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There is a holiday celebrated by all Jewish people, from ages five to one hundred.
Yom Kippur, the most holy day of the year. A day of forgiveness and atonement. You didn't eat, drink, work, have sex, you couldn’t even wear leather shoes. You prayed to God for forgiveness of your sins, you donated all you could to charity.
You told the truth.
Wilson had never really liked it, growing up. It was just the day where he was pulled out of school and sat in temple for hours, telling God he was sorry, his stomach rumbling.
As he aged though, he started to see some merit in the Day of Atonement. It was almost refreshing, to have a moment without trappings or bullshit to hide behind, to reflect on life and just be.
After a few years working together, Cuddy and he had begun to make a day out of it. They would skip work and he would pick her up, driving to a small temple outside of Princeton in the early morning. He wore his suit and yamaka. She wore an expensive dress and a prayer shawl to cover her shoulders and typical low cut top.
They would attend service and gorge themselves on Chinese food once the sun went down, gossiping about the people they worked with and, if they had drizzled cooking sherry over their lo mein, bitched about awful patients they had treated.
A day when they were truthful and open with the facts of their lives, two Jewish friends celebrating their shared history and values with each other. It was one of Wilson's favorite things to do with his friend.
"Why are you canceling? What happened?” Lisa asked from the other end of the line.
He swallowed hard, a small voice in the back of his head demanding he keep his words steady, nonchalant
“It’s just not a good time, this year.” He drummed his fingers against the back of his cell phone and stared down at his feet, in loose slippers and two different threadbare socks.
Cuddy was sitting in her home, fifteen miles away, and he still couldn’t lift his head.
The affair - or whatever less damning word there was - with House had been going on for almost a month, and his guilt came and went in increasingly intense spikes. He had spent the past week trying to calm down, but as Yom Kippur approached, he was forced to admit he wasn’t going make it through a whole service, through dinner with her.
It was hard enough to talk to her briefly in the hospital, at fundraising functions and board meetings.
He was terrified of looking her in the eye, afraid something in his irises would scream Hey! I’m fucking your boyfriend everytime he says he’s going for a drink or a motorcycle ride!
“James.” Her voice was gentle, concerned. He wanted to throw up. “Is there something wrong? You’ve been acting strange for weeks.”
“No, it’s nothing, I just have a lot of paperwork to catch up on. I’m sure you do too.” His paced back and forth in front of his desk.
James Stewart stared at him judgmentally from the Vertigo poster he had framed next to his bookshelf. He turned away, his stomach beginning to churn.
“Well, okay…” She said uncertainly. In the background, Wilson heard Rachel start to whine, calling for her mother’s help. That poor little girl, she’d probably already gotten attached to House. She had no idea what a fucked up pseudo-family she’d been absorbed into.
“Lisa, I-”
She cut him off. “Did I do something to offend you? If so, I’m sorry, but I’m not going to sit around and watch you passive-aggressively lash out about it. High school’s been over for a long time."
He didn’t respond. He was staring at his feet again, at his socks.
The black sock on his left foot wasn’t his. It was House’s, shoved on quickly when he left his bedroom that morning, so early it was still dark. He was hiding their thing from everyone, even the sun. Even his friend.
How can I do this to her?
"Well? What is it? Spit it out."
She deserves so much better.
“...Wilson? Are you there?”
So much better than both of us.
He sighed, low and long and through his nose. He sat down on top of his desk.
“Lisa,” He said, before he could lose his nerve. “I have to tell you something.” He gripped the edge of his desk with his free hand, already feeling a little lightheaded.
“…What is it?” She sounded wary, almost scared. Rachel began to wail in the background.
"Ana cilchi li.” He whispered. A common Yom Kippur refrain. Please forgive me.
He wasn't quite sure who in the universe he was asking.