THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WORDS. SORRY FOR TAKING SO LONG TO UPDATE, I HAVE BEEN ILL WITH A COLD SO HAVEN'T FELT MUCH IN THE MOOD TO WRITE, BUT FINALLY MANAGED TO SQUEEZE ONE OUT. HOPE IT'S OKAY.
IN TOO DEEP
CHAPTER 3
ANA POINT OF VIEW
I start to lose count on about my seventh or so time of sleeping over on the weekend at Kate's. It all turns into pretty much a blur, but it definitely feels like a second home to me.
My days, at Kate's, are spent basically spying on her father, trying to work out his routine without being caught by Kate.
Again, I know it's wrong, being infatuated with Kate's dad. I know it would realistically never happen between us, and it would be wrong on many levels if it did, but what's the harm in a girl dreaming, right?
So far, during my previous stays, I've worked out that on week nights, he doesn't come home from work until a bit after six in the evening. He likes golfing with his security man Taylor every second weekend. He never sees other women, which makes me wonder if what Kate said is right, in that he's still trying to get over the divorce and her Mom.
On Sunday's, he likes to go for runs that morning. I caught him last week, coming in from a run at 8.30 a.m, dressed in grey track pants and a tight grey V-neck shirt, panting heavily while he got an unopened bottle of chilled water out from the fridge. Usually I find it off-putting, seeing men sweaty, but there is something about him that made sweat even on him look really good. An added bonus was that the V-neck was so tight, it literally clung. He definitely keeps in great shape for a nearly 40-year-old. It was really lucky he never caught me staring that weekend.
It's pathetic and quite possibly weird, really. But my excitement on the weekends at Kate's seem to exist of secretly observing her dad's every move, watching him and admiring him from afar. I just seriously have never liked a man as much as I like Kate's dad. Not even any guys from school can compare to the deliciousness that is Kate's father.
I've also been secretly wheedling information out from Kate about him, though of course, I make it seem casual and nonchalant, my questions. Like last weekend, while Kate was doing my nails a pretty green color in her room, I'd asked about her Mom.
"Mom and dad used to fight a lot, I can't really remember why though. And it didn't take her long to meet her boyfriend. I think they got together, like, three days after the divorce was settled."
I'd waited a moment strategically before pressing for more information. "And what's her new boyfriend like? Is he nice?"
"I haven't really decided yet. He can be okay. But he's got nothing on my dad, you know?"
I'd thought to myself while trying to restrain a smile that I do know. No one can have anything on her dad.
So after some more pressing, I'd worked out that her Mom had started seeing this guy that's her now-boyfriend before her and Kate's dad even officially broke up. In a sense, you could call it cheating or having an affair. She hadn't even finalized the divorce when she'd started seeing the new guy behind Christian's back. I guess, after knowing that, you can't really blame Mr Grey for being reluctant to meet someone new. It must be hurtful, being cheated on and to know now that your ex is now dating that guy she left you for. Really, I've thought about it too much the past few days. It's no wonder he comes across as so lonely then.
It's been three years apparently since they officially divorced and Kate said he still hasn't so much as gone out on a date with someone new. Three years is an extremely long time, but then, what would I know? I've been single since pretty much birth, I haven't even had a first boyfriend yet. But still.
The following weekend, staying over at Kate's, I get my first realization that it's incredibly hard. It's incredibly hard to act remotely normal when you're nursing a thing for your friend's father big time.
Kate and I are sitting in her living room, on her large U-shaped, 8 seat couch, watching her choice in a moving for tonight because it's her turn. Last time, when it was my turn, I'd chosen a recent adaptation of one of my favorite novels. Now, tonight it's Kate's turn, and she picked The Notebook, one of her all-time favorites which I've seen literally fifty times already.
I've got my feet tucked in beneath me, while Kate lays lengthwise down the side of the couch, her head resting in my lap. We're just at the part where Allie and Noah meet again, years later, when her dad finally enters the room, having finished whatever it is he has to do as part of business in his office area.
The instance he comes in, even although it's dark with just the lights from the screen flickering around us, my eyes immediately go to him, taking notice. Really, it's impossible to keep my eyes from being drawn to him. Tonight, he's wearing knee-length shorts and a button-down black shirt, looking both casual yet summery. It isn't even summer yet but admittedly, I love the excuse to look at his legs.
"What are you girl's watching tonight?" he asks over the big reunion on the TV and Kate shushes him, her eyes glued to the screen.
He squeezes in beside me, his forearm and the side of his kneecap brushing against mine, and I have never felt more physically aware of someone else in my entire life. It's lucky the lights are off because, no doubt, I would be lobster red over the skin-to-skin contact of just his mere knee alone. It's sort of squishy on the couch, because Kate's taking mostly one side of it up, but now I have never been more privately thankful for her taking up all of the room. Christian, Mr Grey, is sitting squished up beside me for once, and it has never felt better.
I try to focus on the screen, though my heart is racing. "We're watching The Notebook," I tell him, trying not to glance down at his knees.
"Why am I not surprised?"
My nervous laughter is drowned out by the loud romantic music coming from the speakers.
"Don't tell me that you love this movie also, Anastasia?" I peek over at him out of the corner of my eye. His body is slightly angled towards me, his head too. Which is natural, I suppose, since the movie is playing too loud. "What is it about The Notebook that drives most women crazy?"
"I don't like this movie actually," I point out, but I can't be sure if he can hear me or not. "But it was Kate's choice for a movie tonight. I would have been perfectly happy with watching something else." I let myself look at him quickly, to find that he is looking at me now. His face is closer than I realized, only because we're sitting squished on the couch, I suppose. I smile and quickly look forward, embarrassed. "I think it might have something to do with Ryan Gosling though, why so many women like this movie. The actor."
"Do you have a thing for Ryan Gosling?" He's just being friendly, I have to remind myself to tame myself down. Everything he says is just because he's trying to be nice, it's just the way he is. He's a nice guy that way.
"Honestly? Ryan Gosling isn't really my type."
"Oh? So someone your age has a type? What's your type then?"
Yeah, there's no need to hyperventilate right now. Again, he's just being friendly. "I don't know." I weave my fingers through the length of my dark hair, stealing a look in his direction again. His gray eyes shine back at me in the dark, he's watching me. "I guess I might like older men maybe," I hear myself say before I can stop myself. "Ryan Gosling in this movie is a little too young for me honestly." I don't know what I'm doing. Okay, maybe I'm attempting to flirt, something I have never been all that good with. It just makes me feel awkward. "How come you don't like this movie?"
My eyes catch onto his hand as he reaches down, scratching his knee. God, even his hands are beautiful. His fingers. I wonder what would happen if I ever tried to hold his hand. Which I would never, of course. I am not that daring or bold, I'm too chicken.
"I don't like romance movies anymore." For some reason, that doesn't surprise me. I guess I wouldn't like romantic movies anymore either if someone I loved left me for another person after a very long time of marriage.
"Well, while I don't like this movie much, I sort of like romance. I mean, I love reading the classics so I sort of have to."
"The classics? Which books do you like reading?"
I think this is the most conversation we have had since I've started sleeping over here. Our conversations are usually non-personal, every day stuff. But finally, it seems to be getting somewhere personal. "British literature mostly."
"As in Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters? Of course you'd like romance then."
"Jane Austen and the Bronte sisters are good, but I like other authors too. Like Thomas Hardy."
"He's good. What about William Shakespeare?"
"I've tried reading some of his work, but I couldn't really get into it that much," I admit, feeling a bit sad that our conversation on books has left me absurdly slightly dizzy with happiness. Kate usually gets annoyed if I speak about whatever novel I'm reading. No one I really know wants to talk books with me.
"Then what about the great American fiction writers? Richard Yates or Kurt Vonnegut?" This is like a dream come true, actually speaking to someone who seems just as interested as I am in speaking books, instead of watching some silly movie Kate and I have seen a billion times already. "John Steinbeck or F. Scott Fitzgerald even? You're missing out on some excellent pieces of literature if you just mainly focus exclusively on British writers?"
"F. Scott Fitzgerald, as in the author of The Great Gatsby? I love that novel."
"Then you have good taste," he says, and I think he sounds pleased. "Better taste than my daughter anyway."
We fall silent for a moment and when I steal another look over at him, I see him watching the TV. During our conversation on books, he must have instinctively moved closer to hear me, because I become aware that his legs are more sprawled apart, his knee still lightly touching mine, his shoulder touching my shoulder. I hate how aware I am, yet I like it too, his closeness. His shirt is unbuttoned, the collar loose around his neck. I think I can see small smatterings of curly dark hair there. I wonder what color his hair is in other places. The hair travelling down his stomach and belly, too. If he...
"So what music do you like listening to?" he asks. I tear my eyes away from the side of his face and his chest quickly.
"Um, a lot of different music. The Rolling Stones, Aerosmith, Coldplay. You?"
He leans his head closer, putting his mouth near my ear. My heart stutters. "I would sacrifice anything come what might, for the sake of having you near, in spite of the warning voice that comes in the night, and repeats - how it yells in my ear, Don't you know, little fool, you never can win?"
Every word spoken in my ear, it makes my heart beat faster and faster as I try to process and understand what he's saying. Is he saying all of that in reference to me or am I just being... stupid?
"What?" I laugh, feeling my cheeks redden. I have no idea whether it's a poem or something. I was asking him about what music he likes to listen to, so why this? Really, I feel too happy by his closeness that I can't be bothered trying to understand.
"Why not use your mentality - step up, wake up to reality? But each time I do just the thought of you, makes me stop just before I begin," he continues, despite my awkward laughter. "'Cause I've got you under my skin." He leans back after the last part and I feel stupid then as I realize. Lyrics. They're just lyrics to a song, not him expressing his interest in me or anything like that. Hopeful thinking.
"I've Got You Under My Skin," I breathe in understanding. "I recognize that song."
"Frank Sinatra. He's one of my favorites."
"That makes sense then," I mutter. "I'm familiar with that song."
Suddenly Kate's head moves from my lap and she turns around to stare at us. Were we talking too loud? Quickly, I pretend to watch The Notebook again, even although my cheeks still feel really warm after he spoke those lyrics in my ear. Eventually Kate moves, staring back at the screen again, returning to watching her choice in movie. I feel my entire body sag in relief when she does. Terrible as it is, this feels like an exciting game. I feel elated that Mr Grey, Christian, is finally talking to me properly, actually getting to know me, yet we're trying to be quiet, hiding it from his daughter. It's thrilling and fun.
"So do you and Kate have most classes at school together?" he asks me, starting a new conversation. I feel a little depressed that he wants to ask about school and Kate now, but hey, what can I do?
"Most of them, yeah." My voice sounds too low, too breathless still after him being close and speaking the lyrics in my ear. I have to clear my throat. "Except for Biology and English. Kate didn't choose to do English as a subject this year, because she's always hated it."
"And is she seeing anyone? Is there any... boys that you know of that she likes?" I look over at him while licking my lips, peering at him through my lashes questioningly. "The reason I ask is that Kate is very quiet and private about anything like that. I'm simply curious."
Damn. Just like that, I'm his daughter's best friend again. Someone who knows the most about her, someone he can get answers from. "Not that I know of, Mr Grey." I peer down at my hands, playing with my fingers. "The reason that she's quiet about that sort of thing is only because she isn't interested in anyone, I guess. She hasn't really talked to me about anything like that."
"And she seems happy? She seems alright to you?"
"Yes, she's fine, Mr Grey. Kate's fine and there's really nothing for you to worry about. I promise."
Later in Kate's bedroom, lying in her bed, I feel that urge to use the bathroom. It's only 12.30 at night according to her alarm clock, but after watching a few more movies on her couch, we had felt ready to call it a night and head to bed. Dressed in just flannel pajama bottoms and a sleeveless T-shirt, my usual modest pajama wear, I climb out from beneath her sheets, hoping to not wake her while I sneak out for a quick bathroom run.
It's quiet and dark in the hallway of her house. As I pad my way barefooted down the hallway, trying to locate the bathroom in the dark, I notice a light on in one of the rooms. I may be mistaken, but I'm pretty sure that room belongs to her dad, Christian. Kate showed me it once. He must still be awake.
I shouldn't do it but I can't help it. I'm too curious.
I sneak down towards the light, noticing the door to his room is slightly ajar. My heart is pounding as I reach it, and I inhale in quietly through my nose before lifting my hand, pushing the door further open with my fingers cautiously. Leaning closer, I peer in through the crack.
It's definitely his bedroom, lit up by the light on the ceiling. I spot his bed, but it's empty. He isn't inside it yet. If I get caught snooping, I know it will be dangerous. Mortifying even, but I take my chances. I just want to know what he's doing at this hour, even if it is none of my business at all.
Pushing the door a few inches more apart, I slip my head in, peering around his room. His room doesn't look anything all that fancy and special, really. There's his large bed. A few dressers near it with a table lamp. An old armchair near the window. I wonder if he kept his room how it was even when he was with his ex wife. Did they sleep together in this room? Of course they did, because they were married. It seems ridiculous to wonder such a thing, but I can't help it.
Biting my bottom lip, I listen carefully. Then I hear movement and my eyes whirl to the sound.
There's another room, which seems to be his own private bathroom. I can hear the distant hum of a fan from the light. Stepping forward on the tips of my toes, I shove my body in through the crack in the door, and then I see him, standing there, in his bathroom, his back to me.
He isn't wearing a shirt, so he's naked from the head down towards his waist. He's wearing sleep pants, a baggy deep grey color, so he isn't completely naked. I just get to see his back, his broad shoulders, the curve of his spine. Even the sight of his bare shoulders and back alone, the side of his face, he's delicious.
And he's shaving, it would seem.
He's standing in front of the bathroom mirror, over the sink, his head tilted to the side. He glides a razor down the side of his face with confident, smooth strokes. I've started to become used to him with a stubble growth for the past few weekends of sleeping over, that it feels slightly weird, the thought of seeing him completely clean-shaven again.
I would love to offer to help him. The fantasy of him accepting my offer to help him shave, the chance to feel his stubble beneath my fingers, how rough it would feel, how... prickly even... it would feel if he brushed his chin between my thighs, if he kissed his way up my knees, his mouth parted a little, his stubble rubbing on me...
But clean shaven or stubble, he's still gorgeous either way. And I'm just spying on him, in his own private room, like a weirdo while he shaves his face...
Getting a good grip on myself, I force myself to move, stepping backwards slowly out from the room. I feel ashamed of myself as I make it to the other bathroom, unseen, to pee. If he ever caught me, if he'd turned and seen me staring... I can only just imagine how strange he would think I am. But there's just something about him.
Staring at him, it's... addictive. Intoxicating, even.
I feel like I could stare at him for hours.
The next morning, after breakfast when Kate gets ready to drop me off home in her car, Mr Grey stops me by calling out my name. I swallow nervously while tucking a stray strand of hair behind my ear as he appears carrying a few heavy looking books. It feels somehow awkward and disturbing, seeing him cleanly-shaven while knowing I'd sneaked in last night to watch him shave without him knowing. But at least he never caught me, so I shouldn't feel too awkward about it.
"After our conversation last night, I thought you might want to read these."
He's just being nice, I repeat to myself as I take the books from him in surprise, reading the covers. He's given me copies of The Great Gatsby, East of Eden, and Revolutionary Road by Richard Yates. I've read The Great Gatsby before, but I haven't East of Eden or Revolutionary Road. I've seen the movie adaptations though.
"They're just sitting in my office bookshelf gathering dust, so I figured you might have use for them," he adds.
I'm pleased he remembers our conversations from last night while on the couch. I smile up at him nervously, feeling my cheeks redden. "Thank you, Mr Grey. I look forward to reading them."
"You're welcome, Anastasia. And, as I've said many times before, please, call me Christian."
"Christian," I murmur softly, obeying him. "Thank you, that's sweet." I know he probably only means it to be nice, but I can't help reading more into it, like most of our interactions the past 7 times of sleeping over here.
Kate bounds down the stairs, interrupting our moment. Or well, what I feel is a moment.
"You ready?" she asks. I glance down at the books again, flustered in an embarrassing way.
"Yep, I'm all set, Kate."
"You're giving Ana some of your lame books, I see," she adds to her dad, having noticed the books of his that I'm holding in my hands. "Ana will love them. She's obsessed with reading."
"I wouldn't say I'm obsessed, Kate," I mutter defensively. "I just like reading."
When I glance up at Christian one last time while Kate opens the door, I notice him staring at me. I smile at him nervously, thanking him again for the books while following Kate out.
Stupid as it is, I would kill for him to notice me in more than just a his-daughter's-friend kind of way. He really is incredible, both in the looks department, and in the everything else department. I cannot believe he bothered to remember our conversation and that he gave me some of his books. It was so kind of him, and it's nice to think that he cared enough to recall our conversation. Again, I know I am reading way too much into it, but I will treasure every delicate page of these books.
It's exciting to think he gave me something that he owns, something that he read and touched himself with his fingers as he turned the page. Now I'll be touching something he touched too. I definitely am in way too deep than I first realized.
HOPING THIS WAS OKAY. VERY SORRY AGAIN FOR TAKING A LONG TIME, I'VE BEEN SICK SO HOPE THIS CHAPTER WASN'T BADLY WRITTEN. I ALSO WOULD LIKE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK WITH THE PACING? IT WILL BE A SLOW BUILD, AS I'M TRYING TO MAKE IT AS REALISTIC AS POSSIBLE HOPE IT ISN'T ANNOYING