Disclaimer: Not mine.
A/N: I was going to wait to put up the next few chapters, but the next few have more Grissom, and I feel like I've been neglecting him. So, I hope you enjoy!
Thanks again for reviews--someone asked if I'm done with the story, and I'm not but I'm quite a bit ahead of what's posted. I'm just trying not to get ahead of myself, and end up not updating for weeks if I fall behind. There's 25 chapters in part one and I'm mid-way through chapter 19 in part two. ...But part two is still fairly rough. :) Still, they meet in the last chapter of part one so we're getting close! :)
Anyone else really mad that Sara wasn't on CSI last night though? Like, really, I watched the Catherine-baseball scene from 10x1 like a hundred times...
Chapter 17: May 1991
The Wedding
I flew to Boston for Laura's wedding the following May. Amber had just turned seven, and she was the most beautiful flower girl I'd ever seen… even if my experience with weddings was somewhat limited. And Laura was a beautiful bride. I told her, in the receiving line, how happy I was for her, and I meant it. I had never been in love with her, and without Joshua, I didn't even feel like the former life we'd been building gave me a hold on her… I cared about her and wanted her to be happy, and as long as Amber was still my little girl, I didn't care if she married all of Massachusetts.
I think Mark must have sensed the genuineness of my good wishes, and the platonic way in which I hugged her, because he shook my hand warmly and accepted my congratulations with no awkwardness. At the reception, my response to the inevitable question, "So how do you know the bride and groom?" was always "I'm an old friend of Laura's, from Minneapolis." I didn't feel like her guests needed to know I was a past lover and the father of the child she had buried in the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes, nor did I want to explain that I considered myself Amber's father; Today was a happy day.
And when my daughter swept my onto the dance floor, I spun her onto the floor with no inhibitions—as long as she was smiling, and giggling, and boogying, I was boogying right there with her. I don't think I remember even seeing anyone else but her after the dinner and the traditional dances were over. She didn't catch the bouquet, but the bridesmaid who had—Laura's sister, Annabelle—was kind enough to give it to her, and I appreciated that.
I stayed in Boston for as long as I could—I got about a week off. Laura and Mark's honeymoon was two weeks, so Amber stayed with me the first week and with Laura's Aunt Margaret (the one who had encouraged her to move to Boston) for the rest of the time they were gone. The week was the happiest I had been in as far back as I could remember. I read her stories every night, tucking her into the large hotel bed next to mine, and took her swimming and to the park or the zoo every day, wanting to fill up on all the possible memories that I could.
She went back and forth between calling me Daddy and Gil, but the title didn't bother me anymore. I preferred her to think of me as her daddy, but if she didn't, that was okay. We loved each other, and I was her father even if she started calling me 'Bugman,' like the guys at work had started to do. Before I dropped her off at her Aunt's, so I could catch my flight back to Vegas, I made sure I had loaded her up with close to fifty bug-related children's books, from the educational sort to The Very Hungry Caterpillar, and everything in between. And on the inside cover of each, in my messy scrawl, I penned the words "Love, Daddy."
I just needed to. She wouldn't think anything of it now, but I felt, inexplicably, that our time together was limited. I didn't usually trust premonitions, but when it came to my little girl, I felt safe was better than sorry. And so I made sure that she would know who I was, even if we fell out of touch. I framed several pictures of us together, meticulously writing the place and date along with our names on the back of each photo. I bought her a collection of baseball t-shirts, a Twins, a Cubs, and about six Angels' shirts, as well as an Angels' cap and her own baseball glove, bat, and ball.
I took her on roller coasters, small ones, of course, but enough for her to get a taste of the thrill and the adrenaline. I didn't know Mark, but Laura would never have done this with her, and I needed it, desperately. When I hugged and kissed her goodbye, her last words were "I love you, Daddy." And I whispered back that I loved her too, more than anything, squeezing her tightly. And for about the hundredth time since I'd fallen into the crazy life that was impossibly mine, I felt myself thinking the single, solitary word that had pushed me through the darkness: Enough. It was enough.
Confrontation
When we had fallen asleep, the night of my birthday, in absolute bliss, Michael had slurred out a single, irrevocable sentence into the sleepy silence of his bedroom. Though we were both so near sleep that no conversation could follow, no confrontation could ensue, I remembered vividly that the first time he told me he loved me was following our first time together.
This became the pattern—the normal course of action. We would make love, whether at his place or mine, and then, only then, as we were drifting to sleep, he would make his declaration to me.
I knew that he didn't say it when he thought I was awake, and fully aware, because he knew I wasn't sure what I wanted… how I felt about the whole love thing… how I really felt about him. It was half chivalrous and half cowardly, but I couldn't blame him. I was silently pleased that he restricted these words to moments in which I could choose not to respond, though there was no pretending between us anymore that I hadn't heard it. Somehow, it seemed like a moment in time that was separate from everything else—he could tell me how he really felt, and I had the choice—as I never would have if he'd made the declaration in daylight—to respond or disregard.
But by May the following year—nine months into our relationship and eight since we'd be having sex—my continued silence had become the problem we didn't discuss, but which permeated every conversation, tainted our thoughts each time we made love… a wedge that I'd unintentionally driven between us.
And then came the confrontation.
We were lying in his bed, watching a chick flick. I was snuggled into his arms, clad in only a white tank top and a pair of his boxers, my head against his bare chest. I could tell he wasn't watching the movie—his toes, sticking out of the end of his pajama pants near the bottom of the bed, kept twitching and flexing—the only part of his body that was not held completely and unnaturally still. After this went on for a good twenty minutes, I sighed, snatching up the remote and pushing the stop button, leaving the room dark except for the blue light of the blank screen.
"Tell me what's bothering you."
He averts his eyes. "You don't want to have this conversation, Sara."
I narrow my eyes. "Whatever it is, I do want to have this conversation… did… did I do something wrong? Do you not want to be with me anymore?"
He scoffs at my suggestions. "You know it isn't that. You know it. Why even say those things?"
I chew on my bottom lip. "…You haven't made love to me in almost two weeks."
He shrugs. "We've gone longer than that before."
"Only before finals… and we've… you've never gone that long without trying to initiate something."
He doesn't answer me, but I let the silence linger, hoping that he will seek to fill it. I'm not disappointed—he waits more than a minute, but he does speak again.
"I… I'm tired of having sex with you, Sara."
The words stung, deeply, and I blinked as tears sprung in my eyes. His inflection made me pause, however, fighting back my emotion. I needed to clarify. "I… don't understand."
He exhales loudly, his body tensed with the stress of the conversation. When he speaks, his words are soft. "I… I want to make love to you, Sara. I'm tired of… of feeling like it's just sex, to you. And you… you still call it making love, but in any other phrasing, that four letter word is never uttered—a taboo among taboos. And… when we're done, and you drift to sleep, ignoring my devotions that we both know you've heard, every time, since the first time… I'm… I'm left feeling emptier, less fulfilled, than before our interaction. Why would I willingly initiate torture?"
I look down, ashamed that I'd let it go this far, and unsure how I can really explain myself. But then he's speaking again.
"You… you didn't need to say it our first time, Sara. We'd only known each other a month… I got it. But… but I'm falling head over heels in love with you, we've been together almost a year, and I just… I want to know if… if you're not ready, or if you're still in love with Tyler, or if you're scared… or if you're…you're… never going to feel that way about me. …I need to know."
I swallow hard. "I… Michael, I…" Without realizing it, tears have begun to fall down my cheeks, but I wipe them away impatiently. This is more important than my own self-disdain at having let it go on so long. He's more important than that. "I… think it's that I'm not ready. I… I am scared. And I… do… feel that way, but…" I drew in a long, deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I had to say. I squeezed my eyes shut tightly. "Admitting… that word… is a… vulnerability."
He half-laughs, though there's no humor in it, and I feel him draw me against him tightly, trying to stop the tears that, for some reason, refuse to stop falling. "Of course it's a vulnerability, Sara… don't… don't you think I've been pretty vulnerable, repeating it how many times a week for… for eight months?"
Hot trails course down my cheeks even faster, but I fight back the sobs. Of course he has been. Of course I knew that… but he didn't understand. I… I couldn't hurt like that again. I try to calm myself, scrubbing at my face in irritation. His gentle hands, much larger than mine, push my fingers away and he wipes the moisture from my cheeks himself, cradling my face between his hands.
"Sara, honey… tell me, please."
"To… to be that vulnerable, you have to trust. I… don't trust anymore. It hurts too fucking much."
He paused, and I knew my words had hurt him, but I owed him honesty, at least. "Because… you trusted Tyler?"
I tremble. I hadn't told him that.
But I need to clarify… he needs to understand that it's so much deeper than that. "…Because I had already stopped trusting, and I made an exception for him…"
I can almost hear the thoughts buzzing around his mind—he knows nothing about my childhood, and very little about my relationship with Tyler. He isn't sure whether to ask what he did to betray my trust, or why I had already stopped allowing myself to trust by the age of fifteen. The silence stretches, and then I feel his hands release my face, running through my hair instead.
"Tell me what he did to you. …Please."
I lay my head against his chest, and he holds me in a vice-grip, which is exactly what I need. I feel like he's holding me together—the only reason my lungs can take in breath and allow me to keep speaking. "I… I was in love with him even before we started dating, but I didn't know it, at the time… I…" I half-laugh, sniffling. "I didn't know how to flirt with him, but… I started conversations about books I was reading while we waited for lab results, to keep him talking… arguing… I fell in love with his mind before I ever knew his body."
I wonder, as I speak, if my confessions of loving Tyler hurt Michael more, because I could not use the word so freely with him… but I wasn't in love with Ty anymore… that was what made it bearable to utter the word. I hoped I would get a chance to explain that…
"He… insisted on taking things slowly. We kissed at midnight on New Years, when I was fifteen. We didn't even get close to having sex for… almost a year and a half. I wanted to. I wanted to as soon as I realized how in love I was… I… I used to be a lot more spontaneous than I am now. I acted on impulse."
"You still do." He mutters softly, into my hair, and I smile, almost sadly.
"I used to be a lot worse… In May, when I graduated… we had a fight, because I got the financial aid package for Harvard… a full ride, and then some."
"He didn't want you to leave."
"I… I didn't want to leave either. But… but I couldn't give up my only leg out of the life I'd known and the person I'd spent my whole life trying not to be. I wanted to find a solution… use the extra money to help him pay for school out here or… use it to fly and see him as often as possible. I would have worked every spare hour in the day to save up money to make it work…"
"…But?"
"But… he wanted sacrifice on my part, and none on his. He…" tears start to fall again, but I let them, drawing strength from him to go on. "He told me, more or less, that I s-should be willing to give it all up t-to stay with him b-be-because… because he was the man and w-we w-would depend on h-his income." My voice is shaking, but I don't stop. If I stop I'll never start again. "H-he said t-that it was more… more important f-for him t-to get an education, b-because…"
I couldn't continue, but of course he understood, and stroked my arms softly, whispering soothing syllables into my hair. When I calmed again, I forced myself to speak again. Michael deserved that.
"I moved to Boston for the summer. It was a summer program… I wasn't going to attend, so we could… figure everything out… but I left. I visited…" I hesitate, not wanting to have to explain who 'Jim and Marlene' are. "I visited in August, and we talked… we… we went for a walk on the beach, actually, to our spot. And… and he told me that we could find a way to make it work. He… he didn't take back his words, so I should have known better but… I was just so happy, and so I assumed that his willingness to find a solution meant that he valued my dreams—my right to have mine fulfilled as fully as he did his. We had sex, for the first time, right there on the beach… like, at… fucking three o'clock in the afternoon, for god's sakes…. And then… after, I… I told him how perfect our first time had been. And…"
But like before, he understands, and speaks the words I can't. "He'd already had his first time, while you were gone for the summer?"
I nod, and he runs his fingertips gently over my back, just holding me and giving me strength. I sense his disgust for the boy who had betrayed me, but I can't bring myself to react. I just squeeze him, needing the absolution his embrace provides.
"The Very Hungry Caterpillar" by Eric Carle. I don't own this either. :)
