Chapter 6: Calleigh

Your new favorite food is the cinnamon bun topped with icing, you decide, sinking your teeth into another bun, your fourth. Eric watches you eat with amusement, his first bun barely touched.

"Are you going to finish that?" you ask after swallowing the last bit of your own bun.

He shakes his head and pushes his plate toward you, a smile on his lips.

You make a face. "I don't want your bun, Eric. I was just asking." You pause, staring at the bun in front of you. "Then again, it would be a pity to let it go to waste, wouldn't it?" you ask, picking it up and bringing it to your mouth.

He opens his mouth, no doubt to reply with a witty retort, but his phone rings and he fishes it out of his pocket. He checks the caller ID and frowns. "It's Wolfe." He pauses, then tentatively asks, "How much do you want him to know?"

You drop the cinnamon bun, suddenly not very hungry anymore. "Let me talk to him."

He nods and holds the phone out toward you. "Want me to answer or—"

"No, I've got it," you say, taking his phone from him and pressing the 'talk' button.

Taking a breath, you bring the phone to your ear. "Hey, Ryan."

"You're not Eric Delko," he says flatly.

You laugh. Stating the obvious is classic Ryan. "Forgot what I sound like already?" you ask, feeling yourself breaking out into a huge smile.

He pauses for a moment, running your voice through his memory. "Calleigh?!" His voice is squeaky from bewilderment.

"The one and only."

"Jesus, where the hell did you disappear off to?" Before you can answer, he continues, "Wait, wait, wait. I called Delko." You can almost see him making the connection. "Oh."

"Yeah," you say softly, "but Ryan, don't say anything about this to anyone else."

"Okay, yeah, gotcha," he mumbles incoherently, still processing the information. "But I had drinks with Delko after work last night," he says, his brain resisting this notion. "How come he didn't tell me you're in Miami?" His words are rushed, and you fear that he will start hyperventilating.

"I'm not," you reply with a short laugh. Your eyes meet Eric's across the table. "He came for me," you say quietly, earning a shy grin from him.

"Are you coming home?" Ryan asks, his voice hopeful. You wonder why everyone refers to Miami as your home, when you neither were born there nor have lived there since so long ago. "You left so abruptly; everyone was pretty shocked." His voice softens. "We all miss you a lot, Calleigh," he admits.

You feel a tiny lump forming in your throat. "I miss you guys too," you whisper, your voice uncharacteristically shaky.

Eric reaches across the table and covers your hand with his, an instinctive provision of comfort. Your breath hitches when the slight roughness of his hand – familiar yet so foreign – moves against the silkiness of yours. You sense that his own action has caught him off guard; he stares wide-eyed at your intertwined fingers. He pulls away, and instantly, you miss the feel of his skin. You reach up to grab his hand mid-air, pulling it down to the table again. You give him a look that tells him this is acceptable, and he nods.

Ryan is still talking. "—so what do you think?"

You laugh guiltily. "I blanked out for a minute. Repeat your question?" You do not realize how low your voice is until you speak.

"Oh God, you guys are copulating right now," he states with disgust, his overactive imagination no doubt providing him countless obscure situations.

You don't even know what 'copulating' means, but you're pretty sure you can figure it out from his tone. "No—"

Once Ryan has an idea in his head, it's nearly impossible to backtrack. "You guys are totally doing it. Oh God, I'm hanging up now. Call me back when you—"

"Ryan, breathe! We're in the middle of the breakfast bar," you interrupt with an embarrassed laugh.

You can hear him silently freaking out at the other end. "In the middle of the breakfast bar? That is sick. Are there people around? Oh God, don't answer that." You hear banging noises through the phone. "You know what, don't call me back at all. I need to go wash my hands."

He hangs up. You pull the phone from your face and stare incredulously at it. Eric gives you a strange look. "What's going on?"

"Ryan thinks—" You smile, looking around nervously. "He thinks we're having sex in the middle of the breakfast bar," you finish quietly.

He laughs nervously, his hand vibrating against yours as he does. You return the phone to him, and he drops it back into his pocket. You wonder if he is thinking the same thing you are. You wonder if he feels the heat at his center. His leg touches yours accidentally under the table. You swallow hard, your knees suddenly weak. You don't like the unfamiliar feeling of vulnerability.

Your combined history becomes too much to handle. A second start is never a fresh start. Taking it slow is never an option when it's been four years, one month and five days. Ten hours, thirty-six minutes and ticking seconds. The fire at your core reminds you of that.

You stand and pull him up with you. "I think—" You swallow, feeling his eyes glued to yours. "I think I'm full." For food. You curse yourself immediately for the thought.

He looks at the abandoned bun on the table, then at your hand in his, before finally settling his gaze on your face. He nods.

"Still up for the park?" you ask, unsure which answer you'd prefer.

The look on his face and the perspiration on his hand say no. He hesitates. "Are you?"

"I asked first," you point out indignantly, frustrated that he's not putting his foot down and dragging you to the park, or to anywhere except back to the hotel room.

His shoulders raise and lower slowly. "I'll go anywhere you want to go," he says carefully, his eyes tracing the outline of your face. Subtlety has never been Eric's forte.

You swallow, picking your response cautiously. "We should—" You wish he would stop looking at you the same way you remember he did when he was more than ready for a late night. "We need to go somewhere busy, somewhere with a lot of people," you suggest, but you're not even sure that will help.

When he reaches for your other hand with his own free one and forces you to stand directly in front of him – close enough for your lips to reach his chest by leaning forward, to reach his neck by standing on your tiptoes, to reach his lips if you take a step forward – you're positive nothing will help.

"Calleigh…"

"No," you say, shaking your head persistently.

He chuckles. "You don't even know what I was about to say." But his guttural voice tells you that you do know.

"It doesn't matter," you say stubbornly, pulling away. He resists, squeezing your hands, but always careful not to hurt you. You swallow, fighting the urge to lean into him. "Eric, stop," you request, unable to raise your voice higher than a whisper. "Please."

He sobers up and lets go of your hands. You miss his skin immediately, but you feel so out of control when he touches you, and you desperately crave control.

"Sorry," he offers, his voice croaky.

You wave your hand dismissively. "You know what, let's just go to the park," you say hurriedly, willing to do almost anything to avoid talking about what just happened.

He opens his mouth to say something, but judges it inappropriate and closes his mouth again, choosing to stick with a short nod.

The breakfast bar is near closing by the time you pay for your buns and leave. He follows closely, but always at least three steps behind.

In the lobby, the creepy receptionist smiles at you again and asks you if you enjoyed your buns. You nod, too preoccupied to offer a real thank you.

Outside the hotel, Eric calls a cab to the William B. Umstead State Park, which is a shoddy idea, in your opinion, since there's nothing to do in state parks except walk, and there's really no difference walking to the park or walking in the park. But you keep your mouth shut, hoping to delay conversation about anything until both of you have cooled down. He opens the back door of the taxi for you, but he knows you don't appreciate chivalry, so you glare at him. He merely shrugs, but lets you close the door yourself. You are thankful that he slips into the passenger's seat.

The ride is rather uneventful, although the driver keeps glancing at Eric sitting beside him and then at you through the rearview mirror. You think that he senses the tension between the two of you, but thankfully, he knows better than to mention it.

The park is eerily quiet when you enter, which doesn't bide well with you, but you imagine that as long as Eric doesn't touch you again, you can behave yourself. A quick look at him tells you he has the same idea, because his hands are securely in his pockets.

Ten minutes and three-quarters of a mile later, neither of you have said a single word. Eric is kicking at little pebbles on the ground. One hits you in the foot, and he mumbles a quick 'sorry.' He stops kicking.

Five more impossibly long minutes after that, he stops in his tracks. "Do you know where you're going?" he asks, his hands still in his pockets.

You slow down a step but continue moving. "No." You stop, turning to look at him. "Why? Do you want to go somewhere specific?" You try to keep your tone as neutral as possible, and you think it works, because he frowns.

"Yeah, somewhere to talk, maybe?" he suggests in slight annoyance. He crosses his arms in front of his chest.

"We talked this morning," you state matter-of-factly.

"I'm not done," he says with a shrug. You watch him for a moment, before turning back to the trail in front of you and walking away. He sighs in frustration. "You know what? Never mind," he calls out after you. "Forget it, keep walking. Walk all day and all night until you get to the other side of this damn park. The grass is not greener there, I promise."

You stop again and pivot to face him. You can tell that he regrets speaking out of rashness, and it's difficult to be angry at him when he's watching you with those eyes. "Say that again," you challenge testily, "to my face this time."

He stares at you incredulously. "Are you five years old?" He sighs when you glare at him. "Can we just sit down somewhere? Fifteen minutes, then you can continue your walk."

You watch him shuffle dirt nervously with his feet. You decide that you owe him this, at the very least. "Fifteen minutes," you agree finally.

He nods and follows you to a nearby field. You find a large tree and sit down, leaning against the trunk, stretching your legs out in front of you. He sits a few safe feet away and crosses his legs.

At first, he's quiet. Just as you're about to remind him that you had been serious about giving him only fifteen minutes, he speaks.

"I'm sorry about earlier, in the breakfast bar."

"Let's just forget it happened," you offer.

He doesn't seem to think that's a good idea. "I just want to get it right this time," he admits. "I can't get this wrong again."

Realizing that you won't be getting out of a long reveal-all conversation, you sigh in defeat. "You got it right the first time."

He shakes his head. "No, if I had gotten it right, we wouldn't be here right now. We'd be… I don't know, four years? We'd be married, probably." He laughs nervously at the thought, and your heart jumps. "But maybe not." He frowns. "Maybe you would've agreed to marry me, then leave in the middle of the night." You don't think he had meant to sound bitter and accusatory, but he does.

You watch him for a moment. "You think I'd do that?" You sound irritated, even though you're not.

"I don't know what to think, Cal." He lets out a frustrated sigh and runs his hands over his face.

You both sit in silence for a few minutes. The silence turns awkward, and his eyes start to dart around the field.

Now or never.

"I was ready to marry you," you say quietly.

He freezes in his place, his eyes now still. You shift against the bark and wish you would shrink. You pick at a dandelion growing beside you. He opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. Shocked into silence, you think wryly.

You take a deep breath. "I knew it would be you." You smile sadly, and his eyes meet yours. "Maybe I knew all along." You see him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing. He opens his mouth again to speak, but you continue, "Eric, I was—" You bite your lip.

Now or never.

"I was so in love with you."

He closes his eyes and leans back, holding himself up with his arms. He chuckles mirthlessly. "But you left."

You nod slowly, feeling your heart pounding in your chest. "I know. But I was. If you don't believe me, well—" You lean your head against the bark, seeing the eager woman from the airplane in your mind. "I don't know."

"I want so badly to believe you, Calleigh," he says softly, his voice on the verge of cracking.

You pray that he doesn't cry, because you know you wouldn't be able to stop your own tears if he does. "I wanted it to work, Eric. I—"

"Why did you leave?" The question you had hoped he would never ask, but knew he inevitably would.

You offer him the same response you did four years ago. "Horatio would've fired you."

"Bullshit."

You look away, a little stunned by his language. He had always been careful with swearing around you; he knew that you didn't appreciate it being used outside of the bedroom. "If you don't believe me, ask him."

"He—" He shakes his head skeptically. "He told you that?"

You nod. "Yeah. The integrity of the team was always his number one priority. You know that, Eric. He said he knew we could be professional, but if we were ever in dangerous situations on the field, we'd act out of emotion, rather than out of reason, and he couldn't afford any slip-ups." You pause, studying his reaction. "He was right, you know," you continue quietly. "If someone threatened to put your life in danger, I—" You sigh. "I would've contaminated evidence, or lied, or—" You swallow, feeling vulnerable. "I didn't trust myself."

"I would've left," he says, still staring at you. "I could've become, I don't know, a swimming coach, or gone back to strictly underwater recovery." He pauses, as if gauging how much he should reveal. "It didn't matter what I was, as long as you were there with me," he says quietly. "I was ready to spend the rest of my life with you, Calleigh. But I don't think you ever were ready for a life with me. I don't think you ever wanted that."

You swallow, your throat dry. "I did." You close your eyes, hoping your eyelids will hold in your tears.

He scoffs. "That's even harder to believe."

You laugh, because it hurts to hear him doubt your words. "I mean it."

"Okay," he says slowly.

"You don't believe me." You phrase it like a statement.

"No," he replies simply.

"How—" You open your eyes and turn to him. He's watching you. You look away. "What can I do to convince you?" you ask softly.

He stares at you for a long time. "I'm not sure, Calleigh."

You don't know when his fifteen minutes are over, but you don't trust yourself to stand, so you sit there, under a huge oak tree, waiting for his next question, waiting to provide another useless answer. He doesn't speak, however. He's watching a little boy on the other side of the field flying a kite.

"I didn't want children," you hear yourself saying. You're not sure why you say it, but he turns to face you again. "I thought you'd be devastated if I told you," you elaborate.

"I would've gotten over it," he says immediately, shrugging. "Calleigh, the thought of me having children with another woman makes me sick to my stomach. I don't want children if I can't have them with you." His voice softens. "I don't want anything if I can't share it with you."

You shake off his words, hoping that if you don't allow them to register, you won't feel the guilt. You feel a sting in your chest anyway. "In your perfect life, you would have children though," you say gently, not realizing how much it would hurt to say until you've said it.

"There's no such thing as perfect, Cal." He pauses and takes a deep breath. "I don't want perfect, I just want you. Why couldn't you see that?" He looks at you, as if expecting a response, but you're still processing his words, still rejecting his open heart.

He leans backwards until he's lying down on the grass and stretches out his legs in front of him. He moves his hands up to cup the back of his head, using them as a sort of pillow. He stares up at the sky and watches the clouds drift across the sky. You consider lying down next to him, but there's no guarantee you won't be tempted to lie on top of him, so you stay rooted to your seat beside the tree. Maybe, you think to yourself, you should just climb on top of him and get it over with, little boy across the field be damned. Maybe he wouldn't try to talk about anything anymore. Doubtful, you think, and you're not sure you're ready to quite literally screw everything up.

"You left because you didn't want children?" he asks abruptly, shaking you from your thoughts.

"No, I left because—" You pause, considering your words. "I left because of a combination of everything." You laugh, because you know you've provided another thoroughly useless answer.

"You left because you didn't want children," he repeats, this time as a statement.

You sigh. "Don't be like that, Eric," you plead.

"Calleigh, you just said—"

"Do you know how many times your mother mentioned grandchildren?" you interrupt.

"So you left because of my mother," he says flatly.

You stare at him, horrified. "No! How could you even say that? You know I loved your mom."

"So what the hell, Cal?" he asks, aggravated. He moves his hands to cover his face.

You pick at the dandelion again. This time, it comes out of the ground. You twirl it absentmindedly between your fingers. "First of all, I was serious about the work situation. I didn't think it would be fair to you if you lost your job, and I wasn't ready to leave ballistics."

"I really appreciate you discussing that with me," he says dryly.

You glare at him. "Do you want to hear number two or not?"

He motions for you to continue.

"Second, you come from such a warm, loving family," you say, your voice softer. "I didn't. I'm terrified of screwing up the way my parents did and ending up with children like my brothers. I got off lucky, I suppose." You pause, smiling sadly. "I saw the way you held your nieces and nephews. I saw the way your sisters teased you about settling down and having your own to spoil. Your eyes lit up, Eric. You tried to hide it, because it was the manly thing to do, but you couldn't wait for little pitter-pattering feet. You couldn't wait for bedtime stories and finger-painting and—" Your voice trails off helplessly.

His attention is on you now, and this makes you uncharacteristically nervous. His mouth opens and closes without a single word. He tries again. "I—"

"Third," you interrupt, because you're not sure you can make it to your last reason if he speaks again. "I couldn't lose you if I never got you."

"That's crazy, Calleigh," he says, his eyes searching for yours.

You laugh humorlessly. "I wouldn't say that, given my track record." You turn to look at him, still lying on the grass. "Everyone I love leaves me, Eric. My parents, my brothers, Tim, John, Jake. Every person who I let get close either disappoints me or dies." Being so honest with your thoughts is rare for you, and you feel old wounds being reopened. You reason that those wounds never healed properly, but it still hurts. The pain is almost refreshing after so many years of numbness.

"So you left me to prevent me from leaving you?" he asks in disbelief. He sits up, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. "Are you listening to yourself?" He takes a deep breath in and leans forward, resting his face in his hands, his elbows held up by his knees. "This is crazy," he mumbles.

In the end, you realize that the third reason is really the only reason. The first two are nothing more than poorly-fabricated, poorly-executed excuses. Your thoughts make so little sense when stated plainly, yet in your head, the fear that he would leave you was suffocating. You hate that you cannot transcribe that fear into words.

"Your fifteen minutes is up," you hear yourself saying, even though it's been long up, and time is rarely a factor where the two of you are concerned.

He looks up. "You're insane." You know that he's not talking about you timing him, but rather about the reasons you have just handed him.

"Maybe," you reply dismissively, "but you're here too."

"We're both insane," he says with a short laugh. "What are we doing here?" He looks like it's only hit him for the first time that he's in Raleigh, North Carolina, sitting in a state park with a woman he hasn't seen in four years, listening to her reveal some of her most intimate thoughts. You wonder if he believes a single word you've said. Somewhere, a defensive voice tells you that you don't really care either way. The pang in your chest tells you differently.

You wonder if it's too late, if you've lost your first chance and already messed up your second. Deep down, you know that nobody is foolish enough to give you three chances to step all over their heart.

"You were right," you say suddenly.

He gives you a confused look. "About what?"

You feel pieces of a dandelion stem in your fingers. Looking down, you realize that you have completely massacred the poor weed. "I wanted a second chance," you say, referring to the angry phone call you had with him after you had failed to board your connecting flight to Miami.

"Wanted or want?" he asks immediately, and you hear his heart beating steadily in the humid air.

"Want." Your lack of hesitation surprises even you. "I want a second chance," you repeat softly, with the correct verb tense this time.

He nods slowly, considering the implications of your this conversation. "How do we make this work?" he asks tentatively.

"I don't know," you answer truthfully, your head overflowing with questions of your own. "We hope for a fresh start, I guess," you say carefully.

He stands and offers you a hand, but you stand up by yourself. He retracts his hand. You don't think this is a great beginning to this 'fresh start,' but he ignores your reluctance and speaks.

"Calleigh?" he asks softly, appearing slightly nervous. His hands are in his pockets again. "I was wondering if you'd like to go out sometime." Fresh start, his eyes add, don't fuck it up.

"Are you sure you don't need time to think about this?" you ask, partly stalling and mostly needing assurance that he knows what he's getting into again.

He nods. "Never been surer about anything in my life," he says with conviction. He pauses, watching you tentatively. "Does that mean—" He smiles timidly. "Is that a yes?"

You feel your heart softening. "Depends where you plan on taking me," you tease.

"Playing hard-to-get doesn't suit you, Calleigh," he says with a soft laugh.

You smile, nodding. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah," you say, "okay."