The first week after she leaves, the only thing Stacy can think about is Greg.
She tries to avoid thinking about him for the first two days and throws herself into the task of unpacking all her things. Her new apartment is smaller than the condo – one bedroom, one bathroom, a modest kitchen and no free cable – and, as much as she tries to fill it with her knick-knacks and bric-a-brac, it still somehow feels empty. She rearranges the furniture she brought and spreads all her belongings out, but it still just doesn’t feel lived in. So then, she throws some clothes on the floor, tosses her shoes around, pulls old law books off the shelves and scatters them around the living room.
Nothing.
So on the third day, she goes to IKEA and spends hours picking out little shelving units and tables and CD racks for the CDs she doesn’t have. She packs them in her car and visits Best Buy, finding CDs and DVDs and even video games – when will she ever play video games? – to fill all the space she’s just created.
Halfway through Best Buy, her cell phone rings. She freezes in the middle of the aisle, her hands on her cart and, for a moment, considers not answering it.
She pulls it out on the second ring. It’s the hospital’s number, James Wilson’s private line. James Wilson, who told her that she was doing both the right and wrong thing at the same time.
She silenced the phone and stuffed it back into her purse.
On the fourth day, she curls up in the overstuffed armchair – one of two; the other is still at the condo – and stares out the window. The sun is setting and the trees are almost bare. The complex grounds keepers must be hard workers, she thinks to herself, if they keep the grass so green this far into October. At the condo, the landscaping crew just blew all the leaves into a big pile in the fall, then considered their work done. She’d watched the phenomenon twice, and only on the third instance had she glanced over her shoulder at Greg.
“Do they always do that?”
He shrugged from where he was, sprawled out on the couch with a book in his hands. “What more efficient way to keep the grounds beautiful than making a giant pile of rotting leaves?” he asked rhetorically, not looking up. “Why do you care?”
She hadn’t known, at the time. She thinks back on the memory and it still bothers her, watching the leaf-blowers send the orange and yellow leaves into a mound, piling them one upon another. It just took up space, and by the end of November, it always looked ugly.
She returns the DVDs and CDs and video games and learns to live with the empty space.
==
The fifth day after she leaves, her cell phone rings and she answers it reflexively, not looking at the number.
“Avoiding me?” James teases on the other end and she frowns, slumping back against the refrigerator. Pasta’s boiling on the stove, canned sauce is heating in the microwave, and she almost feels functional. Almost. “I think I’m hurt, Stacy.”
“Oh, don’t start,” she snipes, already searching for an excuse to get off the goddamned phone. “Do you need something? I’m making dinner.”
“I’m just checking on you.” The light-hearted tone in his voice fades, and she sighs heavily. “After we talked, I – ”
“You don’t need to put me on suicide watch, James,” she replies, and forces herself away from the refrigerator long enough to open it. “I’m fine. Hungry, but fine.”
There’s a pause, a heavy pause, and – finding what she wanted – she shuts the door and leans back up against it. “You sure?” he finally asks, prodding quietly. “Because, I can come over, and – ”
“Oh, your new darling would love that,” she chuckles, rolling her eyes. “Running to comfort a newly single, lonely attorney? She’d shred your ties with kitchen shears.”
He snorts into the phone. “Point taken,” he replies, and the line is dead for another long moment. “Take care of yourself, Stacy.”
“I’m a big girl, James. I will.”
She hangs up before he can say anything more.
The apartment is quiet when she brings her plate to the table, cheap marinara smeared on overcooked noodles, a bottle of merlot and a splash of wine in a crystal goblet. She lights the candles that she placed on the table – more comforting clutter – and sits in the dim glow, watching the flames flicker and flare.
It feels like it should be a romantic dinner for two, so she toasts the darkness and eats alone.
==
On the sixth day, she ignores three calls from James, two from Lisa Cuddy, and one from an unknown number.
She ignores James because of the night before, and Lisa because she doesn’t know what to say to her. She considers picking up the unknown number, but then she decides against it, half because she’ll be disappointed if it isn’t Greg, and half because she’s terrified it will be.
==
On the seventh day, she applies for a job in Pennsylvania and starts packing her apartment back up.
==
Four years later – maybe more, maybe less – she’s sitting in a restaurant, her hands in her lap and worrying her napkin. It’s a nice restaurant, quiet and well-kept, and has popped up in Plainsboro since she’s left. A number of new establishments, it seemed, had appeared while she was gone, and she spends the morning before her dinner date driving through the town with a sense of bewilderment, surprised at the changes four years brought.
Her apartment complex is gone, replaced by a subdivision of enormous houses. The Pleasant Valley Condominium cluster, however, still stands on the corner of Pinehurst and Oakland, and when she drives by that evening before dinner, she can see familiar drapes in a familiar window.
“Hello, Stacy,” greets a voice, and she glances up to see James Wilson hovering over her, dressed in one of his better suits and one of his worse ties. He opens his arms slightly, politely, and she rises to hug him. It’s an awkward gesture, arms that don’t quite bend right, but the familiarity is somewhat comforting. She sinks back into her seat and he takes his, and the waiter brings a bottle of wine and menus.
“It’s been a long time,” he says, all smiles, and she realizes how refreshing it is to know that some things never change. “I was surprised you called me at all, honestly.”
“I had to call someone, and Lisa wasn’t answering,” she half-jokes, and he snorts as he pages through his menu. There’s silence, then, and the silence is stifling. She shifts in her seat, flips a page and decides, inwardly, to order the salmon. “How are you?”
“Fine. Married again, but otherwise fine.” It’s a private joke, she supposes, and she smiles slightly, turning another page for show, if nothing else. “Busy at the hospital.”
“I can imagine.” She feels like she’s in high school drama class again, reading from a bad script as her teacher barks out orders – “Awkward! Be more awkward! But in a friendly way!” – and she finally closes her menu and sets it on the table. It rattles her glass and silverware, and causes James to glance up in surprise.
Stacy takes a deep breath. “How much does he hate me?” she asks, a finality about the question. “Rate it on a scale of one to ten. One is deep-rooted loathing; ten is a slight thorn in his side.”
James’ face is touched with a hint of amusement, and she finds she doesn’t like it very much. “I’d say about seven, using that scale,” he decides, and folds his own menu shut. “Why?”
“I have a case for him.” She doesn’t mean to say it that way, that stonily, but she does, and he nods as he sets his menu on the corner of the table. There’s silence again, heavy silence, and she takes a hasty sip of her wine. It’s a bitter red, and she swallows it with effort. “I want to know if he’ll take it.”
“I see.” He pauses, and glances around the restaurant for a moment. “Don’t you think it’s a bit unethical, asking your ex to treat you? Or, if it’s not unethical, stupid? This is House we’re talking about.”
She nods, and realizes only after that he’s actually made a joke. She should laugh, but it’s too late now, so instead she sets down her glass. “It’s not me,” she finally says, and it’s more labored than it should be. Normal people talk about things like this all the time, but then, normal people don’t wander to dinner with the best friend of their ex. “It’s my husband.”
There’s no expression on James’ face; he doesn’t even blink. He simply sits there, watching her, his hands on the table.
“I had to ask somebody,” she says, repeating herself, “and Lisa wasn’t answering her phone.”
The impassivity is broken when he snorts. He rolls his eyes ever-so-slightly, and Stacy can’t remember if she’s ever seen him roll his eyes before. But then again, Stacy hasn’t seen him for more than four years.
“You’ll have to ask him yourself, if you want to know,” he finally tells her, and reaches for his wine.
“I know that,” she says, and reaches for her own.
==
After dinner with James, she sits in her rental car on the corner of Pinehurst and Oakland, parallel-parked between some ugly conversion van and James’ shiny new whatever-it-is. The light in the corner-most condo is on, and through the drapes she can see silhouettes moving around. One is graceful, moving easily across her vision. The other only crosses the window twice, both times with great effort. It’s a lopsided, off-balance silhouette, leaning awkwardly to the right with every other step.
Her stomach turns, and she regrets the salmon.
It’s like watching a train wreck in slow motion, sitting in her car and watching the shadows dance across the pale drapery, a play of light and darkness in the night. She wonders if anyone ever sat in their car years back and watched the prequel to this show, two graceful figures in the darkness, one tall and lean and the other short, curved, more feminine.
She’s tempted to get out of the car, to go ring the bell, but then the uneven figure is moving once more, crossing the window and disappearing. The light flickers off, and there’s nothing. No sound, no reemerging glow, no door opening and James moving to his car. The world is silent, or at least Plainsboro’s corner of it, and she stares at the window until all she can see are fuzzy shapes, black on black on black.
She wipes her eyes and starts up the car, the engine a pleasant hum. “You’ll have to ask him yourself,” James had informed her, and she can hear his voice in her head. She wonders if he’s told Greg anything, or is telling Greg anything, now. Or if he will, before she does ask him herself.
She backs up and pulls away from the curb. She’ll have to ask Greg herself, but today’s not that day.
And honestly, she’s not sure she’ll be ready when it is.
