Grey
Page 133
What the hell? She’s returning her things?
She turns to face me, determination clear on her small ashen face. It’s her stubborn look, the one I know so well.
“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” Her voice is calm but monotone.
“Ana, I don’t want those things—they’re yours.” She can’t do this to me. “Please, take them.”
“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance, and I don’t want them anymore.”
“Ana, be reasonable!”
“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.
She wants to forget me.
“Are you really trying to wound me?”
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself.”
Of course—she’s trying to protect herself from the monster.
“Please Ana, take that stuff.”
Her lips are so pale.
“Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need that money.”
Money. It always comes down to the fucking money.
“Will you take a check?” I snarl.
“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”
She wants money, I’ll give her money. I storm into my study, barely holding on to my temper. Sitting at my desk I call Taylor.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”
I ignore his greeting. “How much did you get for Ana’s VW?”
“Twelve thousand dollars, sir.”
“That much?” In spite of my bleak mood, I’m surprised.
“It’s a classic,” he says by way of explanation.
“Thanks. Can you take Miss Steele home now?”
“Of course. I’ll be right down.”
I hang up and take out my checkbook from my desk drawer. As I do, I remember my conversation with Welch about Leila’s fucking asshole of a husband.
It’s always about fucking money!
In my anger I double the amount that Taylor got for the death trap and stuff the check into an envelope.
When I return she’s still standing by the kitchen island, lost, almost childlike. I hand her the envelope, my anger evaporating at the sight of her.
“Taylor got a good price…it’s a classic car,” I mumble in apology. “You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” I nod to where Taylor is waiting at the entrance of the living room.
“That’s fine, I can get myself home, thank you.”
No! Accept the ride, Ana. Why does she do this?
“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”
“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” She gives me a blank look.
That’s it in a nutshell—why our arrangement was doomed from the start. She’s just not cut out for this, and deep down, I always knew it. I close my eyes.
I am such a fool.
I try a softer approach, pleading with her.
“Please, Ana. Let Taylor take you home.”
“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces with quiet authority and leaves. Maybe she’ll listen to him. She glances around, but he’s already gone down to the basement to fetch the car.
She turns back to me, her eyes wider all of a sudden. And I hold my breath. I really can’t believe she’s going. This is the last time I’ll see her, and she looks so sad. It cuts deep that I’m the one responsible for that look. I take a hesitant step forward; I want to hold her one more time and beg her to stay.
She steps back, and it’s a move that signals all too clearly that she doesn’t want me. I’ve driven her away.
I freeze. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I can’t stay. I know what I want, and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”
Oh, please, Ana—let me hold you one more time. Smell your sweet, sweet scent. Feel you in my arms. I step toward her again, but she holds up her hands, halting me.
“Don’t—please.” She recoils, panic etched on her face. “I can’t do this.” And she grabs her suitcase and backpack and heads for the foyer. I follow, meek and helpless in her wake, my eyes fixed on her small frame.
In the foyer I call the elevator. I can’t take my eyes off her…her delicate, elfin face, those lips, the way her dark lashes fan out and cast a shadow over her pale, pale cheeks. Words fail me as I try to memorize every detail. I have no dazzling lines, no quick wit, no arrogant commands. I have nothing—nothing but a yawning void inside my chest.
The elevator doors open and Ana heads straight in. She looks around at me—and for a moment her mask slips, and there it is: my pain reflected on her beautiful face.
No…. Ana. Don’t go.
“Good-bye, Christian.”
“Ana…good-bye.”
The doors close, and she’s gone.
I sink slowly to the floor and put my head in my hands. The void is now cavernous and aching, overwhelming me.
Grey, what the hell have you done?
WHEN I LOOK UP again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.
They’re right to look at me that way. She’s gone. She’s really gone. The best thing that ever happened to me. After she said she’d never leave. She promised me she’d never leave. I close my eyes, shutting out those lifeless, pitying stares, and tip my head back against the wall. Okay, she said it in her sleep—and like the fool I am, I believed her. I’ve always known deep down I was no good for her, and she was too good for me. This is how it should be.
Then why do I feel like shit? Why is this so painful?
The chime announcing the arrival of the elevator forces my eyes open again, and my heart leaps into my mouth. She’s back. I sit paralyzed, waiting, and the doors pull back—and Taylor steps out and momentarily freezes.
Hell. How long have I been sitting here?
“Miss Steele is home, Mr. Grey,” he says, as if he addresses me while I’m prostrate on the floor every day.
“How was she?” I ask, as dispassionately as I can, though I really want to know.
“Upset, sir,” he says, showing no emotion whatsoever.
I nod, dismissing him. But he doesn’t leave.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asks, much too kindly for my liking.
She turns to face me, determination clear on her small ashen face. It’s her stubborn look, the one I know so well.
“I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle.” Her voice is calm but monotone.
“Ana, I don’t want those things—they’re yours.” She can’t do this to me. “Please, take them.”
“No, Christian. I only accepted them under sufferance, and I don’t want them anymore.”
“Ana, be reasonable!”
“I don’t want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car.” Her voice is devoid of emotion.
She wants to forget me.
“Are you really trying to wound me?”
“No, I’m not. I’m trying to protect myself.”
Of course—she’s trying to protect herself from the monster.
“Please Ana, take that stuff.”
Her lips are so pale.
“Christian, I don’t want to fight—I just need that money.”
Money. It always comes down to the fucking money.
“Will you take a check?” I snarl.
“Yes. I think you’re good for it.”
She wants money, I’ll give her money. I storm into my study, barely holding on to my temper. Sitting at my desk I call Taylor.
“Good morning, Mr. Grey.”
I ignore his greeting. “How much did you get for Ana’s VW?”
“Twelve thousand dollars, sir.”
“That much?” In spite of my bleak mood, I’m surprised.
“It’s a classic,” he says by way of explanation.
“Thanks. Can you take Miss Steele home now?”
“Of course. I’ll be right down.”
I hang up and take out my checkbook from my desk drawer. As I do, I remember my conversation with Welch about Leila’s fucking asshole of a husband.
It’s always about fucking money!
In my anger I double the amount that Taylor got for the death trap and stuff the check into an envelope.
When I return she’s still standing by the kitchen island, lost, almost childlike. I hand her the envelope, my anger evaporating at the sight of her.
“Taylor got a good price…it’s a classic car,” I mumble in apology. “You can ask him. He’ll take you home.” I nod to where Taylor is waiting at the entrance of the living room.
“That’s fine, I can get myself home, thank you.”
No! Accept the ride, Ana. Why does she do this?
“Are you going to defy me at every turn?”
“Why change a habit of a lifetime?” She gives me a blank look.
That’s it in a nutshell—why our arrangement was doomed from the start. She’s just not cut out for this, and deep down, I always knew it. I close my eyes.
I am such a fool.
I try a softer approach, pleading with her.
“Please, Ana. Let Taylor take you home.”
“I’ll get the car, Miss Steele,” Taylor announces with quiet authority and leaves. Maybe she’ll listen to him. She glances around, but he’s already gone down to the basement to fetch the car.
She turns back to me, her eyes wider all of a sudden. And I hold my breath. I really can’t believe she’s going. This is the last time I’ll see her, and she looks so sad. It cuts deep that I’m the one responsible for that look. I take a hesitant step forward; I want to hold her one more time and beg her to stay.
She steps back, and it’s a move that signals all too clearly that she doesn’t want me. I’ve driven her away.
I freeze. “I don’t want you to go.”
“I can’t stay. I know what I want, and you can’t give it to me, and I can’t give you what you need.”
Oh, please, Ana—let me hold you one more time. Smell your sweet, sweet scent. Feel you in my arms. I step toward her again, but she holds up her hands, halting me.
“Don’t—please.” She recoils, panic etched on her face. “I can’t do this.” And she grabs her suitcase and backpack and heads for the foyer. I follow, meek and helpless in her wake, my eyes fixed on her small frame.
In the foyer I call the elevator. I can’t take my eyes off her…her delicate, elfin face, those lips, the way her dark lashes fan out and cast a shadow over her pale, pale cheeks. Words fail me as I try to memorize every detail. I have no dazzling lines, no quick wit, no arrogant commands. I have nothing—nothing but a yawning void inside my chest.
The elevator doors open and Ana heads straight in. She looks around at me—and for a moment her mask slips, and there it is: my pain reflected on her beautiful face.
No…. Ana. Don’t go.
“Good-bye, Christian.”
“Ana…good-bye.”
The doors close, and she’s gone.
I sink slowly to the floor and put my head in my hands. The void is now cavernous and aching, overwhelming me.
Grey, what the hell have you done?
WHEN I LOOK UP again, the paintings in my foyer, my Madonnas, bring a mirthless smile to my lips. The idealization of motherhood. All of them gazing at their infants, or staring inauspiciously down at me.
They’re right to look at me that way. She’s gone. She’s really gone. The best thing that ever happened to me. After she said she’d never leave. She promised me she’d never leave. I close my eyes, shutting out those lifeless, pitying stares, and tip my head back against the wall. Okay, she said it in her sleep—and like the fool I am, I believed her. I’ve always known deep down I was no good for her, and she was too good for me. This is how it should be.
Then why do I feel like shit? Why is this so painful?
The chime announcing the arrival of the elevator forces my eyes open again, and my heart leaps into my mouth. She’s back. I sit paralyzed, waiting, and the doors pull back—and Taylor steps out and momentarily freezes.
Hell. How long have I been sitting here?
“Miss Steele is home, Mr. Grey,” he says, as if he addresses me while I’m prostrate on the floor every day.
“How was she?” I ask, as dispassionately as I can, though I really want to know.
“Upset, sir,” he says, showing no emotion whatsoever.
I nod, dismissing him. But he doesn’t leave.
“Can I get you anything, sir?” he asks, much too kindly for my liking.
