Page 119 of Tell Me What You Want, Or Leave Me

When Flyn goes to bed, I’m alone again in the huge living room, accompanied only by Susto. I gesture for him to climb on the couch. Now that Eric isn’t here, he takes advantage of me.

I call Eric. He doesn’t pick up. Why is he so angry? I turn on the TV, but, after a while, I have a need to tell someone what’s wrong. I touch Susto and he raises his head.

“I’m pregnant, Susto. We’re going to have a little Zimmerman Flores.”

He seems to understand and lies down again, covering his eyes with one of his paws. That makes me laugh. Even he knows this is crazy.

At eleven o’clock, seeing that Eric isn’t calling me back, I decide to go up to our room. I drag myself up the stairs. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth and see the pack of cigarettes. I throw it in the trash at the exact moment my cell rings. Eric at last!

“Hi, honey,” I say, without the slightest urge to argue.

There’s a lot of background noise where he’s at.

“When were you going to tell me?”

Surprised, I sit on the toilet. I look around for the hidden camera. Does he know I’m pregnant?

“What?”

“You know very well what I’m talking about.”

“No, I don’t...”

“Yes, you do!” he shouts.

I’m disconcerted. If he was talking about my pregnancy, he wouldn’t be so angry. Eric’s drunk. It’s the first time he’s been drunk since we’ve been together and that worries me.

“Where are you, Eric?”

“Out drinking.”

“Are you with Amanda?”

He laughs. I don’t like this laugh.

“No, I’m not with Amanda. I’m alone.”

“Eric,” I say, not raising my voice, “can you tell me what’s going on? I don’t understand a thing and—”

“Have you seen Björn today?”

“What?”

“Don’t play innocent, sweetheart. I know you.”

“What iswrongwith you?” I cry, desperate now.

“I don’t know how I didn’t figure it out before.” He raises his voice. “My best friend and my wife, shacking up!”

Has he gone mad?

Besides drunk, he’s out of his mind! Once more, the communication is cut off.

I don’t understand anything and call him back. He won’t pick up. My nerves are making my stomach queasy, and, in the end, what happens, happens. Goodbye, dinner.

I don’t sleep. I just want to know he’s OK. I’ve never heard him so drunk. I’m worried something will happen to him, but no matter how many times I call, he won’t pick up. I send several emails. I know he’ll see them. But he doesn’t answer them either.

I think about Björn. Should I call him and tell him what happened? I ultimately decide not to. It’s five o’clock in the morning, and I don’t think it’s the time for that.

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