Logic?
God he's an idiot and he's the first one to acknowledge it. If dictionaries used pictures to define things, he'd be the picture of idiot. He gets it. But something Rita said keeps rolling over and over in his mind. "If you want it to be the same forever, Jethro, do nothing and let her come to you. If you want anything to change, fucking change it." It's why he's on a plane at midnight, heading back to California, fully aware that the heart he is about to put on the line is about to break.
Through his nerves induced brain, logic reminds him to not expect anything. This isn't four years ago when they stood on a beach at sunset and he didn't ask her to run away. This isn't nine years ago when he stupidly let her tell him that she wanted to make her marriage work. He'd seen the lie in her eyes but did nothing. It isn't fifteen years ago when he knew she was looking for an out and he never gave it to her. Three strikes usually meant an out. He's hoping it's just a full count and he has one pitch left.
Logic reminds him that her sister is dying and Heather's MO is to run into the arms of comfort and she's going to get through it by ignoring. She won't like being pushed or pulled, not now. So he has to just put it out there and not be disappointed if she doesn't make the choice he's hoping she makes. He has to give her time. But he has to make a gesture. He has to change the course of the ship because right now, they're looking down another fifteen years of hotels and hoping no one sees them.
It's too late. They've been outed. He's done pretending.
He doesn't spend the flight staring at pictures of Heather and James. He instead dozes, waking up to his heart and logic arguing. Logic keeps winning, but only because it has to. If he lets his heart lead, he's going to end up back in Mexico, drinking himself into oblivion. Logic reminds him that Heather won't give up everything that is comfortable. Not right now. But logic also tells him that there's a good chance she never will, so it's now or never.
He's not just placing himself on the altar. He's coming armed with options, including helping her out with hotel and car if she wants to go back and try to see Jenny. He's past just getting her in bed. He wants her happy. Honestly happy. And if that means, honestly, that she closes the door in his face, he's willing to accept it.
He'll deal with the heartbreak later.
The airport is a blur and he's glad all he has is his duffel bag. The idiot at the car rental counter is the same one as from when he rented before. The drive to Ventura is smooth because it's too early for California traffic and he makes it in record time, despite being followed by a highway patrol car for at least thirty miles. Somehow, fate puts him in the same room he and Heather rented the night they were here, and he swears he can still smell her perfume.
Logic kicks his heart again. He has to maintain some kind of control.
Daniel has a soccer game today - he remembers Heather telling him the schedule. She always goes, they go as a family, but Charles takes him out for ice cream after. Just the two of them. So he has a window of time, albeit a small one, to present his case.
It's another hour and a half to Vandenberg. His games are usually at eleven. It's seven now. He can sleep for a bit. Just a bit.
Two hours of sleep is not nearly enough, but he loads up on coffee from the continental breakfast and makes the rest of the drive to her house in good time. She isn't back yet, so he parks across the street and waits hoping to go that none of her neighbors call the cops. Even though he is the police, it might be awkward.
Through his nerves induced brain, logic reminds him to not expect anything. This isn't four years ago when they stood on a beach at sunset and he didn't ask her to run away. This isn't nine years ago when he stupidly let her tell him that she wanted to make her marriage work. He'd seen the lie in her eyes but did nothing. It isn't fifteen years ago when he knew she was looking for an out and he never gave it to her. Three strikes usually meant an out. He's hoping it's just a full count and he has one pitch left.
Logic reminds him that her sister is dying and Heather's MO is to run into the arms of comfort and she's going to get through it by ignoring. She won't like being pushed or pulled, not now. So he has to just put it out there and not be disappointed if she doesn't make the choice he's hoping she makes. He has to give her time. But he has to make a gesture. He has to change the course of the ship because right now, they're looking down another fifteen years of hotels and hoping no one sees them.
It's too late. They've been outed. He's done pretending.
He doesn't spend the flight staring at pictures of Heather and James. He instead dozes, waking up to his heart and logic arguing. Logic keeps winning, but only because it has to. If he lets his heart lead, he's going to end up back in Mexico, drinking himself into oblivion. Logic reminds him that Heather won't give up everything that is comfortable. Not right now. But logic also tells him that there's a good chance she never will, so it's now or never.
He's not just placing himself on the altar. He's coming armed with options, including helping her out with hotel and car if she wants to go back and try to see Jenny. He's past just getting her in bed. He wants her happy. Honestly happy. And if that means, honestly, that she closes the door in his face, he's willing to accept it.
He'll deal with the heartbreak later.
The airport is a blur and he's glad all he has is his duffel bag. The idiot at the car rental counter is the same one as from when he rented before. The drive to Ventura is smooth because it's too early for California traffic and he makes it in record time, despite being followed by a highway patrol car for at least thirty miles. Somehow, fate puts him in the same room he and Heather rented the night they were here, and he swears he can still smell her perfume.
Logic kicks his heart again. He has to maintain some kind of control.
Daniel has a soccer game today - he remembers Heather telling him the schedule. She always goes, they go as a family, but Charles takes him out for ice cream after. Just the two of them. So he has a window of time, albeit a small one, to present his case.
It's another hour and a half to Vandenberg. His games are usually at eleven. It's seven now. He can sleep for a bit. Just a bit.
Two hours of sleep is not nearly enough, but he loads up on coffee from the continental breakfast and makes the rest of the drive to her house in good time. She isn't back yet, so he parks across the street and waits hoping to go that none of her neighbors call the cops. Even though he is the police, it might be awkward.