Текст книги "Fifty Shades Freed"

Автор книги: Erika Leonard James

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Текущая страница: 28 (всего у книги 32 страниц)

“Welch has just left.”

Oh shit. “And?”

“I lived with the fucker,” he whispers.

“Lived? With Jack?”

He nods, eyes wide.

“You’re related?”

“No. Good God, no.”

I shuffle over and pull the duvet back, inviting him into bed beside me, and to my surprise he doesn’t hesitate. He kicks off his shoes and slides in alongside me.

Wrapping one arm around me, he curls up, resting his head in my lap. I’m stunned. What’s this?

“I don’t understand,” I murmur, running my fingers through his hair and gazing down at him. Christian closes his eyes and furrows his brow as if he’s straining to

remember.

“After I was found with the crack whore, before I went to live with Carrick and Grace, I was in the care of Michigan State. I lived in a foster home. But I can’t

remember anything about that time.”

My mind reels. A foster home? This is news to both of us.

“For how long?” I whisper.

“Two months or so. I have no recollection.”

“Have you spoken to your mom and dad about it?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you should. Maybe they could fill in the blanks.”

He hugs me tightly. “Here.” He hands me the papers, which turn out to be two photographs. I reach over and switch on the bedside light so I can examine them

in detail. The first photo is of a shabby house with a yellow front door and a large gabled window in the roof. It has a porch and a small front yard. It’s an unremarkable house.

The second photo is of a family—at first glance, an ordinary blue-collar family—a man and his wife, I think, and their children. The adults are both dressed in

dowdy, overwashed blue T-shirts. They must be in their forties. The woman has scraped-back blond hair, and the man a severe buzz-cut, but they are both smiling

warmly at the camera. The man has his hand draped over the shoulders of a sullen teenage girl. I gaze at each of the children: two boys—identical twins, about

twelve—both with sandy blond hair, grinning broadly at the camera; there’s another boy, who’s smaller, with reddish blond hair, scowling; and hiding behind him,

a copper-haired gray-eyed little boy. Wide-eyed and scared, dressed in mismatched clothes, and clutching a child’s dirty blanket.

Fuck. “This is you,” I whisper, my heart lurching into my throat. I know Christian was four when his mother died. But this child looks much younger. He must

have been severely malnourished. I stifle a sob as tears spring to my eyes. Oh, my sweet Fifty.

Christian nods. “That’s me.”

“Welch brought these photos?”

“Yes. I don’t remember any of this.” His voice is flat and lifeless.

“Remember being with foster parents? Why should you? Christian, it was a long time ago. Is this what’s worrying you?”

“I remember other things, from before and after. When I met my mom and dad. But this . . . It’s like there’s a huge chasm.”

My heart twists and understanding dawns. My darling control freak likes everything in its place, and now he’s learned he’s missing part of the jigsaw.

“Is Jack in this picture?”

“Yes, he’s the older kid.” Christian’s eyes are still screwed shut, and he’s clinging to me as if I’m a life raft. I run my fingers through his hair while I gaze at the

older boy who is glaring, defiant and arrogant, at the camera. I can see it’s Jack. But he’s just a kid, a sad eight– or nine-year-old, hiding his fear behind his hostility.

A thought occurs to me.

“When Jack called to tell me he had Mia, he said if things had been different, it could have been him.”

Christian closes his eyes and shudders. “That fucker!”

“You think he did all this because the Greys adopted you instead of him?”

“Who knows?” Christian’s tone is bitter. “I don’t give a fuck about him.”

“Perhaps he knew we were seeing each other when I went for that job interview. Perhaps he planned to seduce me all along.” Bile rises in my throat.

“I don’t think so,” Christian mutters, his eyes now open. “The searches he did on my family didn’t start until a week or so after you began your job at SIP.

Barney knows the exact dates. And, Ana, he fucked all his assistants and taped them.” Christian closes his eyes and tightens his grip on me once more.

Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news,

Suppressing the tremor that runs through me, I try to recall my various conversations with Jack when I first started at SIP. I knew deep down he was bad news,

yet I ignored all my instincts. Christian’s right—I have no regard for my own safety. I remember the fight we had about me going to New York with Jack. Jeez—I

could have ended up on some sordid sex tape. The thought is nauseating. And in that moment I recall the photographs Christian kept of his submissives.

Oh shit. “We’re cut from the same cloth.” No, Christian, you’re not, you’re nothing like him. He’s still curled around me like a small boy.

“Christian, I think you should talk to your mom and dad.” I am reluctant to move him, so I shift and slide back into the bed until we are eye to eye.

A bewildered gray gaze meets mine, reminding me of the child in the photograph.

“Let me call them,” I whisper. He shakes his head. “Please.” I beg. Christian stares at me, pain and self-doubt reflected in his eyes as he considers my request.

Oh, Christian, please!

“I’ll call them,” he whispers.

“Good. We can go and see them together, or you can go. Whichever you prefer.”

“No. They can come here.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want you going anywhere.”

“Christian, I’m up for a car journey.”

“No.” His voice is firm, but he gives me an ironic smile. “Anyway, it’s Saturday night, they’re probably at some function.”

“Call them. This news has obviously upset you. They might be able to shed some light.” I glance at the radio alarm. It’s almost seven in the evening. He regards

me impassively for a moment.

“Okay,” he says as if I’ve issued him with a challenge. Sitting up, he picks up the bedside phone.

I wrap my arm around him and rest my head on his chest as he makes the call.

“Dad?” I register his surprise that Carrick has answered the phone. “Ana’s good. We’re home. Welch has just left. He found out the connection . . . the foster

home in Detroit . . . I don’t remember any of that.” Christian’s voice is almost inaudible as he mutters the last sentence. My heart constricts once more. I hug him,

and he squeezes my shoulder.

“Yeah . . . You will? . . . Great.” He hangs up. “They’re on their way.” He sounds surprised, and I realize that he’s probably never asked them for help.

“Good. I should get dressed.”

Christian’s arm tightens around me. “Don’t go.”

“Okay.” I snuggle into his side again, stunned by the fact that he’s just told me a great deal about himself—entirely voluntarily.

As we stand at the threshold to the great room, Grace wraps me gently in her arms.

“Ana, Ana, darling Ana,” she whispers. “Saving two of my children. How can I ever thank you?”

I blush, touched and embarrassed in equal measure by her words. Carrick hugs me, too, kissing my forehead.

Then Mia grabs me, squashing my ribs. I wince and gasp, but she doesn’t notice. “Thank you for saving me from those assholes.”

Christian scowls at her. “Mia! Careful! She’s in pain.”

“Oh! Sorry.”

“I’m good,” I mutter, relieved when she releases me.

She looks fine. Impeccably dressed in tight black jeans and a pale pink frilly blouse. I’m glad I’m wearing my comfortable wrap dress and flats. At least I look

reasonably presentable.

Racing over to Christian, Mia curls her arm around his waist.

Wordlessly, he hands Grace the photo. She gasps, her hand flying to her mouth to contain her emotion as she instantly recognizes Christian. Carrick wraps his

arm around her shoulder as he, too, examines it.

“Oh, darling.” Grace caresses Christian’s cheek.

Taylor appears. “Mr. Grey? Miss Kavanagh, her brother, and your brother are coming up, sir.”

Christian frowns. “Thank you, Taylor,” he mutters, bemused.

“I called Elliot and told him we were coming over.” Mia grins. “It’s a welcome-home party.”

I sneak a sympathetic glance at my poor husband as both Grace and Carrick glare at Mia in exasperation.

“We’d better get some food together,” I declare. “Mia, will you give me a hand?”

“Oh, I’d love to.”

I usher her toward the kitchen area as Christian leads his parents into his study.

Kate is apoplectic with righteous indignation that’s aimed at me, Christian, but most of all Jack and Elizabeth.

“What were you thinking, Ana?” she shouts as she confronts me in the kitchen, causing all eyes in the room to turn and stare.

“Kate, please. I’ve had the same lecture from everyone!” I snap back. She glares at me, and for one minute I think I’m going to be subjected to a Katherine

Kavanagh how-not-to-succumb-to-kidnappers lecture, but instead she folds me in her arms.

“Jeez—sometimes you don’t have the brains you were born with, Steele,” she whispers. As she kisses my cheek, there are tears in her eyes. Kate! “I’ve been so

worried about you.”

“Don’t cry. You’ll set me off.”

She stands back and wipes her eyes, embarrassed, then takes a deep breath and composes herself. “On a more positive note, we’ve set a date for our wedding.

We thought next May? And of course I want you to be my matron of honor.”

“Oh . . . Kate . . . Wow. Congratulations!” Crap—Little Blip . . . Junior!

“What is it?” she asks, misinterpreting my alarm.

“Um . . . I’m just so happy for you. Some good news for a change.” I wrap my arms around her and pull her into a hug. Shit, shit, shit. When is Blip due?

Mentally I calculate my due date. Dr. Greene said I was four or five weeks. So—sometime in May? Shit.

Elliot hands me a glass of champagne.

Oh. Shit.

Christian emerges from his study, looking ashen, and follows his parents into the great room. His eyes widen when he sees the glass in my hand.

“Kate,” he greets her coolly.

“Christian.” She is equally cool. I sigh.

“Your meds, Mrs. Grey.” He eyes the glass in my hand.

I narrow my eyes. Dammit. I want a drink. Grace smiles as she joins me in the kitchen, collecting a glass from Elliot on the way.

“A sip will be fine,” she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him with

“A sip will be fine,” she whispers with a conspiratorial wink at me, and lifts her glass to clink mine. Christian scowls at both of us, until Elliot distracts him with

news of the latest match between the Mariners and the Rangers.

Carrick joins us, putting his arms around us both, and Grace kisses his cheek before joining Mia on the sofa.

“How is he?” I whisper to Carrick as he and I stand in the kitchen watching the family lounge on the sofa. I note with surprise that Mia and Ethan are holding

hands.

“Shaken,” Carrick murmurs to me, his brow furrowing, his face serious. “He remembers so much of his life with his birth mother; many things I wish he didn’t.

But this—” He stops. “I hope we’ve helped. I’m glad he called us. He said you told him to.” Carrick’s gaze softens. I shrug and take a hasty sip of champagne.

“You’re very good for him. He doesn’t listen to anyone else.”

I frown. I don’t think that’s true. The unwelcome specter of the Bitch Troll looms large in my mind. I know Christian talks to Grace, too. I heard him. Again I

feel a moment’s frustration as I try to fathom their conversation in the hospital, but it still eludes me.

“Come and sit down, Ana. You look tired. I’m sure you weren’t expecting all of us here this evening.”

“It’s great to see everyone.” I smile. Because it’s true, it is great. I’m an only child who has married into a large and gregarious family, and I love it. I snuggle up

next to Christian.

“One sip,” he hisses at me and takes my glass from my hand.

“Yes, Sir.” I bat my lashes, disarming him completely. He puts his arm around my shoulders and returns to his baseball conversation with Elliot and Ethan.

“My parents think you walk on water,” Christian mutters as he drags off his T-shirt.

I’m curled up in bed watching the floorshow. “Good thing you know differently.” I snort.

“Oh, I don’t know.” He slips out of his jeans.

“Did they fill in the gaps for you?”

“Some. I lived with the Colliers for two months while Mom and Dad waited for the paperwork. They were already approved for adoption because of Elliot, but

the wait’s required by law to see if I had any living relatives who wanted to claim me.”

“How do you feel about that?” I whisper.

He frowns. “About having no living relatives? Fuck that. If they were anything like the crack whore . . .” He shakes his head in disgust.

Oh, Christian! You were a child, and you loved your mom.

He slides on his pajamas, climbs into bed, and gently pulls me into his arms.

“It’s coming back to me. I remember the food. Mrs. Collier could cook. And at least we know now why that fucker is so hung up on my family.” He runs his free

hand through his hair. “Fuck!” he says suddenly turning to gape at me.

“What?”

“It makes sense now!” His eyes are full of recognizance.

“What?”

“Baby Bird. Mrs. Collier used to call me Baby Bird.”

I frown. “That makes sense?”

“The note,” he says gazing at me. “The ransom note that fucker left. It went something like ‘Do you know who I am? Because I know who you are, Baby Bird.’

”

This makes no sense to me at all.

“It’s from a kid’s book. Christ. The Colliers had it. It was called . . . ‘Are You My Mother?’ Shit.” His eyes widen. “I loved that book.”

Oh. I know that book. My heart lurches—Fifty!

“Mrs. Collier used to read it to me.”

I am at a loss what to say.

“Christ. He knew . . . that fucker knew.”

“Will you tell the police?”

“Yes. I will. Christ knows what Clark will do with that information.” Christian shakes his head as if trying to clear his thoughts. “Anyway, thank you for this

evening.”

Whoa. Gear change. “For what?”

“Catering for my family at a moment’s notice.”

“Don’t thank me, thank Mia and Mrs. Jones. She keeps the pantry well stocked.”

He shakes his head as if in exasperation. At me? Why?

“How are you feeling, Mrs. Grey?”

“Good. How are you feeling?”

“I’m fine.” He frowns . . . not understanding my concern.

Oh . . . in that case. I trail my fingers down his stomach to his oh-so-happy trail.

He laughs and grabs my hand. “Oh no. Don’t get any ideas.”

I pout, and he sighs. “Ana, Ana, Ana, what am I going to do with you?” He kisses my hair.

“I have some ideas.” I squirm beside him and wince as pain radiates through my upper body from my bruised ribs.

“Baby, you’ve been through enough. Besides, I have a bedtime story for you.”

Oh?

“You wanted to know . . .” He trails off, closes his eyes and swallows.

All of the hair on my body stands on end. Shit.

He begins in a soft voice. “Picture this, an adolescent boy looking to earn some extra money so he can continue his secret drinking habit.” He shifts onto his side

so that we’re lying facing each other and he’s gazing into my eyes.

“So I was in the backyard at the Lincolns’, clearing some rubble and trash from the extension Mr. Lincoln had just added to their place . . .”

Holy fuck . . . he’s talking.

I can barely breathe. Do I want to hear this? Christian closes his eyes and swallows. When he opens them again, they are bright but diffident, full of disquieting

memories.

“It was a hot summer day. I was working hard.” He snorts and shakes his head, suddenly amused. “It was backbreaking work shifting that rubble. I was on my

own, and Ele—Mrs. Lincoln appeared out of nowhere and brought me some lemonade. We exchanged small talk, and I made some smart-ass remark . . . and she

slapped me. She slapped me so hard.” Unconsciously, his hand moves to his face and he caresses his cheek, his eyes clouding at the memory. Holy shit!

“But then she kissed me. And when she finished, she slapped me again.” He blinks, seemingly still confounded even after all this time.

“I’d never been kissed before or hit like that.”

Oh. She pounced. On a kid.

“Do you want to hear this?” Christians asks.

Yes . . . No . . .

“Only if you want to tell me.” My voice is small as I lie facing him, my mind reeling.

“I’m trying to give you some context.”

I nod in what I hope is an encouraging manner. But I suspect I may look like a statue, frozen and wide-eyed with shock.

He frowns, his eyes searching mine, trying to gauge my reaction. Then he turns onto his back and stares up at the ceiling.

“Well, naturally, I was confused and angry and horny as hell. I mean, a hot older woman comes on to you like that—” He shakes his head as if he still can’t

believe it.

Hot? I feel queasy.

“She went back into the house, leaving me in the backyard. She acted as if nothing had happened. I was at a total loss. So I went back to work, loading the

rubble into the dumpster. When I left that evening, she asked me to come back the next day. She didn’t mention what had happened. So the next day I went back. I

couldn’t wait to see her again,” he whispers as if it’s a dark confession . . . because frankly it is.

“She didn’t touch me when she kissed me,” he murmurs and turns his head to gaze at me. “You have to understand . . . my life was hell on earth. I was a walking

hard-on, fifteen years old, tall for my age, hormones raging. The girls at school—” He stops, but I’ve got the picture: a scared, lonely, but attractive adolescent. My

heart twists.

“I was angry, so fucking angry at everyone, at myself, my folks. I had no friends. My therapist at the time was a total asshole. My folks, they kept me on a tight

leash; they didn’t understand.” He stares back up at the ceiling and runs a hand through his hair. I itch to run my fingers through his hair, too, but I stay still.

“I just couldn’t bear anyone to touch me. I couldn’t. Couldn’t bear anyone near me. I used to fight . . . fuck, did I fight. I got into some god-awful brawls. I was

expelled from a couple of schools. But it was a way to let off steam. To tolerate some kind of physical contact.” He stops again. “Well, you get the idea. And when

she kissed me, she only grabbed my face. She didn’t touch me.” His voice is barely audible.

She must have known. Perhaps Grace had told her. Oh, my poor Fifty. I have to fold my hands beneath my pillow and rest my head on it in order to resist the

urge to hold him.

“Well, the next day I went back to the house, not knowing what to expect. And I’ll spare you the gory details, but there was more of the same. And that’s how

our relationship started.”

Oh, fuck, this is painful to hear.

He shifts again onto his side so he’s facing me.

“And you know something, Ana? My world came into focus. Sharp and clear. Everything. It was exactly what I needed. She was a breath of fresh air. Making

the decisions, taking all that shit away from me, letting me breathe.”

Holy shit.

“And even when it was over, my world stayed in focus because of her. And it stayed that way until I met you.”

What the hell am I supposed to say to that? Tentatively, he smoothes a stray lock of my hair behind my ear.

“You turned my world on its head.” He closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, they are raw. “My world was ordered, calm and controlled, then you

came into my life with your smart mouth, your innocence, your beauty, and your quiet temerity . . . and everything before you was just dull, empty, mediocre . . . it

was nothing.”

Oh, my.

“I fell in love,” he whispers.

I stop breathing. He caresses my cheek.

“So did I,” I murmur with the little breath I have left.

His eyes soften. “I know,” he mouths.

“You do?”

“Yes.”

Hallelujah! I smile shyly at him. “Finally,” I whisper.

He nods. “And it’s put everything into perspective for me. When I was younger, Elena was the center of my world. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for her.

And she did a lot for me. She stopped my drinking. Made me work hard at school . . . You know, she gave me a coping mechanism I hadn’t had before, allowed

me to experience things that I never thought I could.”

“Touch,” I whisper.

He nods. “After a fashion.”

I frown, wondering what he means.

He hesitates at my reaction.

He hesitates at my reaction.

Tell me! I will him.

“If you grow up with a wholly negative self-image, thinking you’re some kind of reject, an unlovable savage, you think you deserve to be beaten.”

Christian . . . you are none of those things.

He pauses and runs his hand through his hair. “Ana, it’s much easier to wear your pain on the outside . . .” Again, it’s a confession.

Oh.

“She channeled my anger.” His mouth presses together in a bleak line. “Mostly inward—I realize that now. Dr. Flynn’s been on and on about this for some time.

It was only recently that I saw our relationship for what it was. You know . . . on my birthday.”

I shudder as the unwelcome memory of Elena and Christian verbally eviscerating each other at Christian’s birthday party surfaces unwelcome in my mind.

“For her that side of our relationship was about sex and control and a lonely woman finding some kind of comfort with her boy toy.”

“But you like control,” I whisper.

“Yes. I do. I always will, Ana. It’s who I am. I surrendered it for a brief while. Let someone make all my decisions for me. I couldn’t do it myself—I wasn’t in a

fit state. But through my submission to her, I found myself and found the strength to take charge of my life . . . take control and make my own decisions.”

“Become a Dom?”

“Yes.”

“Your decision?”

“Yes.”

“Dropping out of Harvard?”

“My decision, and it was the best decision I ever made. Until I met you.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” His lips quirk up in a soft smile. “The best decision I ever made was marrying you.”

Oh my. “Not starting your company?”

He shakes his head.

“Not learning to fly?”

He shakes his head. “You,” he mouths. He caresses my cheek with his knuckles. “She knew,” he whispers.

I frown. “She knew what?”

“That I was head over heels in love with you. She encouraged me to go down to Georgia to see you, and I’m glad she did. She thought you’d freak out and

leave. Which you did.”

I pale. I’d rather not think about that.

“She thought I needed all the trappings of the lifestyle I enjoyed.”

“The Dom?” I whisper.

He nods. “It enabled me to keep everyone at arm’s length, gave me control, and kept me detached, or so I thought. I’m sure you’ve worked out why,” he adds

softly.

“Your birth mom?”

“I didn’t want to be hurt again. And then you left me.” His words are barely audible. “And I was a mess.”

Oh, no.

“I’ve avoided intimacy for so long—I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’re doing fine,” I murmur. I trace his lips with my index finger. He purses them into a kiss. You’re talking to me.

“Do you miss it?” I whisper.

“Miss it?”

“That lifestyle.”

“Yes, I do.”

Oh!

“But only insofar as I miss the control it brings. And frankly, your stupid stunt”—he stops—“that saved my sister,” he whispers, his words full of relief, awe, and

disbelief. “That’s how I know.”

“Know?”

“Really know that you love me.”

I frown. “You do?”

“Yes. Because you risked so much . . . for me, for my family.”

My frown deepens. He reaches over and traces his finger over the middle of my brow above my nose.

“You have a V here when you frown,” he murmurs. “It’s very soft to kiss. I can behave so badly . . . and yet you’re still here.”

“Why are you surprised I’m still here? I told you I wasn’t going to leave you.”

“Because of the way that I behaved when you told me you were pregnant.” He runs his finger down my cheek. “You were right. I am an adolescent.”

Oh shit . . . I did say that. My subconscious glares at me. His doctor said that!

“Christian, I said some awful things.” He puts his index finger over my lips.

“Hush. I deserved to hear them. Besides this is my bedtime story.” He rolls onto his back again.

“When you told me you were pregnant—” He stops. “I’d thought it would be just you and me for a while. I’d considered children, but only in the abstract. I had

this vague idea we’d have a child sometime in the future.”

Just one? No . . . Not an only child. Not like me. Perhaps now’s not the best time to bring that up.

“You are still so young, and I know you’re quietly ambitious.”

Ambitious? Me?

“Well, you pulled the rug from under me. Christ, was that unexpected. Never in a million years, when I asked you what was wrong, did I expect you to be

pregnant.” He sighs. “I was so mad. Mad at you. Mad at myself. Mad at everyone. And it took me back, that feeling of nothing being in my control. I had to get out.

I went to see Flynn, but he was at some school parents’ evening.” Christian pauses and arches an eyebrow.

“Ironic,” I whisper. Christian smirks in agreement.

“So I walked and walked and walked, and I just . . . found myself at the salon. Elena was leaving. She was surprised to see me. And, truth be told, I was

surprised to find myself there. She could tell I was mad and asked me if I wanted a drink.”

Oh shit. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in warning.

Oh shit. We’ve cut to the chase. My heart doubles in speed. Do I really want to know this? My subconscious glares at me, a plucked eyebrow raised in warning.

“We went to a quiet bar I know and had a bottle of wine. She apologized for the way she behaved the last time she saw us. She’s hurt that my mom will have

nothing to do with her any more—it’s narrowed her social circle—but she understands. We talked about the business, which is doing fine, in spite of the

recession . . . I mentioned that you wanted kids.”

I frown. “I thought you let her know I was pregnant.”

He regards me, his face guileless. “No, I didn’t.”

“Why didn’t you tell me that?”

He shrugs. “I never got the chance.”

“Yes, you did.”

“I couldn’t find you the next morning, Ana. And when I did, you were so mad at me . . .”

Oh, yes. “I was.”

“Anyway, at some point in the evening—about halfway through the second bottle—she leaned over to touch me. And I froze,” he whispers, throwing his arm

over his eyes.

My scalp tingles. What’s this?

“She saw that I recoiled from her. It shocked both of us.” His voice is low, too low.

Christian look at me! I tug at his arm and he lowers it, turning to gaze into my eyes. Shit. His face is pale, his eyes wide.

“What?” I breathe.

He frowns, and swallows.

Oh . . . what isn’t he telling me? Do I want to know?

“She made a pass at me.” He’s shocked, I can tell.

All the breath is sucked from my body. I feel winded, and I think my heart has stopped. That fucking bitch troll!

“It was a moment, suspended in time. She saw my expression, and she realized how far she’d crossed the line. I said . . . no. I haven’t thought of her like that for

years, and besides”—he swallows—“I love you. I told her, I love my wife.”

I gaze at him. I don’t know what to say.

“She backed right off. Apologized again, made it seem like a joke. I mean, she said she’s happy with Isaac and with the business and she doesn’t bear either of us

any ill will. She said she missed my friendship, but she could see that my life was with you now. And how awkward that was, given what happened last time we

were all in the same room. I couldn’t have agreed with her more. We said our good-byes—our final good-byes. I said I wouldn’t see her again, and she went on her

way.”

I swallow, fear gripping my heart. “Did you kiss?”

“No!” he snorts. “I couldn’t bear to be that close to her.”

Oh. Good.

“I was miserable. I wanted to come home to you. But . . . I knew I’d behaved badly. I stayed and finished the bottle, then started on the bourbon. While I was

drinking, I remember you saying to me some time ago, ‘If that was my son . . .’ And I got to thinking about Junior and about how Elena and I started. And it made

me feel . . . uncomfortable. I’d never thought of it like that before.”

A memory blossoms in my mind—a whispered conversation from when I was half conscious—Christian’s voice: “But seeing her finally put it all in perspective

for me. You know . . . with the child. For the first time I felt . . . What we did . . . it was wrong.” He’d been speaking to Grace.

“That’s it?”

“Pretty much.”

“Oh.”

“Oh?”

“It’s over?”

“Yes. It’s been over since I laid eyes on you. I finally realized it that night and so did she.”

“I’m sorry,” I mutter.

He frowns. “What for?”

“Being so angry the next day.”

He snorts. “Baby, I understand angry.” He pauses then sighs. “You see, Ana, I want you to myself. I don’t want to share you. What we have, I’ve never had

before. I want to be the center of your universe, for a while at least.”

Oh, Christian. “You are. That’s not going to change.”

He gives me an indulgent, sad, resigned smile. “Ana,” he whispers. “That’s just not true.”

Tears prick my eyes.

“How can it be?” he murmurs.

Oh, no.

“Shit—don’t cry, Ana. Please, don’t cry.” He caresses my face.

“I’m sorry.” My lower lip trembles, and he brushes his thumb over it, soothing me.

“No, Ana, no. Don’t be sorry. You’ll have someone else to love as well. And you’re right. That’s how it should be.”

“Blip will love you, too. You’ll be the center of Blip’s—Junior’s world,” I whisper. “Children love their parents unconditionally, Christian. That’s how they

come into the world. Programmed to love. All babies . . . even you. Think about that children’s book you liked when you were small. You still wanted your mom.

You loved her.”

He furrows his brow and withdraws his hand, fisting it against his chin.

“No,” he whispers.

“Yes. You did.” My tears flow freely now. “Of course you did. It wasn’t an option. That’s why you’re so hurt.”

He stares at me, his expression raw.

“That’s why you’re able to love me,” I murmur. “Forgive her. She had her own world of pain to deal with. She was a shitty mother, and you loved her.”

He gazes at me, saying nothing, eyes haunted—by memories I can’t begin to fathom.

Oh, please don’t stop talking.

Eventually he says, “I used to brush her hair. She was pretty.”

“One look at you and no one would doubt that.”

“She was a shitty mother.” His voice is barely audible.

I nod and he closes his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a shitty father.”

I nod and he closes his eyes. “I’m scared I’ll be a shitty father.”

I stroke his dear face. Oh, my Fifty, Fifty, Fifty. “Christian, do you think for one minute I’d let you be a shitty father?”