The baby.
I glance at Damien, who obviously has been thinking along the same lines. "Do you think she's in labor?"
Since the possibility gnaws at me, I roll sideways to grab my phone, then actually gasp when I see the readout.
My mother?
I'd actually forgotten she was in the "family" group on my phone. I haven't spoken to her since I sent her back to Texas right before my wedding, and she certainly has no reason to call now.
Or, at least, I can't imagine a reason.
"Do you want me to answer it?" Damien's voice is soft, but his expression is hard; there's no love lost between Damien and my mother.
I shake my head. Honestly, I'd love for him to take the call and tell my mother that she's tormented me enough for one lifetime. But this is something I have to do myself. And since I really don't want the pressure of calling her back, I jam my finger on the button to answer before the call rolls to voicemail.
"Mother?" I have the phone on speaker and I put it on the bed as Damien moves to sit beside me, never letting go of my hand.
"Nichole, sweetie. It's good to hear your voice."
I bite the inside of my cheek so that I don't snap at her. She's known since I was four that I hate being called Nichole. And yet even with this sugary, conciliatory tone in her voice, she still doesn't have the brains or the class or the decency to respect my wishes. Honestly, it drives me nuts.
My frustration must be evident, because Damien squeezes my hand in solidarity. He may also be encouraging me to respond, but I ignore the cue. This is the woman who used to lock me in a dark room so that I got my beauty sleep. Who monitored my caloric and carb intake with military precision. Who single-handedly almost ruined my wedding. And who certainly is responsible for a good percentage of the demons that haunt my life.
As far as I'm concerned, her call intruded into my paradise. So she can damn well do the talking.
"Nichole? Sweetheart, are you there? Damn these cellphones, they're far too unreliable. Can you hear me?"
I draw in a breath. "I hear you. What do you want?"
"Oh." She clears her throat, and I pull my knees up to my chest, and wrap my arms around them. I'm still holding tight to Damien's hand, and he's forced to scoot closer, which is fine by me because now I lean against him and let him release my hand so that he can wrap his arms around me.
"Well, I was just thinking about you today," she continues. Her voice is overly chipper, and I'm absolutely certain she has an agenda. She always does. Honestly, I should introduce her to Damien's father; they'd certainly make quite the pair. Then again, that would probably be like introducing Bonnie to Clyde. Better to keep them far, far away from each other.
The silence between us is uncomfortable again, and so I say, "Okay?"
"Well, I just wanted to call and check on you. That's all."
I glance at Damien, who looks as surprised as I feel. "Um, well, everything's fine here, Mother. Was there--I mean, did you want to check on me for any particular reason?"
"No, no. Actually, yes. I was thinking about your sister today." I feel myself tense as I think about Ashley, who I still miss so much. Beside me, Damien pulls me closer. My mother, of course, doesn't even pause in her diatribe. "And I was thinking about your father, too. So I--"
"My father?" That little revelation pulls me from my memories of Ashley. My mother never talks about my father, who left when I was eighteen months old. I don't think I even realized that I had a father until my sister, Ashley, showed me a picture of him when I was five. She'd been almost seven when he left and could still remember him in bits and pieces, and, although our mother didn't know it, she had a hatbox under her bed full of photographs of the two of them together. And even a few of him holding little baby me. She mailed me that box before she committed suicide, and though I still have it, I haven't opened it since her funeral.
Thinking about her and my father now makes my stomach twist. I've lost so much. And so much of the pain in my life--so much of the impetus behind Ashley's suicide--ties straight back to my mom.
I can't help but wonder if my dad left because he couldn't bear a life with Elizabeth Fairchild, or if he's just as bad as she is.
Damien's hand caresses my cheek, and it takes me a moment to realize that he's brushing away a tear. I take a stuttering breath and focus on the phone again. "Why on earth were you thinking about my father?" I demand.
"I just--" She cuts herself off. "I don't know," she says, starting over. "It doesn't matter. I suppose I was just missing you."
"Oh." I know she's expecting me to say that I miss her, too, but I don't. I miss the idea of her--of a mother who loves me and cares for me even half as much as she cares for herself. But I gave up that fantasy long ago. Instead, I just say, "Well, thanks for calling."
"Nichole--" There's an urgent tone to her voice.
"Yes?"
"I--nothing. Just--just goodbye."
"Bye, Mother."
"Kiss, kiss," she says in that automatic way she has. And then the line goes dead.
I turn to Damien, who looks as baffled as I feel.
"What do you think that was really about?" he asks.
"I don't know." I shake my head, wishing I could erase the past few minutes. I don't want that woman in my head, and I damn sure don't want to spend the rest of the weekend wondering what prompted her to call.
"Nikki..."
He takes my hand and pulls me into his arms, and I want to collapse against him. To get lost in his touch and let the man and his love for me wash over me, healing my wounds and shielding me from all the pain and bullshit.
I want it--and at the same time, I so desperately want to be stronger. And I am stronger. I'm so much stronger than I used to be.
So why in every crisis is my first instinct still to collapse into Damien's arms?
I draw in a breath then ease back from him as I drag my fingers through my hair. "Just give me a sec. I--I want to splash some water on my face."
It's the truth, but it's hardly all of the truth. And when I get to our bathroom, I turn on the water, then bend over the sink. I clutch the counter, squeeze my eyes shut tight, and try my damnedest not to cry.
I'm standing like that when the sound of running water suddenly ceases. I open my eyes, and look up at Damien's reflection in the vanity mirror. There's worry on his face, and also a hint of pain that cuts through me.
My mouth is suddenly dry, and a single tear escapes when I blink. "It's not you," I whisper. "Just the opposite. I need you so damn much, all the time, for everything."
"And you think that's bad? Do you have any idea how much strength you give me? Baby, I want to do the same for you."
"I know--and you do. God, Damien, you give me so much strength. You're my blood, my heart. You're everything."
"And you think that makes you weak? Nikki, you know better."
"I do, but it's just, I don't know. Sometimes I want--"
In the mirror, I see his eyes narrow. Then he picks up a small glass holding toothbrushes. "Is this what you want?" he asks. "Should I throw it? Should I hand you a shard?"
The thought is far too appealing, but I shake my head, and when I do--when I push back that horrible urge--I feel stronger. "No," I say firmly. "That's not it. I'm just afraid that I can't stand on my own."
"Oh, Nikki." He presses a kiss to my shoulder. "You can. You do. But dealing with something on your own doesn't mean you have to actually be alone. I'll always be here. Don't you know that?"
"Of course I do."
"Then embrace it," he says. "Don't run from it."
I stay like that, facing the mirror with Damien standing behind me, a strong presence at my back, watching me. Protecting me.
And I think that, yeah, I'm being a fool. Because he's right. Damien fights with me, not for me. He's my support and my strength, but he's not my secret weapon. And that's a distinction that matters.
Slowly I lift my head. Even more slowly, I meet his eyes. "I w
ant you," I say. "I need you. I need you to help me cope." I turn in his arms, then tilt my face up so that my lips are only inches from his. So that we are breathing the same air, looking deep into each other.
"I get it," I say. "I understand what you've been telling me. That it's okay to need you this way. To let you anchor me so that I can get her out of my head. So that I can hold on to the me that I've worked so hard to build. And on to the life we've built together."
"Yes," he whispers. "Yes, Nikki. Yes."
"Then do it." I demand as he grabs my hips and lifts me onto the counter, balancing me right on the edge as he roughly spreads my legs. I reach out to stroke his rock hard erection. "Anchor me. Make it rough. Make it hard."