ireplace in Christian’s apartment. And despite the heat
pumping out of the fire and the blanket draped around my
shoulders, I’m cold. Bone-chillingly cold.
I’m aware of hushed voices, many hushed voices. But
they’re in the background, a distant buzz. I don’t hear the
words. All I can hear, all I can focus on, is the soft hiss of
the gas from the fire.
My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
My thoughts turn to the house we saw yesterday and
the huge fireplaces—real fireplaces for burning wood. I’d
like to make love with Christian in front of a real fire. I’d
like to make love with Christian in front of this fire. Yes,
that would be fun. No doub一t, he’d think of some way to
make it memorable like all the times we’ve made love. I
snort wryly to myself, even the times when we were just
fucking. Yes, those were pretty memorable, too. Where is
he?
The flames shimmy and flicker, holding me captive,
keeping me numb. I focus solely on their flaring, scorching
beauty. They are bewitching.
Anastasia, you’ve bewitched me.
He said that the first time he slept with me in my bed.
Oh no . . .
I wrap my arms around myself, and the world falls
away from me and reality bleeds into my consciousness.
The creeping emptiness inside expands some more.
Charlie Tango is missing.
“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
“Ana. Here,” Mrs. Jones gently coaxes me, her voice
bringing me back into the room, into the now, into the
anguish. She hands me a cup of tea. I take the cup and
saucer gratefully, the rattle betraying my shaking hands.
“Thank you,” I whisper, my voice hoarse from unshed
tears and the large lump in my throat.
Mia sits across from me on the larger-than-large Ushaped
couch, holding hands with Grace. They gaze at me,
pain and anxiety etched on their lovely faces. Grace looks
older—a mother worried for her son. I blink
dispassionately at them. I can’t offer a reassuring smile, a
tear even—there’s nothing, just blankness and the growing
emptiness. I gaze at E
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