IN TOO DEEP
Chapter 5
ANASTASIA POINT OF VIEW
After sending him the text asking whether Mr Grey still loves his ex wife or not, he doesn't reply back.
He doesn't the next day either. Or the next day.
By the time the weekend comes, things have been completely silent. I didn't try breaking the ice by sending him another text out of fear he'd probably be mad. Obviously I had offended him by asking him such a personal question, which is why he probably ignored my text and blanked me out. It's just so frustrating though, because I was beginning to enjoy us texting each other. It had been fun while it had lasted.
But now he is no longer texting me and I haven't had the courage to start it up again.
I wish he had told me that I had offended him if that were truly the case. I may be 17, but I like to think I'm mature enough to handle something like this. I can handle someone expressing their offense and I can respond responsibly by sincerely apologizing. I just hate that he hasn't texting me back.
On Friday, Kate and I do what is becoming our 'usual thing', which is me staying over for the weekend. At school, I'd brought some spare clothes and my pajama bottoms for the weekend, and my Mom had already given me permission to sleep over another weekend so long as Mr Grey didn't truly mind. Which Kate often assures me he doesn't. But after insulting him like I know I have, I can't be certain of that.
Kate drives her fancy new car towards her house while I sit beside her in the passenger's seat, feeling more anxious by the minute.
I can't seem to sit still and not fidget at the mere thought of seeing Mr Grey, I mean Christian, after texting him even although it's been 3 whole days since we last did. For some reason, I'm almost expecting things to be different between us now. I don't even know why, because I know realistically it's unlikely, but I can't help hoping. I can't help hoping that because, now we've broken the ice and have communicated secretly by texting each other without Kate knowing, that Mr Grey will loosen up a little and learn to trust me. Or something like that. I'm probably just being an idiot though, and getting my hopes up.
Once she indicates up into the long driveway, my heart twists at the sight when Kate goes speeding up manically towards the garage.
I see him immediately. Mr Grey, Christian, is in his garage, fussing around with his motorbike that Kate told me he likes to ride. Apparently he forbids Kate getting her bike licence- or so she said. Apparently he feels it's too dangerous for her to drive a motorbike.
He must have gotten the day off work or finished early. It becomes clear what he is doing when he stands from kneeling, moving back so Kate can squeeze the car into the narrow space in their garage without running him over. He watches her, pointing and directing her while Kate mumbles something about him being 'annoying' and how he 'doesn't have confidence' in her driving. Her words don't truly sink in; All I can seem is see, is him.
He's looking casual today, dressed in dark denim jeans and a light grey cashmere sweater. He has his sleeves on each arm rolled up to his elbows, and he's holding what looks like a sponge in the hand that isn't directing Kate where to steer sternly. He must be polishing his bike or cleaning it or something. It already looks perfectly clean though, the black and silver exterior.
He steps in front of her car, pointing to the front of it then at the garage wall behind him. Then he starts gesturing for her to move a bit forward through the windshield. I can feel my face brighten pathetically when his gray eyes flicker towards me from where I sit in the passenger's seat, and I can't help anticipating him mentioning something regarding our texts the instance I get out of Kate's car.
Which sadly doesn't seem to come, because he's too busy with his daughter...
Kate shuts off the engine, moaning in embarrassment again while I reach down, gathering my bag of clothes for the two nights I'm sleeping over, my heart racing in my chest. I hear them the instance Kate opens her door.
"God, Dad, I've had my license for over 6 months now. I think I know by now how to drive into the garage."
"I know that, sweetie, believe me, but you never seem to park close enough. Bring the car a bit closer next time." His term of endearment for her, harmless as it is, makes me smile pathetically as I unbuckle my seat-belt.
"Yeah, well, dad, it's pretty embarrassing. I mean, it's like you have no faith in my driving ability at all!" Kate slams her door and I can almost feel an argument approaching around the corner.
As I climb out, shoving the strap of my bag over my shoulder while closing the car door gently, I feel my face go warm as Christian's eyes drift to me again. I wait for him to finally make a comment about our texting session while Kate storms off ahead of me, huffing under her breath. She can be so patronizing towards Christian sometimes, which is unfair. She's my best friend and I love her, of course, but he doesn't deserve that.
"Hello, Anastasia," he says, and I think I see something flicker in his eyes before he nods once.
"Mr Grey," I breathe back in greeting. "Christian. Hi."
He glances back the way his daughter left, then that's it. He turns away, back towards his bike, kneeling again, soaking the sponge in a bucket of water.
I feel pathetically crestfallen when he doesn't say anything else. He doesn't mention our conversations during texting at all. But when I move around the car, squeezing to get through the narrow space between his bike and the side of Kate's car, I feel my heart jump start when he suddenly reaches out, laying his hand on the lower part of my back while he stands quickly.
"Watch the wet paving on the way through so you don't slip, won't you, sweetie?" He mutters softly. "It tends to get slippery." And then he moves his hand away, turning back to his motorbike.
The touch is brief and like he's just trying to be considerate, warning me against slipping on the wet concrete out of concern rather than anything else. Still, I feel the hugest grin come across my face, around my chest area and cheeks feeling bathed in warmth.
Plus, he just called me sweetie. It is the same harmless endearment he uses on his daughter frequently, but it's still an endearment. The name combined with his spine-tingling voice alone, it's heaven.
I know it's stupid how a silly thing like him touching me on my back can make my day. But it does.
"What's for dinner?" Mr Grey calls curiously later that night after finally coming in from doing whatever else it was that he was doing while out in his garage.
Kate and I have been lounging around on the couch, watching TV. Kate was starting to complain about feeling hungry, so she already has her phone on, looking at the menu for the closest pizza place in town.
"We were thinking pizza tonight actually," Kate replies, tapping on the delivery option on the screen. "We can get pizza delivered at the same place where we got pizza that time before?"
I try not to stare when he comes into view after washing his hands from in the kitchen sink. He comes out towards us, his hands still wet, which he wipes dry on a bunched up hand towel. I notice grease or oil smear stains on his fingertips. Admittedly, I love his hands, weird as that probably is. The veins protruding in the back of them around his knuckles, how long and thick his fingers are. His hands are so masculine and I bet they'd feel great touching me beneath my clothes.
The thought makes me feel red and I avert my eyes quickly, peering down at the bright screen on Kate's phone while biting my bottom lip. Somehow I feel him looking at me, and when I peek up quickly before glancing down again, I notice that he actually is. My embarrassment grows.
"Yum, they have Camembert and chicken pizza," Kate goes on, clueless. "And that pepperoni and cheese one that you liked?"
"You know what I like," Mr Grey says. "And you know my credit card details."
"So the Camembert and chicken and the pepperoni and cheese pizza? I'll make the order online and get them to deliver?"
I feel like I can't even concentrate on thinking about which pizzas sound good right now. This happens often whenever Kate's dad is around though.
It takes fifteen minutes for the pizza delivery guy to arrive with the pizzas. Kate rushes to answer the door, while I make myself useful in heading out to their kitchen to grab us all some plates. I've stayed here so many times now that I am practically familiar with where everything is. I'm just reaching up to the middle shelf to get 3 plates when I hear someone come into the room. I glance behind my shoulder, and my heart rate is practically sky-rocketing high again. It's Christian, Mr Grey.
"Need some help with reaching those, Anastasia?" he asks, almost from right behind me, sounding amused.
"No, thank you. I think I've got it." Hopping up onto my tiptoes, I manage to get the 3 plates down. I turn to look at him again while clutching the porcelain plates tightly to my chest. He's already onto grabbing the paper towel. Now that we're alone in his kitchen and Kate's not anywhere inside, I decide to bite the bullet and mention our texting session. "I hope I haven't, um, offended you at all. Have I, Mr Grey?"
He gives me a blank look for a fleeting second. "Offended me with what?" He sounds like he doesn't even remember our texting and the way he practically ignored me after asking what I did.
"You didn't respond to my text, that's all." My voice sounds too hesitant. "After you didn't, I guess I was worried that I may have offended you by asking what I did?"
"You didn't offend me at all, Anastasia." It's like a huge weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I sigh on the inside in relief. "I just wasn't sure how to respond."
"Well, I hope you'd feel comfortable letting me know if I ever do end up offending you," I murmur to him, trying to look him in the eyes so he knows how honest I'm being. I end up holding his intense gray gaze for less than five seconds before I grow nervous and have to glance away again, down at the empty plates I'm holding in my hands. "I'm a big girl, after all. I'm sure I can handle it."
"You're a big girl?" he repeats quietly, and when I glance up, I see he's trying to hide a smile. His eyes are glimmering with amusement.
"Yes, I am," I whisper confidently. "I won't be upset or hurt if you tell me to mind my own business. If you feel I should or if I offend you, then please, just tell me."
"Fair enough. I'll keep that in mind, Anastasia."
At that, I head towards the living room carrying the plates. He follows a step behind me.
I'm assaulted by the beautiful smell of cooked pizza as I walk around the couch. Kate has already opened the pizza boxes, the spicy smell of pepperoni and the fragrance of melted Camembert cheese floating into the air. I set the plates on the table, sitting next to her, and then I'm hyper-aware when Mr Grey, Christian, chooses to sit beside me on the couch.
I've always become a nervous-eater when doing it in front of Kate's dad. Even more so. We dig in, each of us having our own plates. I notice that every time I reach for a fresh paper towel to use, every time I reach over for a new slice of pizza to put on my plate, my elbow keeps brushing up against Christian's arm. Or if I shift over in the seat the slightest bit, my knee keeps touching his, which is rather awkward yet nice at the same time. I pathetically live for those harmless, innocent touches and bumps.
"Mm, so good," Kate moans appreciatively while taking a huge slice of the pepperoni and cheese pizza she's holding. We both end up laughing out loud when a piece of pepperoni falls out of her mouth onto her shirt. Then I start to feel those self-conscious feelings settling in again, every time I eat at the house.
Pizza can be incredibly messy and greasy. Especially melted cheese. A stringy bit gets caught dangling from my mouth and I'm quick to wipe it off with my fingers, blushing when, as my eyes drift over to Mr Grey, I notice him staring at my mouth while he eats as well.
Why does everything seem incredibly awkward when you're nursing a huge crush on someone and admire everything about them?
I don't even think I'm truly paying attention to the TV in the background, it's just distant background noise. When I know it's safe to, I risk a glance over at Christian again. He's chewing on a mouthful of pepperoni and cheese pizza, his jaw muscles twitching. There's something about even the way he eats that always fascinates me. Well, who am I kidding? Many things he does I find interesting to watch, no matter how mundane and everyday they are.
Swallowing down the mouthful, he licks his lips, his tongue peeking out of his mouth slightly. Then he pops each fingertip into his mouth, sucking the grease and cheese off quietly. And then, to my horror, he looks my way, holding my gaze as he sucks his thumb tip. I'm sure it isn't supposed to be in anyway a move that he's making on me, because I'm just his daughters friend, and he doesn't seem the type to intentionally try to seduce or make the moves on anyone unfortunately. He's just naturally appealing in anything he does, I guess.
And he is Kate's dad, I remind myself, lowering my eyes to my plate. He is Kate's dad and nothing will ever happen. Stop it. Stop watching him all the time and swooning.
"Are you liking the pizza?" he asks in my ear, his voice low as he leans towards me on the couch.
"Um, yes. It's so delicious." I still can't meet his eyes so I smile down at the mess on my plate instead. "Thank you so much for letting me stay over and for buying dinner for us again."
"It's no problem. Really. I'm always happy to." I notice out of the corner of my eye his arm lift as he uses a hand to run his fingers slowly through his hair.
I try to think frantically of something more to say, not wanting to lose the chance to speak more to him about things. "I've almost finished Revolutionary Road completely."
"Have you?" I think he sounds pleased. "That didn't take you long?"
"I know. But I'm usually a fast reader," I can't help pointing out proudly. "Once I start a novel it usually takes me less than a week to finish it completely before I move onto something else. I like devouring my books."
"What do you think of it so far?" he asks curiously. I know he's probably just being friendly but it also seems as though he is truly interested in my view and opinions. I like it, and it isn't something I've had much before, someone being truly interested in my opinions.
"Well, like with what you said, about The Great Gatsby's theme being more along the lines of the American dream rather than the whole romance angle, I think I've picked hints of that up in Revolutionary Road as well," I explain to him, pleased the hesitance and wavering tone of nerves is leaving my voice now. I always feel more comfortable talking about things I am completely certain of. "The married couple were trying to find their own dream life as well, to break the monotony of a 50's era existence." When I glance over at him, I see Mr Grey is staring right at my face, listening intently, his bold gray eyes focused on only me.
I think that's why I've come to enjoy speaking to him most of all, above anyone else, I think. He isn't as easily distracted as boys are at school. He seems to actually truly care and it's nice to talk to him, no matter how awkward he makes me feel due to how attractive and amazing I find him.
"You're very intuitive for someone your age," he mutters, and I beam at his compliment. "Has anyone told you that before?"
"No," I whisper, feeling coy all of a sudden. "Not really." Wow, he's complimenting me. He finds me intuitive. I rarely get nice things said about me, but since it's Christian telling me that, it really means the world.
"Well, you are. Which reminds me." Placing his empty plate down on the table, he stands, moving away from the couch. He disappears for a moment, then reappears holding something in his hands. He plops back down beside me, his elbow brushing against mine. I realize it's the albums he mentioned on lending me by text. The Frank Sinatra ones. "These are what I consider his best albums that he released," he explains, passing them to me. I notice our fingers touch briefly, but it no doubt means way more to me than it does him. "It's hard because there are so many that he released throughout the years, but these are what I personally consider his best songs." He taps one of the CD covers with a finger.
Then Mr Grey launches into talking about Frank Sinatra as a person, his life and how he died, and I can literally feel his enthusiasm about the singer. It's infectious, really. He seems so passionate about talking about him, and I can't help smiling and hanging onto his every word. After a while of talking, he falls silent, running his hand through his hair.
He clears his throat, glancing away from me. "Sorry," he mutters, seeming embarrassed. "I'm no doubt boring you with getting into his whole back history."
"No, not at all, Christian," I assure him, which I mean. "Like I said, you..." I hesitate, biting my lip. I have to glance down at the CD covers, my cheeks going red. "You really don't bore me at all. Honestly, I think you're pretty much the most interesting person that I know." I'm not sure if I've overstepped a line, telling him that.
When I peek up at his face quickly, shyly, I see him staring at me with something funny in his expression. He seems doubtful, skeptical even. Like he doesn't believe me.
"I truly do," I add, practically gushing and, without thinking, I senselessly reach over to touch his knee with my hand, squeezing down into his warm jean-covered kneecap with my fingertips. "I really have grown to like Frank Sinatra's music and, as a person, I find him interesting to hear about too."
I move my hand away as soon as I do it, feeling idiotic and embarrassed. Why can't I keep my hands to myself? Why must I embarrass myself all the time in front of him?
"What are you two muttering about over there?" Kate's voice suddenly says, and I almost jump on the cushion. Horrible of me to admit, I had almost begun to forget she was there, sitting beside me. Then she must see the CD's he gave me, because she groans. "Oh, gross, Dad. Really? You're trying to push that atrocious music onto Ana now?"
"Hey," I speak up, glancing her way, coming to his defense. "I actually like his music."
"Seriously?" She eyes me like I'm a new person she's just met and is disgusted by. "How can you like that old person's music? It's for old people!"
"It isn't for old people," I mutter back, half-serious. "He's actually got such a soulful voice!"
"He's boring." I can't win with her obviously, so I give up on trying to convince her on how nice Frank Sinatra's music actually is. Obviously her father has tried to convince her as well throughout the years and it has been a losing battle. "Dad, please don't you dare start playing his music right now!"
I turn to see Mr Grey putting both hands up in the air, pleading innocence. "Relax," he says, his voice shaky with laughter. "I'm not going to play any of his music. You're safe."
"Thank God then. I still remember all those horrible times you forced me to listen to his CD's in the car while teaching me how to drive. It was a nightmare!"
I watch as Mr Grey stands, squeezing past me to get to Kate. Kate's shrill, boisterous laughter fills the air as he manages to ruffle her hair with his hand before she can stop him. Knowing how pedantic Kate often is with her hair, her reaction does not surprise me. I join in with their laughter when Kate wiggles around on the couch, trying to escape him, her legs flailing in the air. Then she lashes out with her left leg, kicking Christian in the stomach, her giggles turning into victorious squeals.
It's weird how adorable I find it. Not my best friend so much, but her father. How playful they are together, how boyish and younger he looks when he actually smiles, an open-mouthed, genuine smile that shows all of his teeth. He doesn't seem to smile all that much, but when he does, it's a sight.
It's palpable, the fondness he has for her. For some reason I find myself wishing he'd be that way with me; Smiling, playful, fond. It's ridiculous but I do.
"Who do you thinks cuter? Jose Rodriguez or Paul Clayton?" Kate asks later that night as we lay side-by-side on the top of the sheets on her bed. It's 10.30 and we should really be trying to sleep, but instead, we feel wide awake, with just wanting to talk about random things.
Kate's dressed head-to-toe in her flannel pajamas, while I'm in my tank top and flannel pajama trousers.
"Hmm, hard question," I murmur thoughtfully, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. Jose Rodriguez and Paul Clayton are guys that go to our school. "Why? Who do you think is cuter?"
"Paul," she admits without hesitance. "Definitely Paul. I'm pretty sure I caught him checking me out in physical education class too." The light from the screen comes on from her phone, blinding me. I turn to see her logging into Facebook. "Oh, my mom posted a new picture."
I freeze and basically stop breathing at the mention of Kate's mom. "A new picture of her with her boyfriend?"
"Yep. See." I shift over onto my shoulder to see better. Her Mom and Kate look somewhat the same, I think. The same blonde hair, though her Mom's hair is obviously fake peroxide blonde, because you can see regrowth. She seems older than Christian for some reason, unless she just hasn't aged all that well. The guy next to her is pressing his cheek against hers to get into the shot, and he's wearing a baseball cap. He's got a goatee and a graying beard. He definitely isn't as good-looking as Christian is. "That's him, the guy she left dad for."
I try to refrain from commenting. I don't think Kate would be too happy if I called her Mom nuts for leaving a man so amazing as Christian.
"They went to New Zealand last month. And to the Grand Canyon too. Mom and him have been posting all these travel pictures. At least she looks happy though. Right?"
I wish her father was happy. I wish he smiled more. I wish he found someone who made him happy.
"Does your dad know she has a Facebook page?" I can't help asking curiously.
"Hell no!" I think I feel Kate shudder. "If he did, he would be so messed up! I don't even want to imagine him looking at pictures of them holidaying! He'd be so upset!"
She shows me another picture of her Mom and the guy kissing. It's a really mushy, PDA pic. It makes me feel ill, and like looking at it is a betrayal of Christian, her father. I know that's extreme to think like that, but it does. I really cannot see the appeal of this guy compared to Mr Grey at all. Then Kate shows me another picture, even worse than the kissing one, of her Mom in a too-small bikini, dipping in a spa bath while her partner is beside her, half-naked except for shorts. Her Mom's breasts are practically popping out of the bikini top.
"She isn't exactly shy, is she?" I can't help commenting.
"Yeah, I guess not. But life's too short to care how you look in a bikini, right? Who cares?"
"I guess so." Kate logs out, shutting off her phone, blinding me in sudden pitch-black darkness. Her Mom remains in my mind, even after what seems 20 minutes later. I can't get the image of her, blonde-haired, breasts swelling out of her bikini top, from my mind. It just seems so unbelievably crass and disrespectful. I don't know why I care so much, I probably shouldn't, but it does.
I sigh loudly in frustration, still on top of the covers, listening to Kate's even, deep breathing. She's obviously fallen asleep, while I can't. I turn, looking at the time on her lit-up alarm clock. It says it's 11.30 at night. Why can't I just sleep? Her room is dark enough.
Giving up a few minutes later, I decide to sneak downstairs to get a glass of water. I throw my legs off her bed, getting to my feet slowly. I pad my way towards her bedroom door, then sneak out, being as quiet as possible.
Locating the stairs, I start climbing down it carefully while hanging tightly onto the railing with my hands. It can be so hard to navigate my way around her house when it's dark. Finally reaching the last step, that's when I hear a sound. I pause the instance my heels touch the first floor carpet, listening carefully. There's a strange muffled sound, a bit like someone's crying. But who? And where?
Following the sound while tracing a hand against the plaster wall to help lead me towards the kitchen, I see a faint shining light from in the area of it. Someone's in the kitchen, crying I think. The closer I sneak barefooted, the clearer my vision gets. Someone sits on the stool near the counter in the kitchen, their form just a shadowy silhouette. The small light above the stove is on, providing a tiny bit of light.
Not wanting to scare the person, I whisper gently, "Hello?" while blindly feeling my way to the end of the wall. The noise happens once more, a deep harsh sniffing noise, and then it stops.
"Anastasia?" The shadowed form breathes with a tone of alarm and embarrassment, and just as suddenly, I realize it's Mr Grey. Mr Grey, Christian, is sitting on the stool in the kitchen, alone, maybe crying. My heart seizes and aches. "What... what are you doing up at this hour?"
Finally reaching behind him, I can just barely make out him turning around on the stool to look at me. He wipes his eyes hurriedly with his hands, a shaky exhalation escaping him.
"I... I'm sorry, I just couldn't sleep. I wanted to get a glass of water?"
Sliding off the stool onto his feet, he moves around the counter, grabbing a tall glass out of the cupboard. The tap runs as he pours me a glass of water, and as he moves closer to hand it to me, the light from the stove shines on his face enough that I can notice how bleak he looks, how shiny his eyes are. He's been crying. What for? I wish I knew what pains him so much so that I could try to help ease it and take it away.
"Um, are you okay?" I ask tentatively.
He inhales deeply, his breath loud and uneven. "Of course I am," he mutters quietly, but it doesn't sound that way. It sounds as though he's trying to sound purposefully happier and brighter. "You just caught me at a bad moment. I apologize if I woke you?"
"No, you didn't at all. As I said, I... I just wanted a drink, that's all."
He rubs his eyes and face and then rakes both hands through his hair. "I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell my daughter about seeing me like this."
"Of course not," I murmur. "I wouldn't ever-"
"-She can't know." There's fearfulness, an anxious edge there.
"I know. I wouldn't tell her," I promise. If I wasn't holding the glass of water, I would be reaching out, touching him. Maybe even hugging him. I want to hug him, to feel my arms around him so bad that it hurts. I want him to know I care. "You know, Christian, if, um... if you ever want someone to talk to, I could always listen?" I offer uncertainly. I know I wouldn't be much help probably, but I want him to know that he has someone there at least, someone who is willing to just listen and not judge. The knowledge that he was crying then, that he's now pretending not to all because I walked in on him, it's heartbreaking. I would do anything to make him feel better. He's the very last person that I believe should feel this way, the last person that deserves to hurt like this. "Even if it's just someone you talk to to help get things off your chest, I'd be more than happy to?"
"Anastasia, I don't-" His voice is harsh, angry somehow. But then he stops himself and takes a breath, wiping his eyes with his fingertips again. "Thank you for the offer, but it... it isn't necessary. I don't believe that would be appropriate."
"If it's just 2 people opening up to each other, why wouldn't-" I begin then fall silent in confusion. Why wouldn't it be appropriate?
"You shouldn't have even caught me like this. You're young." He sounds so drained, so exhausted and vulnerable. It's sad. I think I know somewhat why he's upset like this, and I think I'm right in my suspicion that it's due to his ex. I hate that she hurt him in such a way, that she's made him feel such pain. "You don't need to deal with all of my emotional shit, trust me."
"I know I'm just your daughters friend and I really don't have much experience with certain things that you're going through, but..."
"- Once you're done, go back to sleep please," he admonishes me, cutting me off. "You shouldn't even be up this late. It's almost midnight." Before another word can even be said, he brushes past me, striding briskly out of the kitchen, leaving me in the near-dark, illuminated by just the light above the stove.
THANK YOU FOR YOUR KIND WORDS, GLAD TO READ IT ISN'T TOO SLOW FOR SOME OF YOU. I AM TRYING TO MAKE AS REALISTIC AS SOMEWHAT POSSIBLE, AND WANT THERE TO BE A SOLID CONNECTION BETWEEN THEM BEFORE ANYTHING HAPPENS. HOPE IT IS OK I AM WRITING A DIFFERENT CHRISTIAN THAT IS VERY VULNERABLE AND GRIEVING HIS DIVORCE. LOVE TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK, IT'S PROBABLY REALLY BADLY WRITTEN! I GET SO ANXIOUS WRITING!