Пятьдесят оттенков серого

           MaybeIshouldbekindertothelikesofPaulClaytonandJoséRodriguez,thoughI’msureneitherofthemhasbeenfoundsobbingaloneindarkplaces.PerhapsIjustneedagoodcry.

           Stop!Stopnow!mysubconsciousismetaphoricallyscreamingatme,armsfolded,leaningononelegandtappingherfootinfrustration.Getinthecar,gohome,doyourstudying.Forgetabouthim…Now!Andstopallthisself-pitying,wallowingcrap.

           Itakeadeep,steadyingbreathandstandup.Getittogether,Steele.IheadforKate’scar,wipingthetearsoffmyfaceasIdo.Iwillnotthinkofhimagain.Icanjustchalkthisincidentuptoexperienceandconcentrateonmyexams.

           KATEISSITTINGATthediningtableatherlaptopwhenIarrive.Herwelcomingsmilefadeswhensheseesme.

           “Ana,what’swrong?”

           Ohno…nottheKatherineKavanaghInquisition.Ishakemyheadinaback-off-now-Kavanaghway—butImightaswellbedealingwithablind,deafmute.

           “You’vebeencrying.”Shehasanexceptionalgiftforstatingthedamnedobvioussometimes.“Whatdidthatbastarddotoyou?”shegrowls,andherface—jeez,she’sscary.

           “Nothing,Kate.”That’sactuallytheproblem.Thethoughtbringsawrysmiletomyface.

           “Thenwhyhaveyoubeencrying?Younevercry,”shesays,hervoicesoftening.Shestands,hergreeneyesbrimmingwithconcern.Sheputsherarmsaroundmeandhugsme.Ineedtosaysomethingjusttogethertobackoff.

           “Iwasnearlyknockedoverbyacyclist.”It’sthebestthatIcando,butitdistractshermomentarilyfrom…him.