He whisks me into a small, intimate restaurant.
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The restaurant looks fine to me. Wooden chairs, linen tablecloths, and walls the same color as Christian's playroom -- deep bloodred -- with randomly placed small gilt mirrors, white candles, and small vases of white roses. Ella Fitzgerald croons softly in the background about this thing called love. It's very romantic.
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The waiter leads us to a table for two in a small alcove, and I sit, apprehensive and wondering what he's going to say.
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"And if I don't like steak?"
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"This place will have to do," Christian grumbles. "We don't have much time."
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"We don't have long," Christian says to the waiter as we sit. "So we'll each have sirloin steak cooked medium, béarnaise sauce if you have it, fries, and green vegetables, whatever the chef has; and bring me the wine list."
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He sighs. "Don't start, Anastasia."
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"Certainly, sir." The waiter, taken aback by Christian's cool, calm efficiency, scuttles off. Christian places his BlackBerry on the table. Jeez, don't I get a choice?
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"I am not a child, Christian."
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It's as if he's slapped me. So this is how it will be, an agitated, fraught conversation, albeit in a very romantic setting, but certainly no hearts and flowers.
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"Well, stop acting like one."
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"I'm a child because I don't like steak?" I mutter, trying to conceal my hurt.
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"For deliberately making me jealous. It's a childish thing to do. Have you no regard for your friend's feelings, leading him on like that?" Christian presses his lips together in a thin line and scowls as the waiter returns with the wine list.
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I blush -- I hadn't thought of that. Poor José-- I certainly don't want to encourage him. Suddenly I'm mortified. Christian has a point; it was a thoughtless thing to do. He glances at the wine list.
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"Would you like to choose the wine?" he asks, raising his eyebrows at me expectantly, arrogance personified. He knows I know nothing about wine.
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"You choose," I answer, sullen but chastened.
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"Er… we only sell that wine by the bottle, sir."
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"Two glasses of the Barossa Valley Shiraz, please."
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"There's that word again, 'moot.'"
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"Since that was the last time you ate, I think that's a moot point."
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"Moot," he mouths and his eyes soften with humor. He runs his hand through his hair, and he's serious again. "Ana, the last time we spoke, you left me. I'm a little nervous. I've told you I want you back, and you've said… nothing." His gaze is intense and expectant while his candor is totally disarming. What the hell do I say to this?
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"Sir." He retreats, subdued, and I don't blame him. I frown at Fifty. What's eating him? Oh, myself probably, and somewhere in the depths of my psyche, my inner goddess rises sleepily, stretches, and smiles. She's been asleep for a while.
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His mouth presses into a hard line, but then, almost reluctantly, his lips lift, and I know he's trying to stifle his smile.
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"Well, it's good to set the right tone for an intimate and honest discussion about the future, wouldn't you say?" I smile at him sweetly.
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"Apology accepted, and I'm pleased to inform you I haven't decided to become a vegetarian since we last ate."
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"You're very grumpy."
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"I'm sorry," he says.
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He gazes at me impassively. "I wonder why that is?"
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"A bottle, then," Christian snaps.
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"I've missed you… really missed you, Christian. The past few days have been… difficult." I swallow, and a lump in my throat swells as I recall my desperate anguish since I left him.
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"You are what I want you to be," he says, his voice emphatic.
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"No, Christian, I'm not."
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What? Whoa -- change of direction.
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"Nothing's changed. I can't be what you want me to be." I squeeze the words out past the lump in my throat.
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This last week has been the worst in my life, the pain almost indescribable. Nothing has come close. But reality hits home, winding me.
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Perhaps we could have avoided all this heartache.
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"You forgot!" he gasps with horror, grabbing the sides of the table and glaring. I wither under his stare.
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"Answer me."
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"I don't know. I was overwhelmed. I was trying to be what you wanted me to be, trying to deal with the pain, and it went out of my mind. You know… I forgot," I whisper, ashamed, and I shrug apologetically.
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"You're upset because of what happened last time. I behaved stupidly, and you… So did you. Why didn't you safe-word, Anastasia?" His tone changes, becomes accusatory.
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Shit! He's furious again. My inner goddess glares at me, too. See, you brought all this on yourself!
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"How can I trust you?" His voice is low. "Ever?"
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"That's fine." His voice is curt.
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"I'm sorry," I whisper, suddenly feeling stupid. I left because I thought we were incompatible, but he's saying I could have stopped him?
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"Sorry for what?" he says alarmed.
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The waiter arrives with our wine as we sit staring at each other, blue eyes to gray. Both of us filled with unspoken recriminations, while the waiter removes the cork with an unnecessary flourish and pours a little wine into Christian's glass. Automatically Christian reaches out and takes a sip.
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Gingerly the waiter fills our glasses, placing the bottle on the table before beating a hasty retreat. Christian has not taken his eyes off me the whole time. I am the first to crack, breaking eye contact, picking up my glass and taking a large gulp. I barely taste it.
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"Not using the safeword."
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"We might have avoided all this suffering," he mutters.
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He closes his eyes, as if in relief.
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"You said you loved me," he whispers. "Is that now in the past tense?" His voice is low, laced with anxiety.
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"Eat," Christian commands.
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"When did I say I'd never leave?"
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I'm winded by his admission. Oh my, like me.
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"In your sleep. It was the most comforting thing I'd heard in so long, Anastasia. It made me relax."
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Deep down I know I'm hungry, but right now, my stomach is in knots. Sitting across from the only man I have ever loved and debating our uncertain future does not promote a healthy appetite. I look dubiously at my food.
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I'm shocked by his admission. He's had a change of heart. When I told him I loved him before, he was horrified. The waiter is back. Briskly he places our plates in front of us and scuttles away.
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"You said you'd never leave, yet the going gets tough and you're out the door."
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My heart constricts and I reach for my wine.
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Holy hell. Food.
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"No, Christian, it's not."
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"Appearances can be deceptive," he says quietly. "I'm anything but fine. I feel like the sun has set and not risen for five days, Ana. I'm in perpetual night here."
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He looks so vulnerable as he exhales. "Good," he murmurs.
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"You look fine." More than fine. You look like you.
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"So help me God, Anastasia, if you don't eat, I will take you across my knee here in this restaurant, and it will have nothing to do with my sexual gratification. Eat!"
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Keep your hair on, Grey. My subconscious stares at me over her half-moon specs. She is wholeheartedly in agreement with Fifty Shades.
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I glance at Fifty. He's eating and watching me. Hunger, longing, anxiety combined in one hot look.
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"Okay, I'll eat. Stow your twitching palm, please."
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We eat our supper in silence. The music's changed. A soft-voiced woman sings in the background, her words echoing my thoughts. I'll never be the same since he came into my life.
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"I like her, too."
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He doesn't smile but continues to glare at me. Reluctantly I lift my knife and fork and slice into my steak. Oh, it's mouthwateringly good. I am hungry, really hungry. I chew and he visibly relaxes.
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"Do you know who's singing?" I try for some normal conversation.
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Christian pauses and listens. "No… but she's good, whoever she is."
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Finally he smiles his private enigmatic smile. What's he planning?
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"Aren't we going back via Charlie Tango?"
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"I can't manage any more. Have I eaten enough for Sir?"
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"What?" I ask.
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He shakes his head. "Eat up," he says mildly.
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"We have to go shortly. Taylor's here, and you have to be up for work in the morning."
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"I function on a lot less sleep than you do, Anastasia. At least you've eaten something."
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"So do you."
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"I'm really full," I add, taking a sip of the delicious wine.
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He stares at me impassively, not answering, then glances at his watch.
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I have eaten half the food on my plate. I cannot eat any more. How can I negotiate this?
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Oh, that's his plan.
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"No, I thought I might have a drink. Taylor will pick us up. Besides, this way I have you in the car all to myself for a few hours, at least. What can we do but talk?"
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Christian summons the waiter to ask for the check, then picks up his BlackBerry and makes a call.
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"You're very brusque with Taylor, in fact, with most people."
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He's still curt over the phone.
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"We're at Le Picotin, Southwest Third Avenue." He hangs up.
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Christian's phone buzzes once, and he peers at it.
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"You haven't gotten to the point this evening. Nothing's changed, Christian."
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"Come. Taylor's outside."
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He has a proposition? What now? A couple of scenarios run through my mind: kidnapping, working for him. No, nothing makes sense. Christian finishes paying.
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"A different proposition."
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"I just get to the point quickly, Anastasia."
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The waiter returns, and Christian hands over his credit card without checking the bill. He gazes at me speculatively while the waiter swipes his card.
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"This started with a proposition."
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"I have a proposition for you."
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We stand and he takes my hand.
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"I don't want to lose you, Anastasia." He kisses my knuckles tenderly, and the touch of his lips on my skin resonates through my body.
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Outside the Audi is waiting. Christian opens my door. Climbing in, I sink into the plush leather. He heads to the driver's side; Taylor steps out of the car and they talk briefly. This isn't their usual protocol. I'm curious. What are they talking about? Moments later, they are both back in the car, and I glance at Christian, who's wearing his impassive face as he stares ahead.
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"Yes."
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"Taylor can't hear you," Christian reassures me.
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"Sir."
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"Yes, sir?"
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Christian shifts to face me. "As I was saying, Anastasia, I have a proposition for you."
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I glance nervously at Taylor.
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I allow myself a brief moment to examine his profile: straight nose, sculpted full lips, hair falling deliciously over his forehead. This divine man is surely not meant for me.
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Soft music fills the rear of the car, a grand orchestral piece that I don't know, and Taylor pulls into the light traffic, heading for I-5 and Seattle.
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"Taylor," Christian calls. Taylor doesn't respond. He calls again, still no response. Christian leans over and taps his shoulder. Taylor removes an earbud I hadn't noticed.
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"Did you deliberately ask him to do that?"
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"Happy now? He's listening to his iPod. Puccini. Forget he's here. I do."
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"Thank you, Taylor. It's okay; resume your listening."
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Christian looks suddenly determined and businesslike. Holy shit. We're negotiating a deal. I listen attentively.
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"How?"
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Oh. "Okay, your proposition?"
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"Well, you have all those canes and whips and stuff in your playroom, and they frighten the living daylights out of me. I don't want you to use them on me."
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"Well, I did. Answer me," he says calmly.
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"Kinky fuckery."
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Not being able to touch you. Your enjoying my pain, the bite of the belt…
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I flush. My inner goddess is down on bended knee with her hands clasped in supplication, begging me.
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"Not as such, I'm just trying to understand you, get a clearer picture of what you do and don't like."
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"Okay, so no whips or canes -- or belts, for that matter," he says sardonically.
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"I can't believe you said that."
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"Let me ask you something first. Do you want a regular vanilla relationship with no kinky fuckery at all?"
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"What does that mean?"
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"The threat of cruel and unusual punishment."
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"I like your kinky fuckery," I whisper.
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I gaze at him puzzled. "Are you attempting to redefine the hard limits?"
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My mouth drops open. "Kinky fuckery?" I squeak.
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"That's what I thought. So what don't you like?"
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"Fundamentally, Christian, it's your joy in inflicting pain on me that's difficult for me to handle. And the idea that you'll do it because I have crossed some arbitrary line."
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"None at all?"
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"No rules." I shake my head, but my heart is in my mouth. Where is he going with this?
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I squirm uncomfortably. "No, not really. Especially with those silver balls…" Thank heavens it's dark; my face is burning and my voice trails off as I recall that night. Yeah… I'd do that again.
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"So you can deal with some pain."
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I shrug. "Yes, I suppose." Oh, where is he going with this? My anxiety level has shot up several magnitudes on the Richter scale.
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"I don't want a set of rules."
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"But it's not arbitrary; the rules are written down."
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"More than fun," I mutter.
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He smirks. "Yes, that was fun."
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"Spank me with what?"
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"This." He holds up his hand.
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"But you don't mind if I spank you?"
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I stare at him, stunned, with no thoughts in my head at all -- like a computer crash. I think he's anxious, but I can't see him clearly, as we're shrouded in the Oregon darkness. It occurs to me, finally, this is it.
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He strokes his chin, deep in thought. "Anastasia, I want to start again. Do the vanilla thing and then maybe, once you trust me more and I trust you to be honest and to communicate with me, we could move on and do some of the things that I like to do."
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He wants the light, but can I ask him to do this for me? And don't I like the dark? Some dark, sometimes. Memories of the Thomas Tallis night drift invitingly through my mind.
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"I need you more, Anastasia. These last few days have been hell. All my instincts tell me to let you go, tell me I don't deserve you.
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"But what about punishments?"
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"No punishments." He shakes his head. "None."
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"None at all? But you have needs."
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"And the rules?"
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"Those photos the boy took… I can see how he sees you. You look untroubled and beautiful, not that you're not beautiful now, but here you sit. I see your pain. It's hard, knowing that I'm the one who has made you feel this way.
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My mouth goes dry. Holy shit. If that isn't a declaration of love, I don't know what is. And the words tumble out of me -- a dam breached.
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"No rules."
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"But I'm a selfish man. I've wanted you since you fell into my office. You are exquisite, honest, warm, strong, witty, beguilingly innocent; the list is endless. I'm in awe of you. I want you, and the thought of anyone else having you is like a knife twisting in my dark soul."
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He blinks in the darkness, warily I think, and I can resist him no longer. I unbuckle my seat belt and scramble into his lap, taking him by surprise, and take his head in my hands.
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"You please me all the time," he whispers. "How often do I have to tell you that?"
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"Christian, why do you think you have a dark soul? I would never say that. Sad maybe, but you're a good man. I can see that… you're generous, you're kind, and you've never lied to me. And I haven't tried very hard.
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"Last Saturday was such a shock to my system. It was my wake-up call. I realized that you'd been easy on me and that I couldn't be the person you wanted me to be. Then, after I left, it dawned on me that the physical pain you inflicted was not as bad as the pain of losing you. I do want to please you, but it's hard."
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"I never know what you're thinking. Sometimes you're so closed off… like an island state. You intimidate me. That's why I keep quiet. I don't know which way your mood is going to go. It swings from north to south and back again in a nanosecond. It's confusing and you won't let me touch you, and I want so much to show you how much I love you."
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"Oh, Ana," he breathes as he buries his nose in my hair.
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"Touching is a hard limit for me, Anastasia," he whispers.
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He snakes his arms around me and crushes me to him.
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"I know. I wish I understood why."
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"I love you, Christian Grey. And you're prepared to do all this for me. I'm the one who is undeserving, and I'm just sorry that I can't do all those things for you. Maybe with time… I don't know… but yes, I accept your proposition. Where do I sign?"
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After a while, he sighs, and in a soft voice he says, "I had a horrific childhood. One of the crack whore's pimps…" His voice trails off, and his body tenses as he recalls some unimaginable horror. "I can remember that," he whispers, shuddering.
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We sit with our arms wrapped around each other, listening to the music -- a soothing piano piece -- mirroring the emotions in the car, the sweet tranquil calm after the storm. I snuggle into his arms, resting my head in the crook of his neck. He gently strokes my back.
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Abruptly, my heart constricts as I remember the burn scars marring his skin. Oh, Christian. I tighten my arms around his neck.
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"Sorry," I murmur as I sit up, blinking and stretching. I am still in his arms, on his lap.
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I cannot contain my gasp of horror. Holy mother fuck. Bile rises in my throat.
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"Hey," Christian says softly.
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Oh, Christian. I breathe in his scent. He smells heavenly, my favorite fragrance in the entire world. He tightens his arms around me and kisses my hair, and I sit wrapped in his embrace as Taylor speeds into the night.
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"Was she abusive? Your mother?" My voice is low and soft with unshed tears.
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"Not that I remember. She was neglectful. She didn't protect me from her pimp." He snorts. "I think it was me who looked after her. When she finally killed herself, it took four days for someone to raise the alarm and find us… I remember that."
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"I could watch you sleep forever, Ana."
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"That's pretty fucked-up," I whisper.
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"Fifty shades," he murmurs.
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I press my lips against his neck, seeking and offering solace as I imagine a small, dirty, gray-eyed boy lost and lonely beside the body of his dead mother.
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When I wake, We're driving through Seattle.
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Christian's face hardens. "Does he, now?" His voice is laced with latent menace.
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"Did I say anything?"
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"No."
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He chuckles. "Anastasia, I am not going to touch you again, not until you beg me to."
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I sit up and gaze at him. "Why not?"
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"My boss wants me to go for a drink with him tomorrow."
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"Because you have work tomorrow."
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"Why, did you have something in mind?"
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"No, Anastasia."
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"You're not coming in?"
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"To celebrate my first week," I add quickly.
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"Oh." He shifts me off his lap as Taylor pulls up outside my apartment. Christian climbs out and holds the car door open for me.
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"Oh." I pout.
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I squirm. "Well, maybe."
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Oh? "We're not going to yours?"
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"So when will I see you?"
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"No. We're nearly at your place."
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"Tomorrow."
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"Open it when you get inside."
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"What!"
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"I have something for you." He moves to the back of the car, opens the trunk, and pulls out a large gift-wrapped box. What the hell is this?
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"So that you'll start communicating with me. Next time we make love, you're going to have to tell me exactly what you want in fine detail."
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"I could pick you up from there."
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"Until tomorrow," he breathes.
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"I don't know."
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He smiles.
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He walks me to the lobby door and waits while I dig my keys out of my purse. As I unlock the door, he leans forward and cups my chin, tilting my head back. His mouth hovers over mine, and closing his eyes, he runs a trail of kisses from the corner of my eye to the corner of my mouth.
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A small moan escapes my mouth as my insides melt and unfurl.
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Opening the case, I find an iPad. Holy shit… an iPad. A white card is resting on the screen with a message written in Christian's handwriting:
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"Good."
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Once in the apartment, I open the gift box and find my MacBook Pro laptop, the BlackBerry, and another rectangular box. What is this? I unwrap the silver paper. Inside is a black slim leather case.
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"Good night, Christian." I hear the need in my voice.
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"In you go," he orders, and I walk through the lobby carrying my mysterious parcel.
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"Okay… I'll e-mail or text you."
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"Laters, baby," he calls, then turns and with his easy grace, heads back to the car.
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"Where?"
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I know what you want to hear.
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Anastasia -- this is for you.
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Christian
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The music on here says it for me.
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He built it! He really did build it. I remember now he mentioned it in the note with the flowers. I'm reeling, and I know in that instant that he's put a great deal of thought into this gift.
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I have a Christian Grey mix tape in the guise of a high-end iPad. I shake my head in disapproval because of the expense, but deep down I love it. Jack has one at the office, so I know how they work.
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I switch it on and gasp as the wallpaper image appears: a small model glider. Oh my. It's the Blanik L-23 I gave him, mounted on a glass stand and sitting on what I think is Christian's desk at his office. I gape at it.
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With a swipe of my finger, the icons shift, and several new ones appear on the next screen. A Kindle app, iBooks, Words -- whatever that is.
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I slide the arrow at the bottom of the screen to unlock it and gasp again. The background photograph is of Christian and me at my graduation in the tent. It's the one that appeared in the Seattle Times. Christian looks so handsome and I can't help my face-splitting grin -- Yes, and he's mine!
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"Witchcraft." My grin gets wider -- dancing around the great room. The Bach Marcello piece -- oh no, that's way too sad for my mood right now. Hmm. Jeff Buckley -- yeah, I've heard of him. Snow Patrol -- my favorite band -- and a song called "Principles of Lust" by Enigma. How Christian. Another called "Possession"… oh yes, very Fifty Shades. And a few more I have never heard.
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I exit quickly, knowing that I could be lost in this app for an eternity. I notice a "good food" app that makes me roll my eyes and smile at the same time, a news app, a weather app, but his note mentioned music. I go back to the main screen, hit the iPod icon, and a playlist appears. I scroll through the songs, and the list makes me smile. Thomas Tallis -- I'm not going to forget that in a hurry. I heard it twice, after all, while he flogged and fucked me.
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The British Library? I touch the icon and a menu appears: HISTORICAL COLLECTION. Scrolling down, I select NOVELS OF THE 18TH AND 19TH CENTURY. Another menu. I tap on a title: The American BY HENRY JAMES. A new window opens, offering me a scanned copy of the book to read. Holy crap -- it's an early edition, published in 1879, and it's on my iPad! He's bought me the British Library at a touch of a button.
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Does this mean Christian's going to try? Try this new relationship? I drink in the lyrics, staring at the ceiling, trying to understand his turnaround. He missed me. I missed him. He must have some feelings for me. He must. This iPad, these songs, these apps -- he cares. He really cares. My heart swells with hope.
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Selecting a song that catches my eye, I press play. It's called "Try" by Nelly Furtado. She starts to sing, and her voice is a silken scarf wrapping around me, enveloping me. I lie down on my bed.
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The song ends and tears spring to my eyes. I quickly scroll to another --"The Scientist" by Coldplay -- one of Kate's favorite bands. I know the track, but I've never really listened to the lyrics before. I close my eyes and let the words wash over and through me.
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Or is this an invitation? Will he answer my questions? Am I reading too much into this? I am probably reading too much into this.
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My tears start to flow. I can't stem them. If this isn't an apology, what is it? Oh, Christian.
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I dash my tears away. I have to e-mail him to thank him. I leap off my bed to fetch the mean machine.
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Date: June 9 2011 23:56
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====================
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Subject: iPad
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But I'm not -- so go to sleep.
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I love you.
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====================
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His response makes me smile -- still so bossy, still so Christian. Will that change, too? And I realize in that moment that I hope not. I like him like this -- commanding -- as long as I can stand up to him without fear of punishment.
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From: Anastasia Steele
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Ana xx
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I love the songs.
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From: Christian Grey
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CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
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Subject: Mr. Grumpy
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Thank you.
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I'm glad you like it. I bought one for myself.
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Subject: IPAD
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To: Christian Grey
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Date: June 10 2011 00:03
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You sound your usual bossy and possibly tense, possibly grumpy self, Mr. Grey.
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To: Anastasia Steele
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To: Christian Grey
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You've made me cry again.
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Good night.
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Coldplay continues as I sit cross-legged on my bed. The Mac powers up and I log in.
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I love the British Library App.
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Now, if I were there, I would kiss away your tears.
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Christian Grey
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Date: June 10 2011 00:07
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From: Anastasia Steele
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====================
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I love the iPad.
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Ana xx
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You'll be relieved to know that Dr. Flynn also enjoys my sense of humor.
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PS: I also note that you included the Stalker's Anthem, "Every Breath You Take." I do enjoy your sense of humor, but does Dr. Flynn know?
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Subject: Good Night, Sweet Dreams
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Christian Grey
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Date: June 10 2011 00:12
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From: Christian Grey
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Tense CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
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My Dearest Miss Steele
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I know something that could ease that. But then, you're not here -- you wouldn't let me stay, and you expect me to beg…
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Well, since you ask so nicely, and I like your delicious threat, I shall curl up with the iPad that you have so kindly given me and fall asleep browsing in the British Library, listening to the music that says it for you.
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To: Christian Grey
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From: Anastasia Steele
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Spanking occurs in vanilla relationships, too, you know. Usually consensually and in a sexual context… but I am more than happy to make an exception.
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Dream on, Sir.
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Date: June 10 2011 00:10
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Now, please go to sleep, as you won't get much tomorrow.
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Subject: Zen-Like Calm
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====================
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To: Anastasia Steele
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Incidentally -- you will beg, trust me. And I look forward to it.
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====================
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José Gonzalez starts to sing a soothing melody with a hypnotic guitar riff, and I drift slowly into sleep, marveling how the world has righted itself in one evening and wondering idly if I should make a playlist for Christian.
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Dream of you, Christian Grey? Always.
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x
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Subject: One more request
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To: Anastasia Steele
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Date: June 10 2011 00:15
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CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
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From: Christian Grey
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Dream of me.
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Christian Grey
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I am brimming with joy, a stupid, widemouthed grin on my face. What a difference a day can make. How am I ever going to sleep?
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I change quickly into my pajamas, brush my teeth, and slip into bed. Putting my earbuds in, I pull the flattened Charlie Tango balloon from underneath my pillow and hug it to me.
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A xxx
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