I’m at a loss. He’s so fragile in so many ways, and I knew he’d react badly to the news. He was so sweet this weekend. All those circumstances way beyond his control, yet he managed fine. But this news was too much.
Ever since I met him, my life has been complicated. Is it him? Is it the two of us together? Suppose he doesn’t get past this? Suppose he wants a divorce? Bile rises in my throat. No. I mustn’t think this way. He’ll be back. He will. I know he 403/551
will. I know regardless of the shouting and his harsh words he loves me . . . yes.
And he’ll love you, too, Little Blip.
Leaning back in my chair, I start to doze.
I wake cold and disorientated. Shivering I check my watch; eleven in the evening.
Oh yes . . . You. I pat my belly. Where’s Christian? Is he back? Stiffly I ease out of the armchair and go in search of my husband.
Five minutes later, I realize he’s not home. I hope nothing’s happened to him.
Memories of the long wait when Charlie Tango went missing flood back.
No, no, no. Stop thinking like this. He’s probably gone to . . . where? Who would he go and see? Elliot? Or maybe he’s with Flynn. I hope so. I find my BlackBerry back in the library, and I text him.
*Where are you?*
I head into the bathroom and run myself a bath. I am so cold.
He still hasn’t returned when I climb out of the bath. I change into one of my 1930s-style satin nightdresses and my robe and head to the great room. On the way, I pop into the spare bedroom. Perhaps this could be Little Blip’s room. I am startled by the thought and stand in the doorway, contemplating this reality. Will we paint it blue or pink? The sweet thought is soured by the fact that my errant husband is so pissed at the idea. Grabbing the duvet from the spare bed, I head in-to the great room to keep vigil.
Something wakes me. A sound.
“Shit!”
It’s Christian in the foyer. I hear the table scrape across the floor again.
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“Shit!” he repeats, more muffled this time.
I scramble up in time to see him stagger through the double doors. He’s drunk. My scalp prickles. Shit, Christian drunk? I know how much he hates drunks. I leap up and run toward him.
“Christian, are you okay?”
He leans against the jamb of the foyer doors. “Mrs. Grey,” he slurs.
Crap. He’s very drunk. I don’t know what to do.
“Oh . . . you look mighty fine, Anastasia.”
“Where have you been?”
He puts his fingers to his lips and smiles crookedly at me. “Shh!”
“I think you’d better come to bed.”
“With you . . .” He snickers.
Snickering! Frowning, I gently put my arm around his waist because he can hardly stand, let alone walk. Where has he been? How did he get home?
“Let me help you to bed. Lean on me.”
“You are very beautiful, Ana.” He leans onto me and sniffs my hair, almost knocking both of us over.
“Christian, walk. I am going to put you to bed.”
“Okay,” he says as if he’s trying to concentrate.
We stumble down the corridor and finally make it into the bedroom.
“Bed,” he says, grinning.
“Yes, bed.” I maneuver him to the edge, but he holds me.
“Join me,” he says.
“Christian, I think you need some sleep.”
“And so it begins. I’ve heard about this.”
I frown. “Heard about what?”
“Babies mean no sex.”
“I’m sure that’s not true. Otherwise we’d all come from one-child families.” He gazes down at me. “You’re funny.”
“You’re drunk.”
“Yes.” He smiles, but his smile changes as he thinks about it, and a haunted expression crosses his face, a look that chills me to the bone.
“Come on, Christian,” I say gently. I hate his expression. It speaks of horrid, ugly memories that no child should see. “Let’s get you into bed.” I push him 405/551
gently, and he flops down onto the mattress, sprawling in all directions and grinning up at me, his haunted expression gone.
“Join me,” he slurs.
“Let’s get you undressed first.”
He grins widely, drunkenly. “Now you’re talking.” Holy cow. Drunk Christian is cute and playful. I’ll take him over mad-as-hell Christian anytime.
“Sit up. Let me take your jacket off.”