Wherefore
Chapter 9
I see three men wearing red striped ties on the way home, making my palms sweat. Surely it's a sign. I shouldn't go to LA, I don't belong there. I'm dialing Grissom's number when I hear a soft knock at the door.
"I brought sushi," he says, lifting up a paper bag as evidence. "I thought maybe we could-" His eyes widen suddenly. "Oh god. Do you even like sushi?"
"Yes," I assure him, grabbing his wrist and dragging him inside before he can run. "Sushi is great. Thank you."
Grissom relaxes, tossing the bag on the counter and draping his jacket over the back of a chair. "Not really breakfast food, but a part of me still feels weird eating pancakes before bed."
I nod in agreement, handing him a bottle of soy sauce, then rifling through a drawer for chopsticks. "Me too. Makes me feel like I'm still in college. We used to make runs to IHOP at four in the morning when we were pulling all-nighters."
We work in sync, like at a crime scene. I throw him placemats and napkins, and he sets the table quickly. Halfway through an avocado roll, I finally work up the nerve to ask him.
"Look, Grissom... you don't have to answer this, but I'd like to know. After that seminar you gave in Berkeley, you came up and introduced yourself. Was it because I reminded you of Juliette?"
He chews slowly, actually considering my question. "Yes and no," he says finally.
"Meaning what?"
"It's hard to explain." Leaning back in his seat, Grissom sighs, looking thoughtful. "It's like... when you were younger, did you ever picture who you'd end up with?"
"Sure. Everybody does, to some extent."
"Exactly. But it's an incomplete ideal. Most people imagine a body type, maybe a hair color, but they can't quite come up with a fantasy face. And the same goes for the personality. You may think you want someone smart and romantic, but you don't really think about the little things, like whether he wears aftershave. Whether he irons his shirts. Tiny quirks that seem to mean nothing."
"Okay... but what does this have to do with-"
"Juliette fit my basic ideal. She was a brilliant, empathetic brunette with beautiful eyes and long legs... She fit all the categories that I'd mapped out. But sometimes the biggest criteria aren't the most important. Sometimes the little quirks make all the difference. So while you and Julie look the same on paper, you're really not. For instance, when I went to the conference in Michigan, you looked after my two tarantulas."
"You mean Irv and Wally," I correct him, taking a sip of water.
"That's exactly my point. Not only did you feel comfortable taking care of them, but you even gave them names. Really bad names, but that's beside the point. As important as my pets are to me, Julie never saw them as anything beyond a dirty habit."
I'm finding it hard to breathe. So all those times he started to tell me something and lost his nerve, he was trying to say that I'm... what? His dream girl?
He's broken out in a light sheen of sweat, and his eyes keep darting around, probably counting the escape routes. I smile a little, shaking my head. I'm being too hard on him. The effort of actually opening up to someone about his feelings is new territory to Grissom. So, to give him a break, I drop my news.
"Hey, I wanted to tell you... I don't think I'm going to go out to LA for the funeral." Under the pretense of boiling water for tea, I get up and walk into the kitchen area before I can see the relief in his eyes. On top of having to see Juliette's family again, he'd been facing the prospect of being away with me, and he must be welcoming the reprieve. Now he'll have a few days alone to adjust to the recent changes in our relationship.
"Why?"
I glance over at him, surprised by the note of disappointment in his voice. "There are a ton of reasons. We'd be leaving the night shift short-staffed..."
"I've taken care of that," he says, frowning.
"I didn't know Josephine..."
"No, but you helped bring her killer to justice."
Setting a kettle of water on the stove, I spin around, exasperated. "Grissom, you don't like having your past exposed. I'm trying to make this easier on you."
"Okay," he bursts out. "You want the truth? Yes, this is hard. Having you and Julie meet... trying to explain the... you know... the way I feel about you... it's hard, yes. I feel exposed. Especially when I ask you a simple question and you lie to my face."
"What are you talking about?"
"Why don't you want to go to LA?"
For a split second, I consider telling him. We could settle in the living room - he'd take the couch, I'd take the chair - our usual spots. And I could shake some more of my past out like an old rug, the dust swirling around us in thick clouds.
"Fine," Grissom says finally, after my silence has become an answer. He rises to his feet, brushing off his pants. "Fine. We're both off till next week, so I'll see you then."
"I can go in and work this week-"
"I said you're off," he snaps, heading for the door.
I follow close behind him. "Grissom, don't do this."
He yanks open the front door angrily, fixing a steely gaze on me. "Trust is a two-way street, Sara. If you're not up for this-"
"I don't belong there," I blurt out. He pauses, waiting for more, so I go on. "I... feel like it's a private moment, for Josephine's family and close friends. I'd feel like I was intruding."
It's close enough to the truth that my face doesn't give anything away, and he relaxes a little, closing the door. "I'm sorry."
"I'm sorry too." I lean toward him slightly, and he puts his left arm behind my shoulders tentatively, drawing me in for a hug. I wrap my right arm around his back, close my eyes, and bury my face in his shirt. God, we're standing here, only really hugging with one side of our bodies, and I could die, right now. The warmth of the embrace, the softness of his shirt, the scent of oranges and Old Spice, his light breaths in my ear... I'm on sensory overload.
"If you want me to come with you..." I whisper.
"I do."
"Then I'll come."
I should probably let go of him now, but honestly, I've never felt this safe in my entire life. When his other arm snakes around my waist to pull me closer, I can't help letting out a quiet hum, slowly wrapping my free arm around his neck.
"I'm going to be a pain to deal with," he murmurs against the crown of my head. "Every woman I've ever been close to has rejected me. So I made the decision not to take the risk anymore. Especially not with the one woman whose imperfections were perfect in my eyes."
Not every woman has rejected him, I think contrarily. There's me, and his mother, and Catherine... but I'm not about to argue the point, not when he's pressing his lips against my hair so reverently.
"We should probably reserve some plane tickets," I mumble.
"I called this morning," he replies. "Do you want the window seat, or the aisle seat?"
"Depends," I muse. "Which one is next to you?"
"The aisle."
"Aisle it is."
Grissom chuckles, then pauses. "Wait. What if some dashing young man is across the aisle from you?"
My only response is to tighten my grip, and I can feel him relax after a moment.
"Okay," he says finally. "I should let you get some sleep. Pick you up at six?"
"I'll be here."
He extracts himself from my arms, giving me a tentative smile as he leaves. The apartment is quiet without him. Quiet and cold. A hot shower sounds perfect right about now.
On my way into the bathroom I click on the news, doing a double-take when I see Juliette's face on the corner of the TV screen.
"Last night, on the hit game show The Wizard, forty-three year old Juliette Davis made history," the anchorman is saying. "No, she didn't beat The Wizard, Frank Collingswood. But she did manage to tie him, in a three-hour television event that garnered the highest ratings in ABC history."
They cut to a clip of the show. Juliette looks calm, and Collingswood is sweating profusely. "The answer is 3.14159," she says, and from the dismayed look on The Wizard's face, we can tell she's right.
"Producers were forced to declare a stalemate after three hours," the anchorman says, flashing an awed grin. "Davis received cash and prizes totaling $51,480."
"Sadly," he adds, switching to his ain't-it-tragic face, "News 5 has learned that just last week, Juliette Davis' mother, Josephine O'Dell, the well-known heiress to the O'Dell Financial Group fortune, was shot and killed while visiting Las Vegas with her daughter."
Or stabbed. Amazing, what the press gets wrong.
"Sources inside O'Dell Financial have suggested that Robert Davis, Juliette Davis' husband, may be responsible for the shooting. We'll have more on this breaking story later in the hour."
Click. I toss the remote on the bed and make my way over to the closet. A shower can wait - I've got to figure out if I have anything nice enough to wear to Josephine's funeral. My black suit should do, if I can find those pearls that go with it. For a moment, I wonder what Grissom will be wearing. I suppose it doesn't really matter, as long as it's not a red striped tie.