A/N: A short chapter this time. An internalized exploration of their thoughts.
The moment in the pilot where Sarah tells Chuck she likes him was momentous, foreshadowing much of what was to follow. Yet we know little of Chuck's feelings (although he does look slightly stunned) in response to her declaration. We assume he was pleased by it, but he says nothing in return even though he clearly does like her as well. No, he just smiles and we move on.
That's not happening here.
Don't own Chuck et al.
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LOOSE ENDS CHAPTER SEVEN
He likes me.
I replay the words in my head.
"Very much."
My heart does a little flip-flop. My breath hitches.
If Carina was here, she'd laugh in my face for reacting so. Tell me his words are simplistic, juvenile, middle-school stuff. Like the sanitized dialogue from an after-school special. (I caught a couple of them the time my dad left me alone in a hotel room for a few days.)
Meaningless.
But they're not meaningless to me.
You see, it's only at this very moment that I realize that no man has ever told me that they like me.
Don't get me wrong. It's not as if I haven't heard words of that sort before. And much more. I have. Many times.
But those professions, even the seemingly sincere ones, meant nothing to me. They never evoked any sort of corresponding emotion on my part.
Because they were never uttered to me.
Instead, they were whispered to the demure college co-ed. Shouted at the dancing, ditzy, club-hopping blonde. Murmured to the high-class call girl. Proclaimed to the sophisticated business executive.
Not to me.
It was no different with Bryce. Not really. His outpourings of affection had never really been expressed to me. In his mind, he'd always been addressing his slightly subordinate, not-quite-equal partner. His Bond fantasy girl. (Another role I'd wittingly/unwittingly played, to my shame, for far too long.)
And I know now that his words never touched my heart, even though I'd desperately tried to convince myself that they had.
Never to me.
Except today.
Chuck likes me.
I know. How can I say that? He doesn't know me.
Then, in a flash, it comes to me. Yes, he does. It's Agent Walker he doesn't know.
Nothing but another role played out on a far grander stage, she's been MIA ever since Hyak and I shared our silent communion. I've played her for so long, that I've come to believe that she is me. That I am her.
But I'm not.
I'm me.
And there's something about this me, this Sarah, that's the me-ist me I've been since…I can't recall. Maybe ever.
For once in my life, I have no responsibilities. No con to pull off. No mission goals. No pretenses. No obligations of duty. No one to answer to.
I feel as if I've shed this great weight. The burden of other's expectations that I've carried since my childhood.
At loose ends.
This morning, I felt there could be few things worse than that.
I'm rapidly revising my opinion.
Because he likes me. Very much. Not the con artist. Not the agent. Not the partner slash lover.
This me. This…Loose-End Sarah.
And I like her, this newly discovered person.
And I like him.
(Very much. Even though I didn't say that.)
I've never told any man that and meant it.
Not even with Bryce. Even though I believed, at the time, that I was speaking truth.
I know that sounds strange considering that he and I were…what? A convenience? A habit?
To this day, I remain uncertain.
As for the other "L" word, I've never made that declaration to anyone at all, if you don't count me saying it to my dad a few times, hopefully, quietly. That eventually stopped when it became clear he wouldn't—or perhaps couldn't—return the sentiment.
My father has always been an avid disciple of the "actions speak louder than words" school of thought. Firm in his belief that actions alone are enough to demonstrate feelings.
I'm suddenly stuck by a memory of being in Sunday school, half-listening to the teacher (Dad and I were in the process of conning her out of her modest inheritance) as she talked about a man named James who wrote that a faith without actions to back it up is useless, dead. I'm not sure I fully understood what she meant, but I remember wondering if the opposite was also true.
Yes, words without corresponding actions are nothing but meaningless exhalations. But surely that must mean, to some degree, at least, that actions without the words are also of limited value?
Words are important, too.
I'd longed to hear them from my Dad. Truly spoken. From his heart.
To me. Not Katie O'Connell. Not Rebecca Franco. Etc.
Instead, I learned at his feet: Show me. Don't tell me.
I'm so done with that.
But I was teetering on the edge, staring Chuck down. So close to letting taciturn Agent Walker reassert herself and push him away. What if he hadn't spoken to me, stumbling again and again over his transparent honesty? What if he'd simply assumed that his kind actions were sufficient? Would I still be here, this me, this non-agent Sarah, if he hadn't persisted in the face of my overly-cautious non-response? If I hadn't finally found the courage to take a chance and reply?
No, I don't believe I would. I would've fallen back. Into her.
I told Chuck that I like him.
From my heart.
I will not take back the words. They're out there and will remain so.
They are my gift. As much to myself as to him.
I realize I'm smiling again. Still a little shyly. It appears that's not going to stop anytime soon.
But I'm good with that.
I glance once more at our clasped hands, then back up to his eyes and nod. Slowly. I clasp his hand a little firmer.
I see what looks like uncertainty pass over his face, but his burgeoning smile banishes it.
He likes me.
I need to tell him know how much that means to me.
I open my mouth, take a deep breath…
…
She likes me.
No other woman has ever gifted me with such a spontaneous declaration. (Aside from Ellie, of course. Hardly the same thing.)
Not the red-headed girl in eighth-grade chemistry who'd only responded in kind—out of embarrassment or pity, I'm not sure—to my clumsy expressions of affection. (Nothing ever came of it.)
Nor Jill. She was always the responder. Me always the initiator. And not just in words. In virtually every aspect of our relationship. Even in something as simple as holding hands.
I grew to believe that's simply the way things were in relationships. And always would be.
Me practically begging for affirmation. Like a dog scavenging for table scraps.
I now know better.
She likes me.
I stop myself. Which me? Who am I right now?
Certainly not the me I was with Jill. The me so desperate for her approval that I let her remake me in her image, losing myself in the process.
And definitely not the disheartened, apathetic, self-loathing me I became after Bryce and Jill and Stanford chewed me up and spat me out.
Who then?
I wrack my brain. Then it comes to me.
I'm him. That long-forgotten guy who walked onto the Stanford campus for the first time, ready and eager—so eager— to start a new chapter in his life. Buoyantly confident that his dreams, his hopes were right there, just waiting to be grasped.
And it's all because of Sarah.
She called him from the grave the moment she smiled and spoke. And since then, every kind word, every laugh, every touch, each and every smile has breathed new life into him, put the flesh back on his bones.
I feel alive again. But not just alive. Bold. Optimistic. Empowered.
My god, with her by my side, what couldn't I accomplish?
Stop.
I need to rein myself in.
One "I like you" does not a relationship make. Nor does holding hands. Or even her telling me she would like to meet my family.
Life today isn't like some old rom-com movie, where actions and words like those carried so much meaning.
How many times did I see Bryce amicably part ways with a woman he'd slept with without there being any sort of commitment, emotional or otherwise, on his side. Or hers, for that matter.
(I couldn't then, and still can't, fathom how he could do that.)
I must hold myself back from jumping to a Morgan conclusion. He's convinced that the new waitress, Alex, at the Burbank Weinerlicious has fallen for him just because she's kind and smiles at him when he loads his foot-long with all sorts of weird—possibly toxic—toppings.
Life has drilled home the lesson, again and again, that a vast gulf lies between a woman like Sarah and a guy like me. Between her glamorous jet-set life and my mundane, featureless—
Stop. Stop. Stop.
I won't do that. I will not let my insecurities ruin this.
She likes me. And she's given me absolutely no cause to doubt her.
Not once.
I need to accept that. Fight off the persistent, deep-down core belief that I don't deserve anything good in this life. Certainly nothing as good as Sarah.
But, as I watch the emotions run across her face, I momentarily wonder if I may have gone too far with my "very much." Perhaps veering a little too close to the like-like I'm feeling so strongly right now.
Should I say something, make some sort of attempt to lighten the weight of my words? Maybe a joke to relieve any pressure she might be feeling?
Then she glances down at our joined hands before looking me in the eyes, smiling that shy smile (I like this one, but, then again, I like them all), and I see there's no need.
There's no hesitation, no discomfort, no withdrawal in her eyes.
She nods once—slowly, deliberately, reassuringly—while grasping my hand even tighter.
I get the feeling that she has no intention of letting go anytime soon.
Which is just as well. I just might float away otherwise.
I have no recollection of a moment in my life when I was genuinely happier than I am right now.
In hindsight, I've come to know that even my best moments with Jill were always tainted by a gut feeling that I'd tried my very best to ignore. That nagging little voice at the back of my mind that kept telling me that it wasn't going to last. That, sooner or later, someone or something, would come between us and she'd move on. To greener pastures.
Which she did, of course, leaving me behind in the polar opposite of greener pastures. A parched, lifeless desert.
Until today, that is. Until Sarah.
Even if this goes no further than our time here, I will be forever grateful for what she's done.
Bringing me back to life.
I will accept—joyously—whatever she's willing to give for as long as it lasts.
I smile into her eyes.
She likes me.
It's a risk, I know, but she really needs to know just how much that means to me.
No more holding back.
I take in a deep breath, open my mouth…
TBC.
—A/N: Back to more of the park next time.
I've puzzled over this story, unsure why it's taken me so long to write it. But I will complete it.
Thank you for your patience and kind reviews.