"Goddammit, Charles, I'm not interested in your best guess. I want some fucking answers. I need to know if she's really--"
Damien's voice stops, and I stay perfectly still on the sofa, my head still fuzzy from sleep. I realize he must have come in through the rear, and now he's passing the archway that leads into the foyer.
The foyer where the shards of my phone are still scattered all over the floor.
"Just get me answers," he says, his voice low and distracted as he ends the call.
I wait, perfectly still, as he whispers, "Nikki," under his breath. Then his footsteps continue, and I realize he hasn't seen me and is heading for the bedroom.
A moment later, he's back. I'm still on the sofa, my arms clutching a pillow and my eyes toward the floor. But even without seeing him, I can tell that he's standing behind me. "Oh, baby," he whispers, then reaches over the couch to brush my shoulder. The touch lasts only a moment, but I soak it in like a tonic, and by the time he's come around the couch to sit beside me, I've propped myself up on the pillow and am reaching for his hand.
"I called you," he says. "I guess now I know why I only got voicemail."
"What time is it?"
"Late," he says. "I came back to pick up a few things, and then I was going to head to Malibu. And to you, I thought. What are you doing here, baby?" The question is simple, his voice steady. It doesn't matter. I hear the worry in his tone. And I hear the unspoken question, too--What happened, and are you okay?
I push myself up, my head full of fuzz. "I came to see you, and Rachel said you'd gone." I rub my eyes, grainy with sleep. My head aches, and I know it's the hangover-like effects of a crying jag. "What was in Santa Barbara?"
He waves a dismissive hand. "Just work. Just one of a hundred fires that never seem to go away."
"You didn't text me." Usually, Damien sends me a text whenever he has to head out unexpectedly.
"Sorry about that. I didn't expect to be gone that long, and I had Charles on the phone for most of the flight there. But I did call. You might not have gotten the message, what with your phone being in a million pieces. Nikki," he says, his tone shifting from light to firm as squeezes my hand. "Are you okay? You didn't--"
"No." I cut him off firmly, because that answer is absolutely one hundred percent true. "But I wanted to," I admit, because this is Damien. And because he needs to know.
His body goes tense, and his eyes cloud with worry. "What happened?"
It takes me a second, but I manage to say, "My mother's here. In LA, I mean. Really, positively here." I wanted the words to come out strong so that it at least sounds like I have a handle on this. Instead, my voice is choked. I sound lost. And the moment I see the mix of anger and loathing and regret on Damien's face, my throat fills with tears, and I sit up so that I can cling to him, letting his body shield me from a reality I really don't want to face.
"Baby. Oh, baby, are you sure?"
I nod against his shoulder, damp with my tears. "She called Frank. She wants to see me."
"Fuck that," he says, his voice so harsh that I actually smile.
"Yeah," I say. "I guess."
His brow furrows as he studies my face. "Do you want to see her?"
"No." My answer is firm and automatic and true. But then my shoulders sag as another truth follows. "But I want to know what she wants."
"Nothing good, that's for damn sure."
I draw a breath and sit up straighter because I know he's right. There is no happy reunion scene in the making. No running across a field to hug my mother. No shopping montage. No tender moment where she helps me paint the nursery. I want that, though. Despite everything, I want it.
And the fact that I will never have it weighs heavily on my heart.
"Baby--"
"No." I hold up a hand. "You're right. And I don't want to think about her anymore. I'm done." I plaster on a smile, in the hopes that my actual mood will follow.
"Why don't we go away after the premiere tomorrow?" he asks.
"Really? Just run away?"
He laughs. "Why not? From your mother, from horrible text messages. From everything," he adds firmly.
I should protest. I should point out that I have to work on the Greystone-Branch project because our little peanut is sapping my energy, and I need all the coherent working hours I can gather. I should mention that I need to keep interviewing, and I should spend part of the weekend culling resumes.
I should be responsible and just say no.
But the idea of escaping for a few days sounds too much like heaven. So instead, I nod. "All right," I say. "I'm in. Where should we go?"
"I was thinking the bungalow," he says, referring to our darling vacation home at The Resort at Cortez. It's a Stark Vacation Property that Jackson designed, and it's amazing. It's also accessible only by boat or helicopter, and just the idea of getting there makes me ill.
"Veto," I say. "Maybe after morning sickness passes. Not until."
"Fair enough. The Lake Arrowhead house?"
I'm tempted, but now that Santa Barbara is on my mind, it's too enticing to ignore. "Why don't we go back to the Pearl?"
Stark Real Estate owns the Santa Barbara Pearl Hotel, and we'd stayed there recently for Damien's birthday. But that had been a whirlwind trip. "I feel like we only got an appetizer on your birthday," I continue. "Now it's time for the main course."
"A nice thought," he says. "But let's put that off for a while."
I lean back to see him better. He hasn't said anything specific, but I know this man too well. His expressions. His tones. His posture.
"Did something happen there today?"
"What could have happened?" he asks, which isn't an answer at all.
"What's going on?" I ask, because now my curiosity is roused. "What was today's trip about?"
"I told you. Just some business with Charles."
"And you don't want to go to Santa Barbara because . . .?"
He stands up. "Dammit, Nikki, why don't you want to go to Lake Arrowhead?"
"No." I stand up, too, my hands on my hips as I stare him down. I'm not sure if my certainty that he's holding something back is real and rational and based on the fact that I know him so well, or if it's some sort of pregnancy-induced psychosis. All I know is that, in that moment, I am absolutely, one hundred percent convinced that he is keeping something from me.
"Do not try to turn this around on me," I say, my voice rising. "Tell me what the hell is going on."
"Nothing," he says in a calmly infuriating way. "There's nothing going on."
"Bullshit." I slam my hands up against his chest and give him a light shove. "Do you think I'm blind? Deaf? That I can't see your face and hear the tone of your voice. I love you, remember? And I know you think you're protecting me. But dammit, you're not. All you're doing is pissing me off."
"Nikki . . ." His voice is tight with emotion.
"You say I'm strong, but then you build these walls to protect me."
"No--"
"And you're so busy protecting me that you aren't even here for me." The words burst out, the anger behind them surprising me as much as Damien. "I came back here needing
you, Damien. And you were off chasing some secret bullshit that you won't even tell me about? No--I'm sorry, but no."
I draw a breath. "We promised each other no secrets--and over and over again you've told me that I'm strong enough to handle all the shit that keeps getting piled on us. Was that all smoke and mirrors?"
"You know it wasn't."
"Is it the baby? Do you see me differently now?"
"Not differently," he says, stepping closer, so that I have to back up to keep some distance. "More."
He's right in front of me, so close I can feel the energy buzzing off him. "You're the mother of my child, Nikki."
"And that makes me weak? That gives you the right to keep secrets from me?"
"No--God, Nikki, no." He starts to run his fingers through his hair, but stops and reaches for me instead, looking more lost than I've ever seen him. I lean toward him, wanting so desperately to fall into his arms. But I know what will happen. I'll lose myself in his touch. I'll drown in his embrace. And I'll forget my fears and my anger and my worries because the bottom line is that I do know that he loves me.
But I don't want to forget. I don't want to be coddled.
So I shake my head and lift my chin. I look at him through tear-filled eyes. "You made me a promise once, Damien. No more secrets." I press my hands protectively over my belly. "And no matter what you think, this shouldn't change that."
I wipe tears away as I rush to the bedroom, expecting him to follow. He doesn't, though, and my insides twist even more, this time with fear. There's a gulf between us right now. A gaping chasm filled with uncertainty and secrets, and it's one that I don't know how to cross. I don't even know where it came from.
Except I do. And as I press my hand over the baby, my tears start to flow in earnest, because how the hell can we manage as parents if we can't even manage a pregnancy?
It's a horrible, terrifying thought, and the weight of it pulls me under as I lie there for I don't know how long, listening to Damien pacing in the other room, then his footsteps coming closer and closer.
He pauses in the doorway. "Nikki?" His voice is soft. "Sweetheart?"
I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady. I'm tempted to lift my head and roll over so that I can see him, but I'm lost in that space between sleep and wakefulness. And the truth is that I don't want to emerge from it. Not yet. Not even for Damien. And so I keep my eyes closed and my breathing steady.