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“Fine,” he says. “You don't have to tell me what's wrong, but I'm not going to listen to a bunch of lies.”
“Ryan, I'm sorry.”
“If you're sorry, tell me the truth,” he says.
He doesn't kiss me goodbye. I bury myself under the covers and try to sleep. Nothing comes. This is what Ryan would want—for me to think about what I did, why I did it. It was Luke. The horrible emptiness he made me feel. I've been losing control ever since the first time I felt his lips on mine.
It's not fair. Why can Luke rouse all these things in me? Who the fuck does he think he is, telling me to leave Ryan, flirting with me in front of my boyfriend? Who the fuck does he think he is, making me believe he cares about me? How much can he care when he's still holding a candle for Samantha?
I feel the hole in my stomach again. Acid. It must be the acid. It can't possibly be because Luke is still in love with his ex-girlfriend. If she's even his ex-girlfriend. The fucking asshole.
I wrap myself in a sheet and sit on the balcony. See, Ryan trusts me. He didn't lock the balcony, and Ryan would never overlook a balcony. Not when he's so sure I'm unstable.
The breeze is soft and cool, and I am so tired of all this anguish. These feelings are dangerous and I'm not strong enough to handle them. I can't handle anything. It's why I need Ryan. It's why I need to go back to the life waiting for me. I will be Ryan's wife and only Ryan's wife. That's all I can handle.
I close my eyes and, finally, in the salty air of the Pacific, I fall asleep.
Chapter 17
When I wake, Ryan is in the bedroom, changing into his street clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt. It's not like him to dress so casually. Even in the apartment, he is usually in his suit, or on the weekends, in khakis and a polo shirt. He doesn't change into pajamas until 3 minutes before bed.
But it's not as if he's trying to compare himself to Luke. Lots of people wear jeans and t-shirts. And, Ryan is smart enough to realize he's not competing with Luke.
Besides, Luke looks a lot better in anything.
Or nothing.
Ryan fixes me dinner. It's not fish and rice and vegetables today. It's some kind of soup and a few bottles of Pedialyte. Yes, the drink for sick babies is an old bulimic trick—perfect for replenishing lost electrolytes. Perfect for staying just healthy enough to keep yourself out of the hospital.
If only I had been more careful, I could still be on Together, holding myself together, with none of this engagement or affair business to deal with.
Only I'd be another year into an eating disorder with almost no hope of clawing my way out.
I drink half a dozen glasses of water, but, still, acid attacks the walls of my stomach. I did this to myself. I deserve every second of suffering.
Ryan and I don't talk. I can't exactly blame him. I don't deserve any more chances to lie. He mentions work. He brings up my therapist and gets me to agree to see her again. Once a week. Maybe two or three days a week. Something to fix me and get me under control.
We take a walk on the beach as the sun sets. I press my bare feet into the sand. It is cool and rough, but Ryan's hand is strong and soft and warm around mine. I try to lean into him, to hug him and hold him tightly, but he isn't receptive. I collapse onto the sand, pulling my knees into my chest, and watch the waves pound the beach. Ryan sits next to me. He's quiet for a while, but he eventually offers his hand and I rest my head on his shoulder.
We used to spend a lot of nights and days like this. We used to be closer. We used to care about each other more. He really was worried about me. He really did think I might die. He really did love me. Didn't he?
“You need to get this under control, sweetheart,” he says. “I can't bear to watch you break down again.”
“I will. I promise I will.”
He nods, and we sit like that for a while, as the sky grows darker, into a brilliant blue. The stars and moon are silver against it, little beacons of light in a dark sky. It's all so brilliant it makes me sick. I feel Ryan's fingers on mine. He's feeling my ring finger for my engagement ring. I'm not wearing it. I never wear it.
“I can't wear it to work,” I say.
“It's the weekend,” he says. He is suspicious. I'll have to wear the ring when he's around. I'll have to wear the ring when I go see Luke and demand an explanation. If I go see Luke and demand an explanation.
I'll have to wear the ring if I fuck Luke again.
We return to the condo. Ryan dotes on me as I brush my teeth and put on my pajamas. He insists I go to bed early, even though I spent half the day sleeping. I pray that he will kiss me and touch me and distract me for the next 20 minutes, but all he does is kiss my forehead and send an email to my therapist requesting an appointment.
He sleeps in the spare room. Supposedly, I need to be alone with my thoughts. I know better. It's not the thoughts that matter. It's the alone. He wants me to remember how it feels to be without him.
I am tired, but I can't sleep. The air conditioning is on full blast, and I can't get warm no matter how tightly I hold the covers. It is never this cold when Ryan is in the bed.
