Chapter 14

Anastasia

October 13, 2020

I'm behind the counter, waiting for to-go orders. Ishita's had a bad week. Poor woman. Two cases of COVID exposure in her staff. No wonder my landlord keeps talking to herself.

She's baking now and chanting prayers. At least I think they're prayers. I inch closer to the kitchen. She takes the tray of hot blueberry scones out of her double oven and places them down on the metal counter to cool.

"Now, it's like this," Ishita says, motioning her hands high to the sky and bringing them down to her heart. Is that from her yoga class? Don't hit the scones. She jumps when we meet our eyes. "Oh, Ana, can you handle things here alone if I go out on a delivery."

"Yes, as long as they don't order expresso drinks."

"Tell everyone I'll be back." Ishita says, fanning the baked goods. I don't think that'll get them to cool faster. "Mollie should be coming in an hour to relieve you. Thanks again for filling in the last minute."

"No problem, thanks for lowering my rent."

She smiles and I hear the front door chime. Another customer.

"Good morning, how can I help you?" I say, to the tall man walking in. Wait. My breath hitches. What's he doing here? "Christian?"

"Good morning Ana."

The deep tone stirs something within me. Desire. It's him. In Montesano.

"I thought I'd find you here. You look good in an apron."

"I um…" Why does he have to have such rugged good looks? The broad shoulders. The piercing eyes. "I'm um...happy you're here. But I'm working."

"I missed you. I couldn't wait until Friday," he says. His eyes show his concern. His care.

I fiddle with my hands. His attention. It's addicting. And dangerous.

Ishita walks out the kitchen with a white box full of fresh scones. "Thank you for covering," she says to me.

I wave goodbye. Grateful for the face mask. My cheeks must be bright red.

Ishita stops when she reaches the register. Her eyes dart from me to Christian, whose eyes are glued to me. "Nice to meet you too. Any friend of Ana's is welcome here," she says. Her eyes twinkle, as she exits the coffee shop.

My heart thuds, as I return my gaze to Christian. I force myself to stop drooling. "I…thought you were coming on Friday."

Christian raises an eyebrow, reminding me of my surprise visit to him last week. Touché. The door opens and a chill breeze comes through. Another customer. Shit. We're to-go only now. I can't talk to Christian here.

"I have a customer," I say, rushing to get him a to-go cup. "Let me get you a coffee and you can um…go to my apartment upstairs and wait."

There's a triumphant glean in his eyes. "By all means. No cream or sugar. Yet."

Tingles climb my arms, as I fill his coffee cup. I spill some over the counter as I hand the cup to him.

"Thanks," Christian says, lowering his face mask to take a sip of the dark brew. Those eyes. That steely look. I can't tell what he's thinking.

"The apartment is upstairs. The stairwell is past the restrooms."

"I'll find it," he answers, calmly.

My eyes linger on his lips. Entranced.

He pulls his mask back up and walks towards the restrooms. Gone again.

"Excuse me," A short brunette snips redirecting my attention. Her hair is pulled into a messy bun and she's texting on her phone.

"Good morning, sorry for the wait. What can I get you?"

"I need an extra-large mocha and a half-dozen lavender cookies." She doesn't look up from her phone.

"The cookies will be right up," I say, "But we don't have any mochas today. Sorry about that."

"What do you mean you don't have any mochas? I had one yesterday at this same time," the woman says, scowling. "Your new right? I need to speak to your manager."

What a Karen! Go ahead. Try calling Ishita and complaining. You'll see. "My manager will be back soon," I say, curtly. "Your welcome to come back later."

"I can't come back later," she huffs. There's fire in her eyes. She's wearing all blue, it's distracting. Are those medical scrubs?

My lips quiver. I hate confrontation. Wait. The first chapter of that book Christian lent me. What did that hostage negotiator say? Practice.

She exhales loudly, clearly annoyed.

"Your right," I say, steadying my voice and taking another breath. "You can't come back later. I'm new and you had a mocha yesterday. I'm covering this shift due to a staff COVID related incident. I'm sorry for the inconvenience. Would you like tea or drip coffee instead?"

"Don't you have someone else who can make it?"

I pause. Purposeful silence. "There's no one else."

"You have the machine right there."

"How am I supposed to do that?" I say, calmly, remembering the book's line. Trying to lower my voice.

"You…you…can just get me a large coffee."

I nod and start filling a to-go up.

"Thanks," She says, when I hand her the package of cookies and coffee. "I'm exhausted and have to go pick up my child from my in-laws." She adds a $10 tip to her order. Over 30%. Wow.

"It's a busy Tuesday for sure after the holiday weekend," I say, my heart pounding.

"Yeah, my boss had me work six shifts in a row. I'm the newest on the floor. No seniority. Wearing protective gear. It gets to me. I'm claustrophobic."

"Well, I hope you get a vacation soon," I say, as I hand her the receipt.

"Thank you. I need it," she says, as she walks towards the door. She leaves and it occurs to me, she's not a Karen after all. Just a human.

My eyes turn to the hallway, to where Christian waits upstairs. He's human too. Not some untouchable CEO or sexual psycho. Just a man…who's hurt.

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

Christian sits on the tan cushion at the bay window in Ana's apartment, viewing the small downtown strip. It's peaceful. Not many people out. Her rental room is tiny compared to her old place.

Standing up to stretch his legs, he touches the dark purple bedspread with its golden embroidered design. It's ostentatious. Not her. Ana's simple and classic. A girl next door. With black sneakers.

Christian sits on the springy bed, smelling a distinct scent. Sandalwood. The woody scent brings him back to memories of their bouldering trip. The lodge. Another trip would be great. The two of them. The mountains.

Christian winces. There's no time for vacation. Between work and the event with Jack. No time.

Touching the wire bedpost, he gets an idea - build a wire cage to protect his combat drone. It'll give him a defensive advantage when battling Jack's drone on national TV.

Christian writes Andrea a text: The quadcopter's airframe should be indestructible. Think combat ready. Source a custom cage for defense.

Christian sends it. Good. He finds a missed notification from Ros.

He reads Ros's text: Hi, what's your plan for the virtual newly approved apps have been collecting personal information on our platform. Thoughts?

Another problem. His head aches as he brainstorms strategies. When he runs out of ideas, he picks up the small brass statue on the rickety wooden bedside table. Buddha.

Staring at the statue of the cross-legged deity, Christian eyebrows knit in concern. Ana's seeking spiritual guidance because of him.

A rustling sound gets his attention. Christian braces himself for the conversation. It's time to ease Ana's mind. The door opens and Ana walks in.

"Hi. My shift's over," Ana says, taking her face mask off. "Ready to talk?"

"Yeah. Let's talk," Christian says, gesturing towards the bed. The dull ache in his chest grows. Talking isn't what's needed here. His eyes pause at her lips. Enough. Enough with this. He holds back, barely. His breathing heavy.

Ana sits on the edge of the bed, which leads it to creak. She's fidgety.

"The contract. You want to write it together," Christian says, quietly. Same story, different day. Close it. He scoots closer to her so they're side by side. The bed creaks again. This time louder. "Let's start talking. We can make it official later."

Ana nods, not moving a muscle. Staying silent.

"The cabinets you saw before. The nude pictures and contracts. They're gone. We can redecorate the playroom. Make it a neutral space."

"Good," Ana says, grabbing his hand interlocking her fingers with his.

An icy chill slides down Christian's spine. He clears his throat. She's too calm. Another silence.

"Christian."

Christian's brow starts sweating. He squeezes her hand back. No. Not letting them happen. She started this.

"Your past…your birth mom. The stuff going on with Jack. I think it impacts you. Your ability to um…connect with others. With me."

Christian grinds his teeth. "I have a therapist. My past doesn't affect you."

Another silence. Her lips tremble.

Christian forces himself to admit the pain point. The persistent obstacle. "You still don't trust me."

"Yes. I don't trust you," Ana says, softly. She holds his hand a little tighter.

Christian lets go of her hand. He stands up, leaving the bed. This isn't going to work. A lost cause.

"But…" Ana whispers. Not meeting his eyes. "I love you."

Mouth open. Mouth closed. Christian scans her face. No signs of deception. "Ana, you need to trust me."

She pauses, crossing her arms across her chest. A protective movement. "How am I supposed to do that?"

Christian shakes his head. "You read the book."

She nods, shrugging innocently, like it can't be helped.

Christian kisses her forehead. His energy's drained. "I'll call you later."

"Okay," she says, softly. Her eyes big and watery.

He exits her small room and rushes down the stairs. Feeling the cool breeze outside, it hits him. The frankness of her words a dangerous bullhorn. That settles it.

Christion opens the door of his SUV. His strategy decided. The person he needs to talk to. He presses the phone symbol on his steering wheel.

"Jason Younger," he says out loud.

"Dialing Jason Younger," the British robot replies.

As the phone rings in his speaker system, the Buddha statue pops in his mind. It's time. On his own terms.

º-º-º-º-º

Anastasia

I'm reading eBooks on my phone, trying to understand Christian. He left yesterday. Didn't call. I keep waiting. Waiting to hear back. My heart hurts. But it feels right. Telling him I love him, but don't trust him. It's complicated and true.

Life's messy. It hurt. Him leaving like that. My love not reciprocated. Repeating Ishita's chant, I say out loud, "Now it's like this." Acceptance. A major step.

Clicking one eBook cover, I enlarge the text and read the title. The Journey from Abandonment to Healing by Susan Anderson. Those scars. The one's on his chest. From his birth mother. That's worse than abandonment.

I scroll through various chapters and stop on one page. This. This is useful. Reading out loud, I try to understand what Susan's saying:

"The energy involved in shattering is the life force,

the inborn need forattachment."

Attachment. What does that mean? I pause thinking of Ray and Ginny. His attachment to her and his calmness. Hmmm…I'm not sure, so I keep reading out loud, trying to process the words:

"When that energy in thwarted, it intensifies what Buddhists call clinging;

suffering and grief are the result."

"Ana," a voice shouts from the stairwell. Ishita. "Who are you talking to? That man?"

I leave my phone on the bed and open the door for her. "No one. Just myself."

Her eyes are tired. But there's a smile lining her face. She's holding two plastic containers. "Butter Chicken and garlic naan."

I nod, taking the to-go containers. It's her way of thanking me for helping her yesterday. "I don't know how I'll eat this all."

Ishita's eyes twinkle. "Your too skinny anyways. Who was that man yesterday? The one with love in his eyes?"

"Oh…that's my…friend."

"A handsome one." She moves to leave but then pauses, pulling out her bright orange mobile phone. "Did you see this article? Is that you?"

My stomach twists. There it is. My picture's back in the news. Anastasia Steele. Why do they use my full name? Grumbling, I notice it's an old picture. Christian's Grey's Girlfriend Fired Because of Fake News.

I read the rest of the article. Kate's quoted multiple times. Did she arrange for this? I sigh and hand Ishita back her phone. "Yes, that's me…Sorry. It's why…it's why I left Seattle."

"Ana do not apologize for others bad deeds," she says, sternly, like a mama bear.

I stagger backwards feeling her energy. She's serious. "Okay Ishita."

"That company. Its actions will come back to it. Do not worry about this. You. Happiness will come to you. It's your actions that matter for your karma. Not their actions. Remember that."

I nod, feeling a chill reach my arms. I cross them and she waves goodbye. Finding my bed, I'm suddenly exhausted. The smell of the food doesn't appeal to me. I'm too wrapped up in my thoughts. Other people's actions. Separate from me.

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

Christian waits at the trailhead, examining the map, which sticks out from the old growth forest. They'll need the most challenging route. Towards the ridge. The air's crisp and the sun is starting to rise. A perfect Sunday to cross the series of meadows and alpine rock fields.

He checks his fitness tracking watch. Jason should be here any minute. They haven't talked in years, yet their shared interests remain the same – daredevil tactics, outdoor thrills, and investing strategies.

Christian groans. It wasn't necessary. Calling Jason. It puts Christian in the one down position. Subordinate. An inner voice tells him to shut it. It's time. They might as well share another thing in common. Trauma. Jason told him about his aunt's son abusing him years ago. Christian didn't see the connection between their experiences then. He does now.

"Ready," Jason says, stepping towards the trailhead. He must have just arrived. He's already got his camelback on.

Jason sips water from one of the spouts. His classic shaved head and simple attire emphasizing his devotion to self-discipline. An entrepreneur at heart, like Christian.

"One day we will commit to thru hiking," Christian says. Their shared interest. Committing to completing the entire trail end-to-end. Never had the time.

"When we're retired," Jason says, patting him on the back as they begin hiking.

They climb for over an hour without speaking, ascending through the wilderness. At around the hour mark, a voice tells Christian it's time. Time to ask.

"Your process for healing. It started with the physical right?"

"Yeah," Jason says, continuing to hike. Not meeting his eyes. Letting Christian take the lead.

"The heart rate variability training?" Christian says, remembering the resource list Jason sent him. Detailing his journey.

"Yes. It helps with cardiac hyper-responsiveness."

Christian nods. He read that article. He'll find a practitioner. "Then the retreat?"

"10-day Vipassana silent retreat."

Christian matches Jason's pace as the terrain gets hillier. They sidestep a rough patch of granite.

"After, you told your family."

"Yes. All of it. I couldn't self-censor any longer."

Christian bites his tongue. Grimacing at the idea of telling Mia, Grace. All of it. The reason he didn't talk until Mia was adopted into the family. His teenage experiences with Elena's seductions. Her unwanted influence.

They reach a viewpoint and stare at the open wilderness. In silence. Christian mediates on his experiences, a sense of calm passing over him.

"A new vocabulary helps," Jason says, wiping his sweaty brow. "Not a victim. A survivor. Remember that."

Christian nods and they start descending the ridge discussing new technologies. Christian's energy's back. Not a victim. A survivor.

º-º-º-º-º

Anastasia

I'm sitting at Ginny's salon, mixing more conditioning treatment for her customers. It's comforting. A sprinkle of lavender here. Egg white there. Mixing the ingredients in the big black bowl. A needed distraction from my thoughts.

The TV's on in the supply room blaring bad news. Cases are up in Europe. Will we have another lockdown? I pray we won't. I'm not sure I can take it. I stop mixing to look for her remote.

I'm searching in the cushions of her dark green velvet loveseat, when the commercials start playing.

An announcer's voice starts playing, "Tune in Wednesday, October 21st 7:00 PST for the drone fight." Facing the TV, the screen's split with pictures of two men – Christian and another man. Jack.

The commercial's gone and replaced with an advertisement for baby detergent. What did the announcer say? A drone duel. All proceeds go to charities. Why would Christian want that?

"I'm not in charge of other people's actions," I say out loud, sitting on one of Ginny's black salon chairs. It's just mine. My actions are my own.

I text Christian for the first time since he left my apartment: Stay safe. I'm thinking of you.

There. I've done everything I can. A little voice tells me I haven't. Will there be spectators at this duel? Maybe I should come. He's got a reason for everything. Is this part of his healing process?

º-º-º-º-º

Christian

The live broadcast starts in an hour. The stadium is outdoors, and the network installed a giant netted arena, so the drones won't escape. Fair play.

Christian scans the stadium, squinting. His family's here. Filo's in the first row. They talked earlier. She has three kids in Detroit. Time passes. He paid her flight thinking she wanted a free trip and to reunite with her past. He didn't expect her words to sink into his heart.

She had said before hugging him, forgetting about social distancing, "You know Christian. Jack. Tha's not your fault. We were all hurt. It's the system."

Did Ana come? He sent her one of his ten guest tickets. His chest tightens. She'll be here. Part of his announcement will be for her. He just needs to win.

A pretty Hispanic woman, with a flirty yellow dress and a coordinated face mask, comes up to Christian putting a microphone in his face. Two cameramen flank her.

"Christian, we'd love to hear why you proposed this duel. You own words. We've already spoken to Jack. He said this was your idea," the woman says.

"No comments until after the drone fight," Christian says, facing away from the woman to recheck his controller.

His statement doesn't deter her. She steps closer, upping her volume. "There have been reports of physical abuse. You were both children. Jack hurt you which is why you called him an Ape correct?" The woman prods.

"No comment, until after the duel," Christian repeats, sternly. He walks away from the woman and towards Arthur, who he officially designated as his second.

"Christian, have you seen the celebrities here? Jack's got friends," Arthur says, pointing to the other bleachers.

"He's into showmanship," Christian says, scanning his side of the stadium for Ana. Not here yet. "But the facts are on my side. Not that facts matter anymore."

His mother waves at him. His sister sits next to her and holds up a homemade cardboard sign. It says, "Go Christian."

"Your quadcopter should hold up," Arthur says, redirecting his attention to his controller and the flying robot.

"It'll send the message. Bumping his until he's defeated. Then I'll talk to the reporters. Tell all."

"Good. The victor tells the story. Change the narrative," Arthur says, checking his watch.

A referee walks up to them, keeping six feet distance. A representative from the California drone flying club. The burly man, wearing a black t-shirt and a skull face masks, says, "You know the rules, right? This is a drone wrestling match. No gas. No fire. No explosives. Got it?"

"Got it. A clean fight," Christian replies, nodding.

"My understanding is if you win, you'll speak on camera for ten minutes stating your position, reclaiming your honor. If your opponent wins, you've arranged a financial reward correct?"

"Correct," Christian says, sweating a little.

"We'll signal the start of the contest. The light next to you. When it's green you start flying. Good luck," the referee says, walking around the netted arena.

Christian takes deep breaths, trying to get into the zone. It's like a video game. To reinstate his honor. Samuel Johnson's words come to mind. The words that provoked him in jest to announce a duel.

A man may shoot the man who invades his character,

as he may shoot him who attempts to break his house.

Christian scoffs at the stupidity of past generations. The amount of men lost to trivial duels. No shooting needed. Foolish. But there must be consequences to Jack's actions.

Bracing himself, Christian gets his mind ready to fight. He won't take character insults lying down. He didn't take abuse when he was five. He won't now. Jack's drone will be obliterated and the narrative will be changed.

The signal starts. Ready. Set. Go.