Chapter 15: Fallout

(Sark)

It took me half an hour to find her. Trial and error. She was in the fifth bar I checked, perched at the counter drinking a martini, her second in thirty minutes, judging by the empty glass in front of her. There's a man to her right, chatting her up, touching her elbow, and I could kill him in cold blood right now. I step in on her left, taking the glass from her and finishing off the vodka and vermouth. She looks at me, and I can tell she's drunk, the way her eyes keep jumping laterally to keep me in focus.

"What are you doing here?"

"Taking you back to the hotel, Syd."

"I'm not done with my drink."

"I think you've had enough."

"One more."

I move to pull her from her chair but she slaps my hands away, almost falling over in the process. I don't want to make a scene, so I let her drain the rest of the glass in one long swallow and order another. I pay up her tab while she taps the spear of olives on the rim and pulls them off one by one. By now her admirer has moved on to easier prospects. A few more minutes pass in awkward silence as she drinks her third martini. She stiffens when I put my arm around her shoulders, but relaxes after a few more minutes. Too drunk to care anymore, probably.

(Sydney)

I don't remember walking back to the hotel. But suddenly we're in the elevator, and I'm holding onto the railing to keep myself upright. Julian is in the corner across from me, scowling. I just want to curl up on the floor until my head stops spinning. But he's talking to me, asking me something, if I want him to get me a separate room. I start to shake my head, but that was a bad idea, so I squeak out a soft "no" instead and watch him go back to scowling, arms crossed, contemplating the elevator doors.

I want him to look at me, to hold me, to tell me I'll be alright in the morning. But I haven't told him how when I move my head the world takes seconds to catch up. So I grip the railing until my knuckles are white and try to stay upright.

The chime sounds at our floor, the doors open, and he is nice enough to hold me upright as we walk down the hallway, his arm around my waist. In our suite I stumble into the bathroom and kneel on the cold tile.

"Drink this."

I think I may have passed out, because now I'm sitting with my back against the wall and my boots and sweater are off. Julian is crouched down in front of me, with a glass of ice water.

"No. Can't."

"It'll help."

I take a few sips but it isn't helping.

(Sark)

She's conscious again, but pale and diaphoretic. I take the water from her, and a minute later she is sliding down the wall, eyes closing.

"Stay with me, Syd."

"Julian."

"What?"

"I don't feel right. I don't feel good."

I get up to grab snacks from the in suite fridge, and she's calling after me, asking me not to leave her. Never to leave her. And her next words freeze me in my tracks.

"You can't go, Julian. You can't leave me now. I need you. I need you."

"Why, Sydney?"

"I don't want to do this alone. I can't do this alone."

"Why do you need me Syd?"

"Love you, Julian, don't go. You can't leave me."

Her voice is fading again, thin and reedy, and her eyes are falling shut. I shake her gently awake and she smiles at me. And then she is crouched over the toilet bringing up three martinis and half of her dinner. Her skin is cool and clammy but she's stopped sweating, and her eyes are fixed on me. I help her to the sink to brush her teeth and drink more water. I peel her blouse and skirt off while she stands still, slightly swaying. She's asleep almost before I get her into bed.

(Sydney)

He is there when I wake up, sitting in the arm chair closest to my head, staring at me. I stretch and yawn, open my eyes and close them again quickly against the morning light.

"Good morning, Sydney."

I wonder if he will pretend that nothing happened, hope that he will let it go.

"Sark."

"Do you remember anything from last night?"

He's already dressed, in black pants and a gray collared shirt, black silk tie. So formal. And I'm in bed, nearly naked, feeling so exposed. And I do remember everything I said to him. And why is it so bright in here? I remember what I said and it's true but he wasn't supposed to know. He isn't supposed to know that I need him. It's taken over a year and I've finally learned that he loves me, that he cares about me. He puts up with everything I throw his way and still hasn't left me. He hasn't died from getting caught up in my world, and he still loves me. But he wasn't supposed to know how much I need him, too. He isn't supposed to know how much I depend on him, because that makes me vulnerable.

"Yes."

"Did you mean what you said?"

"About what?"

"Don't play coy. This is important."

And here it is. I shouldn't tell him. I'm sober and he knows it and it'll be for real this time, no taking it back.

"Yes, I meant it."

And there's a tight coil of dread in my stomach, so irrational, as I wait for his response, for rejection. But he's smiling and kissing me and tackling me back into bed.

"My Sydney, Sydney…."

I should hate the possessive note in his voice but it feels good to belong, to be loved like that, loved whole, all of me.

"Say it again."

"What?"

"Tell me you love me."

"I love you, Julian."

And then he's kissing a trail of fire down my neck, across my shoulders, fumbling to take the rest of my clothes off as I pull his tie loose and unbutton his shirt. And we make love in the late morning light until my stomach is growling.

(Sark)

The afternoon is cool and moist, but it has finally stopped raining. Hazy light filters through the layers of cloud over the city. We find a pub still serving breakfast at one, and Sydney devours her Ulster fry with black coffee. This time, when I ask her over breakfast to marry me, she says yes, and lets me slip the ring onto her slender finger. And there is something inside my chest that's coiling and tightening as I watch her admire the sparkle of the ring in the tenuous light.