by E. L. James
“I’m sorry. I’ll eat. It’s just been a weird day. You know, moving Dad and all.”
His lips press into a hard line, but he says nothing. I gaze out the window. Tell him! My subconscious hisses. No. I’m a coward.
Christian interrupts my reverie. “I may have to go to Taiwan.”
“Oh. When?”
“Later this week. Maybe next week.”
“Okay.”
“I want you to come with me.”
I swallow. “Christian, please. I have my job. Let’s not rehash this argument again.”
He sighs and pouts like a sulky teenager. “Thought I’d ask,” he mutters petulantly.
“How long will you go for?”
“Not more than a couple of days. I wish you’d tell me what’s bothering you.”
How can he tell? “Well, now that my beloved husband is going away . . .”
Christian kisses my knuckles. “I won’t be away for long.”
“Good.” I smile weakly at him.
Ray is much brighter and a lot less grumpy when we see him. I’m touched by his quiet gratitude to Christian, and for a moment I forget about my impending news as I sit and listen to them talk fishing and the Mariners. But he tires easily.
“Daddy, we’ll leave you to sleep.”
“Thanks, Ana honey. I like that you drop by. Saw your mom today, too, Christian. She was very reassuring. And she’s a Mariners fan.”
“She’s not crazy about fishing, though,” Christian says wryly as he rises.
“Don’t know many women who are, eh?” Ray grins.
“I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” I kiss him. My subconscious purses her lips. That’s provided Christian hasn’t locked you away . . . or worse. My spirits take a nosedive.
“Come.” Christian holds out his hand, frowning at me. I take it and we leave the hospital.
I pick at my food. It’s Mrs. Jones’s chicken chasseur, but I’m just not hungry. My stomach is knotted in a tight ball of anxiety.
“Damn it! Ana, will you tell me what’s wrong?” Christian pushes his empty plate away, irritated. I gaze at him. “Please. You’re driving me crazy.”
I swallow and try to subdue the panic rising in my throat. I take a deep steadying breath. It’s now or never. “I’m pregnant.”
He stills, and very slowly all the color drains from his face. “What?” he whispers, ashen.
“I’m pregnant.”
His brow furrows with incomprehension. “How?”
How . . . how? What sort of ridiculous question is that? I blush, and give him a quizzical how-do-you-think look.
His stance changes immediately, his eyes hardening to flint. “Your shot?” he snarls.
Oh shit.
“Did you forget your shot?”
I just gaze at him unable to speak. Jeez, he’s mad—really mad.
“Christ, Ana!” He bangs his fist on the table, making me jump, and stands so abruptly he almost knocks the dining chair over. “You have one thing, one thing to remember. Shit! I don’t fucking believe it. How could you be so stupid?”
Stupid! I gasp. Shit. I want to tell him that the shot was ineffective, but words fail me. I gaze down at my fingers. “I’m sorry,” I whisper.
“Sorry? Fuck!” he says again.
“I know the timing’s not very good.”
“Not very good!” he shouts. “We’ve known each other five fucking minutes. I wanted to show you the fucking world and now . . . Fuck. Diapers and vomit and shit!” He closes his eyes. I think he’s trying to contain his temper and losing the battle.
“Did you forget? Tell me. Or did you do this on purpose?” His eyes blaze and anger emanates off him like a force field.
“No,” I whisper. I can’t tell him about Hannah—he’d fire her. I know.
“I thought we’d agreed on this!” he shouts.
“I know. We had. I’m sorry.”
He ignores me. “This is why. This is why I like control. So shit like this doesn’t come along and fuck everything up.”
No . . . Little Blip. “Christian, please don’t shout at me.” Tears start to slip down my face.
“Don’t start with waterworks now,” he snaps. “Fuck.” He runs a hand through his hair, pulling at it as he does. “You think I’m ready to be a father?” His voice catches, and it’s a mixture of rage and panic.
And it all becomes clear, the fear and loathing writ large in his eyes—his rage is that of a powerless adolescent. Oh, Fifty, I am so sorry. It’s a shock for me, too.
“I know neither one of us is ready for this, but I think you’ll make a wonderful father,” I choke. “We’ll figure it out.”
“How the fuck do you know!” he shouts, louder this time. “Tell me how!” His gray eyes burn, and so many emotions cross his face. It’s fear that’s most prominent.
“Oh fuck this!” Christian bellows dismissively and holds his hands up in a gesture of defeat. He turns on his heel and stalks toward the foyer, grabbing his jacket as he leaves the great room. His footsteps echo off the wooden floor, and he disappears through the double doors into the foyer, slamming the door behind him and making me jump once more.
I am alone with the silence—the still, silent emptiness of the great room. I shudder involuntarily as I gaze numbly at the closed doors. He’s walked out on me. Shit! His reaction is far worse than I could ever have imagined. I push my plate away and fold my arms on the table, letting my head sink into them while I weep.
“Ana, dear.” Mrs. Jones is hovering beside me.
I sit up quickly, dashing the tears from my face.
“I heard. I’m sorry,” she says gently. “Would you like an herbal tea or something?”
“I’d like a glass of white wine.”
Mrs. Jones pauses for a fraction of a second, and I remember Blip. Now I can’t drink alcohol. Can I? I must study the dos and don’ts Dr. Greene gave me.
“I’ll get you a glass.”
“Actually, I’ll have a cup of tea, please.” I wipe my nose. She smiles kindly.
“Cup of tea coming up.” She clears our plates and heads over to the kitchen area. I follow her and perch on a stool, watching her prepare my tea.
She places a steaming mug in front of me. “Is there anything else I can get for you, Ana?”
“No, this is fine, thank you.”
“Are you sure? You didn’t eat much.”
I gaze up at her. “I’m just not hungry.”
“Ana, you should eat. It’s not just you anymore. Please let me fix you something. What would you like?” She looks so hopefully at me. But really, I can’t face anything.
My husband has just walked out on me because I’m pregnant, my father has been in a major car accident, and there’s Jack Hyde the nutcase trying to make out that I sexually harassed him. I suddenly have an uncontrollable urge to giggle. See what you’ve done to me, Little Blip! I caress my belly.
Mrs. Jones smiles indulgently at me. “Do you know how far you are?” she asks softly.
“Very newly pregnant. Four or five weeks, the doctor isn’t sure.”
“If you won’t eat, then at least you should rest.”
I nod, and taking my tea, I head into the library. It’s my refuge. I dig my BlackBerry out of my purse and contemplate calling Christian. I know it’s a shock for him—but he really did overreact. When does he not overreact? My subconscious arches a finely plucked brow at me. I sigh. Fifty Shades of fucked up.
“Yes, that’s your daddy, Little Blip. Hopefully he’ll cool off and come back . . . soon.”
I pull out the leaflet of dos and don’ts and sit down to read.
I can’t concentrate. Christian’s never walked out on me before. He’s been so thoughtful and kind over the last few days, so loving and now . . . Suppose he never comes back? Shit! Perhaps I should call Flynn. I don’t know what to do. 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 circumsta
nces 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 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 into 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.
“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 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.”
“The room is spinning.”
Shit . . . is he going to throw up? “Christian, sit up!”
He smirks up at me. “Mrs. Grey, you are a bossy little thing . . .”
“Yes. Do as you’re told and sit up.” I put my hands on my hips. He grins again, struggles up onto his elbows then sits up in a most unChristian-like, gawky fashion. Before he can flop down again, I grab his tie and wrestle him out of his gray jacket, one arm at a time.
“You smell good.”
“You smell of hard liquor.”
“Yes . . . bour-bon.” He pronounces the syllables with such exaggeration that I have to stifle a giggle. Discarding his jacket on the floor beside me, I make a start on his tie. He rests his hands on my hips.
“I like the feel of this fabric on you, Anastay-shia,” he says, slurring his words. “You should always be in satin or silk.” He runs his hands up and down my hips then jerks me forward, pressing his mouth against my belly.
“And we have an invader in here.”
I stop breathing. Holy cow. He’s talking to Little Blip.
“You’re going to keep me awake, aren’t you?” he says to my belly.
Oh my. Christian looks up at me through his long dark lashes, gray eyes blurred and cloudy. My heart constricts.
“You’ll choose him over me,” he says sadly.
“Christian, you don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t be ridiculous—I am not choosing anyone over anyone. And he might be a she.”
He frowns. “A she . . . Oh, God.” He flops back down on to the bed and covers his eyes with his arm. I have managed to loosen his tie. I undo one shoelace and yank off his shoe and sock, then the other. When I stand, I see why I’ve met no resistance—Christian has passed out completely. He’s sound asleep and snoring softly.
I stare at him. He’s so goddamned beautiful, even drunk and snoring. His sculptured lips parted, one arm above his head, ruffling his messy hair, his face relaxed. He looks young—but then he is young; my young, stressed out, drunk, unhappy husband. The thought rests heavy in my heart.
Well, at least he’s home. I wonder where he went. I’m not sure I have the energy or the strength to move him or undress him any further. He’s on top of the duvet, too. Heading back into the great room, I pick up the duvet I was using and bring it back to our bedroom.
He’s still fast asleep, still wearing his tie and his belt. I climb onto the bed beside him, remove his tie, and gently undo the top button of his shirt. He mumbles something incoherently in his sleep, but he doesn’t wake. Carefully, I unbuckle his belt and pull it through the belt loops, and after some difficulty it’s off. His shirt has come dislodged from his pants, revealing a hint of his happy trail. I can’t resist. I bend and kiss it. He shifts, flexing his hips forward, but stays asleep.
I sit up and gaze at him again. Oh, Fifty, Fifty, Fifty . . . what am I going to do with you? I brush my fingers through his hair. It’s so soft and kiss his temple.
“I love you, Christian. Even when you’re drunk and you’ve been out God knows where, I love you. I’ll always love you.”
“Hmm,” he murmurs. I kiss his temple once more, then get off the bed, and cover him up with the spare duvet. I can sleep beside him, sideways across the bed . . . Yes, I’ll do that.
First I’ll sort out his clothes, though. I shake my head and pick up his socks and tie, and fold his jacket over my arm. As I do, his BlackBerry falls to the floor. I pick it up and inadvertently unlock it. It opens on the texts screen. I can see my text, and above it, another.
Fuck. My scalp prickles.
*It was good to see you. I understand now.
Don’t fret. You’ll make a wonderful father
.*
It’s from her. Mrs. Elena Bitch Troll Robinson.
Shit. That’s where he went. He’s been to see her.
I gape at the text then look up at the sleeping form of my husband. He’s been out until one thirty in the morning drinking—with her! He snores softly, sleeping the sleep of a seemingly innocent, oblivious drunk. He looks so serene.
Oh no, no, no. My legs turn to jelly, and I sink slowly to the chair beside the bed in disbelief. Raw, bitter, humiliating betrayal lances through me. How could he? How could he go to her? Scalding, angry tears ooze down my cheeks. His wrath and fear, his need to lash out at me I can understand, and forgive—just. But this . . . this treachery is too much. I pull my knees up against my chest and wrap my arms around them, protecting me and protecting my Little Blip. I rock to and fro, weeping softly.
What did I expect? I married this man too quickly. I knew it—I knew it would come to this. Why. Why. Why? How could he do this to me? He knows how I feel about that woman. How could he turn to her? How? The knife twists slowly and painfully deep in my heart, lacerating me. Will it always be this way?
Through my tears, his prostrate figure blurs and shimmers. Oh, Christian. I married him because I love him, and deep down I know that he loves me. I know he does. His achingly sweet birthday present comes to mind.
For all our firsts on your first birthday as my beloved wife. I love you. C x
No, no, no—I can’t believe that it will always be this way, two steps forward and three steps back. But that’s how it’s always been with him. After each setback, we move forward, inch by inch. He will come around . . . he will. But will I? Will I recover from this . . . from this treachery? I think about how he’s been this last, horrible, wonderful weekend. His quiet strength while my stepdad lay broken and comatose in the ICU . . . my surprise party, bringing my family and friends together . . . dipping me down low outside the Heathman and kissing me in full public view. Oh, Christian, you strain all my trust, all my faith . . . and I love you.
But it’s not just me now. I place my hand on my belly. No, I will not let him do this to me and our Blip. Dr. Flynn said I should give him the benefit of the doubt—well, not this time. I dash the tears from my eyes and wipe my nose with the back of my hand.
