CHAPTER THREE: Cracks

. . . .

. . .

And so.

On Monday afternoon Juliet was at the courthouse, waiting to be called to testify. She'd just exchanged texts with Shawn agreeing to meet for dinner, and it struck her as very strange that she could now be called "unfaithful."

It was neither a term she ever expected would apply to her, nor a course of action she would ever have imagined taking.

She could produce a litany of justifications as to why it hadn't been "ordinary" cheating to spend Saturday morning making love with Carlton—because it was Carlton, because it was about their deep and private connection, because it was Carlton—but to the naked eye, and certainly to Shawn's eye if he found out, she had cheated, and it didn't matter that it was a one-time thing.

The more serious problem in her mind had to do with guilt.

Namely, feeling none.

None.

What was wrong with her?

Nothing, maybe, because it really wasn't "ordinary" cheating.

She wondered how Carlton was feeling about it. They had only exchanged hellos this morning at the station, and not much eye contact, but he and Grimaldi were called out and now she was at the courthouse. There hadn't been enough time to judge whether he felt guilty or freaked, but somehow… somehow, despite his basic nature, she suspected he was feeling neither of those things. She suspected he was feeling what she was feeling: a sense of this having been necessary and important and unforgettable.

Her admittedly inadequate plan now was to act as if nothing had happened, go on with her life, and come to terms with both having cheated on her boyfriend and also not regretting it.

Shawn. Dammit.

Carlton. Damn it all.

Carlton… she leaned back against the cool marble wall and closed her eyes briefly. It should have been us, and now it's too late. I'm so sorry, and you were so amazing and wonderful on Saturday, and I wish I could tell you this. I wish I could change so many things but what's been set in motion isn't that easy to point in another direction.

You knew that, which is why you withdrew.

And I wasn't paying attention—which is why it's too late now.

I'm an idiot.

A mindless, drooling, without-you idiot.

I miss you.

. . . .

. . .

It wasn't so bad, Lassiter decided.

Well, it was bad. But it wasn't as bad.

They were still separate, she was still never going to be his, but somehow, the unbelievably incredible morning they had shared was taking the edge off the pain.

Maybe it was because having shared that intimate, perfect encounter, he understood now that he really did matter to her in a way he hadn't thought was possible until it actually happened.

It was still all for naught, but it was better.

He still smiled at her when she came to the coffee bar and it was still hopeless, but it was better.

On the other hand, Henry was giving him Odd Looks again.

One afternoon—late in Week Six—Lassiter had enough. Juliet had just been at the coffee bar, had come close enough to compliment his tie and incidentally drop off a casefile, and he could no longer deny that Henry's Odd Looks always followed a Juliet-sighting.

He stood up abruptly. "Henry. A word." He headed for the conference room, and Henry followed somewhat warily.

When Lassiter locked the door, Henry was momentarily surprised. But he knew how to rally; he put his hands on his hips and waited.

Lassiter got to the point. "What. Is. It."

Henry pretended innocence. "What's what?"

"No games, Spencer. Leave that to your son. You've been giving me the stinkeye for weeks and I'm tired of it."

"I haven't been giving you any stinkeye. Stinkeyes are for people you're pissed off at."

"Fine, then; you've been flat-out staring, and one thing I know about you is you're not shy when it comes to speaking your mind. So speak it already."

Henry hesitated.

"Before we die of old age," Lassiter snapped.

"It's nothing. None of my business. None of my concern."

He couldn't help it; he advanced on Henry out of pure irritation.

Henry flinched but recovered swiftly, holding up one hand and saying, "Look. It's nothing. I'm merely curious about things that aren't my business."

"What." Pause. "Things."

Now, the man was blunt: "You and Juliet. Your partnership. How things are going. Why you upset the apple cart."

Lassiter felt his jaw clenching. "Doing my job, looking out for the interests of the department, is not upsetting the apple cart."

"Right. So why has she been walking around looking like her best friend died?"

While Lassiter was glaring at him, his heart twinging and his mind racing for an appropriate answer, Henry spoke again.

"For that matter, why have you?"

Ah, hell.

He closed his eyes and let out a deep breath. "It was a big change for both of us."

"Yeah. I get that. I don't get why changing partners also means not being friends anymore."

"We're still friends."

Henry shook his head. "Then maybe you need to do something for your friend, Detective, because that young lady is very unhappy."

Sure, knife me in the gut.

And you're wrong.

It's better now. It is. Ever since… it's better.

Henry watched him for a moment. "Same as you are."

"It'll pass," he ground out, and it's none of your damned business.

"Right. Whatever you say." Henry reached for the doorknob, but Lassiter got around him fast enough to stop him from opening it.

"If you think it was ever my intention to hurt O'Hara, you're wrong."

Henry relaxed, because now he was sure of himself. Lassiter kind of hated him for that. "I know. But you did. Now fix it."

"I can't fix it. It's done."

"It's not done as long as she's walking wounded."

"You're imagining things," he insisted. "We worked it out." Yeah… in a manner of speaking. "It's okay now. We just need time for everything to settle into place."

Again, Henry shook his head. "You know how it goes, Lassiter. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. You had a great partnership with Juliet and you gave it up for reasons that don't make any sense to anyone outside of your head."

"They made enough sense to Vick for her to approve it. And what do you want me to do now? Turn the rookie loose and tell Collins too bad, you don't get a partner, because Henry Spencer thinks O'Hara has to work with me, and we all know you don't cross Henry?"

"You may all know it, but you all sure cross me just the same," Henry said dryly. "I'm just saying there's got to be something you can do to repair your relationship. To put a smile back on her face. Or in her heart," he added meaningfully.

Don't you dare go there.

"She's got your son for that." He let go of the door, but Henry didn't move to open it.

In fact, he laughed—scoffed? "Hey, I love my boy. He's pretty remarkable when he wants to be. But man to man? He's screwed up a lot of relationships and I don't expect this one will be any different. And even if he somehow gets it exactly right this time, Juliet still needs something from you she's never going to get from him."

Lassiter was suddenly tired. So tired. "And what's that?"

"You."

Henry opened the door and walked out, and Lassiter shoved his hand through his hair, trying to remember a time when there hadn't been a Spencer around to screw with his head.

. . . .

. . .

"I spy, with my little eye, something that starts with ears."

Gus protested, "That's not how to play the game, Shawn."

Shawn pointed across the room at Carlton, and Juliet wanted to slap his hand. "But I spy them."

"Stop it," she said, sinking into her chair. "Why are you guys here?"

"To drum up work, of course."

Collins looked up from his PC. "Even though we don't have any for you?"

"There's always work for us. Some little forgotten unsolved case tucked into the back corner of a dusty desk in a dark room in the basement. Ooh, I'd like to get my hands on a cold case. I mean a really cold one. Like from fifty years ago. I want to be like those guys on... what's that show... oh yeah, Cold Case. Not the most imaginative name, but I guess it gets the point across."

Gus reflected. "I could be a younger, hipper version of Will Jeffries. He's cool."

Juliet couldn't resist. "Then Shawn would have to be Nick Vera."

He looked wounded. "I think I'm a lot more like Scotty Valens, thank you."

Collins laughed out loud. "Yeah. In your dreams. Anyway, thanks for your help last week on the Malone case but everything we have right now is psychic-free."

"And you're supposed to get your case assignments through Henry," Juliet reminded him.

Shawn was playing with two rubber bands from her desk. "You'd still date me if I was Nick Vera, wouldn't you?"

"Nick Vera was a great character," she said with a smile.

Shawn studied her suspiciously. "But would you go out with him if he asked you?"

"No, because I'm dating you." Yeah, now I'm honorable.

"Jules," he protested.

"Shawn," she mocked. "Please go away."

"Okay, fine. We'll go bug my dad. Maybe Lassie won't run off this time."

She felt herself tensing. Shawn had mentioned in recent weeks that every time he headed toward Henry's desk, Carlton found a reason to be elsewhere. (She was glad, because she didn't want Shawn needling him about even so much as the weather.)

"If I were you, I'd take it personally," she said lightly.

"Oh, I can't take anything personally from Lassie. He's an android. He probably just has to go get his microchips adjusted more now that you're not there to supervise him."

"Stop it."

He looked at her directly. "Stop what?"

"She wants you to stop insulting Lassiter," Gus explained patiently.

"Who's insulting him? He's a cold fish. That's just a fact."

Carlton is cold like you're anorexic.

It was Collins who intervened with a smooth, "Careful, Shawn. A frozen trout upside the head could kill a man."

Shawn grinned. "Make a note, Gus. When I write my novel, we can use that as a subplot. We'll call the murderer... Barton Bassiter."

"What's this 'my' novel but 'we' can use that? Do you think I'm going to type it all up for you and let you give tiny-print credit to Bruton Gaster?"

"That so wouldn't happen... again... and anyway we're talking about my fish-murderer. He's a tall, gangly, big-eared, hook-nosed—"

Juliet stood and snapped, "Shut up. And get out."

All three men turned to her, and she had the sensation that Collins was on her side.

"Now."

"Move along, guys," Collins said firmly. "And for future reference, this is a no-fly zone when it comes to insulting anyone's partners, present or former. Got it?"

Shawn looked at Collins as if he'd never seen him before, and Juliet realized he probably hadn't. He was startlingly perceptive about people whose business he should stay out of, and stunningly oblivious about people closest to him. Not that he and Collins were close, but he clearly had never perceived him as a threat before.

Threat as in not always applauding every word out of your mouth.

"Hmmph." Shawn got up, putting the rubber bands back on Juliet's desk. He moved closer to her, as if he were going to kiss her, but as much as she normally resisted displays of affection from him in her workplace, today she resisted it even more.

She took a full two steps back, and Shawn, oblivious Shawn, did notice that.

"So," he said slowly, while Gus looked on very curiously. "I'll call you later about dinner?"

I don't want to have dinner with you.

Then she thought, wow, I really don't want to have dinner with you.

"I'm probably working late," she lied.

First you cheat, now you lie…

"I'll call you anyway."

Because even if I were telling the truth, it's not like it should affect your plans, right?

"Okay." She turned away, to the filing cabinet behind her desk, and didn't watch them leave. Didn't really have to; she could hear Shawn calling out to his father and then to Carlton. She couldn't make out Carlton's response, but when she glanced over her shoulder, he was striding away like always.

"No offense," Collins began mildly.

She reclaimed her chair, feeling exhausted. "But?"

"But your boyfriend's kind of a jerk."

Juliet sighed. "Yeah. Sometimes." Most times, lately. "Thanks for backing me up about Carlton."

"No problem. Partnerships are..." He hesitated, seeming embarrassed. "Well, they're kind of sacred. I mean, like his with Guster. If you were always giving him a verbal smackdown, bet Shawn wouldn't put up with it too long, would he?"

"No. But the rules don't apply to Shawn."

"Huh. Well. I hope..." He cleared his throat, embarrassed again. "I hope you're... happy. This job is hard enough without having support after hours."

Happy.

There was a thought.

She only mumbled thanks, and tried to get back to work.

. . . .

. . .

Sunday afternoon, end of Week Eight.

Having refused an offer from Shawn to go with him and Gus to see a movie (lately she found herself saying no to a lot of outings), Juliet felt like watching some Clint Eastwood. She only owned two of his movies—Unforgiven and Any Which Way But Loose—and wasn't even going to try to pretend she wasn't thinking about Carlton right now.

Unforgiven would be appropriately depressing enough to fit her mood.

But the DVD wasn't in its place—neither one was—and the closer she looked, the more it became apparent that the simple alphabetical-by-title arrangement on the four-shelf DVD stand had been totally shot to hell.

Shawn.

The movies seemed to be arranged now by decade… subdivided by director. It must have taken him several hours to do it, hours she couldn't imagine him spending essentially sitting still, let alone in her place without her knowledge, unless he'd gotten up during one of the increasingly few nights they spent together. It was very complex, incredibly annoying, and totally arrogant.

It infuriated her, truth be told, no matter how ridiculous it was to feel this angry about something so inconsequential.

Except they're my DVDs. Mine. On my stand, in my place. MINE. He had no right to mess with MY inconsequential preferences.

I matter too, don't I?

She began pulling the movies off haphazardly, determined to re-sort them, but the next thing she knew, she was crying, surrounded by scattered DVDs and facing empty shelves, and this was really ridiculous, really, really ridiculous.

Which is when Shawn let himself in.

"Jules, what the hell? Are you okay? Did someone break in?"

A curiously cold part of her brain answered quietly: You're the hell. I'm not okay. And yeah: you did.

"What are you doing here?" she demanded, wiping tears from her face.

He knelt by her side, genuinely concerned. "I came to take you to the movies."

"I told you I didn't want to go!"

"You were serious?"

She had no words that wouldn't be profanity. "Do you always let yourself in without knocking? Do you spend a lot of time here when I'm not home, rearranging my DVDs and whatever the hell else you can screw around with?"

"Jules," he began, nervous now, trying to scramble to his feet and losing his balance on the sliding DVDs. He fell back to the sofa.

Juliet got up, fists clenched at her side. "Let me guess. My CDs are now arranged by the length of their liner notes. My spices, by country of origin. You retitled all the songs on my iPod to the names of cast members of 80s sitcoms, and—and—and God only knows what you did with my underwear!"

"Jules," he said more firmly, sitting up straight. "You're losing it."

"When do you listen to me, Shawn? When do you ever listen to me?"

"I'm listening now." He stood carefully, hands up, looking very much as if he were dealing with a wingnut, which he essentially was.

"I want my key back."

"Your... but... Jules?"

"And the copy I know you made."

"Hang on. What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I don't want you over here when I'm not home and I want my key back. I only gave it to you because you said you'd water my plants and pick up my mail when I went home last spring."

"But I'm your boyfriend."

She ignored that. "Of course, three of the plants died and you threw away the mail, so really, boneheaded move on my part."

"I didn't know the mail was important!"

"Bills, Shawn? You didn't know bills were important?"

"I thought you paid them all online!"

Hopeless.

"Shawn, just... just give me my key right now and please leave. If you have any sense at all you can see I'm in a rotten mood, and nothing—I mean nothing—is going to work out for you if you're still here in two minutes." She held out her hand.

Shawn hesitated, but did slowly pull the key off his keyring. "Jules. Look. I'm sorry. I'm sorry about the DVDs. And the mail. And the underwear. But I'm still your guy, and I want to be here for you when you need me." He gave her the key, and added carefully, "It looks like you need me now."

She wished he was right.

She wished he was the one she needed.

"I'll call you later," she said levelly.

Maybe.

Probably not.

. . . .

. . .

Lassiter's phone rang and he answered without looking to see who it was, so when her voice sounded in his ear, his heart nearly jumped out of his chest. "Hey," he managed.

"I... you're going to think this is crazy, but I need a favor. I need... God, I need some fried ice cream and a big-ass margarita. Would you meet me at El Cielo?"

One voice suggested he say no politely; fifteen other voices said buddy don't be a moron. "Now?"

"If you can. I know it's short notice. Are you busy?"

Did watching a fishing show count as busy? "Not in the least. I'll meet you there in fifteen."

Because they were still friends. That's all.

Didn't explain why he put on a blue shirt she liked, leaving the top button undone, did it?

Oh shut up, he told all the voices.

Juliet was leaning against her Beetle in the sunshine and she looked tired until she saw him, and then a smile lit her face and her lovely dark blue eyes and he was hard-pressed not to crumple at her feet.

"Thanks for meeting me," she said, and made it seem so simple to be with her again.

They hadn't talked at all since... he never knew how to phrase it in his mind. Since she'd given herself to him. Since she'd made love to him. Since That Day. They'd smiled at each other, said hey how ya doing in passing, here's the file, the coffee doesn't suck today, but nothing more.

But walking into the restaurant, and waiting for the hostess to seat them in the half-empty place, she chattered as if everything was normal, and he was willing to let this play out except for two things: one, it wasn't normal, and two, she was upset about something. Someone.

Ice cream and margaritas ordered, he watched her sink back against the padding of the booth and relax.

"What's up?" he asked. "You didn't need me to justify having ice cream."

She blinked, and then smiled. "It's like drinking. If you do it alone, people think you're pathetic."

Then they must think I'm beyond pathetic.

Still, he couldn't help but smile back. "Maybe, but even if I couldn't see for myself that something's bothering you, ice cream and margaritas are an especially deadly duo."

"True. I could get drunk and bloated."

Laughing at something so simple was the most amazing feeling: and he missed, with sudden sharp clarity, how often she'd been able to get him to laugh in the past when they were alone and relaxed somewhere like this, being themselves.

"It was just a bad day," she explained. "Maybe I'm a poster child for PMS. Everything irritating has been magnified eight hundred percent."

Lassiter grinned. "And yet you called me?"

"Stop," she laughed. "Yes, I called you. I needed someone to remind me that people do behave rationally and considerately and don't make me feel like I'm losing my mind."

"And yet you called me." He raised one eyebrow, enjoying her amusement far too much. "Sure you didn't start drinking before you left home?"

Juliet was clearly feeling much better, and honestly so was he.

He didn't want to ask what Spencer had done. He didn't want to mention his name, to spoil the mood. He wanted to just be with her and pretend.

She must have wanted the same thing, because the two of them ate fried ice cream and drank margaritas and filled each other in on their cases and their new partners—no comparisons, only observations.

Spencer's name was never mentioned. Psych was never mentioned. Their private morning a month ago was never mentioned.

It was there, he thought; a swirling undercurrent. An awareness.

You don't see the woman you love naked and forget it. You don't feel her mouth on your skin and put that aside. You don't make her cry out your name in ecstasy and file it away with a weather report or a news clipping about a mime being mugged. You don't remember her fingertips trailing along your body and...

Lassiter jerked himself back to attention.

Juliet was smiling at him, and her second very large margarita was empty. "Probably should have had more than booze and ice cream," she said somewhat dreamily. "Been a long time since breakfast."

It was nearly six. Focus. "I'll drive you home."

"You had two margaritas too," she pointed out. "You can't be soberer..erer than I am."

"I'm Irish. We know how to hold our liquor."

"I'm Scottish," she countered. "We know how to hold our liquor and we look good in skirts. Kilts, I mean..." She dissolved into giggles.

Lassiter found her irresistible. "Nonetheless, I'm in better shape than you are. Come on." The waiter had brought the check a few minutes earlier, so he reached for his wallet to take care of it.

"No! No, no, I asked you out here. I'm buying." She fumbled for her shoulderbag.

"You're not competent to make change right now, O'Hara." He put the money down, plus tip, and got to his feet, offering her his hand to help her up out of the booth.

She stumbled against him—all peach-scented heady closeness—and giggled a little, but managed to exit the restaurant in an upright position. In his car, she more or less lolled in the seat, laughing softly to herself about who knew what, and only addressed him directly one time: "What about my car?"

"Give me your keys and I'll make sure it gets back to your place. Don't worry about it."

"I'm not worried," she half-sang. "Carlton's here." Dreamy again, she added more to the window than him, "I never have to worry when you're here."

I wish I could always be there.

At her apartment, he guided her up the stairs, separated her car key from her house key and watched her unlock and push open the door. "Lock up," he told her. "Don't forget."

"I won't." She turned to face him, smiling the smile of a gently drunk person who probably would remember her words the next day but was just inebriated enough to say them anyway. "God, I miss you, Carlton. Thank you so much for today. I needed you so much."

While he was staring at her, heart constricting, she stood on her tiptoes and kissed him on the mouth, and there was no way he could not kiss her back. No freaking way.

Her arms slid around his neck and the kiss deepened and he was helpless, because he loved her, and she tasted of lime and salt and passion and he loved her.

But even though his mouth did not want to leave hers, and his body did not want any air between them, and her tongue against his was the very most addictive of sensations, she was still drunk and he did actually possess a conscience.

What happened a month ago was in a class by itself. This would be a mistake.

A sweet, erotic, no doubt mind-blowing mistake, but still a mistake.

So he kissed her lush mouth one last time and grasped her arms, pulling himself free of her carefully. "Go on, Juliet," he murmured. "Get some sleep. Your car will be here in the morning."

She didn't resist.

But she did say, soft and low, more of a mumble really, "I'd rather have you here in the morning."

Maybe he'd misheard her… probably he had…

Fortunately, the door closed before he could work up the nerve to ask her to repeat it.

Fortunately, because if he had heard her correctly, he wouldn't be leaving right now, conscience be damned.

. . . .

. . .