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“I don't have cable in the apartment,” Luke says.
“I think he's asking you to leave,” I say. I giggle and press my arm into Luke's. We are so close, and his arm is so warm, and he doesn't even care that Ryan is watching us.
“Come here, Alyssa,” Ryan says. I pout, but I climb over Luke and scamper to Ryan. “Get some water. You're drunk.”
“Why can't I get drunk in my own apartment?” I ask.
“Your therapist was very clear,” he whispers.
“Shh! We aren't supposed to talk like this in front of company,” I say.
“Let the girl have a little fun,” Luke says. “What else does she have to do all day?”
“Ooh, he's not going to like that,” I say, but I do fetch my glass of water and drink the whole thing. Ryan is right. I am not supposed to drink more than two glasses. My therapist did lecture me about other compulsions—exercise, shopping, coffee, cigarettes, alcohol.
But that was so long ago. He doesn't have to lecture me every time I have three drinks.
I move back to the couch and accidentally fall onto Luke's lap. Accidentally. I feel his hands on my sides as he lifts me and places me on the cushion next to him. I want to be closer to him, but Ryan won't like it. He doesn't like anything. I slide to the other side of the couch and hug the arm rest.
“Why don't you go home and get started on that report?” Ryan suggests.
“The episode is almost over. Don't you want to see if ADA Jack McCoy nails the murderer?”
“He was only asking to be polite,” I say. “He wants you to leave.”
“I know,” Luke says.
“He'll get mad if you don't leave,” I say.
“It's your condo too, isn't it? Do you want me to leave?” Luke asks. I try not to giggle, but I'm sure I do, and I'm also sure I twirl my hair around my fingers. How can he so easily turn me into a nervous school girl?
“Ryan doesn't watch TV. He thinks it's boring and pointless.”
“Even your show?” Luke asks.
“He got too jealous,” I say. “All my character did was make out with… well, with everyone.”
“Come on, sweetheart,” Ryan says. “Let's go to bed.”
“It's early,” I say.
“Yes, but you're making a drunken fool of yourself.”
“I think she's a cute little drunk,” Luke says.
“I'm not drunk! I'm only tipsy. And I agree. You should find it cute,” I say to Ryan.
Ryan rolls his eyes. I know what this means. I push off the couch, again, and let Ryan escort me to my room. It is early, but I am drunk, and I am much safer in here, with the door closed, with it impossible for Luke to touch me again. Or for me to touch him.
I hear Ryan turn off the TV and walk Luke out. He sighs, a heavy sigh, and returns to my room. He looks through my dresser and pulls out a pair of pajamas.
“You need to be on your best behavior tomorrow,” Ryan says, but I hear what he really means: If you embarrass me, I won't let you take that role.
“Have I ever been on anything less than my best behavior at one of these dinners?”
“This is the second night this week you went to bed drunk.”
How does he know I rolled in drunk last night? He can't know I spent the night talking to Luke. But we were only talking. It's not like it was a secret. It's not like there's any reason to keep it from Ryan.
