Trust me.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I glance at my watch. It will take her at least twenty minutes to get home, probably longer in that deathtrap. I e-mail Taylor.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Audi A3
Date: May 25 2011 22:04
To: J B Taylor
I need that Audi delivered here tomorrow.
Thanks.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
Opening the Sancerre, I pour myself a glass, and picking up my book, I sit and read, trying hard to concentrate. My eyes keep straying to my laptop screen. When will she reply?
As the minutes tick by, my anxiety balloons; why hasn’t she returned my e-mail?
At 11:00, I text her.
Are you home safe?
But I get nothing in response. Perhaps she’s gone straight to bed. Before midnight I send another e-mail.
* * *
From: Christian Grey
Subject: Tonight
Date: May 25 2011 23:58
To: Anastasia Steele
I hope you made it home in that car of yours.
Let me know if you’re okay.
Christian Grey
CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings, Inc.
I’ll see her tomorrow at the graduation ceremony and I’ll find out then if she’s turning me down. With that depressing thought I strip and climb into bed and stare at the ceiling.
You’ve really fucked up this deal, Grey.
THURSDAY, MAY 26, 2011
* * *
Mommy is gone. Sometimes she goes outside.
And it is only me. Me and my cars and my blankie.
When she comes home she sleeps on the couch. The couch is brown and sticky. She is tired. Sometimes I cover her with my blankie.
Or she comes home with something to eat. I like those days. We have bread and butter. And sometimes we have macrami and cheese. That is my favorite.
Today Mommy is gone. I play with my cars. They go fast on the floor. My mommy is gone. She will come back. She will. When is Mommy coming home?
It is dark now, and my mommy is gone. I can reach the light when I stand on the stool.
On. Off. On. Off. On. Off.
Light. Dark. Light. Dark. Light.
I’m hungry. I eat the cheese. There is cheese in the fridge. Cheese with blue fur.
When is Mommy coming home?
Sometimes she comes home with him. I hate him. I hide when he comes. My favorite place is in my mommy’s closet. It smells of Mommy. It smells of Mommy when she’s happy.
When is Mommy coming home?
My bed is cold. And I am hungry. I have my blankie and my cars but not my mommy. When is Mommy coming home?
I wake with a start.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
I hate my dreams. They’re riddled with harrowing memories, distorted reminders of a time I want to forget. My heart is pounding and I’m drenched with sweat. But the worst consequence of these nightmares is dealing with the overwhelming anxiety when I wake.
My nightmares have recently become more frequent, and more vivid. I have no idea why. Damned Flynn—he’s not back until sometime next week. I run both of my hands through my hair and check the time. It’s 5:38, and the dawn light is seeping through the curtains. It’s nearly time to get up.
Go for a run, Grey.
THERE IS STILL NO text or e-mail from Ana. As my feet pound the sidewalk, my anxiety grows.
Leave it, Grey.
Just fucking leave it!
I know I’ll see her at the graduation ceremony.
But I can’t leave it.
Before my shower, I send her another text.
Call me.
I just need to know she’s safe.
AFTER BREAKFAST THERE’S STILL no word from Ana. To get her out of my head I work for a couple of hours on my commencement speech. At the graduation ceremony later this morning I’ll be honoring the extraordinary work of the environmental sciences department and the progress they’ve made in partnership with GEH in arable technology for developing countries.
“All part of your feed-the-world plan?” Ana’s shrewd words echo in my head, and they nudge at last night’s nightmare.
I shrug it off as I rewrite. Sam, my VP for publicity, has sent a draft that is way too pretentious for me. It takes me an hour to rework his media-speak bullshit into something more human.
Nine thirty and still no word from Ana. Her radio silence is worrying—and frankly rude. I call, but her phone goes straight to a generic voice mail message.
I hang up.
Show some dignity, Grey.
There’s a ping in my inbox, and my heartbeat spikes—but it’s from Mia. In spite of my bad mood, I smile. I’ve missed that kid.
* * *
From: Mia G. Chef Extraordinaire
Subject: Flights
Date: May 26 2011 18:32 GMT-1
To: Christian Grey
Hey, Christian,
I can’t wait to get out of here!
Rescue me. Please.
My flight number on Saturday is AF3622. It arrives at 12:22 p.m. and Dad is making me fly coach! *pouting!
I will have lots of luggage. Love. Love. Love Paris fashion.
Mom says you have a girlfriend.
Is this true?
What’s she like?
I NEED TO KNOW!!!!!
See you Saturday. Missed you so much.
À bientôt mon frère.
Mxxxxxxxxx
Oh hell! My mother’s big mouth. Ana is not my girlfriend! And come Saturday I’ll have to fend off my sister’s equally big mouth and her inherent optimism and her prying questions. She can be exhausting. Making a mental note of the flight number and time, I send Mia a quick e-mail to let her know I’ll be there.
At 9:45 I get ready for the ceremony. Gray suit, white shirt, and of course that tie. It will be my subtle message to Ana that I haven’t given up, and a reminder of good times.
Yeah, real good times…images of her bound and wanting come to mind. Damn it. Why hasn’t she called? I press redial.