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“I miss you. That's all.”
“Can't you miss me at home?”
“It's lonely at home,” I say. I stop by Ryan's office every so often. Usually, he's too busy to see me, and he asks me to wait at the bar across the street. Eventually, I get bored of anticipating his lecture— why can't you stop at one drink, Alyssa? — and I go home.
Ryan's hazel eyes connect with mine. He gives me a once over, clearly approving of my classy yet sexy dress.
“What's really on your mind?” he asks.
I bite my lip. How can I phrase it? How can I convince him? What could I possibly say?
“Corine called,” I say.
“The woman who let you run yourself into the ground?”
“It wasn't her job to babysit me. It was her job to get me more money.”
“Why did Corine call?” He says her name with such disdain. Does he really blame her for my downward spiral? It's not like she could have done anything about it. He couldn't even do anything about it. He didn't even know about it until I was firmly entrenched in a habit of purging every other night.
“She wanted to say congrats.”
“Sweetheart, I know you didn't bring up your agent just to let me know she's happy we're engaged.”
“What if I started auditioning again?” I say. Fuck, there's nowhere to go from here if he says no and I get the part. I'll have to admit to deception or cover it up with more lies.
“I thought we decided you would take a year off.”
“You decided that.”
“Because you weren't ready to put your health first,” he says.
“Ryan, I can't sit in the apartment all day. It's boring.”
“What about your books?” Does he really think an unlimited supply of books is going to placate me? Don't get me wrong. I love books. I love losing myself between the pages. But it's not acting. It's not becoming a character. It's not creating life out of nothing.
“It's been almost nine months,” I say. “And I've been doing really well. Why can't I end the hiatus a little early?”
“You've been at it for 10 years. Don't you think it's time to move on?”
“I was a series regular for three years,” I say. “And I killed myself trying to get those parts.”
“Listen to yourself.”
“I only meant I worked hard.”
“But you were right. You nearly killed yourself.”
“You can't blame my eating disorder on acting,” I say.
“It's a lot of pressure on you, sweetheart. Everyone's eyes are on you. Everyone talks about how your body looks. Do you really want to see articles debating who is hotter—you or your costars—or, God forbid, articles about how you are too fat?”
“It will be different. They want me. They want my abilities. My fat ass.”
“Your ass isn't fat.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Take it back,” he says.
