A/N: Part one of Crown Vic. She is a mess in this episode. So is Chuck in his own way. Did my best here again to work that out. More literary cement...Chuck didn't know it was 100,000 dollars? Really? Anyway...
The phone on the nightstand stopped ringing before the cellphone in my hand stopped buzzing. I imagined that it had continued, as if I could hear that insistent bringing noise, even as I cradled my phone against my chest. The phone was warm, but my whole body felt cold, chilled, and I was shaking. The phone ceased its vibrating as I held it against me. I could see Chuck's picture wink to blackness, in my mind's eye only, for I could no longer bear to look at that picture.
The silence in my room was suddenly stifling. Like I had never been able to before, I could hear the sound of the water rushing through the pipes in the wall…the soft humming noise from my electronic alarm clock as it sat on the table. I could hear the wind against the glass windows, even the faintest of traffic beeping, far below on the night streets.
My eyes flitted around the room, settling on my packed luggage. Useless, I thought, as I felt tears stinging in my eyes. The thought of taking everything out of those bags and putting them back where they had been not four hours ago seemed an impossible task. It made my head ache, made me feel like all my strength had drained away. I needed to unpack…I wasn't leaving.
I wasn't leaving. I repeated it in my head, over and over, like I was trying to memorize it. I had been so sure–well, no, not sure, only mostly sure…sure that leaving would have been easier. But since when was anything easy for me? Doing things the hard way was how I lived my life. I was foolish to believe, even for a moment, that the…easy…feeling I had when I was around Chuck was something that I could curl up inside and just stay with.
I have no idea how long I just stood there, frozen, doing nothing. All I remember was that my feet started to hurt in my high heels, from standing still in one place too long with my muscles tensed like I was at the starting line of a sprint. I kicked off my shoes. Randomly, everything else I was wearing followed…my belt, then my dress, my stockings. I pulled the clips out of my hair.
Somehow I was back at the side of my bed, all of my things scattered about on the floor. I swept everything I had laid so carefully on my bed to the side and climbed under the covers. I never brushed my teeth or washed my face…I even left my makeup up, which leaves a terrible mess in the morning, but I was beyond caring. I couldn't remember ever feeling quite so tired, but I couldn't close my eyes for all the thoughts and pictures buzzing behind them.
My gaze settled on the phone. I needed to call the front desk and tell them that my stay had been extended. It was too much effort to roll to my side to reach it. In the morning…I told myself. It was almost like if I touched the phone, somehow it would connect back to Bryce, though I knew he wouldn't call back.
It wasn't a casual call, a reason to chit chat. Bryce's instructions were clear. I was waiting for his call…and then I didn't answer. His window surely had been minutely small, for being able to contact me safely with a rendez vous location. Now it was gone, and he most certainly had needed to move onto the next phase of his mission. He wouldn't contact me again…and there was no way for me to ever get in touch with him. Officially, he was still dead. As far as I knew, Graham even still thought he was dead.
What was Bryce thinking? I wondered. His presumptuousness had irked me, his bravado and arrogance had irritated me. Everything had moved so quickly after the car accident–the car accident that interrupted an impending kiss that to him was my signaling him that we were ok, everything was copacetic, Mr. and Mrs. Anderson 2.0 was just a phone call away. Into that maelstrom of emotion, that heavy loneliness in Bryce's voice when I'd heard him talking to Chuck overpowered me. Being with me again was no cure for it. Bryce and I had been skirting that sink hole of despair while we had been together. I thought I had found a way out, however impossibly difficult it was to attain it. Bryce had no way out–it was his choice, more of a choice than I had ever had in actuality, but his choice.
I had just proven to him he had been right…he had no one. I had no one. He didn't really trust me. I had thought once maybe he did, but he had just proven that to me very clearly that he didn't. He hadn't before...he didn't still.
I had stayed…because I wanted to have someone. I wanted to have Chuck…in my life, however that looked…even if it was nothing but pain.
What was Chuck thinking? Thinking about him, what he was doing, what he was thinking, made me so anxious I twisted myself up in my sheets and blankets multiple times, tossing and turning, unable to find a comfortable position that allowed the tension in my body to relax. All along, Chuck had believed Bryce rising from the dead was what had driven that wedge between us. He believed somewhere in his view of the world…that I loved Bryce, or that he meant something to me more than he truly did, and once we knew he wasn't a rogue betrayer, that he and I would just fall back into each other's arms. Chuck had no idea what Bryce had meant when he said what he'd said to me in the Buy More, but I'm sure he had some suspicions, thinking I would just leave and not say goodbye to him. That was most certainly why he had called.
Me not answering Chuck's call probably had him thinking that I was gone. Did he think I would leave without saying goodbye to him?
You were! I berated myself. If he hadn't called at that time, you would have answered that other phone…and disappeared without a trace…and never said goodbye to Chuck.
I started crying, the powerful sense of loss overwhelming me. Ironic again…because I had stayed for Chuck. I hadn't really lost anything, other than a second chance to be Mrs. Sarah Anderson. Pretending to be Bryce's wife, fucking him in the dark in some hotel room. Instead, I could pretend to be Chuck's girlfriend…pecking him on the cheek in front of his sister and groaning his name while I lay alone in my bed, fucking myself with a vibrator. What I had really lost was the suspension of disbelief that I had allowed for myself all along.
I had no idea that loss would hit me like that, for I had no real idea of the magnitude of my feelings. I wanted to sit in his apartment and laugh with his sister and her boyfriend, eat Chinese food with Morgan, watch silly movies with Chuck as we sat side by side on his sofa. I stayed…but I couldn't allow any of those wistful dreams to be the way they had been. I had been unable to hide my real feelings, confusing Chuck enough to cause him to want to end the fake dating. I kissed him for the same reason…and now Casey knew I'd kissed him. We needed a drastic reset…or Casey, despite warming up that little bit that he had, would end up getting me reassigned and Chuck probably bunkered.
To be fair, Casey never had any malicious intention when it came to that line of action. It seemed like it at the time, but I tried to look at it from his perspective. He honestly believed a bunker was the safest place for Chuck, not working in the Buy More with two bodyguards and going on life threatening missions. He had no concept of what Chuck would be losing; he himself had sacrificed his entire life and all his future happiness for the greater good. He believed that was Chuck's duty, despite Chuck's lack of participation in his own fate. I think he sort of thought of it as being drafted–Chuck was chosen, rather than Chuck making the choice.
For all my cold professionalism, I knew what Chuck would lose if he was bunkered. Chuck wouldn't protest, wouldn't fight it, maybe he would even eventually accept it, so long as he knew his sister was ok. He would do his duty…but that light that was there in his eyes would go out. I had been assigned to protect him, but had taken it upon myself to also protect that light inside him. I think I knew, just a little bit, that most of that light had to do with me, but I refused to accept it here. Resetting the entire situation was the solution, I had convinced myself of it.
As soon as the next day, I would learn that would never be enough. Our feelings were too strong, and just pretending nothing had happened wasn't enough.
I know I did eventually fall asleep, but it was a little while past dawn when I did. I had to grab my sleep mask to block out the sunlight that was blazing in my room even in the very early morning. I had the front desk to call, and Wienerlicious to call out sick from…but first, I needed to sleep, even for a few hours. I know I forgot to shut off my alarm clock, because it started blaring at the usual time, after I had only slept for about two hours.
I pulled the knife I slept with from underneath my pillow, hurled it at my alarm clock, and sent it sailing through the air, pierced straight through and effectively nailed to the wall across the room in one swift motion. I removed my eye mask and pulled the blankets over my head, not ready to face the day quite yet. I ended up staying in bed almost the entire day, fatigue eventually winning the battle with my anxiety.
I woke up to a message from Casey on my phone that Chuck had flashed on something and we had a briefing first thing in the morning in his apartment with Beckman and Graham. His message was strange…
Just in case you're not in Omaha…briefing at Casa Casey in the a.m.
It seemed a little extra jaunty, which was very un-Casey like. He had obviously picked up on Bryce's comments from the night before. I started to question it, but then my mind started to move forward. Beckman and Graham. Graham had no idea about Bryce–that had been well established. But what did Casey know? Could he say something in that briefing that compromised Bryce's cover? And if Chuck had flashed, then Chuck would be there with him. God knew what Chuck could let slip without knowing he'd erred. Beckman knew, but she would have to play dumb if she was in front of Graham.
All of that, I could deal with in the morning. Nothing needed my attention at the moment, including letting Casey know that I was still in Burbank and his stupid text was unnecessary. Instead, I ate a bit of food, mostly snacks, and drank some water. I called the front desk to confirm my long-term reservation was extended. I washed off my makeup, feeling my eyes burn at the mascara that had migrated into my eyes. I brushed my teeth and went back to sleep. It was like I hadn't slept in years, for I fell back asleep again and was out cold until the morning.
Despite all that sleep, or maybe because of it, I overslept in the morning. My clock was destroyed, so I had no alarm to wake me. I fumbled to find my watch to see what time it was. I was almost out of time. I jumped out of bed and hurried to get ready so I could make it to Echo Park and the briefing. Trying not to be late had me on edge…and thinking about seeing Chuck made it worse.
The entire ride from my hotel to the apartment complex, I summoned the cold, my best Ice Queen. The new handler, who could do her job the way she was supposed to, was behind the wheel. And yet I was fearful. How could I hide what I felt? Damn it, I had spent my life tempering my outward emotional state to match what my circumstances required of me. I had been doing that since I was eight years old. I could, and I would just do it again.
What was different this time was that I was attempting to mask a stronger emotion than any I had ever felt before. Love, in all its beauty and power, is only one side of that coin. Misery, hatred, loneliness…all of those were just as strong, and also heavy emotions that I had lived with my entire life. But that was just it. I was used to that. I had learned to expertly manage sadness and loneliness and misery for two decades. Love…I had no frame of reference for. No experience with.
It is much easier to bury something leaden, like pain, than something light, like love. It would perpetually float to the surface at the most inopportune times, despite all my efforts to tamp it down. But I tried valiantly nonetheless. I stayed. I was here…and I was here to do my job.
I pulled up outside Echo Park about three minutes past when the briefing was supposed to begin. I hurried to Casey's door. I let myself in, and I heard the tail end of Beckman saying something about rescheduling when I was feeling better. One or both of them had covered for me, since no one had heard a peep from me since I had left the Buy More almost 36 hours before.
"I'm fine," I spoke up as I shut Casey's door. "I'm sorry I'm late. Carry on," I said demurely. I had my car keys in my hand, a nervous fidget that I hadn't realized. The Ice Queen was in place, but her hands were still warm.
Chuck looked at me like he'd seen a ghost.
He had believed, all this time, that I had left to meet Bryce. He had only called the one time. I knew, because I checked my phone when I woke up. After I had kissed him, he'd called me almost ten times. Now, just the one and he'd given up, for a full night and another entire day. I couldn't remember having gone that long without some contact with Chuck. He really thought I had chosen Bryce. I felt twisted in knots, wishing there was a way I could let him know of how mistaken he truly was. Doing that would only make it worse, and I was here to start over and make it better. Letting him believe that, however erroneously, helped push us back towards neutrality, so I let it alone.
Beckman and Graham started talking. I stood next to Chuck and listened. After that one shocked gawk at me, he kept his eyes on the screen while they talked. My eyes kept drifting to Chuck, swiveling while I never turned my head. I was waiting for him to look at me again. We listened to Beckman talk about Lon Kirk and counterfeit money that Chuck had flashed on. I saw him glance sideways at me out of the corner of my eye, when I was one hundred percent focused on the screen. It was almost too obvious, I thought. I willed him to focus on what they were talking about.
There was a charity event later that evening that Beckman wanted Chuck and me to attend to try and get close to Kirk. Typical mission. Casey, being Casey, spoke up and asked Beckman if we were going as a couple. If I had been standing next to him, I would have stomped on his foot. Why the hell would he say it like that? Because he knew that I was compromised. That thought chilled me on the inside. I had to show Casey, too, that I was different now.
I spoke up before anyone else could speak, telling Beckman there was no problem. Chuck looked daggers at me, I could feel it, even though I didn't turn. His voice was strange when he replied, a little irritated and a little huffy. His lips were pursed, hard, like he was holding a torrent of something just inside. Graham signed off and I almost ran out of Casey's apartment before anything else could be said. Casey had infuriated me.
I had my keys in my hand again, telling myself to walk, not run, though every bone in my body wanted me to sprint like the wind…just to get away, so I could breathe. I heard Chuck's feet on the stone patio–he was shuffling, ready to run if I didn't stop. He called out to me.
I turned and asked him what was up, making sure my face was bland. Somehow, he had gotten closer to me than I had originally anticipated. I could smell his cologne and the slightest hint of French vanilla, probably the coffee he had drunk on his way out the door of his apartment. Standing that close to him, I could see his features soften when he looked at me. The warmth in his eyes captured me, so much so that I don't recall exactly what he said, just that he was rambling, glad that I'd stayed.
"I thought you'd be halfway to Bryce by now," Chuck said. There was a mild hitch in his voice before he said Bryce's name, like he wasn't sure he wanted to say it, but then just blurted it out anyway before his better judgment could stop him.
"Why would you think that?" I shot back at him. I couldn't think of anything else to say. It was neutral, how I was internally coaching myself to be.
He took a while to reply. He was looking at me like he thought I was kidding, like he didn't even know why he would have to explain. He started talking about what he thought Bryce had to offer. That I passed on the excitement, to stay in sleepy Burbank, like Carina had called it. A hundred different words in a hundred different voices all flashed at once, and I crushed them beneath the icy façade.
HethoughtBrycewasexcitingwhenIhatedthatlifeandeverythingherepresentedBurbankwassafeandhomeand…and…Chuckcan'tknowyoustayedbecauseyouchosesleepyBurbankbecauseofhim…
"I'm here because I have a job to do," I said, flatly and coldly, as I set my face and froze the emotion behind my eyes.
That did it, I thought, as I watched his face change, all the hope in his eyes die like a setting sun. He retreated inside himself a little, something that I now recognized he did when he was hurt. I hurt him by saying that.
It seems so inconsequential to say, right? People hurt each other, usually without intending to do so. I, however, had lived first as a grifter and then as a cold-blooded killer. Other people's pain was a hindrance to me, something I had learned to skirt fairly well. Before Chuck, I barely acknowledged my own pain, let alone someone else's, and never, ever, any that I had caused in someone else. Perhaps, as I had grown, I had learned to sympathize. Trying to do what was right, not just what I was told. I had sympathized with Molly…that was why I saved her.
There is a significant difference between sympathy and empathy. Empathy–I learned from Chuck. He possessed it in abundance. It was why he looked for the good in people, why he always sought to do the right thing, why he would never give up on anyone or anything. I tend to think his own life had so wounded him on the inside that he couldn't help but seek out those types of wounds in others. Kindred souls or the like. He definitely saw that in me, when we connected when he first told me about his parents, though it took much longer for me to share what it was about my life that so matched his.
That was what I felt, standing there in the courtyard on the Sunday after Thanksgiving, for the very first time in my life. I had caused him pain, and like he had somehow held up an invisible mirror, all of his pain reflected back at me and pierced me through to the center. This was the first time, but it would continue to happen. For as I explained before, I would love to be able to say that I never hurt my husband, and that he never hurt me, but real life isn't like that. Bad things happen, no matter how much we love each other. Each time he was in pain, whether caused by me or someone else, it would find its way inside me as if it were my own. After Chuck was sure all had been lost, he sat beside me on the beach and eloquently told me he was letting me go, because he didn't expect anything from me, even in return for my life, which he had saved by risking his own. I didn't remember loving him…I didn't remember learning about empathy, but I felt it just the same. It was the very first thing that convinced me that I should ask him to tell me our story.
I didn't understand then when I looked at his face, his eyes overrun with agony, what had ripped its way to my heart and caused it to bleed. He was a virtual stranger to me, despite the fact that he was my husband. But I could see how much pain he was in, sitting there calmly, offering to be there when I needed him, no matter what it cost him. He absolved me of causing that pain, telling me he knew what had happened to me wasn't my fault, that nothing I had done afterward was my fault. But, objectively, I had been the cause. The thought of him in pain, though I barely knew him, made me feel like I couldn't breathe. All I knew is that I wanted him to stop hurting–I would do literally anything to ease his pain. And I knew in that moment, all I could do was listen to him, find a way to let him in, with the hope that we could build our relationship back to where it had been before tragedy had befallen us.
It is quite humbling to realize your own presence, your own smile, your own faith–is enough to salve a cripplingly painful wound inside someone else. But he loved me, the essence of me, something independent of what I did or didn't remember.
I had no idea of the power I truly wielded then, in 2007, because I had no idea of the depth and breadth of Chuck's emotions for me. I could have told him the truth, right then and there, and I could have stopped that pain from radiating from him into me. In truth, there was no way that would ever have worked. Letting Chuck know how I felt at this point would have complicated things beyond my ability to handle. So instead, I pushed ahead with my reset plan, and locked everything else down.
He stuttered over something, excused himself saying he needed to go punch in at the Buy More. I continued on my way out, wishing again that I could just run, but he called me again, while my back was turned. He looked like there was something he wanted to say, something significant. I hardened my facial expression to discourage it. I wasn't sure how my resolve would hold up if he got emotional on me, or asked me straight out about how I felt. My stony expression worked, because he just asked about carpooling or whatever. I told him to meet me at the hotel at eight and I left before he could say anything else.
I worked an uneventful hot dog shift, without so much as a glance across the parking lot. Casey was there, and it was Casey's job to keep an eye on him while they were at the Buy More. My hanging around, distracting Chuck from his work, was something I chose to do before…because I liked being around him. I missed him, even in the few hours I didn't see him. I told myself even as the words made my chest sting inside that I would just have to get used to seeing less of him.
I left and went back to my hotel to get ready. I went through my clothes with a calculated eye, on purpose, for it seemed before everything I ever put on, from the first outfit I had worn on our first date, I wondered what Chuck would think of it. I pushed it as far out of my mind as I could and focused clinically instead. Charity event…Chuck was wearing a tuxedo. Black evening gown was appropriate and perfect to accompany him. I matched my lingerie to the dress, but I didn't look at myself in the mirror before my dress was on. Stockings and matching shoes…and just my makeup. I was a spy, honing her skills, even just getting dressed and putting on makeup.
My spy skills were focused better than they had been in a very long time. I glanced at my watch, seeing how close to eight it was. I heard the faintest of footsteps in the corridor and I called out to him before he knocked. I stayed at the vanity mirror, not turning to greet him. He commented on my stabbed alarm clock, something I had forgotten to remove.
I finished my makeup and started the rundown, impersonally, like I was talking to someone I had never done a mission with before. I told him we were a couple, he was looking to flash, Charles Carmichael, all of that, cool as could be. I approached, but I fixed my eyes on his neck instead of his face. This was the second time I had seen him in a tuxedo and it was…distracting. I was afraid of what would happen if I looked straight at him.
He was calm and collected. He even smiled at me as I got closer, which caused that warm rushing liquid feeling inside me, despite all my hard work up to this point. He made a comment about the night being fun. He was doing his best to reset things as well, only to a place where I wasn't prepared to go to. It would have been fun…if I were pretending to be his girlfriend. I was his date, and I would most likely have to flirt with Kirk to get information.
I set my face like stone and told Chuck, "It's work."
His face did the same thing that had happened earlier, the softness around his eyes hardened and his eyes dulled. I crushed him with both my words and my tone. I use that word because I know–I felt it, like someone had placed a brick over my heart and stomped on it. I sucked in my breath hard and before I knew what I was doing, I was straightening his clip-on bow tie. A gut reflex of mine, that innocuous way to touch him without actually touching him. It was like I was trying to un-hurt him, which isn't possible, but it was what I most wanted.
My hands were only there for a few seconds when he pushed me away. It wasn't harsh or an exaggerated, angry flourish. It was a quick deflection, blocking me from touching him. It still felt equivalent to him slapping my hand away, because he had never rejected that kind of touch from me before. Hurt him enough, and he will have to accept the new status quo, I told myself bitterly. I was factually right, but I had no idea how I was going to withstand all of it and not crumble. I said it again, asking him if he was ready to go to work.
It had only been one week ago that I'd told him our fake relationship had never felt like work. Now, I had to stress at every opportunity that work was all it was. No wonder he was confused, I thought. He still trusted me…but why? What reason could he possibly have? I only increased the reasons he had to doubt me, ponder all my contradictions.
The car ride to the marina was painfully quiet. I never minded silence, not when it was comfortable or even expected. Chuck usually talked more, rambling here and there about whatever. I like silence, but that car ride, I missed his easy banter. His voice was the only thing that was worth giving up my silence for. If he had been relaxed, it would have been one thing. But he was tense, stiff, intentionally keeping his gaze out the window and never at me. Once, I thought he was going to reach for the radio dial, but I never listened to music in the car, so I think he just left it alone, not wanting to skip through a staticky dial looking for something, especially not when he would have had to reach almost to my knee to do so.
He stayed silent as we parked and as we walked inside. Generically, he offered me his arm, and I tucked my hand inside, but it was stiff, perfunctory, like I was being escorted by someone I didn't know. He never looked at me, never spoke to me. It was ok, I told myself, for the cover, if I was supposed to ingratiate myself with Kirk. Never mind that it felt like a vacuum inside my chest. It was a feeling I told myself I would have to get used to.
The first time he talked to me, we were inside the casino. He was concerned about needing funds to bet in order to play his role. I told him the CIA staked us "one hundred," and it never occurred to me that he didn't understand I meant 100,000 dollars. The man was a billionaire and it was a charity event. Honestly, it was almost ridiculous. But he was distracted, and upset, since I had hurt him so significantly before. I tried to ignore it.
He grabbed a martini from a passing waitress. It honestly surprised me, since I had never seen him drink anything other than wine and beer. He made it a point to say it was Carmichael, with a snarky little tone. Later, Casey did tell me he had ordered a martini at the art auction as well. That was Chuck's spy drink, if you will. Helped him get into character or whatever. I don't know why it unsettled me that night, other than I felt a strange comfort in being able to predict what Chuck said and what he did. It's actually just knowing someone, not all that complex…except for a spy.
We sat at the table with Kirk, where Casey had been staged as the dealer, at the roulette wheel. I made eye contact with Kirk before Chuck sat down. Casey gave Chuck his chips, another easy way Chuck could have figured out how much money he was actually betting. I mean, it was simple math and Chuck was a genius. I really put him off his game, worse when I started flirting with Kirk. I should have been sympathetic, but I was irked, and I showed it…once Chuck bet everything on one spin of the wheel and lost. His gambling with that money was supposed to buy us some time, and his crazy bet had ruined it. Now I had to move faster than I was comfortable with, but I no longer had a choice.
Chuck flashed once Kirk left to talk to someone. I moved across the room and continued the flirting more intensely, especially since I was standing close to him. Touching his shoulder, leaning in…all of that helped, I know. It bothered me that Chuck saw it, but at the same time I was hoping that it was off-putting, discouraging whatever it was that he was feeling. All part of the reset, all about the job and only the job, like I had always done.
I flattered him, fawned over him, and it worked. He asked me about my date and what our story was. I told him there was nothing serious between us. He invited me to his yacht the next day, which was exactly what my mission objective was supposed to be. Get close to Kirk.
I was with Kirk almost an hour, and by the time I weaved my way through the crowd and found Chuck again, he was frazzled and impatient. I wondered how many martinis he had actually drunk while he was waiting for me. He saw me and barely acknowledged me. We drove home in complete silence. I wasn't used to that kind of tension with us, and it was uncomfortable. I could see the hard line of his jaw, how he clenched his teeth the entire ride. He removed his tie and unbuttoned the top button on his white shirt, something I found distractingly sexy, and I forced my eyes to stay only on the road, not him.
It was only as I pulled up to the curb at Echo Park that he started talking, asking me how things went with Kirk. I told Chuck about the invitation I had received. He asked me when he should be ready.
I almost flinched, but I told him he meant just me, alone. He blanched, faltered, and spoke in a weakly jealous tone, or so I thought, anyway. He made this face and said, almost slurry, "Kind of disrespectful to your boyfriend, don't you think?"
I don't know what it was—the tension of the car ride, the tension from the entire night, the pain in his eyes or the stinging memory of him pushing my hand away from him–but I snapped. "Chuck, Bryce is not my boyfriend. And even if he was, he'd understand this kind of work." It was only after the words were out, and I saw his face, nothing but dejected misery, that I caught myself and realized my mistake.
"I meant Carmichael…actually," he said.
He was wounded…but it still bounced back and hit me, now for the third time in one day. I looked away quickly, my cheeks red with shame. What was wrong with me?
He was beyond crushed when he finished, and I was so upset I didn't listen to every word. He dismissed me and got out of the car. I actually thought he might slam my car door, but he didn't…because he was Chuck. He was more hurt than angry. I honestly don't know if he even turned to look back once he was out of my car. I put my foot to the floor and screeched away like I was never coming back.
That was a fine job of resetting I'd just done, I cursed myself. I don't recall ever driving that fast in L.A. traffic before, and I didn't remember the drive, the turns on automatic as my brain was consumed with my thoughts. I was at Echo Park…and then my hotel.
Showered and in bed…and staring at the ceiling once again. Sleepless in Burbank…perhaps now forever.