Mia and I have never…seen eye to eye, even when we were children.
In her eyes, I imagine, I was the girl that kept big brother from playing house with her, or who kept him from taking her to the ice cream truck when it rolled by, regardless that she had the eldest brother Elliott to do these things with. She would snub me whenever I visited the Grey's, turning her nose up and vacating the area with a haughty march. It wasn't until we were both in our teens that I sought to clear the air with her. I just wanted the petty bullshit to stop. I just wanted Christian. The animosity had been absent since then.
It must have been making a comeback.
Looking at Mia now, with her arms crossed and her perfectly made-up face in a scowling pout, I am eerily reminded of ending the drama with her over a decade ago. Something tells me it will be a little less civil this time.
"I'll be honest with you, Ana," she begins, "I don't exactly know how to have this talk with you. I've been trying to find the words all night."
That explains the death glares, I suppose. "Say what comes to your mind," I offer, rubbing my shoulders from the chill. The faster this is put of the way, the better.
She nods. "Ana, I want you to stay away from Christian."
Wow, blunt. I cannot suppress the stunned look I must have. My left brow is reaching for my hairline and my eyes are wide as they get. I'm dearly fighting to keep from smiling. I may look comical.
"Okay," I laugh, breathy. I look down to the ground to give myself a moment of composure, and when I return my gaze to Mia's, she's stalwart. I smile just a little. "Why? Why do you want me to stay away from Christian?"
I don't laugh at her out of disrespect. I do, truthfully, have a great respect for all of the Grey family. My humor comes from the knowledge that she knows exactly what Christian and I are like firsthand, probably better than anyone else does. She was there when we were kids, throughout our teens, and into early adulthood. So why she finds it necessary to make a proclamation like this one… well, I think it laughable. But, I am interested in what she has to say, and I want to hear her out.
"I'm sorry, I don't get the joke," she snaps. "You must think the suffering of someone you claim to love is funny, Anastasia, but I don't."
I sober instantly. If ever there were a wrong set of words to use with me, those would be the ones. My tongue turns to venom. "You don't know shit, Mia. So don't talk like you do. I came out to hear what you have to say, so please, say it."
"You seem to think just coming back into his life whenever you feel like it is acceptable, but that is far from the case. You hurt him, Ana. Badly. But selfish as you are, you see right past that, don't you?"
"I'll say it again, Grey," I grind out, my voice low. I take a few steps closer so I'm a foot away, to be sure she hears me this time. "You," I pronounce slowly, "Don't. Know. Shit. Do not, ever, speak to me like you do."
She does not back down from me, in fact she steps closer. "I know you're like a walking vial of poison. I know you'll do whatever you can to drag Christian down into whatever hell you dwell in day to day. I know you're weak. I'm sorry you lost your parents, Ana, I am; but that was years ago. Hearing that my brother is driving to slums hours away just to drag you back from a drinking spree is just pitiful…"
I hold my hand up to stop her then take a moment to examine both of my hands, turning them this way and that. Then I hold them up for her to see as well. "Sorry, Mia," I say, "but I don't see shackles or even a chain attached to my wrist to yank on to call Christian to my side. Please give your brother some credit. I don't control him, I never have. I went out of my way to separate us. He went out of his to put us back together. It is what it is."
"But it shouldn't be, should it?"
"I can't change what we are," I tell her as I step away, shaking my head. "I don't know what you want me to say to you, Mia."
"He has Elena—"
"And where is she?" I interject. "Not here, not at Christian's house, not anywhere that I've seen," I say with a shrug. "So what makes her more relevant than I am?"
"Their marriage," she spits, and core-deep I feel a thrum that rocks me. A cold surge washes over my skin, head to toe, and at the base of my chest I can feel my heart give a wintry beat. I feel…lost. Adrift. I know where I am in the literal sense, but I've suddenly lost my footing in this battle. Not the one with Mia, but the one with myself.
How did I come to be here? Arguing in the street with the man I love's sister, wearing the clothes and heels that he'd bought me, at a club he brought me to…when he gave me up.
I feel like I am drowning. My lungs are tight; my breath whistles through my teeth in pathetic huffs. I am so, so cold. They question why I didn't function without the alcohol. It was because of the burn. There is no ice in my chest when there is a 50 proof bottle to my lips.
I am staring down the street when Christian materializes, and the closer he gets to us the faster the chill spreads. I don't want to be here. I don't want any of this. If every other word that came out of Mia's mouth was bullshit, there was only one that struck any semblance of truth: weak.
"Anastasia?" Christian calls, and seeing me just stare at him his walk turns to a jog. He reaches for me instantly, and the warmth of Christian's hands as he touches my arms is a shock. I want it and I don't. Always complicated with this man, everything was. And yet it was all so, so easy.
"Go home, Mia," Christian directs, and she doesn't even resist. She digs into her purse and has her phone in hand the next second. The Range Rover we were brought in pulls up to us within the same minute, and Taylor jumps out to help Mia into it. Grace is exiting the club when Taylor shuts the door. Christian must have had Taylor watching Mia and I since we left his sight, prepared for the very second when he could intervene. He knew exactly how this exchange would go. I am thankful. And conflicted.
Grace gives Christian and I both very long, knowing looks before hugging us goodbye, and they drive off, leaving he and I alone. He immediately hails down a cab.
Sitting in the back of the taxi with him, I can only think of all the obscenely inappropriate moments we've had in just the past 24 hours, and there were many of them. We carried on as if we were still together, still in love with one another…as if I hadn't walked away from all of this, him, already.
The pain is residual; my hand goes to my stomach out of reflex. I am ashamed to find that I don't think any of those moments wrong.
"Please talk to me, Ana," Christian pleads, and I do not respond because I don't know what to say. We have been in a similar place to this before, and instead of talking, I'd walked away from him. I wanted to do it again. I knew I needed to, but just the thought of separation bled me.
Without turning to him, I lift my hand to feel the man beside me. I want to assure myself that what I feel is not fiction, a mind game. I want to experience what tethers me here, my sins aside. I encounter the broad expanse of his chest, strong even beneath the cloth, and he does not move to stop me so I venture north to his smooth columned throat. Excitement pools in the pit of my stomach. I truly believe that the chemicals that this man and I are composed of are meant for he and I alone's attraction. It is my only excuse for the thrill that ropes my senses, my conscience; it's the only explanation of my spent morality.
I have yet to gauge Christian's reaction, but I can hear his breathing, how deep it is. It rustles the hair spilled onto my shoulder, tickles the exposed skin of my neck. It affects me. He affects me.
My finger tips are hot when they reach his jaw, and the sharp line of it leads me to his stubbled cheek, and I go no further as his hand covers mine.
"Look at me, Ana," he murmurs, and I jump at his nearness. He is close and I want him closer. My head falls away from him in an open invitation, and I gasp as he traces the tip of his nose up my neckline, behind my ear, and repeats himself. "Look at me, Anastasia."
My obedience is a reward in itself. There is an avidity in his expression that melts that confounded muscle in my chest so it is bursting. He still holds my hand to his cheek, his thumb is caressing my fingers in slow strokes. I see everything I feel and more reflected in the way he looks at me. His eyes are beseeching, searching, yearning.
Hungry.
Earth reclaims me as the cab driver clears his throat at us. I'm reminded of where we are, of what brought us to be sitting in this man's taxi instead of in the Range Rover, all at once. I would laugh if I were not mortified. The easiest part is falling into nothing with him. The hard part is clawing my way back out. I cannot even control my attraction to Christian when I want to. Where is the hope in me if I am not trying?
I almost trip I'm rushing so quick from the vehicle. I hear Christian telling the man to keep the change as I scurry up the walkway. He sprints to reach me and places his hand on the small of my back as he keeps pace with me, probably hoping I will slow or stop. I don't care if I trip or not, I just need to put distance between us. I wait patiently for Christian to open the door but he is hesitating, trying to get me to look at him, respond to him. I do not, and my resoluteness pays off as the foyer opens up to us. I beeline for the stairs to my room.
Of course, he tries to stop me.
"Ana—"
"Thank you, Christian," I interrupt, halted on the stairs, "for taking me out. It was lovely." I turn somewhat awkwardly, looking down over the railing to see his pensive face. Bless him, he wants to let me go. I am inwardly rooting for that part of him that resists to grow bigger, to be the winning side. He knows as well as I do we need the space.
"You're welcome," he sighs, and I'm not quite so enthusiastic to leave him anymore. His stance, as well as the way he sounds, is stressed. I die to comfort him as he does me. I hate the hard part. "Going to bed early?"
"Yes," I say in exhale. "I'm tired." And I am; it has been a very, very long day.
"Okay," he relents, and where I should be seizing the opportunity and making myself scarce, I find myself retracing my steps, walking slowly back down the stairs, until I've walked straight into Christian's warm embrace. He holds me so tight I'm sure our beings will merge, and the thought is a pleasing one. His lips are in my hair, on my forehead; mine are poised directly on his heart.
This was what sobriety meant for us, for me—the reformation of bad habits. If I latched on to one vice I could easily resist the other, but I did not know which one was worse for my health. Both would be the death of me.
I am content, at peace, when we let go of one another, and there are sappy, little smiles on both of our faces. We walk up the stairs together, hand in hand, and he kisses my knuckles as we reach the landing. He walks with me until we reach my door, and my heart squeezes as I step into the room.
"Goodnight, Christian," I say, and I've not stepped away from the door when I hear the telltale rumble of his departure.
"Goodnight, Anastasia."
I won't be able to update the story for the next couple of days but I'm hopeful to hear your feedback. Thanks for reading!
