"No, it's all right. I'm good to stay late," Nolan said. His voice sounded clear despite the static on the line and the distortion of the speaker. "So what happened?"
James glanced at the closed office door. "Are you sure Sarah shouldn't be in here?"
"If you want her, you can ask her to come in. But I think you'll do better to wait until you tell me what went down this morning." Nolan sounded the same as always—curious, encouraging, unflappable. James took a breath.
"Yeah—yeah, okay. So I won't edit or try to—to people-please."
"Yes. Just tell it."
"Well . . . I . . . I screwed up." James looked down at his hands. "I, um . . . I messed with House. Indirectly," he hastened to add.
"Okay. How did you do that?"
"I . . ." James sighed. "I flirted with Roz. His wife."
"I see. And how did they handle it? House and Roz, I mean." Nolan sounded reassuring, but James felt the back of his neck tense up. He rubbed it and wished he'd gone home when the opportunity had presented itself several hours ago.
"She, ah, she left."
"Left?" It was a mild inquiry, but James's nervousness increased.
"She—she started to blush and then she went somewhere—the attic, I think. Checking wiring or something."
"Got it. And House? What did he do?"
James cleared his throat. "He, ah . . . he wasn't too pleased with me."
"How so?" Nolan didn't seem surprised.
"He—he accused me of trying to steal his wife. As if," James snorted.
"You don't find her attractive?"
"She's a little on the thin side," James said. More like bony, he thought. Her features were too angular as well. Beautiful eyes though. They're her best feature, with that black hair.
"And yet you flirted with her." Nolan sounded puzzled.
"I . . . I did it to—like I said. Messing with House." James didn't feel better when he said it; he felt like even more of an idiot than usual.
"Why?"
He'd thought about that answer as he sat in Sarah's garden amid the dead vines and last flowers of summer. "Part of it was just habit—we always pranked each other. He dosed me with speed once after I slipped him some anti-depressants," James smiled a little at the memory. Nolan was silent. "Um—anyway, the other part . . . I . . . I'm jealous. And maybe I wanted to see how good things really are for House. This could all be a big pretense. I know that's not rational, but . . ." He shrugged.
"So you think House might be pulling a fast one." Nolan made it a statement instead of a question.
"I wouldn't put it past him. He held Chase's bachelor party in my apartment, complete with strippers, poles and flaming vodka tower."
"Mmm, so he told me." Nolan paused. "If he is trying to fake you out it's definitely a long and very complicated con. The odds for that are not favorable."
"I know . . . I do know, well, part of me knows anyway, that he's not really doing that—it's—it's just—" James sighed. "It's my paranoia around him. Half the time I never know whether to take him seriously or not."
"He does have an impressive set of skills when it comes to keeping people off-balance," Nolan said. "Did you achieve your goal with him?"
"Goal?"
"You wanted to mess with him. Was his getting angry what you were aiming for?"
"I . . . no, not really." James rubbed his neck. "I just wanted to see . . . someone I recognized."
"You find House unrecognizable?"
"Yes!" James sat up. "He's . . . he's acting like he's happy."
"Many people would find that a good thing," Nolan said mildly.
"I know House. He doesn't do happy, not like this."
"I see." Nolan exhaled, a long, slow breath. "Would you be ready to have Sarah come in now?"
She entered quietly, put a hand on his shoulder for a moment before she sat down. The gesture felt good. "Darryl," she said, "I'm here."
"Sarah," Nolan said, and there was affection in his voice. "I hear it's been a long day on your end."
"Yes," she said, and James saw then she was tired. She glanced at him and smiled just a little, and somehow the weariness lifted for a moment. "We're holding on though."
"Good to know. Let's see if we can get things sorted out so you can have the evening off at least." Nolan was silent a moment. "I'd like your take on what happened."
"Okay. My information's second-hand, as I wasn't there to witness anything except Greg and Roz talking this afternoon."
She told the story from her point of view. It was dispassionate and factual, and it made James squirm. His behavior seemed worse than ever when stated in such a simple way.
"I'd like to make an observation," Nolan said when she was done.
"Please do," Sarah said.
"I think you've got your money on the wrong horse."
Sarah raised a brow. "Meaning . . .?"
"While James pulled a dumb stunt—"
"Thanks," James said under his breath.
"—he was merely the catalyst for what happened next."
Sarah thought about it. "The pin on a grenade," she said finally. "If you don't mind me mixin' my metaphors."
"Something like that, yes."
"So you believe this would have happened eventually?"
"Sooner or later. It just happened to be sooner."
"So it's a gift." Incredibly, Sarah smiled. Nolan chuckled.
"Trust you to use my words against me. It's an opportunity to deal with some messy issues on both sides and offer the chance to heal, at any rate."
"I've been assigning full responsibility to the wrong person," Sarah said, and closed her eyes. "Dammit."
"You've had a lot on your plate, Sare. It was certainly an easy mistake to make, with James offering such a visible action to latch onto."
"Thanks so much," James said dryly.
Sarah tucked a curl behind her ear. "Okay, understood. I'll talk with Greg tomorrow. He's already gone home with his wife."
"I think that's a good sign," Nolan said. "So let's continue with James, shall we?"
"Sounds good to me," Sarah said. James swallowed.
"Don't I get a vote?" he said, a feeble attempt at humor.
"You lost it when you decided to act like an idiot," Sarah said. "I might have been wrong about who created this mess, but that doesn't mean we won't work on why you did what you did." She leaned back. "Now let's go through this again . . ."
[H]
September 5th
Roz lay on her side and stared into the darkness. She'd been awake on and off since she'd gone to bed four hours ago, but now she'd been pulled out of some vivid dream by her husband's movements. She knew that he was up, that he struggled to deal with the need to move caused by his thigh muscle, as well as exhaustion from the day's events. He needed help, and she was the only one available to offer some.
Part of her wanted to let him suffer; he'd caused her pain, so why shouldn't he hurt too? But another part of her knew he'd endured more misery than most people could even imagine, and that included little or no help while he was in what amounted to agony. She would not be another person in the long line of those who had contributed to his distress and despair.
So she pushed the covers aside and sat up, got out of bed and walked around to his side. He was hunched over and rubbed his thigh as his leg bounced up and down in a rapid bounce. She turned on the table lamp and sat next to him. "How bad is it?" she asked quietly.
"Bad enough." His voice was tight.
"Pain or just restless leg?"
"Restless. Pain's a two."
Roz stood and went into the bathroom. She brought back a glass of water. "Do you want me to call Gene?"
Greg shook his head. "Need some Lyrica and a Vistaril," he said. She saw then his hands shook and he breathed fast and shallow. Anxiety attack, she thought, and took the meds he requested from the drawer. She shook out the pills and offered them to him, held the glass so he could drink, though she knew he was perfectly capable of it himself. When she put the water on the nightstand he started to reach for her, stopped. "Don't . . . don't go," he said, his voice low and rough.
"I'm right here," she said.
"No, I mean . . . don't . . . leave." He shuddered. "Please."
It was the perfect opportunity to hurt him as deeply as he had her. Roz knew even as she thought it that she wouldn't do it, couldn't. "I'm not going anywhere."
He didn't say anything for a long time. At last he managed a nod. "'kay."
"Do you need to walk?"
They ended up on a stroll around the block. It was a chilly night; the wind blew the first fallen leaves over the sidewalk and up against their legs. Greg didn't speak, but his hand gripped hers tightly.
When they were back in bed once more, Roz said quietly, "I might be mad as hell at you right now, but I won't walk out. You have my word."
Greg exhaled slowly. "Thank you," he said.
"How's the restlessness and anxiety?"
"Manageable."
Roz brought the covers up a little higher. "Okay. If you need help, wake me."
"Rubbing it in?" His words held bitterness.
"Trying to help," she said. After a moment his hand touched hers. She clasped his fingers. "Go to sleep."
She lay there for a long time, and listened to his breathing deepen and slow, as tears fell one by one to leave cold, salty trails on her skin.