by E. L. James
THE SHOWER IS BLISTERING, the temperature just a notch below painful, the way I like it. I stand beneath the cascade, trying to forget her, hoping this heat will scorch her out of my head and wash her scent off my body.
If she’s going to leave, there’s no coming back.
Never.
I scrub my hair with grim determination.
Good riddance.
And I suck in a breath.
No. Not good riddance.
I raise my face to the streaming water. It’s not good riddance at all—I am going to miss her. I lean my forehead against the tiles. Just last night she was in here with me. I stare at my hands, my fingers caressing the line of grout in the tiles where only yesterday her hands were braced against the wall.
Fuck this.
Switching off the water, I step out of the shower cubicle. As I wrap a towel around my waist, it sinks in: each day will be darker and emptier, because she’s no longer in it.
No more facetious, witty e-mails.
No more of her smart mouth.
No more curiosity.
Her bright blue eyes will no longer regard me in thinly veiled amusement…or shock…or lust. I stare at the brooding morose jerk staring back at me in the bathroom mirror.
“What the hell have you done, asshole?” I sneer at him. He mouths the words back at me with vitriolic contempt. And the bastard blinks at me, big gray eyes raw with misery.
“She’s better off without you. You can’t be what she wants. You can’t give her what she needs. She wants hearts and flowers. She deserves better than you, you fucked-up prick.” Repulsed by the image glowering back at me, I turn away from the mirror.
To hell with shaving for today.
I dry off at my chest of drawers and grab some underwear and a clean T-shirt. As I turn I notice a small box on my pillow. The rug is pulled from under me again, revealing once more the abyss beneath, its jaws open, waiting for me, and my anger turns to fear.
It’s something from her. What would she give me? I drop my clothes and, taking a deep breath, sit on the bed and pick up the box.
It’s a glider. A model-making kit for a Blaník L23. A scribbled note falls from the top of the box and wafts onto the bed.
This reminded me of a happy time.
Thank you.
Ana
It’s the perfect present from the perfect girl.
Pain lances through me.
Why is this so painful? Why?
Some long-lost, ugly memory stirs, trying to sink its teeth into the here and now. No. That is not a place I want my mind to return to. I get up, tossing the box onto the bed, and dress hurriedly. When I’m finished I grab the box and the note and head for my study. I will handle this better from my seat of power.
MY CONVERSATION WITH WELCH is brief. My conversation with Russell Reed—the miserable lying bastard who married Leila—is briefer. I didn’t know that they’d wed during one drunken weekend in Vegas. No wonder their marriage failed after just eighteen months. She left him twelve weeks ago. So where are you now, Leila Williams? What have you been doing?
I focus my mind on Leila, trying to think of some clue from our past that might tell me where she is. I need to know. I need to know she’s safe. And why she came here. Why me?
She wanted more, and I didn’t, but that was long ago. It was easy when she left—our arrangement was terminated by mutual consent. In fact, our whole arrangement had been exemplary: just how it should be. She was mischievous when she was with me, deliberately so, and not the broken creature that Gail described.
I recall how much she enjoyed our sessions in the playroom. Leila loved the kink. A memory surfaces—I’m tying her big toes together, turning her feet in so she can’t clench her backside and avoid the pain. Yeah, she loved all that shit, and so did I. She was a great submissive. But she never captured my attention like Anastasia Steele.
She never drove me to distraction like Ana.
I gaze at the glider kit on my desk and trace the edges of the box with my finger, knowing that Ana’s fingers have touched it.
My sweet Anastasia.
What a contrast you are to all the women I’ve known. The only woman I’ve ever chased, and the one woman who can’t give me what I want.
I don’t understand.
I’ve come alive since I’ve known her. These last few weeks have been the most exciting, the most unpredictable, the most fascinating in my life. I’ve been enticed from my monochrome world into one rich with color—and yet she can’t be what I need.
I put my head in my hands. She will never like what I do. I tried to convince myself that we could work up to the rougher shit, but that’s not going to happen, ever. She’s better off without me. What would she want with a fucked-up monster who can’t bear to be touched?
And yet she bought me this thoughtful gift. Who does that for me, apart from my family? I study the box once more and open it. All the plastic parts of the craft are stuck on one grid, swathed in cellophane. Memories of her squealing in the glider during the wingover come to mind—her hands up, braced against the Perspex canopy. I can’t help but smile.
Lord, that was so much fun—the equivalent of pulling her pigtails in the playground. Ana in pigtails…I shut down that thought immediately. I don’t want to go there, our first bath. And all I’m left with is the thought that I won’t see her again.
The abyss yawns open.
No. Not again.
I need to make this plane. It will be a distraction. Ripping open the cellophane, I scan the instructions. I need glue, modeling glue. I search through my desk drawers.
Shit. Nestled at the back of one drawer I find the red leather box containing the Cartier earrings. I never got the chance to give them to her—and now I never will.
I call Andrea and leave a message on her cell, asking her to cancel tonight. I can’t face the gala, not without my date.
I open the red leather box and examine the earrings. They are beautiful: simple yet elegant, just like the enchanting Miss Steele…who left me this morning because I punished her…because I pushed her too hard. I cradle my head once again. But she let me. She didn’t stop me. She let me because she loves me. The thought is horrifying, and I dismiss it immediately. She can’t. It’s simple: no one can feel like that about me. Not if they know me.
Move on, Grey. Focus.
Where’s the damned glue? I stash the earrings back in the drawer and continue my search. Nothing.
I buzz Taylor.
“Mr. Grey?”
“I need some modeling glue.”
He pauses for a moment. “For what sort of model, sir?”
“A model glider.”
“Balsa wood or plastic?”
“Plastic.”
“I have some. I’ll bring it down now, sir.”
I thank him, a little stunned that he has modeling glue. Moments later he knocks on the door.
“Come in.”
He paces into my study and places the small plastic container on my desk. He doesn’t leave and I have to ask.
“Why do you have this?”
“I build the odd plane.” His face reddens.
“Oh?” My curiosity is piqued.
“Flying was my first love, sir.”
I don’t understand.
“Color blind,” he explains flatly.
“So you became a Marine?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thank you for this.”
“No problem, Mr. Grey. Have you eaten?”
His question takes me by surprise.
“I’m not hungry, Taylor. Please, go, enjoy the afternoon with your daughter, and I’ll see you tomorrow. I won’t bother you again.”
He pauses for a moment, and my irritation builds. Go.
“I’m good.” Hell, my voice is choked.<
br />
“Sir.” He nods. “I’ll return tomorrow evening.”
I give him a quick dismissive nod, and he’s gone.
When was the last time Taylor offered me anything to eat? I must look more fucked up than I thought. Sulking, I grab the glue.
THE GLIDER IS IN the palm of my hand. I marvel at it with a sense of achievement, memories of that flight nudging my consciousness. Anastasia was impossible to wake—I smile as I recall—and once up she was difficult, disarming and beautiful, and funny.
Christ, that was fun: her girlish excitement during the flight, the squealing, and afterward, our kiss.
It was my first attempt at more. It’s extraordinary that over such a short time I have collected so many happy memories.
The pain surfaces once more—nagging, aching, reminding me of all that I’ve lost.
Focus on the glider, Grey.
Now I have to stick the transfers in place; they’re fiddly little suckers.
FINALLY THE LAST ONE is on and drying. My glider has its own FAA registration. November. Nine. Five. Two. Echo. Charlie.
Echo Charlie.
I look up and the light is fading. It’s late. My first thought is that I can show this to Ana.
No more Ana.
I clench my teeth and stretch my stiff shoulders. Standing slowly, I realize I haven’t eaten all day or had anything to drink, and my head is throbbing.
I feel like shit.
I check my phone in the hope that she’s called, but there’s only a text from Andrea.
CC Gala canx.
Hope all well.
A
While I’m reading Andrea’s message the phone buzzes. My heart rate immediately spikes, then falls when I recognize it’s Elena.
“Hello.” I don’t bother to disguise my disappointment.
“Christian, is that any way to say hi? What’s eating you?” she scolds, but her voice is full of humor.
I stare out the window. It’s dusk over Seattle. I wonder briefly what Ana is doing. I don’t want to tell Elena what’s happened; I don’t want to say the words out loud and make them a reality.
“Christian? What gives? Tell me.” Her tone shifts to brusque and annoyed.
“She left me,” I mutter, sounding morose.
“Oh.” Elena sounds surprised. “Want me to come over?”
“No.”
She takes a deep breath. “This life isn’t for everyone.”
“I know.”
“Hell, Christian, you sound like shit. Do you want to go out to dinner?”
“No.”
“I’m coming over.”
“No, Elena. I’m not good company. I’m tired and I want to be alone. I’ll call you during the week.”
“Christian…it’s for the best.”
“I know. Good-bye.”
I hang up. I don’t want to talk to her; she encouraged me to fly down to Savannah. Perhaps she knew this day would come. I scowl at the phone, toss it onto my desk, and go in search of something to drink and eat.
I EXAMINE THE CONTENTS of my fridge.
Nothing appeals.
In the cupboard I find a bag of pretzels. I open them and eat one after the other as I walk to the window. Outside, night has fallen; lights twinkle and wink through the pouring rain. The world moves on.
Move on, Grey.
Move on.
SUNDAY, JUNE 5, 2011
* * *
I gaze up at the bedroom ceiling. Sleep eludes me. I’m tormented by Ana’s fragrance, which still clings to my bedsheets. I pull her pillow over my face to breathe in her scent. It’s torture, it’s heaven, and for a moment I contemplate death by suffocation.
Get a grip, Grey.
I rerun the morning’s events in my head. Could they have unfolded any differently? As a rule I never do this, because it’s a waste of energy, but today I’m looking for clues as to where I went wrong. And no matter how I play it out, I know in my bones we would have reached this impasse, whether it was this morning, or in a week, or a month, or a year. Better that it happened now, before I inflicted any further pain on Anastasia.
I think of her huddled in her little white bed. I can’t picture her in the new apartment—I’ve not been there—but I imagine her in that room in Vancouver where I once slept with her. I shake my head; that was the best night’s sleep I’d had in years. The radio alarm reads 2:00 in the morning. I have lain here for two hours, my mind churning. I take a deep breath, inhaling her scent once more, and I close my eyes.
Mommy can’t see me. I stand in front of her. She can’t see me. She’s asleep with her eyes open. Or sick.
I hear a rattle. His keys. He’s back.
I run and hide and make myself small under the table in the kitchen. My cars are here with me.
Bang. The door slams shut, making me jump.
Through my fingers I see Mommy. She turns her head to see him. Then she’s asleep on the couch. He’s wearing his big boots with the shiny buckles and standing over Mommy shouting. He hits Mommy with a belt. Get Up! Get Up! You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. Mommy makes a noise. A wailing noise.
Stop. Stop hitting Mommy. Stop hitting Mommy.
I run at him and hit him and I hit him and I hit him.
But he laughs and smacks me across the face.
No! Mommy shouts.
You are one fucked-up bitch.
Mommy makes herself small. Small like me. And then she’s quiet. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch. You are one fucked-up bitch.
I am under the table. I have my fingers in my ears and I close my eyes. The sound stops. He turns and I can see his boots as he stomps into the kitchen. He carries the belt, slapping it against his leg. He is trying to find me. He stoops down and grins. He smells nasty. Of smoking and drinking and bad smells. There you are, you little shit.
A chilling wail wakes me. I’m drenched in sweat and my heart is pounding. I sit bolt upright in bed.
Fuck.
The eerie noise was from me.
I take a deep steadying breath, trying to rid my memory of the smell of body odor and cheap bourbon and stale Camel cigarettes.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
Ana’s words ring in my head.
Like his.
Fuck.
I couldn’t help the crack whore.
I tried. Good God, I tried.
There you are, you little shit.
But I could help Ana.
I let her go.
I had to let her go.
She didn’t need all this shit.
I glance at the clock: it’s 3:30. I head into the kitchen and after drinking a large glass of water I make my way to the piano.
I WAKE AGAIN WITH a jolt and it’s light—early-morning sunshine fills the room. I was dreaming of Ana: Ana kissing me, her tongue in my mouth, my fingers in her hair; pressing her delectable body against me, her hands tethered above her head.
Where is she?
For one sweet moment I forget all that transpired yesterday—then it floods back.
She’s gone.
Fuck.
The evidence of my desire presses into the mattress—but the memory of her bright eyes, clouded with hurt and humiliation as she left, soon solves that problem.
Feeling like shit, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling, arms behind my head. The day stretches out before me, and for the first time in years, I don’t know what to do with myself. I check the time again: 5:58.
Hell, I might as well go for a run.
PROKOFIEV’S “ARRIVAL OF THE Montagues and Capulets” blares in my ears as I pound the sidewalk through the early morning quiet of Fourth Avenue. I ache everywhere—my lungs are bursting, my head is throbbing, and the yawning, dull ache of loss ea
ts away at my insides. I cannot run from this pain, though I’m trying. I stop to change the music and drag precious air into my lungs. I want something…violent. “Pump It,” by the Black Eyed Peas, yeah. I pick up the pace.
I find myself running down Vine Street, and I know it’s insane, but I hope to see her. As I near her street my heart races still harder and my anxiety escalates. I’m not desperate to see her—I just want to check that she’s okay. No, that’s not true. I want to see her. Finally on her street, I pace past her apartment building.
All is quiet—an Oldsmobile trundles up the road, two dog walkers are out—but there’s no sign of life from inside her apartment. Crossing the street, I pause on the sidewalk opposite, then duck into the doorway of an apartment building to catch my breath.
The curtains of one room are closed, the others open. Perhaps that’s her room. Maybe she’s still asleep—if she’s there at all. A nightmare scenario forms in my mind: she went out last night, got drunk, met someone…
No.
Bile rises in my throat. The thought of her body in someone else’s hands, some asshole basking in the warmth of her smile, making her giggle, making her laugh—making her come. It takes all my self-control not to go barging through the front door of her apartment to check that she’s there and on her own.
You brought this on yourself, Grey.
Forget her. She’s not for you.
I tug my Seahawks cap low over my face and sprint on down Western Avenue.
My jealousy is raw and angry; it fills the gaping hole. I hate it—it stirs something deep in my psyche that I really don’t want to examine. I run harder, away from that memory, away from the pain, away from Anastasia Steele.
IT’S DUSK OVER SEATTLE. I stand up and stretch. I’ve been at my desk in my study all day, and it’s been productive. Ros has worked hard, too. She’s prepared and sent me a first draft business plan and letter of intent for SIP.
At least I’ll be able to keep an eye on Ana.
The thought is painful and appealing in equal measure.
I’ve read and commented on two patent applications, a few contracts, and a new design spec, and while lost in the detail of those, I have not thought about her. The little glider is still on my desk, taunting me, reminding me of happier times, like she said. I picture her standing in the doorway of my study, wearing one of my T-shirts, all long legs and blue eyes, just before she seduced me.
