Grey
Page 135
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.
“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.
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.
“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.
