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“Alyssa is retired,” Ryan says for me. It's true, sort of, but it doesn't look good if he says it. It doesn't fit into our flirty act.
“Nonsense,” Luke says. “Alyssa would be miserable if she gave up acting.”
“We should get back to business,” Ryan says.
“Do you really think she wants to sit in your penthouse all day? It must be as uninteresting as attempting a conversation with you.”
“I was offered a role,” I blurt it out. Ryan pulls his hand away from me. I want to catch my breath, but everyone is looking at me, waiting for more details. “On a sitcom. I'd be the star.”
“Alyssa,” Ryan says. “We'll talk later.”
“You would be wonderful on a sitcom,” Luke says, “comedians need to understand pain. And nothing could be more painful than being with Ryan.”
Ryan plays his part, laughing with Luke and Edward, but I can tell he's upset. I can tell I won't hear the end of it tonight, when it's just the two of us, when he can't ruin his reputation for being calm and collected.
Does Luke really think he's helping me? He'd help me more by keeping his mouth shut and minding his own business. He doesn't understand my relationship with Ryan. No one does. He couldn't possibly understand why I don't want to go against Ryan's word. He couldn't possibly understand everything Ryan has done for me.
“Alyssa is happy with her life. She doesn't need anything more in it. Isn't that right, sweetheart?” Ryan says.
He looks into my eyes, demanding an explanation. I know Ryan wants a public apology, but he's not getting it. It's been eight months since I got out of treatment. He needs to give me the okay to resume my life.
“It's a great opportun
ity,” I say.
“There will be other opportunities.”
“I want this one.”
“Jesus,” Luke says. “Why don't you let her make her own decisions?”
“This isn't the time or place for this conversation,” Ryan says.
But Luke ignores him. “I knew from the way you talked that your relationship with Alyssa was deplorable, but it's even worse than I imagined.”
Ryan glares at Luke, but he doesn't address him. Instead, he turns to Edward with an apology. “I'm sorry for the interruption. Alyssa and I will continue this conversation later. When we're alone. Right, sweetheart?”
I say nothing. There's nothing I can say that will help my case.
Luke pushes out of his seat, looking at Ryan with disgust. “Maybe you can boss around your girlfriend. Maybe you can trick her into marrying you. Hell, I bet she'd do it just for the money she gets in the divorce. But you can't make me a spectator.” He looks to me for a response, “Come on, Alyssa, stand up for yourself.”
“Why should I when you can do it so well for me?” I reply.
Luke looks at me like I slapped him in the face. He shakes his head and storms out. A quiet creeps over the restaurant. Thank God we're in a secluded corner.
I retreat to silence as the men talk business. It's all so dreadfully boring, I only tune in when I hear Luke's name. I make sure to finish my plate of salmon, to limit myself to two glasses of tequila, to stay at the table long enough to prove my food is staying in my stomach. Maybe, if I am good, if I show I am in control of my eating and drinking, Ryan will allow me to return to acting. Maybe, if I am good, if I play my part as the pretty, supportive fiancée, Ryan will allow me to have a life again.
Is it really as bad as Luke says? Does Ryan control me? Does Ryan trick me? Is it really possible that Ryan doesn't love me? Does it even matter? Our relationship isn't based on love, not really.
What does Luke know? He's just as happy to speak for me. He's just as happy to guess what's best for me.
***
We ride back to the apartment in silence. Ryan grips the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white. He is mad. I can't stand when he's mad. I try to calm him down. I try to stroke his arm, to hold his hand, but he doesn't loosen the grip until he puts the car in park.
“Ryan, can we talk?” I ask, but he is silent as we ride the elevator up to our apartment. He shifts his weight between his legs. He watches our reflections in the mirrored walls. He is perfect in his suit, calm and composed. I'm a sweaty, heaving mess, dress stuck to my skin, make up running.
Is this some kind of punishment or is he waiting until we are somewhere really private, until there is no chance anyone will see him acting like an angry asshole?
