Unknown - fifty shades darker

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. Of course I do.

Perhaps, perhaps I can tell him I’ve changed my mind . . . No, no, no. I cannot be with someone who takes pleasure in inflicting pain on me, someone who can’t love me.

Torturous memories flash through my mind—the gliding, holding hands, kissing, the bathtub, his gentleness, his humor, and his dark, brooding, sexy stare. I miss him. It’s been five days, five days of agony that has felt like an eternity.

I wrap my arms around my body, hugging myself tightly, holding myself together. I miss him. I really miss him . . . I love him. Simple.

I cry myself to sleep at night, wishing I hadn’t walked out, wishing that he could be different, wishing that we were together. How long will this hideous overwhelming feeling last? I am in purgatory.

Anastasia Steele, you are at work! I must be strong, but I want to go to José’s show, and deep down, the masochist in me wants to see Christian. Taking a deep breath, I head back to my desk.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:25

To:Christian Grey

Hi Christian

Thank you for the flowers; they are lovely.

Yes, I would appreciate a lift.

Thank you.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Checking my phone, I find that it is still switched to divert. Jack is in a meeting, so I quickly call José.

“Hi, José. It’s Ana.”

“Hello, stranger.” His tone is so warm and welcoming it’s almost enough to push me over the edge again.

“I can’t talk long. What time should I be there tomorrow for your show?”

“You’re still coming?” He sounds excited.

“Yes, of course.” I smile my first genuine smile in five days as I picture his broad grin.

“Seven thirty.”

“See you then. Good-bye, José.”

“Bye, Ana.”

From:Christian Grey

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:27

To:Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

What time shall I collect you?

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:32

To:Christian Grey

José’s show starts at 7:30. What time would you suggest?

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

From:Christian Grey

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:34

To:Anastasia Steele

Dear Anastasia

Portland is some distance away. I shall collect you at 5:45.

I look forward to seeing you.

Christian Grey

CEO, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.

From:Anastasia Steele

Subject:Tomorrow

Date:June 8, 2011 14:38

To:Christian Grey

See you then.

Anastasia Steele

Assistant to Jack Hyde, Commissioning Editor, SIP

Oh my. I’m going to see Christian, and for the first time in five days, my spirits lift a fraction and I allow myself to wonder how he’s been.

Has he missed me? Probably not like I’ve missed him. Has he found a new submissive from wherever they come from? The thought is so painful that I dismiss it immediately. I look at the pile of correspondence I need to sort for Jack and tackle it as I try to push Christian out of my mind once more.

That night in bed, I toss and turn, trying to sleep. It is the first time in a while I haven’t cried myself to sleep.

In my mind’s eye, I visualize Christian’s face the last time I saw him as I left his apartment. His tortured expression haunts me. I remember he didn’t want me to go, which was odd. Why would I stay when things had reached such an impasse? We were each skirting around our own issues—my fear of punishment, his fear of . . . what? Love?