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It's quiet inside. The lights are off. So he is still at work. I check the clock. It's only 11:00. He's stayed later plenty of times, but not usually when I've asked to talk to him. He must be annoyed I didn't answer his call.
I retire to my room and undress, not bothering with pajamas. The moon is so brilliant tonight, a giant, silver ball in a black sky, the only light I need in the room.
I slide my hand between my waist and close my eyes. I try so, so hard not to picture Luke naked. I try even harder not to imagine him peeling off my clothes, his hands roaming over my body, his soft, sweet lips pressing into mine.
But I fail.
Chapter 5
Ryan takes a long sip of his black coffee. His hazel eyes flit from his laptop screen to me, watching me stir cinnamon into my oatmeal. It's 7:30. He's going to leave in 15 minutes. I can't put this conversation off any longer. But still, when I open my mouth, I ask, “How did you sleep?”
“Fine. When did you get home from the bar?”
“Around ten.”
“You only had one drink in three hours?”
“I didn't throw up and I don't have a hangover,” I say.
“Sweetheart, why didn't you wait at home?” Ryan is so difficult. What should it matter if I spend my night at a bar or at home? Either way, he isn't entertaining me. He isn't taking care of me. He isn't giving me company.
Ryan used to be sweeter. He was the first guy who cared about more than getting his hand up my shirt. He listened to me, really listened, and he cared about how I felt. When I was overwhelmed with school or worried about my mom or tired of jerks grabbing my ass in the hallway, I could cry on his shoulder. Sure, other guys were nice to me—they would walk me home or buy me lunch—but they always wanted something in return. Not Ryan. He only wanted to be my friend.
“I want to go back to acting,” I say.
“Sweetheart, you need more time to think it over,” he says.
“I thought it over, and I want to go back.”
“I can't watch you crash and burn again.” He checks his watch. “I have to go, but we'll talk tonight. I promise.”
Maybe I'm better off listening to Ryan. I was so lonely out in Los Angeles until he moved here for law school. He had better options—Harvard, Columbia, Duke—but he picked USC to be close to me. So he could protect me. And he did. He really did. It was just like high school. He called me every day, just to check in, to make sure I wasn't getting myself into trouble. He made me dinner. He picked me up when I got too drunk and called him crying. Sure, he lectured me about my reckless behavior, and sometimes he gave me the cold shoulder for a week or two. But he was only trying to help.
I spent long days on his couch reading pages for auditions while he studied. When we had time, we explored the nooks and crannies of the city. We saw everything there was to see in Los Angeles. Every museum. Every neighborhood. Every tourist trap.
We never really decided to become boyfriend and girlfriend. It just kind of happened. We were both busy. We were both lonely. We both wanted more than friendship. I could have been with other guys—guys who made more money, guys who had more time for me, guys who were better in bed—but I picked Ryan. Yes, we fought a lot, and Ryan usually won, but I loved him, and I knew he'd protect me.
But he didn't hold up his end of the bargain. He didn't notice my growing eating disorder, and, when he did get suspicious, he bought my lies about the stomach flu or a bad hangover. I got worse and worse, and I hid it better and better, until I got so bad I couldn't hide it anymore. Until I fell apart completely.
But Ryan was there, once again, to rescue me and put me back together.
***
I try to spend the morning reading, but I am utterly unable to concentrate. I will know if I got the role soon. Ryan is considering it. He might say yes. I might be able to do this. I might have something that resembles a future.
I am full of anxious energy. Once upon a time, when I was in a state like this, I would have called one of my special friends to help me work off my energy. Or, later on, when I was only seeing Ryan, and he was unavailable for that kind of distraction, I would have downed two pints of ice cream and heaved them back into the toilet.
But I am supposed to learn “healthy coping skills” or some bullshit like that. Fine. I change into a sports bra, shorts, and sneakers. Exercise falls under t
he “healthy coping skills” umbrella.
I take the stairs to the ground floor, my fingers gliding over the railing in case I slip.
It's a beautiful day—sunny and warm, with clear blue skies for miles—but the marina is quiet. I head for the concrete path that winds around the water.
But then I see Luke, sitting in the grass, under the shade of a tree, a dog eared paperback in his hands. He licks his fingers and turns the page. He wears a white V-neck and blue gym shorts. He's flushed and sweaty, like he just finished a run. Or a particularly vigorous fuck.
Get a grip, Alyssa, he didn't get worked up for you.
