blank as possible. I can’t think about him. I don’t want to start crying again—not out on the street.
The apartment is empty. I miss Kate, and I imagine her lying on a beach in Barbados sipping a cool cocktail. I turn on the flat-screen television so there’s noise to fill the vacuum and provide some semblance of company, but I don’t listen or watch. I sit and stare blankly at the brick wall. I am numb. I feel nothing but the pain. How long must I endure this?
The door buzzer startles me from my anguish, and my heart skips a beat. Who could that be? I press the intercom.
“Delivery for Ms. Steele.” A bored, disembodied voice answers, and disappointment crashes through me. I listlessly make my way downstairs and find a young man noisily chewing gum, holding a large cardboard box, and leaning against the front door. I sign for the package and take it upstairs. The box is huge and surprisingly light. Inside are two dozen long-stemmed, white roses and a card.
Congratulations on your first day at work.
I hope it went well.
And thank you for the glider. That was very thoughtful.
It has pride of place on my desk.
Christian
I stare at the typed card, the hollow in my chest expanding. No doubt, his assistant sent this. Christian probably had very little to do with it. It’s too painful to think about. I examine the roses—they are beautiful, and I can’t bring myself to throw them in the trash. Dutifully, I make my way into the kitchen to hunt down a vase.
And so a pattern develops: wake, work, cry, sleep. Well, try to sleep. I can’t even escape him in my dreams. Gray burning eyes, his lost look, his hair burnished and bright all haunt me. And the music . . . so much music—I cannot bear to hear any music. I am careful to avoid it at all costs. Even the jingles in commercials make me shudder.
I have spoken to no one, not even my mother or Ray. I don’t have the capacity for idle talk now. No, I want none of it. I have become my own island state. A ravaged, war-torn land where nothing grows and the horizons are bleak. Yes, that’s me. I can interact impersonally at work, but that’s it. If I talk to Mom, I know I will break even further—and I have nothing left to break.
I am finding it difficult to eat. By Wednesday lunchtime, I manage a cup of yogurt, and it’s the first thing I’ve eaten since Friday. I am surviving on a newfound tolerance for lattes and Diet Coke. It’s the caffeine that keeps me going, but it’s making me anxious.
Jack has started to hover over me, irritating me, asking me personal questions. What does he want? I’m polite, but I need to keep him at arm’s length.
I sit and begin trawling through a pile of correspondence addressed to him, and I’m pleased with the distraction of menial work. My e-mail pings, and I quickly check to see who it’s from.
Holy shit. An e-mail from Christian. Oh no, not here . . . not at work.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tomorrow
Date: June 8, 2011 14:05
To: Anastasia Steele
Dear Anastasia
Forgive this intrusion at work. I hope that it’s going well. Did you get my flowers?
I note that tomorrow is the gallery opening for your friend’s show, and I’m sure you’ve not had time to purchase a car, and it’s a long drive. I would be more than happy to take you—should you wish.
Let me know.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
Tears swim in my eyes. I hastily leave my desk and bolt to the restroom to escape into one of the stalls. José’s show. Crap. I’d forgotten all about it, and I promised him I’d go. Shit, Christian is right; how am I going to get there?
I clutch my forehead. Why hasn’t José phoned? Come to think of it—why hasn’t anyone phoned? I’ve been so absentminded, I haven’t noticed that my cell phone has been silent.
Shit! I am such an idiot! I still have it on divert to the Blackberry. Holy hell. Christian’s been getting my calls—unless he’s just thrown the Blackberry away. How did he get my e-mail address?
He knows my shoe size, an e-mail address is hardly going to present him with many problems.
Can I see him again? Could I bear it? Do I want to see him? I close my eyes and tilt my head back as grief and longing lance through me.