at the same place. "You don't have a say," you say, smiling fondly. You despise how easy it is to fall back into a casual conversation with him, because it makes everything else so much more difficult.

He chuckles. "I see nothing's changed," he notes.

You sigh, because his comment has jolted you back to reality. It'll never be easy for the two of you. "What are you doing here, Eric?" you ask, the words barely leaving your throat.

He shoves his hands deeper into his pockets. "I don't know. To talk?" He looks at you expectantly and sighs. "I don't know." He closes his eyes and presses his palms against his eyelids.

"You look tired," you say, even though you're sure he knows this.

"I'm okay," he says dismissively. "I slept on the plane." He leans back against the door, his eyes still closed. His stomach grumbles.

"Did you bring a change of clothes?" you ask, even though his empty hands provide your answer.

"No, I didn't have time to pack," he says with a humorless laugh. He pauses and opens his eyes. "I thought I'd have to chase you back to Boston," he admits softly.

You wonder if he would've. "I don't think there are any direct flights back to Boston today, and I didn't think getting on another transfer flight was a good idea," you say, a little sarcastically. You want to apologize for not getting on that plane, but you feel it's not the right time. You don't want to explain. You don't want to cry.

He doesn't catch your nervousness, or maybe he ignores it out of respect. "You didn't buy the ticket, though," he says offhandedly.

You eye him suspiciously. "How do you know that?"

He laughs guiltily. "I abused my badge," he admits with a playful grin. "Are you going to tell Horatio?"

You smile and shake your head, but mention of Horatio has you thinking about your own job, and you frown. "I quit." He gives you a strange look, so you clarify, "My job, I mean. I quit my job."

"What?"

"Yeah, I don't know," you say quietly. "I thought my move to Miami was going to be permanent." You feel an unfamiliar sting in your chest. "I acted irresponsibly. I don't know what I was thinking." But you do know what you had been thinking. You were ready to move across the country to be with him again.

"I'll call him and explain everything." You know his tone. He's feeling guilty. You damn him for feeling guilty, for feeling like he needs to do this for you, for feeling.

"Her," you correct. "And there's no need. I need a break from everything, anyway."

He watches you sit down in a chair. You want to tell him to sit too, but there's only one chair, and you do not want him anywhere near the bed. "Will you still consider returning to Miami?" he asks carefully. His eyes are gently coaxing.

You sigh. "I don't know, Eric. I don't know." You study him for a moment. "You should get some sleep," you urge.

His laugh betrays his frustration. He closes his eyes again, stifling a yawn. "I didn't chase you here to sleep, Cal."

You smile sympathetically. "We can talk later. Get some rest."

You see him eyeing the only bed in the room. His hand reaches for the doorknob. You can tell he's thinking the same thing you are. "I—" He takes a breath, and you wonder if he's imagining you naked. "I'll go get myself a room."

"Wait." You stand.

He stops in his tracks. His eyes meet yours. He waits.

Say 'never mind,' tell him to leave, push him out the door.

Now or never.

"You can sleep here."

He swallows. You can see the gears turning in his head. "I—" He swallows again. "I don't think that's a very good idea."

"It's not," you say slowly, nodding, "but you just blew your last two paychecks to get here. I don't want you to waste any more money because I—" You wave your hand dismissively. "You know," you finish quietly.

His mouth opens to protest, but he can't think of anything to say, so he stares at you, pleading with you with his eyes, begging you not to do this, not now, not yet.

"Stay here," you request quietly.

He nods slowly. "What about you? You were up all night too."

You are tired, but you aren't about to touch that with a ten-foot pole. "I'll be okay."

He doesn't look convinced, but appears too tired to argue, so he awkwardly makes his way to the bed and sits at the edge. He looks at you a little helplessly. You sense that he is trying to figure out how to get undressed without being reminded of the last time he undressed in your presence. It's already too late for you. You remember the night you left him all too clearly. You remember how he had smelled of aftershave with a hint of citrus. You remember the way he had dictated a slow pace, despite your attempts to rush. You remember the tenderness with which he had caressed you.

Guilty, guilty, guilty.

You can barely breathe. You feel like you need to get out of this room now, so you head for the door, staying as close to the walls as possible. "Are you hungry?" you ask, your voice low in your throat. You twist the doorknob and pull the door open. You don't wait for his response. "I'm going to go get you something to eat." You slip out the door before he has a chance to say anything.

You walk to the vending machine near the elevators, your legs barely holding you up. You stand in front of it for a few minutes longer than you have to, holding on to the side of the vending machine to steady yourself. You wait for your heartbeat to slow down, but it pounds; you feel it in your temples.

You pick out a sandwich and a can of ginger ale, but your shaky hand slips to the wrong button, so you end up with a Sprite. You take your time walking back to your room and wait outside the door, staring at the numbers '420' emblazed under the peephole. You wonder how long he had stood there just minutes before, steadying his breath the same way you are steadying yours. You take out the card key from your pocket and slide it through the slot.

You are thankful that he is already snuggled into the sheets when you enter, his eyes closed. You place the sandwich and drink on the night table beside him and watch him sleep, his body rising and falling slightly as he breathes. You notice his pants and shirt, folded neatly in a small pile at the foot of the bed. You can't help but envision him half-naked under the sheets.

"Are you going to leave while I'm sleeping?" he asks, his voice muggy. His eyes are still closed.

You want to stroke his cheek, but you don't think that's appropriate. "No," you reassure softly.

He opens his eyes and looks at you urgently. "Promise me, Calleigh," he pleads, his eyes saying everything his words have not.

You feel your heart breaking, and you have to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying. "I promise."

His eyes are drifting, his attempts to keep them open futile. "Don't run," he whispers, closing his eyes, forfeiting himself to sleep.

You bite down harder on your lip. He is already asleep when you speak again. "I'm not going anywhere."

You know that he will be up in a few hours and that you will have to sit down with him and talk about everything. You know there'll be explanations and apologies to make up for the ones you were never able to offer before. You're not sure how you'll find the words to expose everything that's going on in your head, but he's found the actions to show you how much he needs you. It's your turn to use every type of communication possible to convey your feelings to him. You can't guarantee a happy ending, but you'll stop running. You'll stop hiding. You've never been good at showing emotion, but if there's anyone who can break down the barriers, it's the man lying in front of you.

You watch him sleep, admiring how gorgeous he looks when he's resting. His hand is clenching the sheets tightly, his mouth slightly parted. There's a small piece of fluff near his nose; it quivers slightly whenever he breathes. A sense of calmness washes over you again, but this time, it's not a product of denial. Here, in a tiny hotel room 750 miles away from either of your homes, you've never felt closer to home.

Now or never.