Sarah dashes out and I stare at monochrome Ana on my wall.
Even your doctor is pissed at me.
Misery is my constant companion, all the way through my meetings, my lunch, and my kickboxing session with Bastille.
“You look like a wet weekend, Grey.”
“I feel it.”
“Let’s see if we can turn that frown upside down.”
Really?
I knock him on his ass twice; he deserves to go down for that comment alone.
By 4:30 I’ve heard nothing from my wife, not even an angry hectoring e-mail liberally sprinkled with shouty capitals. Sawyer has reported in to let me know that she had a bagel for lunch. That’s something. I have fifteen minutes before showtime with Brad Hansell, the head of the shipbuilders’ union, and Senator Blandino. This is going to be a tough meeting. I’m briefed but I can’t focus; instead, I’m sitting here staring at my computer, willing an e-mail to arrive from my wife. I can’t believe I’ve heard nothing from Ana all day. Nothing.
I don’t like this. I don’t like being the object of her anger. I put my head in my hands. Maybe…maybe I should apologize. What did Flynn say? It’s better to concede the battle to win the war.
And deep down, I know I’ve fucked up. But I’d hoped that she would have forgiven me by now.
I type out an e-mail.
From: Christian Grey
Subject: I’m Sorry
Date: September 14 2011 16:45
To: Anastasia Grey
I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry. I’m Sorry.
I fucked up. Please forgive me.
Christian Grey
CEO & Penitent Husband, Grey Enterprises Holdings Inc.
I don’t want to go home to face her anger again. I want her smiles, her laughter, and her love. I gaze up at her smiling face in the photo. I want her to look at me like she does in this portrait. I return to the e-mail, wondering whether to hit send. This meeting could go on for a while. I call Mrs. Jones.
“Mr. Grey.”
“I may not be home for dinner. Please make sure Mrs. Grey eats.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cook her something nice.”
“I will.”
“Thank you, Gail.” I hang up and delete the e-mail—it’s not going to be enough. I could try jewelry. Flowers? My phone buzzes.
“Yes, Andrea.”
“Mr. Hansell and Senator Blandino are here with their teams.”
“Call Ros and Samir to join us.”
“Yes, sir.”
This will be a fight about layoffs. I grit my teeth. Sometimes I hate my job.
Blandino is appealing for calm. “These are our economic realities in 2011,” she says to Hansell, who sits red-faced on the other side of my boardroom table.
I just want to go home. But we’re not finished here.
My phone buzzes, and my heart rate spikes. It’s my wife. “Excuse me.” I rise from the table, feeling seven pairs of eyes on me as I exit the room.
She’s called. I’m almost giddy with relief—my heart feels like it will escape my chest. “Ana!”
“Hi.” It’s so good to hear her voice.
“Hi.”
I can’t think what else to say, but I want to beg her to stop being mad at me.
Please don’t be mad. I’m sorry.
“Are you coming home?” she asks.
“Later.”
“Are you in the office?”
I frown. “Yes. Where did you expect me to be?”
“I’ll let you go.”
What? But— There’s so much I want to say, but neither of us speaks. The silence is a chasm between us and I have a boardroom of people locked in crisis talks waiting for me.
“Good night, Ana.” I love you.
“Good night, Christian.” I hang up before she can, thinking about all those times we’ve stayed on the line and neither of us hangs up. I couldn’t bear to hear her end the call first. I stare despondently at my phone. At least she asked if I was coming home. Perhaps she misses me. Or she’s checking up on me. Either way. She cares. Maybe. A small ember of hope glows deep in my heart. I need to wrap this meeting up and get home to my wife.
It’s late when we agree on a potential compromise. With hindsight, I see that confrontation with the union was inevitable, but it’s been good for all sides to air their grievances. Samir and Ros will now take the negotiations from here and hammer out a deal. Compared to the battle I’m facing at home, this wasn’t so bad. Ros was an impressive negotiator, and I’ve persuaded her to go to Taiwan tomorrow evening without me.
“Okay, Christian. I’ll go. But they’ll really want you there.”
“I’ll find time. Later this month.”
Her lips tighten, but she says nothing.
I can’t tell her that I don’t want to leave Ana when she’s not even talking to me. Deep down, I know it’s because I’m petrified my wife might not be there when I return.
The apartment is dark when I get home; Ana must be in bed. I head into our bedroom, and my heart sinks when I find she’s not there. Stifling my panic, I head upstairs. In the dim light from the hallway, I make out her form curled up beneath the duvet in her old bedroom.
Old bedroom?
It’s hardly that; she’s slept in it, what, twice?
She looks so small. I flick the dimmer switch on to see her better, but keep the lights low, and carry the armchair over so I can sit down and gaze at her. Her skin is pale, translucent, almost. She’s been crying; her eyelids and lips are swollen. My heart freefalls through my body with despair.
Oh, baby—I’m sorry.
I know how soft her lips are to kiss when she’s been crying…when I make her cry. I want to climb in beside her, to pull her into my arms and hold her, but she’s asleep, and she needs her sleep, especially now.
I settle into the chair and match my breathing to Ana’s. The rhythm soothes me, that and my proximity to her. For the first time since I woke up this morning I feel a little calmer. The last time I sat and watched her sleep was when Hyde broke into our apartment; she’d been out with Kate. I was mad as hell then.