shakes his head bleakly. I close my eyes. I cannot bear to look at him.
"Well... I'd better go, then," I murmur, wincing as I sit up.
"No, don't go." He sounds panicked.
"There's no point in me staying." Suddenly, I feel tired, really dog-tired, and I want to go now. I climb out of bed, and Christian follows.
"I'm going to get dressed. I'd like some privacy," I say, my voice flat and empty as I leave him standing in the bedroom.
Heading downstairs, I glance at the great room, thinking how only hours before I had rested my head on his shoulder as he played the piano. So much has happened since then.
I have had my eyes opened and glimpsed the extent of his depravity, and I now know he's not capable of love - of giving or receiving love. My worst fears have been realized. And strangely, it's very liberating.
The pain is such that I refuse to acknowledge it. I feel numb. I have somehow escaped from my body and am now a casual observer to this unfolding tragedy. I shower quickly and methodically, thinking only of each second in front of me. Now squeeze body wash bottle. Put body wash bottle back in rack. Rub cloth on face, on shoulders... on and on, all simple, mechanical actions, requiring simple mechanical thoughts.
I finish my shower - and as I haven't washed my hair, I can dry myself quickly. I dress in the bathroom, taking my jeans and t-shirt out of my small suitcase. My jeans chafe against my backside, but quite frankly, it's a pain I welcome as it distracts my mind from what's happening to my splintering, shattered heart.
I stoop to shut my suitcase, and the bag holding Christian's gift catches my eye, a modeling kit for a Blahnik L23 glider, something for him to build. Tears threaten. Oh no...
happier times, when there was hope of more. I take it out of the case, knowing that I need
to give it to him. Quickly, I rip a small piece of paper from my notebook, hastily scribble a note for him, and leave it on top of the box.
I gaze at myself in the mirror. A pale and haunted ghost stares back at me. I scoop my hair into a ponytail and ignore how swollen my eyelids are from the crying. My subconscious nods with approval. Even she knows not to be snarky right now. I cannot believe that my world is crumbling around me into a sterile pile of ashes, all my hopes and dreams cruelly dashed. No, no don't think about it. Not now, not yet. Taking a deep breath, I pick up my case, and after placing the glider kit and my note on his pillow, I head for the great room.
Christian is on the phone. He's dressed in black jeans and t-shirt. His feet are bare.
"He said what!" he shouts, making me jump. "Well, he could have told us the fucking truth. What's his number, I need to call him... Welch, this is a real fuck-up." He glances up and doesn't take his dark and brooding eyes off me. "Find her," he snaps and presses the off switch.
I walk over to the couch and collect my backpack, doing my best to ignore him. I take the Mac out of it and walk back toward the kitchen, placing it carefully on the breakfast bar, along with the BlackBerry and the car key. When I turn to face him, he's staring at me, stupefied with horror.
"I need the money that Taylor got for my Beetle." My voice is clear and calm, devoid of emotion... extraordinary.
"Ana, I don't want those things, they're yours," he says in disbelief. "Please, take them."
"No Christian - I only accepted them under sufferance - and I don't want them anymore."
"Ana, be reasonable," he scolds me, even now.
"I don't want anything that will remind me of you. I just need the money that Taylor got for my car." My voice is quite monotone.
He gasps.
"Are you really trying to wound me?"
"No." I frown staring at him. Of course not... I love you. "I'm not. I'm trying to protect myself," I whisper. Because you don't want me the way I want you.
"Please, Ana, take that stuff."
"Christian, I don't want to fight - I just need the money."
He narrows his eyes, but I'm no longer intimidated by him. Well, only a little. I gaze impassively back, not blinking or backing down.