Wherefore
Chapter 12
When we get back to the hotel, Grissom excuses himself, saying he needs to lie down for a while. I'm pretty sure he's feeling overwhelmed right now. Can't say I blame him. So I order room service.
This has been an ongoing battle for me, the past year or so. I'd fallen into the habit of forgetting to eat, sometimes for 24 hours or more. You'd be surprised how long a person can run on just coffee and spearmint gum. But lately I've been trying harder. Eating more fruits and vegetables, and shooting for a minimum of two meals a day. The hotel stopped serving breakfast at eleven, but the menu features a decent-sounding salad with fresh mangos and lime. There's also a seafood dish with lemon sauce, but for some reason I can't stand the scent of lemons anymore. Reminds me of decomps.
I'm picking at my salad when my cell phone rings. The display on the caller ID surprises me, to say the least.
"Hey, Catherine."
"Hi." Her voice is clipped and a little abrupt, but I've gotten used to it. "Where are you?"
"In Los Angeles. What's up?"
"We're short-staffed," she sighs. "The guys went to that crab shack out on Third last night, and they've been puking their guts out ever since. Nick started to suggest that we do a trace analysis to see what form of bacteria is in their systems, but he lost interest halfway through the thought."
"Sad."
"I know. So Warrick, Nick, and Greg are all out of commission."
"And Grissom and I are out of the state," I summarize. "Sorry, Cath. That sucks. I assume you called Sofia in?"
"Yeah, she's off somewhere talking to herself. And Greg might be coming in later, since he's not quite as sick as the other two. But I already knew you and Gil were gone, that's not why I called."
"What's wrong?"
"Ecklie," she says, somewhat gingerly, and I don't blame her. The last time she and I both interacted with Conrad Ecklie, I ended up spending a week going stir crazy in my apartment. "He's pissed that you and Gil aren't available to come in."
"How pissed?"
"Out of 10? Probably a 6."
Sighing, I push the salad away. "If it gets to 8 or higher, call me. I'll come back early, if it comes to that. But Grissom needs to stay for the memorial service on Sunday."
"Okay," Catherine agrees. "How's he holding up out there?"
"He's all right. Did you wake him up before?"
"When?"
"When you called to tell him about Ecklie."
"I didn't call him. I called you."
I give myself a moment to digest that bit of information. "Okay, well... I'll let him know when I see him."
"Thanks."
She's quiet for so long that I'm completely at a loss as to what to say next. "So, um... how's Lindsey?"
"Good. She's good."
"That's good."
"Yup."
Some more silence, and I finally realize she's trying to work up the nerve to say something. Could be about me and Grissom, or Grissom and Juliette, but in either case I'm tired of the tiptoeing. "What's up, Catherine?"
"What do you mean?"
"Cath."
She heaves a sigh, speaking so softly that I can barely hear her. "I just... we're the only women CSI's around the lab. The only normal ones, anyway. And I don't want you to hate me."
"I don't hate you."
"I'm not out to get you."
"I know you're not."
"Okay." She clears her throat, and when she speaks again, the clipped, authoritative tones are back. "Good. Have a nice trip, and say hello to Gil for me."
It's only after I hang up that I realize she must know. Know what, I'm not sure, since I don't think even Grissom and I rightly know. But for Catherine to call and extend an olive branch - or twig, as the case may be - she's got to suspect that something's going on with him and me. That puts a spring in my step as I grab the spare set of keys off my dresser and head outside to the rental car.
When I get back to the hotel, Grissom's door is open, so I walk right in. He's lying flat on top of his bed, dressed in a T-shirt and faded jeans, looking up at the ceiling.
"Hey," I say, strolling over to open the blinds. "Gorgeous day out there."
"You could knock."
The coldness in his voice makes me turn in surprise. "Oh, I - okay." I dutifully walk back into the hallway and knock on the open door, feeling my cheeks burning. Especially when he ignores my knocking. "Grissom?"
He finally sits up, staring at me. "Where did you go?"
"What?"
"You left," he says. "Took the car. Where'd you go?"
I lift up the shopping bag in my hand. "The concierge gave me directions to the nearest Barnes and Noble."
"You went shopping." The distant look in his eyes hasn't faded. "Sara, what are we doing here?"
"In LA?"
"Us," he says, and at that moment I realize his T-shirt is on backwards. The tag is peeking out, just touching the hollow below his neck. Gil Grissom, who probably color-codes his socks, put his shirt on backwards when he woke up. And then I get it.
"You thought I'd left you."
He doesn't reply, so I walk over and sit down next to him.
"Why would you think that?"
"Simple logic," he shrugs. "We go through the morning from hell, and then when I wake up from a nap, you're gone. The car's gone. Your cell phone's turned off. Why wouldn't I think you'd left?"
It's actually a little funny. A part of me has been waiting for him to do something thoughtless, to ruin everything, and it never occurred to me that I could do the same.
"Here," I say, handing him the shopping bag.
He takes it with a dubious look, then reaches in and pulls out two thick books. "A Beginner's Guide to American Sign Language," he reads. "And ASL For Dummies."
"I want to be able to talk to Amy, like you do," I tell him quietly. "I want to show her that she's important enough to learn for."
Grissom just sighs deeply, putting the books back in the bag. "I've read the Beginner's Guide," he says. "It's pretty good." He won't look at me. So I move a little closer, till the sides of our legs are touching, then rest my cheek on his shoulder. After a moment, he leans his head down against mine, and I reach out to hug his upper arm.
"I love you," he murmurs, so low I almost can't hear it. But I must have heard it, because my heart is beating off-rhythm and my vision's a little blurry. "I don't know what we're doing here, but whatever it is, it means a lot to me. So I'm trying to... you know... communicate better, share things with you. I'm trying... but I need you to try too."
"Okay," I whisper back, clutching his arm so tightly his fingers are probably turning blue. "But you need to trust me, too. You need to know that if you wake up and I'm gone, then I'm coming back."
"You'll be the first," he replies, his voice cracking just a little.
And the last, I want to say, but I don't. And for some reason, I also don't tell him that I love him back. My mouth opens, and I try to form the words, but I just can't. Maybe my insides are more scarred than I realized. God, do those sorts of scars even heal?
"I've heard that ASL is best learned through personal instruction," I say finally, loosening my grip slightly to run my palm up and down his forearm. "Any idea of where I can find a tutor?"
Pulling back, he grins at me with such open affection that I want to close the door, to keep this moment private. Then he signs something to me.
"What'd you say?"
"I said, 'Who you are is speaking so loudly that I can't hear what you're saying.' Ralph Waldo Emerson."
He even quotes in sign language.
This isn't a crush. Nor is it lust, nor puppy love. I feel like the wind's been knocked out of me. Breathe, Sara, breathe. Only I can't, because I'm starting to understand that it's not about shopping and trying on for size anymore. This is forever we're talking about, and if I screw this up, there's nothing out there that will compare. I can't shake the feeling that I'm on a runaway train, heading straight for a brick wall.