Unknown - fifty shades darker

I offer another silent prayer to God. Please let Christian be okay. Please let Christian be okay. I repeat it over and over in my head—my mantra, my lifeline, something concrete to cling to in my desperation. I refuse to think the worst. No, don’t go there. There is hope.

“You’re my lifeline.”

Christian’s words come back to haunt me. Yes, there is always hope. I must not despair.

His words echo through my mind.

“I’m now a firm advocate of instant gratification. Carpe diem, Ana.” Why didn’t I seize the day?

“I’m doing this because I’ve finally met someone I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

I close my eyes in silent prayer, rocking gently. Please, let the rest of his life not be this short. Please, please. We haven’t had enough time . . . we need more time. We’ve done so much in the last few weeks, come so far. It can’t end. All our tender moments: the lipstick, when he made love to me for the first time at the Olympic hotel, on his knees in front of me offering himself to me, finally touching him.

“I am just the same, Ana. I love you and I need you. Touch me. Please.” Oh, I love him so. I will be nothing without him, nothing but a shadow—all the light eclipsed. No, no, no . . . my poor Christian.

“This is me, Ana. All of me . . . and I’m all yours. What do I have to do to make you realize that? To make you see that I want you any way I can get you. That I love you.” And I you, my Fifty Shades.

I open my eyes and gaze unseeing into the fire once more, memories of our time together flitting through my mind: his boyish joy when we were sailing and gliding; his suave, sophisticated, hot-as-hell look at the masked ball; dancing, oh yes, dancing here in the apartment to Sinatra, whirling round the room; his quiet, anxious hope yesterday at the house—that stunning view.

“I will lay my world at your feet, Anastasia. I want you, body and soul, forever.” Oh, please, let him be okay. He cannot be gone. He is the center of my universe.

An involuntary sob escapes my throat, and I clutch my hand to my mouth. No. I must be strong.

José is suddenly at my side, or has he been there a while? I have no idea.

“Do you want to call your mom or dad?” he asks gently.

No! I shake my head and clutch José’s hand. I cannot speak, I know I will dissolve if I do, but the warmth and gentle squeeze of his hand offers me no solace.

Oh, Mom. My lip trembles at the thought of my mother. Should I call her? No. I couldn’t deal with her reaction. Maybe Ray, he wouldn’t get emotional—he never gets emotional, not even when the Mariners lose.

Grace rises to join the boys, distracting me. That must be the longest she’s sat still. Mia comes to sit beside me too and grabs my other hand.

“He will come back,” she says, her voice initially determined but cracking on the last word. Her eyes are wide and red-rimmed, her face pale and pinched from lack of sleep.

I gaze up at Ethan, who is watching Mia and Elliot, who has his arms around Grace. I glance at the clock. It’s after eleven, heading toward midnight. Damn time! With each passing hour, the clawing emptiness expands, consuming me, choking me. I know deep down inside I am preparing myself, preparing myself for the worst. I close my eyes and offer up another silent prayer, clasping both Mia and José’s hands.

Opening them again, I stare into the flames once more. I can see his shy smile—my favorite of all his expressions, a glimpse of the real Christian, my real Christian. He is so many people: control freak, CEO, stalker, sex god, Dom—and at the same time—such a boy with his toys. I smile. His car, his boat, his plane . . . Charlie Tango . . . no . . . no . . .

my lost boy, truly lost right now. My smile fades and pain lances through me. I remember him in the shower, wiping away the lipstick marks.

“I’m nothing, Anastasia. I’m a husk of a man. I don’t have a heart.” The lump in my throat expands. Oh, Christian, you do, you do have a heart, and it’s mine. I want to cherish it forever. Even though he’s so complex and difficult, I love him. I will always love him. There will never be anyone else. Ever.

I remember sitting in Starbucks weighing up my Christian pros and cons. All those cons, even those photographs I found this morning, melt into insignificance now. There’s just him and whether he’ll come back. Oh please, Lord, bring him back, please let him be okay. I’ll go to church . . . I’ll do anything. Oh, if I get him back, I shall seize the day. His voice echoes around my head once more: “Carpe diem, Ana.” I gaze deeper into the fire, the flames still licking and curling around each other, blazing brightly. Then Grace shrieks, and everything goes into slow motion.

“Christian!”

I turn my head in time to see Grace barreling across the great room from where she had been pacing somewhere behind me, and there in the entrance stands a dismayed Christian.

He’s dressed in just his shirtsleeves and suit pants, and he’s holding his navy jacket, shoes, and socks. He looks tired, dirty, and utterly beautiful.

Holy fuck . . . Christian. He’s alive. I gaze numbly at him, trying to work out if I’m hallucinating or if he’s really here.

His expression is one of utter bewilderment. He deposits his jacket and shoes on the floor in time to catch Grace, who throws her arms around his neck and kisses him hard on the cheek.

“Mom?”

Christian gazes down at her, completely at a loss.

“I thought I’d never see you again,” Grace whispers, voicing our collective fear.

“Mom, I’m here.” I hear the consternation in his voice.

“I died a thousand deaths today,” she whispers, her voice barely audible, echoing my thoughts. She gasps and sobs, no longer able to hold back her tears. Christian frowns, horrified or mortified—I don’t know which—then after a beat, envelops her in a huge hug, holding her close.

“Oh, Christian,” she chokes, wrapping her arms around him, weeping into his neck—

all self-restraint forgotten—and Christian doesn’t balk. He just holds her, rocking to and fro, comforting her. Scalding tears pool in my eyes. Carrick hollers from the hallway.

“He’s alive! Shit—you’re here!” He appears from Taylor’s office, clutching his cell phone, and embraces both of them, his eyes closed in sweet relief.

“Dad?”

Mia squeals something unintelligible from beside me, then she’s up, running, joining her parents, hugging all of them, too.

Finally the tears start to cascade down my cheeks. He’s here, he’s fine. But I cannot move.

Carrick is the first to pull away, wiping his eyes and clapping Christian on the shoulder.

Mia releases them and Grace steps back.

“Sorry,” she mumbles.

“Hey, Mom—it’s okay,” Christian says, consternation still evident on his face.

“Where were you? What happened?” Grace cries and puts her head in her hands.

“Mom,” Christian mutters. He draws her into his arms again and kisses the top of her head. “I’m here. I’m good. It’s just taken me a hell of a long time to get back from Portland.

What’s with the welcoming committee?” He looks up and scans the room until his eyes lock with mine.

He blinks and glances briefly at José, who lets go of my hand. Christian’s mouth tightens. I drink in the sight of him and relief courses through me, leaving me spent, exhausted, and completely elated. Yet my tears don’t stop. Christian turns his attention back to his mother.

“Mom, I’m good. What’s wrong?” Christian says reassuringly. She places her hands on either side of his face.