by James, E L
I just want to go home. But we’re not finished here.
My phone buzzes, and my heart rate spikes. It’s my wife. “Excuse me.” I rise from the table, feeling seven pairs of eyes on me as I exit the room.
She’s called. I’m almost giddy with relief—my heart feels like it will escape my chest. “Ana!”
“Hi.” It’s so good to hear her voice.
“Hi.”
I can’t think what else to say, but I want to beg her to stop being mad at me.
Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.
“Are you coming home?” she asks.
“Later.”
“Are you in the office?”
I frown. “Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”
“I’ll let you go.”
What? But— There’s so much I want to say, but neither of us speaks. The silence is a chasm between us and I have a boardroom of people locked in crisis talks waiting for me.
“Good night, Ana.” I love you.
“Good night, Christian.” I hang up before she can, thinking about all those times we’ve stayed on the line and neither of us hangs up. I couldn’t bear to hear her end the call first. I stare despondently at my phone. At least she asked if I was coming home. Perhaps she misses me. Or she’s checking up on me. Either way. She cares. Maybe. A small ember of hope glows deep in my heart. I need to wrap this meeting up and get home to my wife.
It’s late when we agree on a potential compromise. With hindsight, I see that confrontation with the union was inevitable, but it’s been good for all sides to air their grievances. Samir and Ros will now take the negotiations from here and hammer out a deal. Compared to the battle I’m facing at home, this wasn’t so bad. Ros was an impressive negotiator, and I’ve persuaded her to go to Taiwan tomorrow evening without me.
“Okay, Christian. I’ll go. But they’ll really want you there.”
“I’ll find time. Later this month.”
Her lips tighten, but she says nothing.
I can’t tell her that I don’t want to leave Ana when she’s not even talking to me. Deep down, I know it’s because I’m petrified my wife might not be there when I return.
The apartment is dark when I get home; Ana must be in bed. I head into our bedroom, and my heart sinks when I find she’s not there. Stifling my panic, I head upstairs. In the dim light from the hallway, I make out her form curled up beneath the duvet in her old bedroom.
Old bedroom?
It’s hardly that; she’s slept in it, what, twice?
She looks so small. I flick the dimmer switch on to see her better, but keep the lights low, and carry the armchair over so I can sit down and gaze at her. Her skin is pale, translucent, almost. She’s been crying; her eyelids and lips are swollen. My heart freefalls through my body with despair.
Oh, baby—I’m sorry.
I know how soft her lips are to kiss when she’s been crying…when I make her cry. I want to climb in beside her, to pull her into my arms and hold her, but she’s asleep, and she needs her sleep, especially now.
I settle into the chair and match my breathing to Ana’s. The rhythm soothes me, that and my proximity to her. For the first time since I woke up this morning I feel a little calmer. The last time I sat and watched her sleep was when Hyde broke into our apartment; she’d been out with Kate. I was mad as hell then.
Why do I spend so much time mad at my wife?
I love her.
Even though she never does as she’s told.
That’s why.
God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
The courage to change the things I can;
And the wisdom to know the difference.
I grimace as Dr Flynn’s oft-quoted serenity prayer pops into my head: a prayer for alcoholics and fucked-up businessmen. I check my watch, though I know it’s far too late to call him in New York. I’ll try him tomorrow. I can discuss my impending fatherhood with him.
I shake my head.
Me, a dad?
What could I possibly offer a child? I undo my tie and the top button of my shirt as I lean back. I suppose there’s the material wealth. At least he won’t go hungry. No—not on my fucking watch. Not my child. She says she’ll do this on her own. How could she? She’s too…and I want to say fragile, because sometimes she looks fragile, but she’s not. She’s the strongest woman I know, stronger even than Grace.
Gazing at her as she lies here, sleeping the sleep of the innocent, I realize what an asshole I was yesterday. She’s never backed down from a challenge, ever. She was hurt by what I said and what I did. I see that now. She knew I’d overreact when she told me about the baby.
She knows me better than anyone.
Did she find out before we were in Portland? I don’t think so; she would have told me. She must have found out yesterday. And when she told me, everything turned to shit. My fear took over.
How am I going to make it up to her?
“I’m sorry, Ana. Forgive me,” I whisper. “You scared the living shit out of me yesterday.” Leaning forward, I kiss her forehead.
She stirs and frowns. “Christian,” she murmurs, her voice wistful and full of longing. The hope kindled by her earlier call ignites into a fire.
“I’m here,” I whisper.
But she turns over, sighs, and falls back into a deep slumber. I’m so tempted to strip down and join her, but I don’t think I’d be welcome. “I love you, Anastasia Grey. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Damn. No, I won’t.
I have to fly to Portland and see the finance committee at WSU in Vancouver. That means leaving early.
I place my favorite tie beside her on the pillow so she’ll know I’ve been here. As I do, I recall the first time I tied her hands. The thought travels straight to my cock.
I wore it to tease her at her graduation.
I wore it at our wedding.
I’m a sentimental fool. “Tomorrow, baby,” I whisper. “Sleep well.”
I forgo the piano, even though I want to play. I don’t want to wake her. But as I head alone into our bedroom, I’m more hopeful. She whispered my name.
Yes. There’s hope for us yet.
Don’t give up on me, Ana.
Thursday, September 15, 2011
It’s 5:30 in the morning and I’m in the gym, pounding away on the treadmill. Sleep eluded me last night, and when I did drift off, I was haunted by my dreams:
Ana disappearing into the garage at The Heathman without looking back at me.
Ana an enraged siren, holding a thin cane, eyes blazing, wearing nothing but expensive lingerie and leather boots, her angry words like barbs.
Ana lying unmoving on a sticky green rug.
I shake off that last image and run harder, pushing my body to its limits. I don’t want to feel anything except the pain of my bursting lungs and aching legs. With Bloomberg’s rolling business news on the TV and “Pump It” in my ears, I blot out the world… I blot out thoughts of my wife, sleeping soundly two rooms away from me.
Dream of me, Ana. Miss me.
In the shower while I hose off my workout sweat, I contemplate waking her just to say good-bye. I fly to Portland in Charlie Tango this morning, and I’d like a sweet smile to take with me.
Let her sleep, Grey.
And given how pissed she is at me, there’s no guarantee of a sweet smile.
Mrs. Jones is still giving me the cold shoulder, but I grill her anyway. “Did Ana eat last night?”
“She did.” Mrs. Jones’s attention is on the omelet she’s preparing for me. I think that’s all the information I’m going to get this morning. I sip my coffee and sulk, feeling fifty shades of miserable.
In the car on the way to Boeing Field I write an e-mail to Ana.
Keep it factual,
Grey.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Portland
Date: September 15 2011 06:45
To: Anastasia Grey
Ana,
I am flying down to Portland today.
I have some business to conclude with WSU.
I thought you would want to know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
But I know my real intention in sending an e-mail isn’t to inform her…but to get a response.
I live in hope.
Stephan is on hand to fly us down to Portland. After my sleepless night, I’m dog-tired. If I fall asleep, I’ll be more comfortable in the rear, so for the first time ever, I offer Taylor the front passenger seat, remove my jacket, and take a back seat in Charlie Tango. I leaf through the notes I have for the meeting, and once I’ve done that, I lean back and close my eyes.
Ana is running through the meadow at the new house. She’s laughing as I chase her. I’m laughing, too. I catch her and pull her down into the long grass. She giggles and I kiss her. Her lips are soft, because she’s been crying. No. Don’t cry. Baby, don’t cry. Please don’t cry. She closes her eyes. She sleeps. She won’t wake. Ana! Ana! She’s lying on a thread worn rug. Pale. Unmoving. Ana. Wake up. Ana!
Gasping, I wake, and I’m momentarily disoriented. Wait—I’m in Charlie Tango, and we’ve just landed in Portland. The rotors are still spinning, and Stephan is talking to the tower. I rub my face to rouse myself and unbuckle my harness.
Taylor opens his door and steps out onto the helipad while I don my jacket, careful not to snag the cable of my headphones.
“Thanks, Stephan,” I say over the cans.
“No problem, Mr. Grey.”
“We should be back around one this afternoon.”
“We’ll be ready and waiting.” He frowns, his concern evident in the creases across his brow, while Taylor, head down, opens my door
Shit. I hope that concern is not directed at me. I remove my headphones and clamber out to join Taylor. It’s a crisp morning, brighter than Seattle, but with a brisk breeze that carries the scent of fall. There’s no sign of Joe, the old-timer who’s normally here to oversee arrivals and departures. Maybe it’s too early in the day, or he’s not slated to work this morning…or it’s an omen or some shit.
For fuck’s sake, Grey. Pull yourself together.
Our driver is waiting outside the helipad building. Taylor opens the door of the Escalade and I slide in, then he takes the passenger seat up front.
With my bad dream about Ana still in mind, I call Sawyer.
“Mr. Grey.”
“Luke. Stay close to Mrs. Grey today.”
“Will do, sir.”
“Is she having breakfast?” I keep my voice low as I’m a little embarrassed to be asking. But I want to know she’s okay.
“I believe so, sir. We’re leaving in about fifteen minutes for the office.”
“Good. Thanks.” I hang up and stare morosely out the window at the Willamette River. Its metallic gray waters look chilly as we cross over the Steel Bridge. I shudder. This is hell. I need to talk to Ana. We can’t go on like this.
I have one option that might work.
Apologize, Grey.
Yeah. It’s my only option.
Because I behaved like an asshole.
Ana’s words come back to me: You need to grow up and smell the fucking coffee, and stop behaving like a petulant adolescent.
Fuck. She’s not wrong.
Now is not the time. I have to help the WSU Environmental Science Department nail additional funding from the USDA. It’s vital to progress the work that Professor Gravett and her team are undertaking in soil technology. Her work is reaping huge benefits in our test sites in Ghana. This is a game changer. Soil could be a key initiative not only in feeding the planet and alleviating food insecurity and poverty, but also through carbon sequestration reversing climate change. From my briefcase I pull out my notes and scan them once more.
The meeting has been a resounding success—we’ve secured an additional million dollars from the USDA. It appears that feeding the world is quite high on the federal government’s agenda, too. With the gratitude of Professors Choudury and Gravett ringing in my ears, Taylor and I head back to Portland. I check my phone, but there’s no word from my wife—not even a snarky response to my e-mail. It’s depressing. I’m anxious to get home and find some way to smooth her ruffled feathers…if I can.
Maybe a meal out?
A movie?
Soaring?
Sailing?
Sex?
What can I do?
I miss her.
The Escalade parks outside the helipad building, as Taylor makes a call.
“Sawyer, I read your text,” he murmurs, and he has my full attention.
Text? Is Ana okay?
He frowns as he listens. “Copy.” Taylor’s eyes meet mine. “I see. Hold on,” he says to Luke, then addresses me. “Mrs. Grey is feeling unwell. Sawyer is taking her back to the apartment.”
“Is it serious?”
“No reason to think so.”
“Okay. We’ll fly straight to Escala.”
“Yes, sir. Sawyer, we’re leaving shortly. We’ll divert directly to Escala, land there.”
“Keep her safe!” I shout, loud enough for Sawyer to hear me.
“You heard Mr. Grey. Text me if the situation changes.” Taylor hangs up.
With a renewed sense of urgency, Taylor and I enter the building, and I’m pleased that the elevator is waiting for us.
I hope Ana’s okay…and the baby.
Maybe I should call my mom, ask her to go over and check on Ana. Or Dr. Greene—though I’m not sure she’d take my call. It will take us an hour to get home, and I can’t wait that long; I try my mother, but there’s no phone signal—we’re in the elevator. I can’t call Ana, either.
Surely if it were serious she’d have called me?
Damn. I have no idea, given she’s not talking to me.
The elevator doors open, Charlie Tango is where we left her, and Stephan is waiting at the controls.
To hell with this. I’m going to fly her. I can direct my attention to the flight, rather than dwell on what’s happening at Escala.
I hope Ana goes to bed. Our bed.
Stephan steps down from the cockpit to greet us.
“Stephan, hi. I’d like to fly her home. We need a new course, for Escala.”
“Yes, sir.” He opens the pilot’s door for me, and I think he’s surprised by the change in my attitude. I climb aboard, buckle up, and begin the final preflight checks.
“All checks done?” I ask Stephan as he takes the seat beside me.
“Just the transponder.”
“Oh, yes. I see. I need to get home to my wife. Taylor, you strapped in?”
“Yes, sir.” His disembodied voice is loud and clear in my cans. I radio the tower, and they’re ready for us.
“Right, gentlemen, let’s get home.” Pulling back the collective, I float Charlie Tango smoothly into the sky and head for Seattle.
As we cut through the air at speed, I know I’ve made the right decision to pilot. I have to focus on keeping us airborne, but deep down, my anxiety continues to gnaw at my insides. I hope Ana’s okay.
We touch down right on schedule at 2:30.
“Good flying, Mr. Grey,” Stephan says.
“Enjoy taking her back to Boeing Field.”
“Will do.” He grins.
I unbuckle my harness, switch on my phone, and follow Taylor out onto Escala’s rooftop. Taylor frowns down at his phone. I halt as he listens to a message.
“It’s from Sawyer. Mrs. Grey is at the bank.” Taylor raises his voice to be heard over the wind that whi
ps around us on the roof.
What? I thought she was ill. What the fuck is she doing at the bank?
“Sawyer followed her there. She tried to give him the slip.”
Anxiety spirals into my chest, tightening around my heart. My rebooted phone beeps and vibrates with a flood of alerts. There’s a text from Andrea, sent four minutes ago, and a couple of missed calls from my bank, and one from Welch.
What the fuck?
ANDREA
Troy Whelan at your bank needs to speak with you urgently.
I have Whelan on speed dial. He picks up immediately.
“Whelan, it’s Christian Grey. What’s going on?” I shout over the rush of the wind.
“Mr. Grey, good afternoon. Um, your wife is here requesting to withdraw five million dollars.”
What?
My blood turns to ice.
“Five million?” I can’t quite believe what he’s said.
What does she need five million for?
Fuck. She’s leaving me.
My world crashes and burns, a cavern of despair opening at my feet.
“Yes, sir. As you know, under current banking legislation I can’t cash five million.”
“Yes, of course.” I’m in shock, teetering on the brink of the abyss. “Let me talk to Mrs. Grey.” I sound robotic.
“Certainly, sir. If you’ll hold for a minute.”
This is agony. I head to shelter out of the wind, beside the elevator doors, and stand quietly waiting to hear from my wife…dreading to hear from my wife.
She’s going. She’s leaving me.
What am I going to do without her? The phone clicks and my panic overwhelms me.
“Hi.” Ana’s voice is breathy and high-pitched.
“You’re leaving me?” The words are out before I can stop them.
“No!” she rasps, and it sounds like an agonized appeal.
Oh, thank fuck. But my relief is short-lived.
“Yes,” she whispers, as if she’s just made her decision.
What!
“Ana, I—” I don’t know what to say. I want to beg her to stay.
“Christian, please. Don’t.”
