Chapter Two

It's just breakfast. It's just letting my ex-boyfriend's bodyguard buy me coffee and a donut. It's agreeing, stupidly, to meet him for dinner in two days. I don't ask why two days - I assume it's got something to do with Christian's schedule - or venture to suggest we shouldn't meet again. The truth is: I want to. It occurs to me that there are few people I can talk to about the Incident, and fewer still who'll understand. Taylor may not have all the pieces, but he can puzzle out the big lines of my monumental failure.

When I tell Kate about it, she's confused: "But what happened to Christian?"

"Not in the picture anymore," I say, struggling for nonchalance. "So I was thinking I should take you shopping..."

Kate isn't so easily deterred: "He broke up with you?" Her outrage is only rivaled by her shock. I don't know if it's because she thinks well of me or is naturally suspicious of men who might like me - I hope it's the former - but I feel compelled to put my arms around and tell her it's okay. It's for the best.

I don't. It would be a lie. "We weren't a very good fit," I hedge and shrug my shoulders. "He's rich and knowledgeable and I'm... really not."

Kate takes my hands in hers and leads me to the couch. We spent the night watching gory movies; she can't possibly think I still need coddling. "If he did something-"

"Kate!"

"No, listen." The pressure of her fingers on mine turns rough. "I just want you to know I'm here, okay? You can talk to me... And my dad knows Grey, so you don't have to be afraid of repercussions. We've got your back."

Something in my chest clenches painfully. I think it's my heart, but hope against it: the last time that happened to Ray, we ended up visiting the ER. "What," I ask Kate, "did I ever do to deserve you?"

"You were a nun in a past life," she answers, deadpan. "But I'm serious. You know I'm serious, right?"

I've only ever seen Kate this earnest when she's arguing about the Kashmir or deforestation in the Amazon. I nod my head and stray curls fall free from my ponytail.

Her expression morphs right before my eyes, concern transfigured into amusement. "Oh-em-gee!"

"What?" I'm not a big fan of internet-lingo, if only because I feel like I'm always catching up. (I was still writing essays by hand when Kate got her first smartphone; they say opposites attract.)

"You're primping."

"No, I'm not," I scoff. "I just... wanted to look nice for tonight." It's been three days. The pain has dulled to a low murmur, into the kind of ache I get when I've been working out more than I should, and I can sit down without needles shooting up my spine again. Taylor's delay has served me well.

Kate smiles knowingly. "Right, okay." She stretches back on the couch, fishing the remote out from under my favorite afghan. "Well, don't let me keep you, Miss-I've-got-a-date. You still need to do the other side."

"I did!" My hand comes up to tug absently at the curls. "Are they coming undone already? Ah, darn it..." I shuffle slowly off the couch, aware that I'm fighting a losing battle; there's a reason I never bothered trying to scorch my hair into impossible shapes and that's because it refuses to obey. My body has always been mutinous at the best of times.

"Where is he taking you, anyway?" Kate asks from the living room. "And do I need to scout out the place first?"

Even with the TV going in the background, I can hear her ominously powering up the computer. She's a woman with a mission and for once her show of force makes me feel safe. "Actually, I don't know... Is it wrong I'm hoping for a fast food joint?"

"Very," Kate tells me, but I know I'm forgiven when she comes help me decide what to wear.

Taylor is prompt. He doesn't show up in a stretch limo and he doesn't look fazed when Kate comes out to shake his hand. "Have her back by eleven," I hear her call behind us. "And do everything I would!"

The door closes on her grin and my abject humiliation. "I'm so sorry about that. She's very-"

"Nice?" I wonder if I'm supposed to mind this thing Taylor does where he doesn't let me finish my own sentences, but I realize I've been doing it, too.

"The roles are usually reversed," I explain as Taylor leads me down to the curb. There are no cars parked out front. Only a motorcycle of indeterminate make, the kind I usually see rumbling past when I'm in the car. It looks very cool.

Taylor hands me a helmet and I'm suddenly relieved I had the foresight to wear jeans and boots. I almost look the part. "So would it be shocking if I said I never rode one of these before?"

"Most people haven't." It's a 1940s Crocker, he tells me. Not a Harley-Davidson, as I initially thought and not an Indian. This, apparently, means the bike is in a class all of its own. Who am I to disagree?

I stand there holding the helmet for a few panicked moments, wondering if I should, if it's safe, if I'm going to end up scattered all over the tarmac in a gruesome mix of steel and viscera while they struggle to identify me by my teeth. The gentle pressure of Taylor's hand on my elbow brings me out of snowballing anxiety. "If you want, I can call a cab." His expression is so open, like he'll happily oblige if I asked him to.

This is dinner with a friend who just happens to be a guy. It's nothing I haven't done before.

"Let's go," I decide and anchor my hands at Taylor's sides. His leather jacket is cool beneath my fingertips, but that's not unpleasant. I try not to think about the last time I had a guy between my legs and almost succeed; Christian isn't allowed to occupy my thoughts anymore. He lost that privilege after he - after we - But I've decided I'm not going to dwell.

The engine shakes to life beneath me, a loud bellow in a quiet street, and I clench my thighs around Taylor's hips. I can smell the vague spicy scent of his cologne and the crisp copper-penny aroma of the bike. For some reason, it makes me think of Seattle in the rain: I realize I'm yearning for something normal in a string of days that have been anything but. We drive north for a while, then over bridges where the salt-scent of the rivers is drowned by the ever-present miasma of gasoline. My hair whips against my shoulders, all my hours of arduous work undone.

So Kate was right; so I'd been primping. It's not like it matters now.

I'm glad to stop, at last, though I don't recognize the district I've been brought to. Taylor grins as I tug off my helmet. "I've been told I shouldn't spring the whole bike thing on my dates..."

"Do I look like some exotic bird nested in my hair?" He doesn't have to say it. I shove my purse into his hands and quickly tame the disaster. "There. Better?"

Taylor hands me my handbag with a smile. He's quick to laugh, something I didn't realize about him when he was ferrying me back and forth from the Escala at Christian's pleasure. I can't help the thought any more than I can manage to conceal a smile of my own as we step into a seaside eatery the likes of which I know Ray would enjoy. "It's not the Heathman, I'll admit, but wait until you taste the food," Taylor insists. Is that worry drawing his lips tight? I feel a flash of empathy.

"Oh, believe me, I know all about judging a book by its cover." I think of Tess and the first editions I have at home. It's not a subject I want to bring up. I'm surprised to find I feel at ease in my black tee and white blazer - maybe even overdressed. The impulse to glance around me and size up the competition is conspicuous in its absence. I blame it on Taylor keeping his eyes on me as we're seated.

"Would you like something to drink?" the waitress asks us. "Champagne?"

I half expect Taylor to offer me a bottle of Cristal, but he only shakes his head. "Only water for me. But Miss Steele - sorry, Anastasia, you should order whatever you'd like."

"Alright, I will." My eyes scan the wine card without alighting on any names, familiar or otherwise. "A Coke?"

The waitress writes it down on a paper notepad. "Coming right up. And if I may make a suggestion, you should try the Penn Cove mussels. Chef stir-fries them in Tabasco sauce." She winks at us before scampering off to attend to other patrons.

The restaurant is too small to be empty and too noisy to give me room for awkward silence. I cock my head at Taylor. "Are you being a good boy and staying sober tonight for my sake?"

"Is that why you're only drinking a soda?"

I smile. "After the past week, I think I need to take it easy." And just like that, the elephant is back in the room, sitting at our table for two and refusing to be ignored. My fault, my mess to clean up. "How is he, Taylor?" I ask, sheepish.

There's a fair chance I won't have to clarify who I mean; especially in public, the name Christian Grey tends to turn heads. I'm not disappointed: "He'll be okay," Taylor answers, if somewhat evasively. Okay is better than depressed and suicidal. It's not dating happily, either, but this is Christian Grey we're talking about. The second coming is more likely to happen than a genuine, pleased smile that isn't tinged with some kind of ulterior motive.

"Thank you. I'm sorry I brought him up, but..."

"I understand," Taylor assures me. "It doesn't bother me if you need to talk. Never easy to end a relationship, right? Whatever people might tell you. But as long as you're sure you made the right call..."

It's my turn to interrupt: "I'm sure," I tell him. I know I'm smiling and I know it's inappropriate, but every great feat begins with a burst of effort. "Honestly, what Christian needs and what I can offer are two separate things. I guess I could've handled it better, but it's what it is. Life goes on."

"Give yourself time. Hindsight is always twenty-twenty." Taylor huffs out a sigh, shaking his head in dismay. "And now that I've run up the tally on meaningless platitudes, how about we order? I'm thinking muscles-and-Tabasco." Besides being clearly farcical, his efforts to scrutinize the menu with deep and pressing interest startle a laugh out of me.

"Why not," I echo, "let's live dangerously." Coke and Tabasco sauce are a far cry from the luxurious concoctions Christian would arrange for us, but that doesn't make this experience lesser. The thought stabs through me: this is how relationships normally work. This is what I wanted from Christian.

Taylor proves to be an easy conversationalist. I know this already after breakfast the other day, but this time we seem to have skipped the gauche beginnings and entered straight into the realm of easy banter. "...and Sophie said: I was upset when I found out Santa didn't exist, Daddy, and I know it's hard, but you have to face reality." He pauses for effect. "She's eight years old."

"I didn't even know you had a daughter," is all I can think of to say. I imagine a younger Taylor, girl-shaped but with the same full lips and stern brow. "Not that I'm all that surprised she knows her mind. She'll be schooling boys left and right when she's a little older. And good for her."

"Yeah, in the meantime, she isn't letting me get away with anything." Taylor pries another clam from its shell. "Her mom and I divorced a few years back."

"I'm sorry..." The subject isn't unfamiliar to me. I know what it's like to have a family divided.

But Taylor stops me short. "Her mom fell in love with another woman. Divorcing was the best decision we ever made as a couple... Well, after having Sophie."

"Do you have a pic, by any chance?" He produces one from his wallet and I discover I wasn't far from in my predictions. From the glossy photograph, Sophie's staring at the camera with a suspicious, serious moue. Beside her sits a beautiful woman, hair done up in braids. She's hard at work dressing Barbie into an astronaut suit.

"You can scroll back and forth," Taylor puts in. "I have a couple of her with her mom, too."

"Are you sure you should be putting your phone in my hands?" I ask, grinning as my thumb dances over the touch screen. "Who knows other secrets I might discover..."

He grins, clinking his glass of water against my Coke. "Don't you think it would be easier just to ask?"

"Easier, sure," I scoff, "but where's your sense of mystery? Of suspense?"

"I'm a pretty straightforward guy, Anastasia." He shifts in his seat, hands joining over the table top. "And since I just bragged about it, I'll put my money where my mouth is. Here goes: I, uh, I'd like to see you again."

It's not exactly like being hit by a freight train, but it's close. There's polite and then there's asking someone out on a date. I think I can see where that line is drawn and we seem to have fallen pretty firmly on one side of it. "Umm..." A bachelor degree in English lit. and this is the best I can come up with. My professors would be weeping if they knew.

Taylor, for all his easy smiles and gentle voice, waits me out. I hate him a little bit just for that. Doesn't he know I have perfected cowardice to the level of a survival tactic?

"Oh, fine. Pick me up tomorrow night at eight." I do my best imitation of blasé, but inside I'm giddy. I've seen Kate do this before: medicate one reckless relationship with another. I decide to steal a page out of her book and see where it takes me.

I don't think of Christian.