I settle into the chair and match my breathing to Ana’s. The rhythm soothes me, that and my proximity to her. For the first time since I woke up this morning I feel a little calmer. The last time I sat and watched her sleep was when Hyde broke into our apartment; she’d been out with Kate. I was mad as hell then.
Why do I spend so much time mad at my wife?
I love her.
Even though she never does as she’s told.
That’s why.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The courage to change the things I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
I grimace as Dr Flynn’s oft-quoted serenity prayer pops into my head: a prayer for alcoholics and fucked-up businessmen. I check my watch, though I know it’s far too late to call him in New York. I’ll try him tomorrow. I can discuss my impending fatherhood with him.
I shake my head.
Me, a dad?
What could I possibly offer a child? I undo my tie and the top button of my shirt as I lean back. I suppose there’s the material wealth. At least he won’t go hungry. No—not on my fucking watch. Not my child. She says she’ll do this on her own. How could she? She’s too…and I want to say fragile, because sometimes she looks fragile, but she’s not. She’s the strongest woman I know, stronger even than Grace.
Gazing at her as she lies here, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I realize what an asshole I was yesterday. She’s never backed down from a challenge, ever. She was hurt by what I said and what I did. I see that now. She knew I’d overreact when she told me about the baby.
She knows me better than anyone.
Did she find out before we were in Portland? I don’t think so; she would have told me. She must have found out yesterday. And when she told me, everything turned to shit. My fear took over.
How am I going to make it up to her?
“I’m sorry, Ana. Forgive me,” I whisper. “You scared the living shit out of me yesterday.” Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead.
She stirs and frowns. “Christian,” she murmurs, her voice wistful and full of longing. The hope kindled by her earlier call ignites into a fire.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
But she turns over, sighs, and falls back into a deep slumber. I’m so tempted to strip down and join her, but I don’t think I’d be welcome. “I love you, Anastasia Grey. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Damn. No, I won’t.
I have to fly to Portland and see the finance committee at WSU in Vancouver. That means leaving early.
I place my favorite tie beside her on the pillow so she’ll know I’ve been here. As I do, I recall the first time I tied her hands. The thought travels straight to my cock.
I wore it to tease her at her graduation.
I wore it at our wedding.
I’m a sentimental fool. “Tomorrow, baby,” I whisper. “Sleep well.”
I forgo the piano, even though I want to play. I don’t want to wake her. But as I head alone into our bedroom, I’m more hopeful. She whispered my name.
Yes. There’s hope for us yet.
Don’t give up on me, Ana.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
It’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m in the gym, pounding away on the treadmill. Sleep eluded me last night, and when I did drift off, I was haunted by my dreams:
Ana disappearing into the garage at The Heathman without looking back at me.
Ana an enraged siren, holding a thin cane, eyes blazing, wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and leather boots, her angry words like barbs.
Ana lying unmoving on a sticky green rug.
I shake off that last image and run harder, pushing my body to its limits. I don’t want to feel anything except the pain of my bursting lungs and aching legs. With Bloomberg’s rolling business news on the TV and “Pump It” in my ears, I blot out the world… I blot out thoughts of my wife, sleeping soundly two rooms away from me.
Dream of me, Ana. Miss me.
In the shower while I hose off my workout sweat, I contemplate waking her just to say good-bye. I fly to Portland in Charlie Tango this morning, and I’d like a sweet smile to take with me.
Let her sleep, Grey.
And given how pissed she is at me, there’s no guarantee of a sweet smile.
Mrs. Jones is still giving me the cold shoulder, but I grill her anyway. “Did Ana eat last night?”
“She did.” Mrs. Jones’s attention is on the omelet she’s preparing for me. I think that’s all the information I’m going to get this morning. I sip my coffee and sulk, feeling fifty shades of miserable.
In the car on the way to Boeing Field I write an e-mail to Ana.