Cristina lay in bed for a long time after Owen's departure, but the tears wouldn't come. She second-guessed herself repeatedly, to no avail. The answer was always the same. I can't be with someone who might kill me in his sleep. It seemed an obvious conclusion, so why was she fighting it so hard?
Because he was incredible. Because the lovemaking had been the sweetest she'd ever experienced. Because she was in love with him, even if she hadn't yet said the words. Because it was not his fault. Because he was the best man she'd ever met - ever. Because she felt his pain as if it were her own. Because his was the only face she wanted to see when she woke up in the morning, 40 years from now. Because when she wasn't thinking about medicine, she was thinking about him. Because she knew with certainty that he was the one, the keeper.
He had reacted with confusion initially, but Cristina attributed that more to his drowsy, relaxed state after sex than to any genuine shock over her statement. After all, she was only agreeing with a conclusion he had reached himself earlier in the day. She felt badly for giving him false hope after that, although she couldn't find it in herself to regret their making love. Even while she was insisting that she would decide what she could handle, a small voice inside had been telling her that she was being unrealistic, that her friends were right, that one could not continue to sleep with a man who had cut off her air supply and then not remembered any of it. What if I hadn't woken up? he had asked. She had sloughed off the question at the time, but now she pondered it and gave it the weight it deserved. Her heart began pounding again and her palms grew damp as she relived the terrifying few moments when she had looked into Owen's eyes and seen, not that electric, intelligent blue, but simply nothing. He had looked like a zombie, a stranger with a vacancy sign for a face, as if he was not the man she had been weaving so intricately into her life for the past few months, but his evil, insane twin. She had never been more scared in her entire life. Not even the terrifying experience of holding her father's chest closed while he bled to death compared to being suffocated by someone you trusted. She had been this close to passing out when Callie intervened. She felt certain that she would be seeing that vacant stare again in her nightmares for some time to come.
He had taken it well. In fact, she was certain he had been expecting it. Once he understood the full extent of what she was saying, he had closed his eyes for a moment, and when he had opened them he'd pulled Cristina into his arms and whispered, "I'm sorry" into her ear. He had kissed the bruises on her neck and then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and just sitting there for a few moments. Cristina had watched him without saying anything, resisting the impulse to pull him back down next to her and tell him it was all a lie, that she really could handle it, that she was fine. But she wasn't fine, and she realized belatedly that choking someone really was worse than batting an engagement ring into the woods. Intentions cease to matter much when there is the potential for fatal consequences. It was not a matter of forgiveness. There was nothing to forgive. She was absolutely sure there wasn't even a single ounce of mal-intent in what had happened. And the sad thing was, it made no difference. The outcome was the same. They could not continue like this.
Cristina pulled herself up and began to dress. Spending more time in this bed, with the impression left by Owen's head on the pillow next to her, wasn't doing her any good. Where was Mer? She needed her person right now. Cristina pulled out her cell phone and made the call.