Chapter 13: Eric
There's nothing more amazing than watching Calleigh wake up in the morning. First, she stirs, but when that happens, nothing in the world will wake her. The trick is to wait until she's stopped fidgeting, and in those precious moments immediately following her small movements, the window of opportunity arises. Months of waking up next to her has taught you this, and you haven't forgotten, despite the time spent apart.
That's how you manage to wake her today: you wait for the perfect fraction of a second to run your fingertips down her arms, along her sides, and she shivers involuntarily. Luckily for you, old habits are hard to break, and as expected, she awakens.
"Morning," you mumble into her hair.
"What time is it?" she asks sleepily, moving one hand up to rub her eyes.
"Six," you reply, planting a soft kiss on her forehead.
She looks at you and frowns. "You have work in two hours."
You shrug and pull her close, liking the way her skin slides against yours. "It's Saturday."
"CSIs never get Saturdays off," she points out.
"I'll call in sick," you say stubbornly, wanting nothing more than to spend the whole day in bed with her.
"You can't do that," she admonishes, squirming out of your grip.
"Why not?" you ask, frowning slightly.
"Because." She sighs and buries her head into your neck again. "You've already taken off two days because of me," she murmurs. "Are you planning on joining me at the unemployment office?"
You chuckle. "No, but it's highly presumptuous of you to assume that I'm taking today off because of you," you tease, causing her to look up again.
"Really? Then why?" she asks suspiciously.
"Someone kept me up most of the night," you reply, grinning sheepishly.
She tenses instantly, and somehow, you had known she would. She sits up abruptly, pulling the comforter up around her. "Go to work," she says, her voice edgy. "I have to go apartment shopping anyway." And you know where this conversation is going to lead.
You reach for her but she recoils. You sigh, watching as she leans over the edge of the bed to grab her clothing. She somehow manages to gather everything without once dropping the comforter wrapped tightly around her body, quickly and quietly slips on the boxers and shirt that you had handed her the night before. You sit up, a little self-conscious about your own nudity, but her eyes are avoiding you, so you stand up and rummage through your drawers for a clean change of clothes. By the time you've dressed yourself, she's dropped the comforter back on the bed and left your bedroom, her dress and underwear clutched tightly in her arms.
You hear a soft, distant click, and your knees grow weak, your heart's being torn open again and the awful nauseous feeling at the pit of your stomach returns. Moments later, however, there's the sound of a showerhead being turned on, of sprays of water hitting linoleum and glass and skin, and your breathing evens.
She's not gone.
Not yet, anyway, and it wouldn't have made sense if you had really thought about it, because she couldn't have made it to the front door so soon, would never have been caught dead in public in a pair of boxers and a loose tee, but the possibility has left you trembling, and you wonder if this is how it's going to be for the rest of your life.
You'll take it though, because you're hopelessly addicted, and there's always the firm belief that one day, forever will no longer seem like a faraway target. She's always been a better shot than you, anyway.
You open another drawer and dig deep, finally coming up with a top and a pair of pants that she had left behind four years ago. A little further, and you come up with a pair of her panties. If it had been creepy then, well, it certainly was convenient now. You ball it up inside her clothes and tentatively, you make your way to the bathroom door, attempting to steady your pulsing temples. You contemplate knocking, but decide against it, and instead grasp the handle of the door tightly and twist. It's not locked, and there's no surprise there, because she never used to close the bathroom door when she showered, always offered a silent invitation all those nights she stayed over, all those mornings the two of you arrived to work late.
But it's different now.
This is not an invitation; you know that much, but you enter anyway, despite the fact that you have a shower stall with glass walls and a glass door, only frosted in the appropriate places. She freezes the moment you step in, and the look she gives you makes you glad that guns perform poorly when wet.
Fighting the urge to hop into the shower with her, you try to act casual about the whole thing, despite the fact that Calleigh fucking Duquesne is buck-naked three feet and a thin pane of glass away, and even though you've seen plenty of that, it never fails to amaze you. Putting down the toilet seat cover, you place the clothes you had brought her on it, and you know that she's watching you warily, can practically feel the holes she's burning into the back of your skull.
As calmly as you can muster, you move to stand over the sink and grab your toothbrush. Slathering some toothpaste onto the tip, you shove it into your mouth and begin brushing. By the time you spit out the foam and finish rinsing your mouth, she still hasn't moved, even as the water keeps pounding down on her.
You lean against the counter and decide to test your voice.
"Calleigh—"
"Eric," she interrupts, voice all business. She gives you an expectant glare. "I'm showering," she says coldly, dismissively.
You leave then, without a word, because damn, you hadn't expected that to hurt, but it does, persistent and sharp.
Closing the bathroom door, you head toward the kitchen, trying to clear your head, trying to figure out what you'll say to her later, how to probe without really probing, how to approach her without scaring her, though you'd never dare use that word in her presence; fear isn't something she's come to accept.
This is how you knew it would be. One step forward, a glimpse of hope and love and genuine possibility; a tumble, falling deep, maybe falling deeply in love and maybe that's the reason, but whatever it is, she only trusts you enough to allow you a brief taste, waits for the dependence to settle, realizes she's in too deep and it's too much and she doesn't want this thing anymore. Or she does, and it scares the shit out of her, and here comes the fear factor again.
Bottom line, Cooper and Ryan had been right, and if history were any indication, sometimes, loss is inevitable. You can't help but think that if you had stopped her last night, she would've returned to Valera's and everything would be okay, because hell, she'd had a little to drink – you could taste the tangy flavor on her tongue, couldn't you? – and was still worrying about whatever her father had done. The realization that she had turned to you for comfort sex, and you had let her hits you hard, and that's the nail in the coffin, right there, because you've gone and quite literally fucked everything up.
No irony, no humor, just an extremely dry mouth and a suffocating perception of loss.
You busy yourself around the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee, concentrating on flour and eggs and milk and other really irrelevant ingredients in an attempt to temporarily stop your mind from racing.
"I'm going to make you breakfast tomorrow morning," you declare firmly, scanning the aisles of the grocery store.
She chuckles and pushes an empty shopping cart up beside you, and immediately, you try to take the handle from her, but she swats your hand away. "Ignoring the blatant ulterior motive, you sure you can handle that?" she asks dubiously, pushing the cart ahead and making you follow a step behind. "I mean, you can barely boil an egg."
You frown at the back of her head. "There was foul play involved in that incident."
She turns to look at you. "Or maybe you just can't boil an egg?" she suggests, picking up a bag of tomatoes and dropping them into the cart.
You take a quick step forward to catch up to her, lean over and lower your voice. "Next time you try to cook something, I'm going to stick my hands down your pants and we'll see how good the outcome tastes," you whisper, your fingertip trailing down her arm.
Her cheeks flush a tiny tint, and she elbows you. "Eric!" She shakes her head and moves to pick out other vegetables. "That's no way to treat a lady."
"Unless the lady likes it," you respond suggestively. She ignores you, but you can see a small smile playing on her lips, and you marvel at how much being around her can lift your spirits. "You were saying something before about a blatant ulterior motive?"
She gives you an impatient look. "Don't tell me the requirement that I sleep over never once crossed your mind," she says flatly, though the gentle sparkle in her eye gives her away.
You chuckle. "Well, I was just thinking you'd come over in the morning and I'd feed you some pancakes," you reply, feigning indifference,but hey, I like that suggestion just as much."
"You're incorrigible," she says, laughing a little. She picks up various fruits and drop them in after the vegetables. "I don't know why I put up with you sometimes."
"I'm sure you do," you reply dismissively. "Otherwise, you wouldn't have offered to come grocery shopping with me."
"The only edible thing in your apartment, other than condiments and seasoning, was a can of green beans," she says exasperatedly, taking a loaf of bread off the shelves.
"That's because I'm always over at your place," you explain. You pause and smile sheepishly. "You take such good care of me."
"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere," she says resolutely, glaring briefly at you.
"You sure? The last time I told you that you were pretty, we were late to work the next morning," you tease, enjoying the dangerous look she gives you in response.
She turns away and bites her lip to stifle a retort, though you can tell that she's not really angry or upset. She moves to the dairy section and gets you milk, butter, cheese. She tackles meat next, then allows a few bags of chips and a six-pack of beer that you sneak into the cart.
There's something so calming and just normal about going grocery shopping with her, you note as she pulls up to the cash register. She notices your ease and smiles, and if perfect moments existed, this had to be one of them.
In the parking lot, as you run your eyes quickly over the receipt, you frown. "Why did you make me pay for bananas and pecans?" you ask, looking up. "I hate bananas and pecans are nuts, which automatically makes them weird."
She stops in front of her car, opens the trunk. "I like them in my pancakes," she says simply, picking up a paper bag and placing it carefully into her trunk.
You smile and move to help her load the groceries. "You're staying over?" you ask, unable to keep the enthusiasm out of your voice.
She nods. "But if you make us late for work again, I'm going to castrate you," she threatens.
"You love Little Eric too much to do that," you reply, fully expecting the annoyed look you get in return.
"I think I'd get over it," she says, pushing the now-empty cart toward you. "Especially if Big Eric keeps calling his penis Little Eric."
"It's actually illegal how much that turned me on," you reply playfully, and though you're mostly joking, you'd never question her ability to turn your 180-pound frame into a pool of jelly.
She rolls her eyes and gives you a weak push. "Go return the cart."
Somehow, despite your lack of attention, you manage not to burn or otherwise ruin the pancakes you're making. There are no bananas in your apartment, because you still hate them, and no pecans, because they're still as weird, though you wish you had some, because you had learned to make a mean banana-pecan pancake, just for her.
She's taking a long shower, because only when you've plopped the plate of pancakes down on the table and extracted some syrup and butter from your fridge does the water stop running. You find yourself gravitating toward the bathroom again, but this time, when you reach the door, you stay still, keeping your hands far away from the doorknob, and wait.
When she opens the door, she's wearing the outfit you had found for her. She looks surprised to see you there, but the shower seems to have calmed her, and her eyes soften.
"I'm sorry," she offers quietly, looking down.
You study her for a moment, then draw her carefully into your arms, wet hair and all. She breathes a shaky sigh of relief into your chest. You tighten your grip, and you can feel her hands clutching your sides urgently.
"Don't go, Cal," you murmur.
She pulls her head off your chest and swipes absentmindedly at the damp blotches on the front of your shirt. "I'm not ready for this," she says tightly, desperation evident in her voice.
"I know," you reply, running your fingers lightly through her hair. "I'm sorry I didn't try very hard to stop you last night."
She shakes her head. "No, I shouldn't have pushed this with you," she says, looking every bit as guilty as you feel.
"Are you upset this happened?" you ask cautiously, not really sure you want to know the answer.
"No," she replies immediately, and you can almost see the resolve hardening in her eyes. "No, Eric, I'm not." She pauses, squeezes her arms around your body and takes a deep breath. "I wanted this as much as you did."
"Then why are you pushing me away again?" you ask quietly, moving your hand to stroke her cheek.
She closes her eyes and leans into your touch. "I don't know," she replies. "You probably think that I did this to feel better about four years ago or as a temporary distraction, but I didn't, and it wasn't." She opens her eyes and looks straight at you; the sincerity there is breathtaking. "I may not be good at showing it, but last night meant something to me."
You take a deep breath. "I was so scared that it hadn't, that I'd lost you again," you admit, and your combined fear is almost tangible.
She shakes her head and pulls you closer. "You're never going to lose me again," she whispers, "not unless you want to."
"Never," you reply, and it's been a while since you managed to fuse so much emotion into one word. "I made you breakfast," you hear yourself saying. "Pancakes."
She smiles. "It smells good," she says, pulling away from your embrace and heading to the kitchen.
You follow her, head and heart not ringing as hard as before, and watch as she settles down to eat. You retrieve a knife and fork from your drawers and hand them to her, watching carefully as she pours a modest amount of syrup and meticulously cuts the pile in half. She clips off a small corner for you to taste, holds the fork up to you and smiles when you push her arm aside and lean down to taste something else entirely. She allows you one small kiss before stopping you.
"There are no pecans or bananas," she remarks, grimacing.
You smile and steal another kiss. "I didn't have pecans or bananas," you explain.
She sticks the piece that had been meant for you into her mouth and chews attentively. "It's good, anyway."
"I know," you reply confidently, moving to pour her a cup of coffee. Sugar, no cream, just the way she's always liked it.
When you place the mug in front of her, she smiles gratefully and takes a sip. "I'm going to call my dad again, today," she says thoughtfully, and you know that this is the way she offers openings and that those openings never last long.
You pour yourself a cup of coffee and find yourself a fork, wondering how to approach the subject without pushing her too fast. You slip into the seat next to her and stick your fork into the plate of pancakes, snipping off a piece. "You never did tell me what happened," you say cautiously, bringing your fork toward your lips.
She turns to look at you, takes another bite of pancake, swallows. "I called him to let him know I was in Miami." She takes another sip of coffee. "He got so angry. He said I should've given him a warning, like I was some incoming hurricane and he needed the time to evacuate." And though she's good at hiding pain, you've learned to read even the most subtle hints, and you can tell that her father's reaction has cut her deep.
"Why would he say that?" you ask gently.
She sighs, looks away. "I don't even know, but I can only imagine…"
"Calleigh—"
"I talked to him all the time when I was in Boston. He never even hinted that something was wrong." She takes a deep breath and puts down her fork. "Maybe I wasn't looking hard enough."
"Don't blame yourself," you say, wishing you had the words to comfort her. "Besides, you don't even know what's going on. He might have a good reason."
"To avoid me like the plague?" she asks in disbelief. She swallows. "He doesn't, and if I start believing he does, I'll just be let down when I find out the truth."
"Your father may have his problems, but he loves you," you reassure softly. "He's always only had your best interests in mind."
"He hasn't tried to call since. If he cared, wouldn't he want to make sure he and I were okay?" she asks, and the fearful uncertainty in her voice nearly kills you.
"Calleigh," you say quietly, "what did you think when I never called you after you left?"
She studies you for a moment, as if trying to decipher where this is headed. "I thought you were respecting my wishes by not contacting me," she replies slowly. She exhales loudly. "I know where you're going with this, but I didn't tell him to leave me alone."
You nod, a little noncommittal. "I didn't call you because I was scared of what you'd say, how you'd react," you divulge, feeling half-healed wounds reopening. You take a deep breath and look at her expectantly, but she's watching you with a silent authenticity. You spin your fork absentmindedly between your fingertips, as an unease settles over you. "I wasn't sure I could handle knowing you'd moved on, forgotten about what we had."
"Eric," she whispers, cocking her head slightly to the side. She takes the fork out of your hands and holds your fingers tightly.
"My point is," you say, wanting to finish before your voice gives out, "you can't be sure why someone's not calling you until you ask them and they tell you the absolute truth." You smile faintly. "When you talk to your dad again, you'll know what's going on."
A flash of confusion clouds her pupils. "I didn't know that was why you never—"
"Forget about that," you interrupt quickly, not wanting to delve into painful emotions of the past.
She stares at you for a long time, until the darkness dissipates from her eyes. "I didn't," she says softly. "I didn't move on," she clarifies. "I never forgot."
You swallow, feeling that dry lump in your throat. "I know that now," you murmur, fighting to keep your composure.
"Don't—" Her voice is croaky, and she takes a shaky breath, her fingers trembling lightly against yours. "Don't forget it."
"I won't," you promise, pulling her hand toward you and brushing your lips lightly across her knuckles. "Call your dad."
"I will," she replies. "I just need to work up the courage."
You give her hand a final squeeze before leaning over and cupping her cheeks with the palms of your hands. "If you need me, any time at all, you call, okay?"
She nods against your hands. "Okay."
A quick glance at the clock on your stove informs you that despite all the fuss you've made about taking the day off, you need to make an appearance at work. "I have to go soon," you say reluctantly, pulling her in for a chaste kiss. "I need to take a shower," you add, standing up. "Finish your pancakes."
You begin walking out of the kitchen, but then you remember something. "Hey, you're going to be running all over the place today, right? Why don't you take my car for the day?" you offer thoughtfully. "I'll call Wolfe and get him to give me a ride."
She nods and smiles. "Tell him I said hi."
You scratch your head nervously. "You don't mind him knowing that you stayed over?" you ask, a little taken aback by her lack of hesitation.
"Oh." She pauses tellingly, considering this angle. "I don't want him to know yet," she replies quietly. "Don't say anything."
You nod and smile a little, even though you know you'll be reading too much into her refusal to expose anything to Ryan. Giving her one last look, you exit the kitchen and head to your bedroom in search of an outfit suitable for work. You gather up your own clothes that had been strewn haphazardly across the floor and find your cell phone inside your pant pocket. You fingers fly deftly over the digits. You bring the phone to your ear and pin it there with your shoulder, moving to toss your dirty clothes into your laundry hamper, making sure to remove your car keys for Calleigh.
After two rings, Ryan picks up. "Yeah, Ryan Wolfe."
"Wolfe, man, listen. Could you drop by my place on your way to work?" you ask, moving back to your room to find a pair of pants and a dress shirt. "I need a lift."
"I'm already at work," he replies flatly, sounding a little annoyed.
You frown. "Well, could you drop by anyway? I'd really appreciate it." You shift the phone to your other ear, as you reach into your closet.
"I guess I could drop by, pick you up," he considers slowly. "You pay for gas," he adds as an afterthought.
You laugh. "It's like fifty cents worth of gas from my place to the lab."
"Fifty-seven, with today's gas prices. Two-way, it'd be a buck fourteen." He pauses. "And if you factor in weather, which changes the coefficient of friction between my tires and the road, it'd be—"
"How about I give you a five and you never mention this conversation again?" you interrupt, feeling a little embarrassed for him.
"I'll be over in twenty," he replies, hanging up.
Chuckling to yourself, you drop the phone on your bed and head to the bathroom, work clothes in hand. You shower quickly, and it could just be your imagination, but you smell Calleigh in the stall, and you can't help but think how pathetic you are for noticing.
Dressed and dry, you find the badge and gun that you had left at home for your date last night and clip them to your pants. Your wallet, still open, is lying at the foot of your bed, a harsh reminder of the little 'problem' that had arisen, but you quickly push that thought aside and stuff the wallet into your pocket.
Calleigh's waiting for you at the door. You hand her your keys, which she slips quickly into her pocket.
"The round one's to my front door," you inform her, and she nods inattentively.
"Eric, listen," she begins slowly. "Before you go, there's something I need to tell you." And you know that it's important, because you can almost feel her heart pounding in her chest, or maybe it's your heart pounding in your chest, but either way, it's essential. She looks down, reaches out and begins fiddling nervously with your shirt. "Last night, after we—" She trails off, appearing a little uncomfortable, and looks back up at you. "You said that you—" Her eyes finish her sentence, but apparently she feels the need to clarify. "You said something, and I said nothing." There's guilt there, an apology maybe.
You shake your head. "That was—" You smile a little, and you're sure that it's less than convincing, but she appears too preoccupied to notice. You take her hands in yours, squeezes them gently. "Don't worry about that."
She reaches up to brush her lips lightly against yours. "I love you, too," she whispers, and she smiles, almost in relief. "I'm sorry I never made that clear."
"Cal…" you murmur, your head spinning. Somehow, with four little words Calleigh Duquesne has managed to make your stomach flip inside-out.
In the good way.
"Eric, I love you," she repeats urgently, louder this time. "I don't want to be afraid of saying it anymore."
"I love you, too," you reply, feeling your heart soar. "So much."
She smiles, leans in to touch her lips to yours, and it's different somehow, freer, and for the first time, you can see her through the kiss. There's a message there, a message that can't be put into words, no matter how hard she's tried, but as her tongue runs lazily over yours, you just know. You understand, and the revelation overwhelms you.
A gentle push to your chest hints that she's out of breath, so you pull away reluctantly.
She smiles, her cheeks tinted a satisfied pink. "Okay, go to work," she urges softly.
"I'm going to be thinking of you all day, you know that, right?" you say, slipping on your shoes and opening the door.
"Same here, Eric," she replies. "Same here." She smiles again, pushes you out the door and closes it.
All the way down the stairs, you're sure you're floating, fucking floating, hovering a good six inches above the ground, and the recreational drugs you had experimented with in high school never gave you a high this amazing.
Calleigh's words replay over and over again in your head, and you can't believe that the brave woman upstairs had allowed those three little words to slip past her lips. And while for many, the phrase is easy to come by, you know that it's quite something for her to actually vocalize it. This way, it means so much more, and you're pretty sure you have a permanent grin stitched onto your face, but looking like an idiot for her has never been a problem before.
You don't even know how much time has passed when Ryan finally arrives, but he looks displeased when you climb in.
"Did your car break down or something?" he asks, annoyed, as he drives steadily down your street.
If you hadn't been riding on your little high, and if Ryan hadn't been doing you a favor, you would've reached over and slugged him across the face, but you are and he is, so you reply in a civil manner. "No, I figured Calleigh'll need a car. She's going apartment shopping."
"When are you going to give her your keys?" he asks, taking a quick, suspicious look at you.
"What?" You frown. "Whenever. She can drop by the lab or something," you reply, shrugging. You narrow your eyes warily. "Why are you so interested?"
"No reason." He clears his throat. "So how was your night?" he asks, aiming for nonchalance and failing.
You chuckle. "Excuse me?"
"Your night," he repeats pointedly. "How was it?"
"Yeah, I heard you." You frown. "What the hell are you talking about?"
He laughs. "You know," he says, hinting obviousness.
"Yeah, I do," you reply slowly. "What I want to know is, how do you know?"
"Calleigh wasn't at Valera's last night," he says, shrugging.
You scoff. "And what? Valera calls you up to inform you of that?"
"I was there last night until pretty late," he replies, "so unless she showed up after two…"
"I'm surprised Valera didn't kick your ass out," you mumble under your breath.
"She enjoys my company, alright? Stop picking on me," he says indignantly. "Besides, I only showed up because I thought Calleigh'd be there and I'd have a reason to hang out," he explains, frowning. "She wasn't."
You allow the silence to settle, and you're glad that Ryan's not pushing it, but you figure that so long as he knows, there's no harm in confirming. "Yeah, Calleigh spent the night."
"And?"
"And nothing," you reply, already regretting your decision to confirm anything. "None of your business." You pause, watching him take a sharp left turn. "Weren't you the one being a baby about the whole thing when we talked to you from Raleigh?"
"I wasn't being a baby," he complains.
"Yeah, well, you sure were being something else," you reply. "Something that starts with 'pain' and rhymes with 'in the butt.'"
He gives you a humorless look. "You know, Delko, you're really funny," he says sarcastically.
You chuckle. "I try."
For the rest of the ride, it's quiet, and you're thankful, because too much Ryan does nobody any good. When he finally pulls into the MDPD employee parking lot, he holds out his hand.
You raise your eyebrow in confusion. "Look, I'm fully secure with my sexual orientation, but I think the hand-holding will only fuel the rumors about yours."
"Gas money, you idiot," he replies, clearly embarrassed.
"Oh." Groaning, you reach into your pocket for your wallet and pull out a five-dollar bill. He takes it from you and climbs out of the car; you follow.
As soon as the two of you enter the lobby, he turns to you. "I got stuff to do, so if you'll excuse me, I need to get back to work," he says.
You shrug. "Be my guest."
He leaves quickly, and you can't help but think that he's acting a little off, even for Ryan.
You make your way to the second floor in search of Horatio, but he finds you first.
"Eric," he calls out to you from your right.
You turn to his voice and begin approaching him. "H. Any news about my trip to Raleigh? Will I have to speak to another agent?"
"No, I worked it out," he replies. "Probation. Strictly desk duty for the next three weeks, Eric. Got it? Desk duty." He pauses and tilts his head to the side. "Rick was pushing IAB for dismissal or demotion, but I refused to let that happen."
You smile gratefully. "Thanks, H. I really appreciate this."
He nods. "You know, Eric, you've got some vacation time saved up, and I know you'd like some time off, so why don't you take the next two and a half weeks," he suggests. "I imagine paperwork wasn't what drew you to the job."
You frown. "Won't IAB get suspicious?"
"Not unless you get yourself into trouble," he replies calmly. "So don't do that, okay?"
"Yeah, I'll be more careful," you promise, knowing that if it hadn't been for Horatio, things could've turned very ugly.
"Okay," he nods. "You will, however, have to stick around today. There's mandatory paperwork regarding your visit to Raleigh to be filled out, but tomorrow, I'll have Mr. Wolfe take a trainee out on the field instead of sending you."
You chuckle. "Are you trying to replace me?" you ask jokingly.
He smiles. "Depends how well this rookie performs," he replies.
You take a deep breath. "And what about Calleigh? Is she in trouble because I mentioned her name at the airport?" you ask.
"No," he replies, "the FBI cleared her this morning."
"That's a relief," you say, releasing a breath.
He nods. "Pick up your paperwork and get started," he says, pointing toward reception. "The sooner you finish, the better."
"Got it. Thanks again, H."
"Always a pleasure," he replies, walking away.
For the next five hours, you fill out form after form, write out report after report, and you find yourself checking your phone a little more often than you usually do. Boredom has nearly reduced you to tears, but at the end of those five hours, you reach the last sheet of paper and let out a long sigh, feeling accomplished.
Almost as if on cue, your phone rings; it's Calleigh. Flipping it open so quickly you nearly fling it across the room, you press it against your ear.
"Calleigh."
There's a long pause, and you can almost sense that something has gone terribly wrong. She's breathing heavily into the receiver, and that terrifies you.
"Calleigh," you repeat, louder and more insistent this time, your heart racing.
She clears her throat and somehow, in the way that sound makes its way to your ear, you sense that she's trembling. "I, uh, I got everything sorted out in Boston," she says finally, her voice eerily composed. "My landlady's going to help me sublet the apartment until my lease is over."
"That's great," you reply, trying to figure out what could be wrong.
"Yeah," she continues, "and I got a friend from work to help me gather up my belongings and get it shipped here. I gave him your address; I hope that's okay."
"That's fine. Calleigh, where are you?" you ask, unable to keep that tinge of desperation out of your words.
She doesn't answer for so long that you think she's ignoring you or hasn't heard you, but when she finally replies, quiet and vulnerable, your heart is split down the middle.
"At the pier."
It takes you a moment to regain your voice, because your mind's racing, jumping to obvious and not-so-obvious conclusions all at once. "Listen, can you do me a favor?" you ask, as softly and soothingly as you can muster. "Can you stay there?"
"Eric, I'm fine," she says sharply, and at least there's something there.
"I know," you reply carefully, and you know from experience that when she's close to shutting down, pushing her too quickly is not the way to go. You lower your voice. "I just want to see you, okay? Stay there," you urge.
The tiny 'okay' that you receive in response and the telling click that ensues are enough to affix a knot at the pit of your stomach.
And with every passing second, the knot tightens.