THANK YOU SO MUCH, I HOPE YOU ENJOY THIS ONE. POOR CHRISTIAN IS STARTING TO FEEL SO CONFLICTED BY ANA ;)
CHRISTIAN POINT OF VIEW
I shouldn't have done it. I shouldn't have checked in the first place and now, I was paying the price and suffering for it.
After finishing dinner and knowing that both the girls were safe in bed and that it was safe to, I'd tried out Facebook, the website that my daughter seems to be all obsessed about these days. It had gone straight into my daughter's account. Kate uses my phone from time to time because, as she says, I have more internet data to use than she does, which has always been fine for me. She must have forgotten to log out.
The photo comes up the instance I find myself scrolling down her news feed. I wasn't expecting to see her, not so suddenly like that. It almost feels like a cruel joke, a shock to the system.
Kate's bitch of her mother, the new asshole partner with her. 'Profile picture updated 45 minutes ago', it says, whatever that means. I had no idea her mother even knew how to operate Facebook; I certainly don't, with social media websites not being my strongest point.
I should have shut off my phone the instance I saw it. Yet, stupidly, I sat there for what seemed hours, in the dark kitchen with just the light above the stove on, staring at her, evaluating everything about my ex wife, about her new partner.
The asshole seems familiar to me for some reason, yet I can't quite place where it feels like I've seen him from. Maybe she was fucking him even before we officially ended our marriage? Maybe they crossed paths while we were still married, and the bitch was fucking him behind my back?
The way she looks now, it certainly wouldn't surprise me.
What does he have that I don't? I wonder, leaning an elbow against the counter. I run my fingers through my hair with a sigh, staring hard at the picture of them both.
She looks different than I remembered. She's wearing a bikini, the top hardly fitting her right. It brings back certain memories of arguments we'd had through the years, where I'd get pissed off because she tended to wear things that showed off her body. She liked parading around for other men, which I didn't, I got touchy about it. I guess I'm what you'd call your usual possessive man. I don't like other men looking at my things, particularly not my wife's tits and ass. To me, looking at another man's wife; it's the epitome of disrespect.
I shouldn't even be doing it, but I click the photo. A new one comes up, of her and the new asshole posing in front of a glorious mountain. Looks like New Zealand or some shit like that.
Clearly they're both enjoying themselves, having the times of their lives. Scrounging off the half of the money I gave her during the settlement of our divorce proceedings.
'Good for them', I try to think. Yet all there is, is deep-seated bitterness still. 3 years has gone past, and still, that bitterness and resentment is still there. I don't know how to get rid of it, I wish I could. Still, I can't deny I wouldn't hesitate beating the shit out of this asshole.
I remember one of the last fights we had. How she'd accused me of being a workaholic, how she said I am never there for her. I hope she's happy now, the bitch. I hope he's making her happy while spending my hard-earned money.
Jesus, why do I do this to myself? Why am I torturing myself?
Something drops off my face onto my arm, something wet. Fuck, bleeding nose? I reach up with my hand, wiping my nose and around my face, then I try to see whether it's blood in the darkness or not. Only it isn't blood.
I realize what the hell it is a second later when my eyes start blurring. I grit my teeth, grinding my jaw, trying to stop it, yet it won't. I'm fucking crying. I haven't cried in such a long time, ever since a couple of times while I was by myself when Kate was in her room and I knew it was safe to do so.
Shutting the page off with the picture of my ex and her new asshole, I sniff loudly, holding my hands over my eyes. What the hell is wrong with me? 3 years and here I am, still crying like a fucking baby?
I hear a noise from behind me, but it's too late. And then her voice, quiet and nervous.
"Hello?"
Anastasia. Shit.
"Anastasia?" This wasn't supposed to happen. No one was supposed to see me doing this. Quickly, I try to wipe everything away, trying to seem stoic and normal, the embarrassment making me feel red in the face. "What... what are you doing up at this hour?"
She comes closer, and I turn to look at her while wiping my face again. Now what must she think of me? If she tells Kate about this, how she caught me in such a state, then what would my daughter think of me?
I'm supposed to be a grown-ass man. Men aren't supposed to cry. Or so I've learned in all my years of growing up in adolescence, particularly when it came to my family and my brother Elliot.
"I... I'm sorry, I just couldn't sleep. I wanted to get a glass of water?"
Taking initiative and using it to my advantage to hide my face from her, I slide off the stool, disregarding my phone. I find the cabinet where the glasses are in the dark, and pour her a glass of water at the sink. There, I can be functional. I can do my fatherly duties for my daughter's best friend. Just because she caught me in a fucked-up, emotional state, it does not mean I am utterly pathetic.
As I hand it to her, I hate how unsteady my hand is. I notice her staring up at me, but I pray the room is too dark for her to properly see me. I loathe the thought that she knows there is something wrong with me.
"Um, are you okay?"
I inhale in deeply at her words that confirm that she knows something is clearly up. Goddamn it. Why did she have to see me like this? "Of course I am," I lie, succeeding in sounding convincing. "You just caught me at a bad moment. I apologize if I woke you?"
The short little breathless laugh she makes at my comment, it makes me feel... good inside. Something I haven't felt in months now. I have no idea why. But it's like with her texts as well; She made me feel strangely content while texting each other as well. It was just the entire absurdity of her wanting to text an old fogey like me, someone older than her, someone boring. There's just an innocence about her, and I notice, every time she's around me and my daughter, she never ceases to smile. I think we could use some of that around here, definitely. Some of her smiles.
"No, you didn't at all. As I said, I... I just wanted a drink, that's all."
"I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't tell my daughter about seeing me like this."
"Of course not," she murmurs and I can tell I've caught her off balance. "I wouldn't ever-"
"-She can't know." Under no uncertain terms, can Katherine know about this. I don't want her to know how weak I am, that I still cry from time to time due to the loss of her mother. That sometimes, when the bitterness isn't there, I still reflect on our marriage, on certain important parts of it. Our wedding, how amazing the day was when Kate arrived, how I first held her, tiny and hairless, in my arms as a baby.
"I know. I wouldn't tell her." While I don't know much about this girl, for some reason I feel I can believe her. She's been friends with my daughter for a very long time, even before Kate's mother and I began having our marriage issues. Then what she says next, it surprises me, "You know, Christian, if, um... if you ever want someone to talk to, I could always listen?"
She's inviting me to talk to her? My daughter's friend, Anastasia, is asking me to talk to her? I see my therapist, Flynn, every second Wednesday. Admittedly, there are times where I don't tell him everything that goes through my mind. There are admittedly times where I purposefully neglect to tell him things. I find Flynn helps to a point, but even he can't magically erase all the hurt and anger I feel inside.
"Even if it's just someone you talk to to help get things off your chest, I'd be more than happy to?"
There's a moment of silence that passes between us where, dare I even say it, I actually consider talking to her. It would certainly help to have someone else to speak to, on those days where I feel I can't open up to Flynn quite as well as I'd hoped to. And, Anastasia, sleeping over basically every weekend, she'd always be there.
But no, I shouldn't even consider taking up her offer. She's 17, and close to my daughter. It would inappropriate. Plus, I am fairly certain she wouldn't be able to handle all the emotional baggage and shit I go through on a daily basis. It wouldn't be fair.
"Anastasia, I don't-" The words come out too harsh. Irate, even. I take a deep breath to calm down, to speak in a more gentler voice to her. "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-" Damn this girl. She's putting up an extremely convincing fight. But I know it wouldn't be right.
"You shouldn't have even caught me like this. You're young," I try to sway her. "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..."
I've been by myself for far too long. But I can't accept this, no matter how tempted I am. I shouldn't, despite how, especially with the texts we'd sent each other, how bright she'd seemed, how intuitive. There is undoubtedly something about her that makes her seem almost older than how old she truly is; a way about her that seems willing to want to reach out to people with genuine compassion. She truly is so different from my daughter; My daughter who, if she saw a homeless man sitting out near a cardboard box outside the car window, she'd turn her nose and comment on how ratty his clothes were rather instead of looking at him with compassion. Exactly like her mother would...
"- Once you're done, go back to sleep please," I say, trying to end the conversation right then and there. I try to sound stern, using the voice I use on Kate on occasion when she won't listen to me, "You shouldn't even be up this late. It's almost midnight."
Snatching my phone up off the counter in my hand before I can forget it, I squeeze past where she stands, still holding the glass of water I poured from her in her hand.
I lift up my arm, using my sleeve to wipe the moisture off from my eyes and cheek with it. As I reach the stairs, I pause, listening to Anastasia in the kitchen. She must pour out the rest of the water, because I hear it trickle down the sink, straight down the drain. Then it occurs to me how rude I'm being. I don't mean to be, really. But I would prefer to escape and hide away in my bedroom than have to admit why I was being emotional to someone, especially my daughter's friend, of all people.
It's an incredibly complex situation.
I turn around to look at her behind my shoulder while gripping onto the staircase railing with my hand. We have to be quiet about this. If Kate woke up and heard us...
"I'm sorry for seeming rude or abrupt with you seconds ago," I mutter guiltily when she stops on the opposite side of the railing, leaning against it with her hip. "I suppose I'm just having one of those nights."
"I understand, Christian. Really."
Can she? I have to wonder doubtfully, squinting at her eyes that gleam back at me in the dark. Can she really possibly understand?
"And you don't need to apologize," she adds, her voice soft, warm. "I overstepped a line. Of course you wouldn't want to talk to me."
"It isn't that I wouldn't want to, Anastasia," I point out before I can stop myself. "I truly do appreciate you offering, and I'm flattered that you're offering, but..." I stumble over my words. I have never been particularly great with heart to hearts. I breathe in sharply through my nose, irritated at myself and my behavior. I can speak to my daughter fine, so why is it now that I find myself struggling to maintain an intelligent conversation with Kate's friend? "Like I said, you really wouldn't want to hear me talk in-depth about all the emotional shit I'm going through. It would take all night."
I try to make a little bit of a joke out of it, and to my relief, it actually seems to work. That warming laughter escapes her, and she's truly like a breath of fresh air, a burst of sunshine.
"I just don't like seeing anyone upset," she mutters, her voice going lower, huskier. "Even you."
Thank God it's dark. I can't see her face, but I can see the shadowed outline of her body as she stands across from me at the staircase, the shape of her long dark hair, the curve of her shoulder blades, her hips and legs. I'm taller than her; The top of her head only just reaches my shoulders. Why I notice that, I have no idea.
"It's just... after my father died, I've had this weird thing where, whenever I see someone upset, it gives me this compulsion or urge or something to try help them," she continues, sort of rambling, her voice light, breathless. "I saw my mom crying when I was 5 because of it, and although I didn't understand much at the time, it just... broke my heart."
"Oh, I'm sorry. Your father died?" I never knew. Well, of course I never knew. But frankly, I did wonder why there was no mention of her father from my daughter whenever she told me she had permission to stay over. I just assumed he was an absent player in her life.
"Yeah, he did, when I was 4." I see her silhouette move as she sinks easily down to the lowest step on the stairs, sitting. "He worked for the marines. He died of an accident over there. My mother never told me much about it, but I remember at the funeral, how she cried..." Anastasia herself doesn't sound too upset over it. Perhaps it's been that long that she's moved past the pain of her father's absence in her life? "You want to sit?" she asks quietly, and she taps the palm of her hand gently on the space of the step beside her.
I know I shouldn't but for some reason, my knees instinctively buckle. I sit beside her, my knee and arm brushing against hers. It's rather narrow and squashy, but we manage. I just know it's going to be hell when I try stand up again; Although I'm not that old, my joints play up sometimes lately. Especially my knees. It's a pain in the ass.
"I'm going to dread standing up now," I mutter wryly before I can stop myself.
She laughs softly, then asks with confusion, "Why would you?"
"Because I'm an old codger," I admit to her, though I try to lay on the charm, making it seem like a joke. "My knees and joints aren't as good as they once were."
"You, an old codger?" I can't help smiling slightly at how amused she sounds. Why I feel so pleased every time I succeed in making this girl laugh, I'm not sure. But it always feels like some strange sort of compliment. "I wouldn't consider you an old codger, at 38. Far from it. A man in their 80's, maybe, but not... someone at your age."
"Your kind," I say in my most exhausted, weary voice, and she laughs again. Realizing I've unintentionally dismissed what she was telling me, what she was revealing about her father, I steer the conversation back onto it. "I'm sorry. You were telling me about your father?"
"Oh, yeah. Well, there's nothing else much to say. I don't remember him much."
"And what about any brothers or sisters?" I ask curiously. I don't recall Kate ever mentioning her having any, but I suppose it doesn't hurt to ask.
"None. I'm an only child, like Kate is."
We fall into an awkward silence, where I guess neither of us know what to say next. I check the time on my phone, the screen illuminating her face from beside me. The time on the screen says it's just after 12.00. Midnight. She's playing with a strand of dark hair at her shoulder with her fingers as she stares down at the ground, a sort of shy smile permanently on her lips. I realize she's wearing purple flannel pajama trousers with cats on them and a plain tank top. I can't tell if she's wearing a bra or not because-
Deliberately, I avert my eyes, giving my head a reprimanding shake. Jesus Christ, what the fuck am I doing? I'm acting no better than a fucking sick old pervert. She's old enough to be my second daughter, considering that she is exactly Katherine's age. Talk about inappropriate.
"I'm, um, really sorry again if I offended you," she says, speaking about something I'm not even sure I know what. I'm utterly lost. "I'm sorry if it was totally weird of me, too, texting you like that." Oh, she's referring to our texting incident a couple of evenings ago. Of course. "I guess I find it difficult finding people my age that I'm really interested in talking to."
"Like I said, Anastasia, you really didn't offend me. And honestly, I didn't mind you texting me. I just didn't understand why."
I catch her head move in my direction. "Why what?"
I hesitate, before answering, using the tips of my fingers to massage around my forehead while still keeping my head down low out of fear I start thinking irrationally again, "Well, why you would even be interested in texting someone like me rather than someone your own age?"
"I believe I've already answered that enough." Her shoulder brushes against mine as I feel her shrug my question off. It's lucky the shirt I'm wearing is long sleeved, otherwise I'd feel her skin against me; Skin, that I am assuming is warm, soft, wrinkle-free.
She finds me interesting, apparently. I struggle to even accept that, frankly. What could someone like her possibly find all that interesting in me? I'm old, I have no special talents. I'm a good dancer, a good golf player. I'm excellent at playing piano, but my tastes in music, in film... I think Katherine has made her point enough on just how lousy she finds my taste in those particular areas.
I thought I was a good lover, and a good husband, but apparently I wasn't. No, I was a workaholic, I was too preoccupied with my own daughter succeeding- getting her drivers license, good grades at school, all that- that I supposedly forgot about the wishes and desires of my wife.
It just doesn't make sense to me, no matter how she explains it. This girl is young, and she has her entire world and limited opportunities spread out before her, just like my daughter has.
And yet, despite that, she decides to text me, of all people?
What is she even doing, sitting here right now, at midnight, choosing to speak to me?
What can I even begin to offer her by speaking to her right now?
She actually shows interest in the music I like, and she claims to like Frank Sinatra as much as I do. Perhaps she truly does just feel sorry for me? And no doubt, how she caught me crying tonight, it would make her feel even more so sorry for me. I probably inspire so much pity, I'm someone she's speaking to kindly out of commiseration.
"So you enjoy working?" Anastasia asks, tearing me out of my own pity-party.
It takes me a second to focus, to get my brain right. "I do." I cannot even begin to understand why she cares to know about my job, of all things. Katherine certainly doesn't. "I enjoy it very much. I like the distraction and challenge it presents me."
"And you deal mainly with telecommunications?" she asks. To my astonishment, she sounds truly invested in learning about it. What a shocker. "Of course, I don't know much about anything like that, but... Kate told me a few things about it and it seems very interesting, your job?"
"Kate told you about my job? Surely not?" I am surprised.
"She did, actually. You sound surprised?"
"Are you sure we're talking about the same Kate here?" I ask her, rewarded by that laughter of hers again. "No, in all seriousness, Kate seems to loathe me speaking about anything remotely job-related. Usually I tend to steer clear of it with her."
"Well, she said that your very successful? That you run your own company and that even China is interested or something?"
"That's correct, yes. China is interested in investing in the company, in becoming a shareholder." I try to explain it in as basic terms as humanly possible so I don't bore her. "Surprisingly, throughout the years, business has been great. The company is going really really well."
"Then that's really great to hear. You must be so proud of yourself and how well you're accomplishing your dreams?"
Her comment takes me back a bit. I must be really proud of myself? Rarely. Rarely do I ever praise myself.
"So what about you?" I demand, trying to change the subject. Talking about someone else is always easier, I find. Distracting them, pushing the focus onto them. People always love talking about themselves. "What's the plan after you graduate?"
"I hate people asking me that, honestly. What are your plans? What are you going to do?"Her voice goes low with frustration, but she laughs again. "I don't know, really. I guess... as you know, I love literature. But what can I do? Be a librarian or something? I don't know. People always expect you, at my age, to have some sort of idea into what you want to do, yet I don't?"
"When I was your age, I was like that myself. I had no definitive goal or... passion." I decide to put my 2 cents in, my old man wisdom. "When Kate's mother was pregnant, I was just about to graduate. It completely threw me off the path. I always assumed I'd quit school early and not further my education. I'd just be a laborer or a plumber or something. But it was Kate's mother who really..." I have to stop for a second, my throat growing tight. Jesus, not again. I cover my hand over my eyes, waiting a second for the emotion to clear. Fortunately, Anastasia doesn't notice. Or if she does, she doesn't mention anything about it. "If it wasn't for Kate's mother pushing me and guiding me along into making something of myself, I don't really know where I would have ended up."
I haven't spoken about this to anyone. Why I'm telling her now, I have no idea.
"Yeah, she may have helped you by guiding you along or supporting you to reach your goals, but..." Anastasia's voice is soft, thoughtful, "She wasn't the one who put in all the hard work, was she? Ultimately, it was you who did that. You were the one who fought hard to get where you are, and you put down the grueling hours and the hard work. She can't take all the credit, can she?"
I open my mouth to reply, yet I realize I'm speechless. She has effectively made me speechless, something that rarely happens for me. I have no idea what to say; She has certainly opened up my eyes. I have never thought of it in that light before.
"I can't say I have ever considered it that way before."
"I'm definitely learning a lot about you," she mutters, somewhat shyly with another one of her short laughs. Her laughter, I find, is so refreshing. So oddly infectious.
"You are?" I murmur back, nervous at the idea.
"Yeah. You... don't seem to acknowledge just how much it's all been you. It's hard to explain but..." She hesitates, as if she's now lost for words and speechless. "You're always seeming to ignore how much your successes is mainly due to you, how it's all your hard work, your dedication. You praise Kate's mom for being the one that helped support you along when, really, it was all you." She says it in the similar tone she had when she spoke about Frank Sinatra and how much she did, in fact, enjoy his music; Passionately, like it's something she truly believes in, her voice unsteady and wavering. "It's something I've noticed, even with our texting."
I'm not so sure I want to hear it, but I listen anyway.
"Your dismissive of compliments and praises towards you, and you put yourself down. Like how you say you don't understand why I wanted to text you in the first place, that you're old or boring when... you're anything but."
It surprises me, yet again, how much I enjoy speaking with her, just as I did with texting her about the books and the music. I've never felt this way while associating with a younger person before. While I love my daughter to death, of course, it's... refreshing, talking to someone who truly seems interested in what I have to say, someone who again values my opinions. I felt it while we texted each other. And the esteem Anastasia seems to hold me with, how high she regards me, how respectful she is of me, a 38 year old fogey, it's flattering. Breathtaking, even. Something I truly have never experienced before, something that has been absent for an extremely long time now.
"Thank you," I whisper, touched. I feel my cheeks throb with heat. "And you certainly are intuitive, like I pointed out earlier tonight."
"So you're saying I'm right on my assessment?"
"I guess so," I admit unwillingly with a sigh. "Yes, you are. It's funny how it's easier to compliment other people and to truly mean them, but... when it comes to accepting compliments about ourselves, it's incredibly... hard."
"You know, I, um..." She falls silent, seeming nervous. When I look in her direction, I notice her body move, how she straightens up on the step. "Kate showed me her Facebook tonight."
Oh, no. I think I can predict where this is heading. "She did?"
"Her Mom put up a new photo?" It comes out in a quiet breath, like she's afraid of upsetting me.
"I know," I admit, deciding to be honest. I see her body relax, her shoulders, like she's relieved I'm taking it okay. "Would I be a terrible father if I admitted I might have peeked on my daughter's Facebook page tonight? That I couldn't help noticing the picture myself?"
"Oh." Even in the dark, I can tell she's wincing.
"I saw the exact photo that you're hinting to, Anastasia." I try to sound anything but affected; I manage to sound utterly neutral and void of any emotion whatsoever. "The one of her with the new boyfriend where they're posing."
"She's... pretty?" Even as the word comes out of her mouth 'pretty', I can tell she doesn't truly mean it. I try not to laugh at how insincere she says it, but fail. A short chuckle escapes me. "What?" she asks nervously.
"You sounded very convincing just then?"
"Oh, god," she mutters, sounding embarrassed. I can just see her hands flying up to her face as she covers her forehead. "I really don't mean to-"
"Anastasia, it's fine," I assure her seriously. "Admittedly, I don't think too well of her. I mean, when I saw the photograph, 'pretty' was not what ran through my mind."
I realize the error of my ways the instance I say it. How can I be so careless, speaking to my daughter's best friend so negatively about the bitch ex? What if Anastasia tells her about this and it upsets Kate?
"Please," I begin, and senselessly, I find one of her hands in the dark, squeezing it. Her hand is so much smaller than mine, so much softer. "Please, whatever you do, do not repeat that to my daughter. I apologize for saying that out loud. I shouldn't even be saying such a thing about her mother!"
"Your secrets safe with me, don't worry." Again, I find it impossible to distrust her. She has a way about her that makes you trust her implicitly. "Honestly, judging by the picture, I can't say I thought well of her myself."
I blink at her through the dark in confusion. "Why wouldn't you?"
"Because she hurt you, Christian! I'm sorry because she's my best friend's mom and it's bad of me but... anyone who hurts another person or causes them such pain, I can't help but not like them!" Intuitive. Definitely intuitive.
I've been so invested in hearing her explanation that I realize I'm still holding her hand, squeezing it in mine. But frankly, she hasn't exactly squirmed out of my embrace with hers either. It occurs to me, overdue, that her thumb is stroking the back of my finger. What the fuck am I doing?
Clenching my eyes shut, I feel my cheeks throb with warmth again as I deliberately wrench my hand free from hers. What are we even doing here? It's past midnight and here we sit, just talking, agreeing and expressing our hatred over my ex wife. How is this appropriate to my daughter who is upstairs, in bed, innocently sleeping?
Reopening my eyes, I feign a loud yawn while slapping my hand over my mouth. "We better call it a night," I suggest. "It's getting late."
"Um, okay." Though she sounds strangely disappointed, Anastasia stands like only a lithe, energetic young girl can. She turns to look at me from where I am, still sitting on the step, warming myself up into moving. "You want my help?" she asks with another laugh.
"Please," I surrender, begging. That laughter fills my ears again as she holds out her hand down towards me.
Maybe playing it up a bit more than what's true, I make a few groaning noises as I let her help me up, the joints in my knees not hurting like I anticipated.
"This is what happens when you spend time with an old man, Anastasia," I murmur playfully once I stand to my full height. "Better to stick in the company of boys your age instead."
She laughs again, like she assumes I'm joking. Honestly, after prolonging holding onto her hand the way we did, the way her finger stroked the back of mine, I am not so sure that I am.
"Good talk," I say as we both tread the stairs.
Once we reach the last step, we turn to go our separate ways; Her towards my daughter's bedroom, me to the next staircase to climb up to mine. I stop with my foot on the first step, turning back to look at her, finding her watching me, her chin upraised higher. Lifting a hand, she pushes her long brown hair back behind her shoulders.
There's something there shining in her blue eyes that I haven't seen before; A strange sort of warmth, a bit of... excitement maybe or happiness. I'm not sure what.
"Good night, Mr Grey," she murmurs, and I can't help noticing her voice has changed also. It seems breathless, sweeter, yet stronger. More assertive somehow.
Smiling, she runs her tongue over her bottom lip, then bites down on it with her teeth.
"Yes, good night, Anastasia. Sleep well."
Turning away from her, I start climbing up the stairs while shaking my head, perplexed over her change in attitude. I cannot make out her expression or the look in her eyes at all. What was that all about?
HOPE THIS WAS OKAY, I GET SO NERVOUS ESPECIALLY TRYING TO WRITE CHRISTIAN POINT OF VIEW. POOR GUY IS REALLY STRUGGLING TO UNDERSTAND ANA. HE'S SO DOWN ON HIMSELF THAT HE CAN'T SEE SHE'S ADMIRING HIM AT ALL. PLEASE BE KIND, I GET SCARED POSTING CHAPS! ALSO HOPE IT ISN'T TOO SLOW MOVING, IF SO, LET ME KNOW.