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The warzone in my stomach has calmed, but it still doesn't feel quite right. I eat slowly, drinking black coffee. It's awful black, but I can't stomach the thought of putting any more sugar in my body after last night.
“You look better today,” Ryan says. “Do you feel better?”
“Yes, thank you.”
“Are you ready to tell me what really happened yesterday?” Ryan asks.
“Nothing happened.”
“Do you know how much I worry about you? I couldn't sleep last night. I won't be able to concentrate in my meetings today.”
What can I tell Ryan? How can I make him understand without confessing? How can I let him know that I want to purge my mind of Luke? So I'll never feel like this again.
“Is this about Luke? Has he been bothering you?” Damn mind-reading lawyer skills.
“I said no last night.”
“I was hoping you'd be ready to tell me the truth today.” I say nothing, and Ryan launches into an accusation. “He's been flirting with you.”
“He's very flirtatious.”
“I know he's handsome, funny, permissive. Hell, I even enjoy talking to him sometimes. He's almost as well-read as you are, and he knows all those indie films I've never heard of. But he wants more from you than friendship.”
“Why do you work with someone you don't trust?”
“He's a great lawyer. Doesn't sleep. Works all night.” Ryan takes my hand and kisses me on the nose. “I have to go, but we'll talk more tonight. I'll be home early. I need you near me or I'll be a worried wreck.”
“You've never been a worried wreck in your life.”
“I was, every day you were in treatment.” He certainly knows how to shut me up.
Ryan kisses me on the forehead. It's soft and sweet, especially for him. Ryan steps into the shower. I go to join him, to put everything between us back on track, but the door is locked. He doesn't want me there.
After Ryan leaves, I drive myself to therapy. I sit across from my therapist in silence. I tell her more about the role, about the stress, about binging and purging. I do not mention Luke or how empty I felt after finding those letters.
Therapy sessions used to help, but this one does little to ease my mind. I don't want to work through my thoughts. I want to stuff them into the back of my brain, to some place where no one will ever find them. I don't care about the collateral damage. I don't care if I get depressed for weeks, if I have to binge and purge 100 more times. I have to rid myself of any thoughts of Luke Lawrence. By any means necessary.
Chapter 18
I sit in a casting room on a plush orange couch. Laurie sits across from me, next to a suit of some kind. An executive at the network or the production company. Something like that. Some business person who will decide if I am marketable, if I am fuckable enough for the 18-35 male demo.
If only she could ask Ryan. He would assure her that I am beautiful, and she can use that.
The suit, and her suit is a glorious slate gray, leaves to take a call on her smart phone. She speaks in low, hushed tones with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for the War Room. I remember working with these kinds of people. The “TV is serious business, more important than curing cancer and you better take it as seriously as I do” people.
They excel at sucking the fun out of everything.
Laurie moves to the couch. She spreads out, her feet on the arm rest, her head on my shoulder, her curly hair falling over my arm. Laurie takes off her glasses and plays with their handles.
“Alyssa, I tell you. These suits are incompetent. Have you ever been in a meeting about meetings?”
I shake my head.
“I think it gets them off, seeing meeting on their iCal.” She rolls off the couch and stretches. “Or maybe they hate their families and would rather spend the day in pointless meetings.” She sighs. “It's awful.”
She shakes her head and returns her glasses to their rightful place. “But don't worry about it. You probably remember what it's like. Everyone assumes the actors are idiots. They won't ask much of you unless you're on camera. Okay?”
“Okay.”
