Grey
Page 132
My dreams are just that…dreams. This isn’t going to work.
I close my eyes; I can’t bear to look at her. It’s true, she would be better off without me. Now that she’s seen the monster, she knows she can’t contend with him. I have to free her—let her go her own way. This won’t work between us.
Focus, Grey.
“You’re right. I should let you go. I’m no good for you.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t want to go,” she whispers. Tears pool in her eyes, glistening on long dark lashes.
“I don’t want you to go, either,” I answer, because it’s the truth, and that feeling—that ominous, frightening feeling—is back, overwhelming me. The tears trickle down her cheeks once more. Gently I wipe away a falling tear with my thumb, and before I know it the words tumble out. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” I trace my thumb along her bottom lip. I want to kiss her, hard. Make her forget. Dazzle her. Arouse her—I know I can. But something holds me back—her wary, injured look. Why would she want to be kissed by a monster? She might push me away, and I don’t know if I could deal with any more rejection. Her words haunt me, pulling at some dark and repressed memory.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
“Me, too,” she whispers. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”
I remember Carrick teaching me to dive. My toes gripping the pool edge as I fell arching into the water—and now I’m falling once more, into the abyss, in slow motion.
There’s no way she can feel that about me.
Not me. No!
And I’m choking for air, strangled by her words pressing their momentous weight on my chest. I plunge down and down, the darkness welcoming me. I can’t hear them. I can’t deal with them. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, who she’s dealing with—what she’s dealing with.
“No.” My voice is raw with pained disbelief. “You can’t love me, Ana. No. That’s wrong.”
I need to set her right on this. She cannot love a monster. She cannot love a fucked-up son of a bitch. She needs to go. She needs out—and in an instant, everything becomes crystal clear. This is my eureka moment; I can’t make her happy. I can’t be what she needs. I can’t let this go on. This has to finish. It should never have started.
“Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”
“Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” The anguish is plain in my voice as I sink deeper and deeper into the abyss, shrouded in despair.
No one can love me.
“But you do make me happy,” she says, not comprehending.
Anastasia Steele, look at yourself. I have to be honest with her. “Not at the moment. Not doing what I want to do.”
She blinks, her lashes fluttering over her large, wounded eyes, studying me intently as she searches for the truth. “We’ll never get past that, will we?”
I shake my head, because I can’t think of anything to say. It comes down to incompatibility, again. She closes her eyes, as if in pain, and when she opens them again, they are clearer, full of resolve. Her tears have stopped. And the blood starts pounding through my head as my heart hammers. I know what she’s going to say. I dread what she’s going to say.
“Well, I’d better go, then.” She winces as she sits up.
Now? She can’t go now.
“No, don’t go.” I’m free-falling, deeper and deeper. Her leaving feels like a monumental mistake. My mistake. But she can’t stay if she feels this way about me, she just can’t.
“There’s no point in me staying,” she says, and gingerly climbs out of the bed still wrapped in her bathrobe. She’s really leaving. I can’t believe it. I scramble out of bed to stop her, but her look pins me to the floor—her expression so bleak, so cold, so distant—not my Ana at all.
“I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” she says. How flat and empty her voice sounds as she turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I stare at the closed door.
This is the second time in one day that she’s walked out on me.
I sit up and cradle my head in my hands, trying to calm down, trying to rationalize my feelings.
She loves me?
How did this happen? How?
Grey, you fucking fool.
Wasn’t this always a risk, with someone like her? Someone good and innocent and courageous. A risk that she’d not see the real me until it was too late. That I would make her suffer like this?
Why is this so painful? I feel like I’ve punctured a lung. I follow her out of the room. She might want privacy, but if she’s leaving me I need clothes.
When I reach my bedroom, she’s showering, so I quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt, I’ve chosen black—suitable for my mood. Grabbing my phone, I wander through the apartment, tempted to sit at the piano and hammer out some woeful lament. But instead I stand in the middle of the room, feeling nothing.
Vacant.
Focus, Grey! This is the right decision. Let her go.
My phone buzzes. It’s Welch. Has he found Leila?
“Welch.”
“Mr. Grey, I have news.” His voice grates over the phone. This guy should stop smoking. He sounds like Deep Throat.
“You found her?” My spirits lift a little.
“No, sir.”
“What is it, then?” Why the hell have you called?
“Leila left her husband. He finally admitted it to me. He’s washed his hands of her.”
This is news.
“I see.”
“He has an idea where she might be, but he wants his palm greased. Wants to know who’s so interested in his wife. Though that’s not what he called her.”
I fight my surging anger. “How much does he want?”
“He said two thousand.”
“He said what?” I shout, losing it. Why didn’t he just admit earlier that Leila had walked out on him? “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him. Welch, this is a real fuckup.”
I glance up, and Ana is standing awkwardly at the entrance to the living room, dressed in jeans and an ugly sweatshirt. She’s all big eyes and tight, pinched face, her suitcase beside her.
“Find her,” I snap, hanging up. I’ll deal with Welch later.
Ana walks over to the sofa, and from her backpack removes the Mac, her phone, and the key to her car. Taking a deep breath, she marches to the kitchen and lays all three items on the counter.
I close my eyes; I can’t bear to look at her. It’s true, she would be better off without me. Now that she’s seen the monster, she knows she can’t contend with him. I have to free her—let her go her own way. This won’t work between us.
Focus, Grey.
“You’re right. I should let you go. I’m no good for you.”
Her eyes widen. “I don’t want to go,” she whispers. Tears pool in her eyes, glistening on long dark lashes.
“I don’t want you to go, either,” I answer, because it’s the truth, and that feeling—that ominous, frightening feeling—is back, overwhelming me. The tears trickle down her cheeks once more. Gently I wipe away a falling tear with my thumb, and before I know it the words tumble out. “I’ve come alive since I met you.” I trace my thumb along her bottom lip. I want to kiss her, hard. Make her forget. Dazzle her. Arouse her—I know I can. But something holds me back—her wary, injured look. Why would she want to be kissed by a monster? She might push me away, and I don’t know if I could deal with any more rejection. Her words haunt me, pulling at some dark and repressed memory.
You are one fucked-up son of a bitch.
“Me, too,” she whispers. “I’ve fallen in love with you, Christian.”
I remember Carrick teaching me to dive. My toes gripping the pool edge as I fell arching into the water—and now I’m falling once more, into the abyss, in slow motion.
There’s no way she can feel that about me.
Not me. No!
And I’m choking for air, strangled by her words pressing their momentous weight on my chest. I plunge down and down, the darkness welcoming me. I can’t hear them. I can’t deal with them. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, who she’s dealing with—what she’s dealing with.
“No.” My voice is raw with pained disbelief. “You can’t love me, Ana. No. That’s wrong.”
I need to set her right on this. She cannot love a monster. She cannot love a fucked-up son of a bitch. She needs to go. She needs out—and in an instant, everything becomes crystal clear. This is my eureka moment; I can’t make her happy. I can’t be what she needs. I can’t let this go on. This has to finish. It should never have started.
“Wrong? Why’s it wrong?”
“Well, look at you. I can’t make you happy.” The anguish is plain in my voice as I sink deeper and deeper into the abyss, shrouded in despair.
No one can love me.
“But you do make me happy,” she says, not comprehending.
Anastasia Steele, look at yourself. I have to be honest with her. “Not at the moment. Not doing what I want to do.”
She blinks, her lashes fluttering over her large, wounded eyes, studying me intently as she searches for the truth. “We’ll never get past that, will we?”
I shake my head, because I can’t think of anything to say. It comes down to incompatibility, again. She closes her eyes, as if in pain, and when she opens them again, they are clearer, full of resolve. Her tears have stopped. And the blood starts pounding through my head as my heart hammers. I know what she’s going to say. I dread what she’s going to say.
“Well, I’d better go, then.” She winces as she sits up.
Now? She can’t go now.
“No, don’t go.” I’m free-falling, deeper and deeper. Her leaving feels like a monumental mistake. My mistake. But she can’t stay if she feels this way about me, she just can’t.
“There’s no point in me staying,” she says, and gingerly climbs out of the bed still wrapped in her bathrobe. She’s really leaving. I can’t believe it. I scramble out of bed to stop her, but her look pins me to the floor—her expression so bleak, so cold, so distant—not my Ana at all.
“I’m going to get dressed. I’d like some privacy,” she says. How flat and empty her voice sounds as she turns and leaves, closing the door behind her. I stare at the closed door.
This is the second time in one day that she’s walked out on me.
I sit up and cradle my head in my hands, trying to calm down, trying to rationalize my feelings.
She loves me?
How did this happen? How?
Grey, you fucking fool.
Wasn’t this always a risk, with someone like her? Someone good and innocent and courageous. A risk that she’d not see the real me until it was too late. That I would make her suffer like this?
Why is this so painful? I feel like I’ve punctured a lung. I follow her out of the room. She might want privacy, but if she’s leaving me I need clothes.
When I reach my bedroom, she’s showering, so I quickly change into jeans and a T-shirt, I’ve chosen black—suitable for my mood. Grabbing my phone, I wander through the apartment, tempted to sit at the piano and hammer out some woeful lament. But instead I stand in the middle of the room, feeling nothing.
Vacant.
Focus, Grey! This is the right decision. Let her go.
My phone buzzes. It’s Welch. Has he found Leila?
“Welch.”
“Mr. Grey, I have news.” His voice grates over the phone. This guy should stop smoking. He sounds like Deep Throat.
“You found her?” My spirits lift a little.
“No, sir.”
“What is it, then?” Why the hell have you called?
“Leila left her husband. He finally admitted it to me. He’s washed his hands of her.”
This is news.
“I see.”
“He has an idea where she might be, but he wants his palm greased. Wants to know who’s so interested in his wife. Though that’s not what he called her.”
I fight my surging anger. “How much does he want?”
“He said two thousand.”
“He said what?” I shout, losing it. Why didn’t he just admit earlier that Leila had walked out on him? “Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What’s his number? I need to call him. Welch, this is a real fuckup.”
I glance up, and Ana is standing awkwardly at the entrance to the living room, dressed in jeans and an ugly sweatshirt. She’s all big eyes and tight, pinched face, her suitcase beside her.
“Find her,” I snap, hanging up. I’ll deal with Welch later.
Ana walks over to the sofa, and from her backpack removes the Mac, her phone, and the key to her car. Taking a deep breath, she marches to the kitchen and lays all three items on the counter.
