Fifty Shade Forever

Its harder to warm a heart than it is to cool one

I awake with a jolt. My head is fuzzy and I'm too warm. Christian is wrapped around like a vine. He grumbles in his sleep as I slip out of his arms, but he doesn't wake. Sitting up I glance at the alarm clock. It's three in the morning. I need an Advil and a drink. I swing my legs out of bed and make my way to the kitchen in the great room. 

In the fridge, I find a carton of orange juice and pour myself a glass. Hmm . . . it's delicious, and my fuzzy head eases immediately. I hunt through the cupboards looking for some painkillers and eventually come across a plastic box full of meds. I sink two Adviland and pour myself another orange juice. 

Wandering to the great wall of glass, I look out on a sleeping Seattle. The lights twinkle and wink beneath Christian's castle in the sky, or should I say fortress? I press my forehead against the cool window—it's a relief. I have so much to think about after all the revelations of yesterday. I place my back against the glass and slide down onto the floor. 

The great room is cavernous in the dark, the only light coming from the three lamps above the kitchen island. Could I live here, married to Christian? After all that he's done here? All the history this place holds for him? Marriage. It's almost unbelievable and completely unexpected. But then everything about Christian is unexpected. My lips quirk up with irony. 

Christian Grey, expect the unexpected—Fifty Shades of Fucked-Up. My smile fades. I look like his mother. This wounds me, deeply, and the air leaves my lungs in a rush. We all look like his mom. How the hell do I move on from the disclosure of that little secret? No wonder he didn't want to tell me. But surely he can't remember much of his mother. I wonder once more, if I should talk to Dr. Flynn. Would Christian let me? Perhaps he could fill in the gaps. 

I shake my head. I feel world-weary, but I'm enjoying the calm serenity of the great room and its beautiful works of art—cold and austere, but in their way, still beautiful in the shadows and surely worth a fortune. Could I live here? For better, for worse? In sickness and in health? I did once before.

I close my eyes, lean my head back against the glass, and take a deep, cleansing breath. The peaceful tranquillity is shattered by a visceral, primaeval cry that makes every single part of my body stand to attention. 

Christian! Holy fuck—what's happened? I am on my feet, running back to the bedroom before the echoes of that horrible sound have died away, my heart thumping with fear. I flip one of the light switches, and Christian's bedside light comes to life. He's tossing and turning, writhing in agony. No! He cries out again, and the eerie, devastating sound lances through me anew. Shit—a nightmare! 

"Christian!" I lean over him, grab his shoulders, and shake him awake. He opens his eyes, and they are wild and vacant, scanning around the empty room before coming back to rest on me. 

"You left, you left, you must have left," he mumbles—his wide-eyed stare becoming accusatory—and he looks so lost, it wrenches at my heart. Poor Fifty. 

"I'm here." I sit down on the bed beside him. "I'm here," I murmur in an effort to reassure him. I reach out to place my palm on the side of his face, trying to soothe him. 

"You were gone," he whispers rapidly. His eyes are still wild and frightened, but he seems to be calming. 

"I went to get a drink. I was thirsty." 

"You locked me out."

"And you forced the door open. I will continue to seek privacy and reprieve from you on further and further away out of your reaches until I will be gone for real."

He closes his eyes and rubs his face. When he opens them again, he looks so desolate."You're here now. Thank God." He reaches for me, and grabbing me tightly, he pulls me down onto the bed beside him.