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“Thanks Mom,” I say.
“Alyssa.”
Ugh. It's the end of an argument whenever he says “Alyssa”. He might as well say, you already know you're wrong, you know you're going to lose this argument, you should give up now, you should stop pushing it or I'll never, ever even consider allowing you to do anything other than sit in this stupid fucking apartment.
“How many drinks am I allowed to have?” I ask.
“Do you need to go back to therapy?” he asks.
“No, I'm fine.” And I hate going to those stupid appointments, some doctor staring at me with a bored look while I shrink into some stupid couch stained with the tears of the hundred patients who came before me.
“Don't you think it would be a good idea to talk to someone about whether or not you can handle going back to work?”
“I thought that was your decision,” I say.
“Alyssa.”
“I need to answer by Friday,” I say, and I pull the covers over my head.
“Go to bed,” Ryan says, “you'll feel better in the morning.”
He kisses me on the forehead, turns the lights off, and closes the door behind him.
I stare out the window, at the rolling ocean, the black sky, the bright stars. I try to sleep, but I am too anxious, too wound up. I remind myself that Ryan has my best interests at heart. He is only trying to help me. He is only trying to protect me.
I remind myself that I love Ryan, that we are engaged, and that I am not supposed to think about another man.
But, when Luke touched me, Jesus, I've never felt anything like that. And it was only his fingers brushing against my thigh. It was only his hands on my waist. It was only innocent.
Why did it have to be so innocent?
What if it wasn't only my waist, or my arm, or my thigh? What if his hands were under my clothes? What if his hands were on my chest, or on my ass, or between my thighs? What if his body was pressed up against mine? What if his lips were pressed against mine? What if his cock…
I slip my hand between my thighs and finish my thought.
Chapter 8
Two cups of coffee do nothing to ease my hangover. I should have listened to Ryan and limited myself to one drink. Mouthing off will only hurt my case. It will only convince him I'm too emotionally volatile to be ready for any responsibility. If I am not responsible enough to monitor my drinking, how will I handle the pressures of a starring role without slipping back into a frenzy of binging and purging?
I can hate Ryan's rules as much as I want.
He's right. I would have died without him. I never would have convinced myself to check into an inpatient treatment center. I never would have convinced myself to stick to a safe recovery diet. I never would have dragged myself to twice weekly therapy sessions.
I drink three glasses of water, but still, my head pounds. I lie on the couch, my eyes half open, flipping through the channels. Talk show. Friends rerun. Talk show. Cartoon funny to no one but 14 year old boys.
Law and Order.
Jesus, this show is everywhere.
It ran for 20 seasons. And it's not like Luke is the only person in the world who likes it. My mom likes it. She likes all these shows.
It's not like watching the detectives question busy witnesses should make me think of Luke. It should make me think of New York City. It should make me think of all the times I auditioned for guest spots on police procedurals—I was almost cast as the kidnapped daughter once. It should make me think of something besides Luke watching with me on the couch, his body pressed against mine, his eyes wide with interest.
Interest in the TV show, not interest in you.
But what if his interest was in me? What if those big, brown eyes were wide and bright because of me? What if his breath was fast because of me? What if his cock was…
Jesus, I'm going to tear my hair out if I stay in this apartment any longer.
