Chapter 5: Eric

Your eyes flutter open. You sit up clumsily in the unfamiliar bed, surveying your surroundings. For a brief moment, you have no idea where you are. Then, it floods back to you, every emotion you have felt in the past twelve hours. Shock, anxiety, frustration, anticipation.

But most of all, fear. Fear that you had lost her. Again.

Calleigh is awkwardly half-sitting, half-lying in the chair on the other side of the room, her eyes closed, a small afghan draped over her body. Her head is resting on the table, her arm hanging limply off the side.

You climb out of bed, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. You check the clock; it's a little after nine, still morning. A sandwich and drink are sitting next to the digital clock. You vaguely remember Calleigh saying she'd get you something to eat. You pick up your shirt and slide it over your head, making a mental note to go shopping. You approach Calleigh, and immediately, your heart beats a little faster. Distance and time never change some things. You reach out to shake her, but you're not sure you can handle the feel of her warmth underneath your fingertips, so you withdraw your arm.

"Wake up," you whisper. "Hey, Calleigh, wake up."

She mumbles incoherently and turns away from you, pulling the afghan over her head, the same way she used to before. You try again.

"Hey, come on, Cal. You're going to be sore all day if you stay in that position any longer." You reach for her shoulder again, but pull back once more.

She doesn't respond. You don't remember her being a heavy sleeper; she would wake when you so much as stirred next to her. You consider carrying her to the bed, but you're positive you'll handle that a lot less well than shaking her awake.

Thankfully, she rouses and sits up, opening her eyes to look at you. You think you hear her breath hitch when she sees you, but you don't want to be presumptuous. Seeing her half-asleep is too intimate for your liking, so you back away slightly.

"I, uh, I'm going to take a shower," you say, motioning toward the bathroom.

She nods, blinking the sleep from her eyes.

"Go sleep on the bed," you insist.

She doesn't respond; instead, she stares intently at you. You squirm uncomfortably under her gaze.

You pick up your pants off the floor on the way to the bathroom, only realizing then that you are wearing nothing but your boxers and a shirt. Self-consciously, you wish you were bundled in a snowsuit, scarf wrapped tightly around your neck.

Her voice cuts through the thick silence. "I have your shirt."

"My shirt?" you ask, looking down at your clothes.

She nods. "It's black, with a strange Russian logo. I took it with me to Boston." She smiles and leans her head back. "Go take a shower."

You return the smile and walk into the bathroom, closing the door behind you. You had left a few shirts at her apartment out of convenience, but you had figured that she had thrown them out when she moved away. Maybe it wasn't so desperate that you had kept her clothes, after all. Or maybe it was desperate; you simply hadn't been alone in your desperation.

There's only one bar of soap in a little tray full of toiletries. It smells like lavender, a little too feminine for you, but you use it anyway. You wash quickly, feeling a little uncomfortable being completely naked with Calleigh only a few feet away. A few feet and a wall, but you wouldn't be surprised if she had x-ray vision. You cannot believe that only six hours ago, you had taken a shower in the comfort of your own home.

You redress yourself in the same clothes – they are relatively clean – not that you have a choice, since you had failed to bring anything in your haste.

Calleigh is rummaging through her bag when you exit the bathroom. She notices you and smiles.

"I need a shower too," she says, showing you the clean clothes in her hand. "How's the water?"

"Good," you reply. You hesitate before continuing, picking your words carefully. "I'll go get you another bar of soap from reception." You do not want to think about her using the same soap you rubbed on your own skin just minutes before.

"Oh, you don't have to. I brought my own body wash," she says, reaching into her bag, but her voice is strained, and you can tell she's caught the meaning behind your careful words.

You smile nervously and nod, busying yourself with your shirt, wishing it had buttons so you could act occupied.

Her arm brushes against yours on her way to the bathroom. It is the first physical contact you've had with her in four years, and you fight the urge to pin her against a wall and the need for her warmth against your body. You feel her shudder, but you think you are imagining things again.

"You didn't eat your sandwich," she says before she enters the bathroom.

You follow her gaze to the night table. "I will." As if on cue, your stomach grumbles.

She nods and closes the bathroom door behind her.

You sit on the bed and rest yourself against the headboard. You pick up the sandwich and fiddle with the packaging. When you finally open it, you bring the sandwich to your mouth and take a huge bite. Ham and cheese. The bread is a little dry, but you are starving, so you barely notice. You flip open your soda and take a long, quenching drink.

By the time Calleigh walks out of the bathroom, her hair still dripping slightly, you are finished both your sandwich and your drink. She moves to the chair, still taking a few extra steps, still staying close to the walls. You watch the tips of her hair form a trail of droplets in her path.

She sits down, pressing her wet hair between her palms to squeeze out the water. "How was the sandwich?"

"I was hungry enough to eat cardboard," you say with a smile, "so pretty good."

She nods in acknowledgement and returns her attention to her hair.

You feel a slew of words fighting in the back of your throat. You try to swallow them, but you can't.

"When are we going to talk about what happened?" you ask cautiously. She looks at you, but doesn't say anything. You laugh bitterly. "We can't just… not talk about it, you know." She is still quiet, now avoiding your eyes. You sigh in frustration. "It's not going to go away if you ignore it."

"Damn it, Eric, I know," she says, her voice dangerously low.

You want to say 'take your time,' but you don't think you have the patience anymore. "This is killing me, Calleigh," you admit quietly. "Not knowing how you feel about this." You motion at the space between your bodies.

She considers this for a moment. "We weren't perfect, but we were doing pretty well." Not the start you had hoped for, but at least she's talking about something deeper than shirts and sandwiches.

You decide to see where this takes you. "Yeah, we were," you say with a short nod.

She looks away. "How did it screw up?" she asks rhetorically, burying her face into her palms.

"You moved to Boston." Simple and straight to the point. No dancing around the issue, no sugarcoating. It doesn't hurt any less to say.

"I'm sorry." You sense that she knows sorry is not enough.

"It's okay," you reply, more out of habit than as an actual indication that everything is fine.

The two of you sit in quiet contemplation for a very long time, but the silence is not awkward. She is the first to speak again.

"I left you," she says softly, as if needing the physical words to make it real and to come to terms with the event. She's staring at you now, her eyes slightly red.

You swallow. "I know."

"I didn't even warn you," she says with a bitter laugh.

"I know," you repeat.

"I blindsided you."

"Calleigh—"

"I'm sorry," she interrupts, a single tear rolling down her cheek.

You feel a lump in your throat, and you hope you do not cry. You shake your head. "Don't apologize anymore."

She takes a breath. "Tell me how to make this okay," she pleads, another stubborn tear finding its way down her face. She wipes at it with the back of her hand.

"Let me in," you request softly, but you already sense her resistance in the air.

"I did." She pauses, watching you shift uncomfortably against the headboard. "I was."

"Never as much as I did," you say accusingly.

She laughs humorlessly. "That's not me."

"I know that. I just—" You sigh, closing your eyes. "Do you know how frightening it is never knowing for sure how you felt? There was never a security that I would have you forever," you tell her. It takes every ounce of your willpower to keep yourself from tearing up.

"That night—" She takes a breath to calm herself, but she doesn't regain her voice.

You ache to hold her in your arms, but you're terrified of her reaction, and you're not sure how you'll handle skin-on-skin contact. You're pretty sure Calleigh still carries her gun everywhere, and you do not want the morning to end with the barrel of her gun pressed against your temple.

"I wish I could hold you," you say softly with a frustrated sigh.

"Don't," she whispers. Even though you had known she probably wouldn't have let you, it still stings.

"I know." You laugh to cover the ache in your heart. "I just wish it was that easy. You know I'd give you the moon if I could reach it." You look at her expectantly. "Even now," you insist.

She covers her mouth with her hand, holding in a gasp. You wait for her to compose herself. "I don't deserve you," she says finally.

You close your eyes and cover your face with your hands. "Don't say that," you plead, your words falling loosely through your fingers.

"It's true," she says with a bitter laugh.

"No, it's not, Cal," you say, lifting your head out of your hands to look at her. Your voice softens. "You deserve everything you want, okay?" She doesn't say anything and looks less than convinced. You sigh. "Calleigh."

She stares at you briefly, as if reading your intentions. "You keep showing me these grand gestures that prove how much I mean to you. I don't deserve that, Eric." She sighs miserably. "I don't know why you're willing to do all these things for me, when I'm less than forthcoming with my own feelings."

"I do it because I'm crazy about you, Calleigh," you pronounce without hesitation.

She looks at you pointedly. "See what I mean?"

"Cal—"

"I'm crazy about you too." Her words are tentative, her delivery insecure. Still, she makes you feel light-headed, and your heart skips. She closes her eyes and continues, "It's not fair that these words were so uncommon from me, but I had come to expect them from you."

"Everyone's different," you say with a shrug. "You take what you can get."

She inhales, her chest rising as she does. "There are so many people out there who are open and honest, who wear their hearts on their sleeves. You wouldn't be here—" She motions vaguely at the hotel room. "—if you had picked one of them."

"I don't want them." Only you, it's always been you.

You stand, pulling the comforter behind you. She recoils a little when you approach her, but allows you to wrap the comforter around her. Hesitantly, you kneel down in front of the chair, pulling her toward you, using the comforter as separation, a safety net. She resists initially, her whole body tightening, curling into a ball, but eventually lets you hold her through the comforter. She rests her head on your shoulder, facing outward, away from your body. You feel her damp hair against your ear, but you are careful not to touch her directly.

Even through the thickness of the comforter, your feel her heart pounding against yours. There is never a quiet moment; your hearts take turns filling the silence, beating in a practiced rhythm that, after so many years, still belongs to the two of you.

You need this as much as she does. The two of you stay in that position for a long time. You wait for her breathing to return to normal.

When it finally does, she squirms out of the comforter, pushing you away gently. You stand, leaving the comforter with her. You back away slowly until your leg hits the side of the bed. You sit down, the mattress suddenly very stiff and uncomfortable.

She watches your every move, an awkward silence settling in the air.

"Have you ever been here before?" Calleigh asks suddenly.

You frown. She knows the answer to that one; you wonder if she's fishing. You select your words carefully. "None of my other relationships ended like that."

She looks confused for a moment, until she realizes you are talking about being hundreds of miles away from home to chase an ex. "I meant Raleigh," she clarifies with a soft laugh.

"Oh." You feel a blush creeping up your face. "No," you reply with a sheepish smile.

"There's a state park not far from here," she says, fiddling with the comforter, still wrapped clumsily around her waist. She looks at you. "We should go."

"You haven't eaten yet," you point out with a frown.

She smiles. "You'll be buying me breakfast to go."

She stands and carries the comforter back to the bed. She makes her way to the bathroom again, but this time, she leaves the door open. You can hear the water running for a few moments, and you picture her washing her face of a few stray tears. A few seconds later, you hear the blow-dryer whirring. You stand and pinch the bridge of your nose. You are dizzy from your embrace.

Cautiously, you follow her to the bathroom. You lean against the doorframe, watching her work with a hairdryer in one hand and a comb in the other. She stops momentarily when her eye catches yours in the mirror. The corners of her mouth turn upward for a second, before she returns to drying her hair.

When she is finished, she pushes you out of the bathroom gently and closes the door.

Ten minutes later, when the door opens, you are still standing at the same spot, your chest burning of her palm print. She looks a little surprised to see you there, and for a moment, you feel the heat emanating between your bodies.

She smiles awkwardly at you and leads you out of the hotel room. Once in the hallway, she hands you the duplicate card key. "You should have this."

You consider how eerily similar this instant is to one nearly four and a half years ago.

"You can have this."

You stare at the single brass key pinched between her index and thumb, her hand extended tentatively. You stand motionless for a few seconds, absorbing the perfection of the moment.

She takes your stillness as hesitation and encloses her fist around the key, withdrawing her hand. "You don't have to take it or anything. I just thought—"

You interrupt her with an impulsive kiss. She is caught off guard and stumbles backward, her back hitting her apartment door. She kisses you back instinctively, her tongue dueling possessively with yours. When she stops you to catch her breath, you grasp her fist in yours.

"Give me," you say eagerly.

You should've known better than to command Calleigh to do something. Her eyes narrow. "Make me," she challenges.

You cup her cheek gingerly and bring her lips up to meet yours again. This kiss is nothing like the last; you tease her, toying with her until she's practically climbing the door in anticipation.

She takes hold of the front of your shirt with her keyless hand and drags you closer, her lips finally finding the intensity they need from yours. You curl your fingers around her fist and pull gently at her fingertips, urging her to loosen her grip. She does so slightly, and you ease the key from her grasp.

Smirking in victory, you break the kiss tenderly. She whimpers at the loss, but allows you to pull her body from the door. You fiddle with the key in your own fingers for a moment before pushing it into the keyhole. You struggle with the lock, nervousness and Calleigh's hand under your shirt adding to your lack of coordination. When she slips between your body and her own door and starts trailing kisses along your neckline, you groan in frustration.

Swallowing your pride for the sake of sexual gratification, you kiss the top of her head and slip one leg between hers, pinning her against the door. "Help me." Your voice is low and gravelly, and you feel her shudder against your collarbone.

She holds out until you press the heat between your legs against her thigh. She closes her eyes and breathes hard. Her fingers find yours, still struggling with the lock. Her gentle guidance helps you twist the key resting in the keyhole.

The turn of a lock has never sounded sweeter to your ears.

It's hard to tell if she's recalling the same event you are, but her body is tense. Without a word, you take the card key from her and slip it into your pocket. You follow her to the elevator. A young girl and her teenage brother are waiting as well. They are dressed for the pool, and you have a sudden urge to go swimming, but you've always had to fight the need to jump into every deep body of water.

In the elevator, the siblings' friendly banter helps ease the silence and discomfort.

The receptionist smiles at the pair of you when you pass the lobby. "Hey!" he calls out. "Hey, Calleigh, right?" She stops to look at him and you feel the need to wrap a protective arm around her, but you don't. "Try our signature cinnamon buns," he says, still smiling. "The breakfast bar's still open."

She turns her head to look at you questioningly.

"Hungry?" you ask, fully aware of the answer.

"Starved," she replies, reaching for her stomach to prove her point.

You smile. "Well, you did say I have to buy you breakfast," you remind her fondly, leading her toward the breakfast bar.

Suppressing the questions still tumbling around in your body, you decide that you will allow yourself the benefit of enjoying a tasty breakfast with a beautiful woman.

Talk can wait; hot cinnamon buns can't.