"Christine? Are you sure you're okay? You've seemed really down this past week."

Christine nodded, dully poking at her dinner. Her heart was heavy, and she felt sick.

There was a concerned pause, and Raoul's hand reached out to take hers. "You know that I'm worried about you. Maybe you need to visit a hospital again—just for a check-up, you know."

She pulled her hand away. "I'm fine, Raoul," she said insistently, and she pushed a few forkfuls of chicken into her reluctant mouth. Food didn't taste the same anymore. It was all bland, meaningless.

It had been almost a week since her horrible encounter with the Phantom, and she was completely hopeless. The police had found what they thought had been a lead, but the person in question had had an undeniable alias, and now they were back to square one. Nobody even knew why Gustave was taken. Still, she couldn't help but feel that every time she talked to the leading detective, he seemed less and less interested in the case. Once he had even subtly suggested that there was the possibility that Gustave had left on purpose. Christine had cried and Raoul had yelled at the detective for a full ten minutes. The case was soon going to be filed away, and no one would care what had happened to Gustave Daae.

The fright she had felt from the Phantom's presence had haunted her for a few days, and she had been scared that he would show up and kill her like he had threatened. She had stared at the window in the guest bedroom for three nights in a row. Thankfully, she had managed to control herself enough not to go running to Raoul in terror, managing to hide nearly everything from him from that night.

She had picked herself up from the street that the Phantom had shoved her onto, gathered the money he had thrown at her, and she had limped and trudged to a bus station, waiting with tears quietly pouring down her face. The bus came after several long, awful minutes, and she rode back to Raoul's apartment, crying silently. It was in the wee hours of the morning by the time she arrived at his complex, and she snuck in and went straight to the guest bathroom. Luckily, Raoul wasn't up waiting for her.

She took a long, hot shower, hissing as the water splashed against her raw back. Her elbow continued to throb dully, and her mouth was sore and still tasted like blood. She brushed her teeth a few times to get rid of the taste, and then she turned around and examined her bare back in the mirror, grimacing. There were several long, red scrapes. Her right shoulder blade was cut pretty badly, and it was still slowly dribbling out blood. She looked in the cupboards, rummaging for a first-aid kit and then pulling out a Band-Aid when she found one. For several minutes, she tried various ways to stick the Band-Aid over the cut, but she couldn't reach. It was in an awkward position, and she couldn't get it over. She knew she probably looked stupid as she reached around to her back with her arms crisscrossed, straining to get at the spot. It continued to ooze out blood, and she nearly cried again.

As she stood there naked in the steaming bathroom, feeling ready to collapse, she distantly heard Raoul's alarm go off, and she rubbed her hands over her face, wrapped a towel around her, and snuck back into the guest bedroom, catching a glimpse of Raoul as he emerged. He was dressed in exercise clothes and tennis shoes, obviously getting ready to go out for a run. Luckily, he didn't see her, and she was able to dress in comfortable pajamas and lay down in the large bed, staring at the wall. After another hour or so, she heard Raoul come back from his run, and she pressed her hands over her eyes before forcing herself to get up again and not dissolve into tears. She didn't want him to question or be concerned about anything that had happened the previous night, and that required that she act as normally as she could.

When she emerged, he was ready for work, dressed smartly in one of his nice, well-fitting business suits. He smiled to her when she walked over to the table, and she sat down and returned his smile as best she could.

"Did you have fun last night?" he said, putting a hand on her back in a gesture of affection as he put her breakfast in front of her.

"Yeah, it was great," she said, resisting the urge to wince or flinch in pain. "Sorry I was out so late."

"No, I'm glad you were able to get out with a girlfriend and have fun," he said, walking over to sit across from her. "What movie did you two end up seeing?"

"Uh—" She thought furiously and then rattled off the first current movie that came to mind.

"Really? How was it? I didn't think you were into movies like that."

Christine said hurriedly, not wanting to talk about her 'girls' night out' anymore, "She wanted to see it—I didn't like it very much. But it was fun."

"That's good," he said.

They ate in relative silence, and Christine felt her eyes aching from tears and from exhaustion. She toyed with her cross necklace and glanced at Raoul occasionally. Thankfully, it appeared that he sensed nothing was amiss. Before he left for work, he kissed her goodbye and told her to call him if she needed anything. As soon as the door shut, she returned to her bedroom, curling up on the bed and falling into a heavy, dreamless sleep. Yet the fact that her last hope had not brought her father back to her ate at her, and she was feeling herself begin to fall into a crushing downheartedness.

She managed to hide her tears from him, only crying when he was at work or at night. Still, he had at last sensed her melancholia, and it was worrying him. She had taken to staring at the television for hours again, not moving, not wanting to get up and exert effort. He often came home to find her sleeping on the couch, the television droning in the background. Once he dragged her out to a fancy restaurant for dinner. It had been horrible. On his day off, he had taken her to a museum that he knew she had always wanted to go to. She spent most of it near him, staring blankly at the displays.

And he always asked her what he could do, what she wanted, if she needed anything…He was the best boyfriend anyone could want, but she had strange emotions going through her. She didn't want anyone around her, and yet when Raoul was gone she wanted him back. When he was around, she didn't want to talk to him, but when he didn't talk she wondered why he wasn't. It was all too confusing, and there was no way she could explain it to him. Sometimes she thought that she was insane.

"Hey, Christine?" He captured her attention again, and she looked at him. "I know you're still really down and everything…And I'm sorry for bringing this up, but…I told you a few weeks ago that my parents were coming down for the holidays. Well—actually, it's only my mom now. My dad couldn't get work off. And she's flying in in two days. So…"

"I'll go back to my apartment," she said automatically.

"No!" he said immediately. "No, you can't go back there. No. I was just warning you so you weren't surprised when you woke up and found another person here. No, please stay here. You can just sleep in my room." He had looked toward his food evasively as he said that. "No big deal."

"I can sleep on the couch," she said, feeling a little chill fill her stomach.

"No, I wouldn't want you to do that. That would be awful. So…yeah. You can just sleep with me. It's not a big deal, I promise."

But it was a big deal for her. She thought about it for the next two days, wondering if she could persuade him to let her go back to her apartment—but secretly not wanting to go. She wanted to be here with him, be with the only person who cared about her, but she didn't want to be here with him and his bed and his mother.

He picked her up from the airport one evening after work, and Christine had nervously cleaned his apartment, even going to his room and tidying it up as well. She didn't want to be there, and she stood awkwardly in the front room, waiting, gazing around and ensuring that everything was in place.

True to the season, one afternoon Raoul had brought back a very small pine tree, and he had coaxed her into decorating it with him. It had turned out to be very fun and had managed to distract her for a few precious hours. December thirteenth had been an awful day for her, though, as that was the day she and her father began to celebrate. She would always be St. Lucia, dressed in a white robe with the crown of candles on her head (after coming to America, they had had to improvise the crown in many different ways). There was no one she could serve coffee and mulled wine to. She knew that France had its own traditions, as she faintly remembered her mother baking special cakes and covering the tree with nuts and candies, but Raoul seemed to be content celebrating the holidays the American way.

It was getting harder for her to pretend to be happy, especially with Christmas coming so soon. That had always been a time for her and her father—the services at the church and the food and the warmth and the love…She missed him terribly, and she wondered where he was, if he was being treated well, if he was thinking of her and wishing he could celebrate with her.

When they arrived, the apartment seemed crowded, flurried with activity as Raoul tried to get his mother settled into the guest room. Christine stood in the kitchen awkwardly, under the pretense of making sure that the gingerbread biscuits she was baking didn't burn. Raoul had encouraged her to go ahead and use the kitchen whenever she wanted, and so she had baked something in hopes of not seeming completely useless and also with the vague wish that perhaps she could win his mother over by feeding her sweets.

His mother was a thin woman—perfectly stylish in her fitted winter sweater and slacks. She was wearing heeled winter boots. Christine tried not to stare at them as they clacked around the apartment. Her hair was a light brown, bordering on blonde, and it was cut and styled fashionably. She wore a lot of large gold jewelry, and her nails were unnaturally long and painted a vivid red.

Raoul introduced them, and Christine blushed and smiled and felt uneasy. His mother smiled at her as well. They had met once years before, but neither of them gave any acknowledgement to that fact.

They sat at the table, and Raoul gave his mother—Annette, Christine suddenly remembered—some wine and set the plate of Christine's gingerbread biscuits on the table as well. Throughout the awkward conversation, Christine noticed that Annette did not eat one biscuit, though Raoul had a couple and even complimented her on them.

When it was time to retire, Christine hurried to Raoul's room so she wouldn't have to talk to his mother anymore. She was half-hoping that she would be able to fall asleep before Raoul came to the bed, and she quickly changed into her pajamas in the adjoining bathroom and then entered the empty room.

Awkwardly, she pushed the sheets up and slid under them. The bed smelled like Raoul, and the sheets were cool and crisp. The mattress was very soft. Everything about it was comfortable, and yet when Raoul entered and lay down beside her only minutes after she did, her comfort levels dropped significantly. She stared at the ceiling, wondering uncomfortably if she was supposed to talk to him…or cuddle with him…or something.

They had cuddled many times, but always on couches in front of movies. It was different when they were in a bed. Beds were usually where…other things happened. And they hadn't ever done that.

He rolled over, and she looked at him, blushing in the dim light. He smiled a little at her and then leaned over to kiss her, putting his hand on her cheek and stroking her skin with his thumb. After a while, she pulled away, gave him what she hoped was a reassuring smile, and slowly dropped to sleep, very aware of his hand on her waist.

His kisses were different in the bed. They suggested more, wanted more, and she was afraid. Two discomforting nights after his mother's arrival, he kissed her more deeply than he ever had before. His hand was down on her waist, pulling her closer, and she felt him shifting, pushing the blankets, and soon she felt him climb on top of her. He was heavy, and she could feel his warm hand push under her shirt to feel the skin of her stomach. She instantly turned away, breaking the kiss, and there was a small pause. He then began pressing kisses to her jaw and neck. The room was too dark, the bed too big, and she was feeling childish and afraid.

"Please don't," she whispered, pushing on him slightly.

He pulled back a little to look at her, and even in the dim light she could see his frown.

"It's okay," he said, sounding a little confused. He put a hand on her cheek and tried to kiss her again, but she turned away again. A long, awkward pause followed.

"I don't understand," he said at length, hurt in his eyes. "I've been patient. I've waited for months…I've been there for you whenever you've needed me…I just really…I really want to be with you, Christine. I care about you so much."

She was embarrassed and ashamed, and she almost started crying again. This proved it. She had never, ever asked about his previous relationships and what exactly they had entailed, though she knew there had been several. She hadn't wanted to know.

He was waiting for an answer.

"I'm sorry," she whimpered.

He quickly rolled off of her and sat up, his legs hanging over the edge of the bed. He leaned over and sighed harshly, rubbing his face.

"I don't get it," he said shortly. "I've tried to do everything you've wanted. You're so confusing sometimes, you know that? I just try to do what you want me to do. And I'm sorry about all this stuff with your dad, but you just won't even try to move on. I don't know what it is. I don't know what your problem is, because you never tell me. And I'm trying to make this relationship work, but I'm the only one trying. I want us to be closer, but you're always pushing me away. I don't even know why I'm doing this." He stood, and he glanced over his shoulder. "I'm sleeping on the couch tonight."

"No, please—" she tried, reaching out for him. He ignored her and left the room, shutting the door firmly behind him.

"Raoul."

He paused on his way to his dresser, and she hurriedly slid out of the bed and rushed toward him, flinging her arms around his waist and burying her face in his bare chest. She started crying pathetically.

"I'm so sorry," she wailed. "I'm so sorry! You're right—you're right about everything you said! Please, please, I'm so sorry! I'm such an awful person. I'm the worst girlfriend ever! I promise I'll do better!"

After a moment, she felt him pull her arms away from him, and for a horrifying second she thought that he was merely going to push her away, but he only looked down and kissed her.

"It's all right," he said. He wiped away her fast-falling tears with his fingers. "Stop crying, Christine. I should be apologizing to you. The stuff I said last night was…awful."

She shook her head quickly, her curls bouncing around. "No, it was true." She hiccoughed. "Sorry."

"No, I shouldn't have said it. You've just lost your dad, and I know how much he meant to you."

What he said made her turn white. You've just lost your dad…I know how much he meant to you… So Raoul thought that Gustave was…

"I know I need to be more patient," he continued. "Last night I…" His neck turned red, a sign that he was embarrassed, and he rubbed the back of his head and chuckled nervously. "I was a little too excited to have you sleeping next to me. I said that stuff because you kept your head on straight. It made me mad. I'm really, really sorry." He pulled her in and hugged her tightly. "And hey. I know that you don't want to…do that until you're married. I really do think that's great. There aren't a lot of people who do that nowadays. So if I ever…pressure you like last night, just slap me or something. Wake me up. I'll respect what you want. Okay?"

She nodded. "Okay."

He let her go, and then he said, "I was just coming in here for my running clothes. I hope I didn't wake you up. You can go back to sleep. It's still pretty early."

"All right." She looked up at him. "I'm sorry again. About everything."

"Me too."

She went back to the bed and slept fitfully for another few hours. When she woke, she could hear Raoul talking with his mother in the front room, and she showered and readied herself before cautiously leaving the safety of his bedroom.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Raoul said to her. "Want some breakfast?"

She looked at the clock on the wall. It was eleven o' clock. Feeling a little embarrassed, particularly under the gaze of his mother, she said quietly, "No, thanks. I'll just wait until lunch."

Awkwardly, she sat down on the empty couch, wondering if she was allowed to be part of this conversation. Raoul smiled and winked at her, and it calmed her a little to know that he wasn't still upset about last night.

The two of them talked about people she didn't know—family, presumably. They laughed at old memories and talked about his sister's wedding that had been last year. Christine stared at the wall, uninterested. She rather wanted to go out of the apartment, get away from them, but she sat silently, stoically, not moving. To be polite, Raoul's mother asked a little about Christine's life and family and offered some condolences about her father. She, too, thought that he was…

No. He wasn't.

The only thing she wanted was her father returned to her. She knew he was out there, waiting for her somewhere, but she did not know how to get to him. A few times, she had tried to get herself to talk to Raoul about it and see if he would lend her enough money for the Phantom, but she was too scared to tell Raoul about all the lies she had told him. And what if he didn't even believe her? Raoul had clearly told her that he believed that the Phantom did not exist. What if Raoul thought she was crazy and was making up stories to get money from him? And through it all, there was an overwhelming feeling of guilt whenever she thought about it. She was not dating Raoul for his money, and she didn't want to take advantage of his financial status. The last thing she wanted was for Raoul to think that she was a freeloader. He was the most amazing man, and she didn't want to offend him in any way.

And yet the very idea that her father might never return to her was almost too unbearable to imagine.