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“Or maybe if he's around, but it's not bothering you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Sweetheart, we went through this before. I know something is going on between the two of you.”
“We've had a few conversations,” I say. “That's it.”
“Then what really made you lose control last weekend?”
“Why does it matter? I slipped. You got me back on track.”
“I'm not going to be angry,” Ryan says. “Not unless you're lying to me.”
“It wasn't Luke,” I insist.
“Fine,” Ryan says. He looks at me like he knows I'm lying. “But I don't want to catch you flirting with him again.”
“I know.”
After dinner, I try to read, but I can't concentrate. Ryan may not treat me like a princess, but he takes care of me. But, still, I think of Luke. I think of Luke in the pool. I think of Luke on his couch. I think of Luke, in our penthouse, against the front door.
Ryan shuts his laptop and presses his arms around me. He kisses my forehead and runs his fingers through my hair. It is soft and sweet, especially for Ryan. We watch TV together, his arm wrapped around my waist, my head on his shoulders. It feels good to lean into Ryan, to feel the warmth of his body. It feels good, but it pales in comparison to the feeling of Luke's arms around me.
It must be lust. Infatuation. A silly crush. It's the excitement from sneaking around. We've known each other a week. How could it be love? How could it be approaching love? How can it feel so much stronger and deeper and better than what Ryan and I have? So what if we aren't crazy and passionate? It's been three years. We're best friends. We're partners? Aren't we?
But Ryan wants more than a sweet cuddle on the couch. We haven't fucked since we got engaged. Of course he wants more than a sweet cuddle on the couch. And I love him. I should be with him.
He brings his lips to mine. It's too fast. It's too much tongue, but it's not altogether horrible. I kiss him back, and my body starts reacting, wanting more.
But, still, when I open my mouth to speak, I protest. “I'm tired,” I say.
“Are you sure?” Ryan asks, trying to hide the disappointment in his voice. I nod, yes, and we get ready for bed. I cling to Ryan for a while, but, when we eventually fall asleep, we're on opposite sides of the bed.
***
My Wednesday goes slowly. I am in a wardrobe fitting most of the day, a Barbie doll for a stylist to poke and prod and measure. I can tell she's surprised by my measurements. This character is supposed to be a model, and, honey, you're no model.
I don't eat lunch. I can already hear Ryan's lecture, but, still, I don't eat lunch. My stomach is a pit of anxiety, and, as much as I try to focus on my show and my character and the questions the stylist is asking me—do you think Marie Jane would wear the pink lingerie or the red lingerie—I keep going back to Luke.
The fucking asshole is engaged. He's engaged to another woman. He comes to me, on his high horse about how I don't love Ryan, and he's engaged. So what if he's right? He's engaged.
And I still want to see him. I still want to be around him. I still want to make him mine.
Ryan is not a lot of things, but he is faithful and he is honest.
I play with my phone, reading over my text messages with Luke. What am I doing? Can I really keep this up? Can I really stop?
I mean to text Luke something about putting this on hold until we figure something out, but instead I ask what he is doing today, if he has time to meet later. Instead, I flirt with him, asking about his favorite movies, and telling him I am picking out my character's lingerie. Really, Marie Jane wears the sluttiest clothing—she is nothing if not an attention whore—and I have plenty of chances, when the stylist's back is turned, to snap photos of her more revealing get ups.
And, even though I have the best of intentions, I find myself sending Luke these pictures, and asking if he approves. And he flirts back as if nothing has happened, as if we are a normal couple without all these complications.
I finish my fitting, and, without thinking, I ask him. “When are you going to talk to your fiancée?”
And he replies, “I told you. We've been unofficially broken up for nearly six months. There's no way she thinks we're getting married. There's no way she's in love with me.”
And then he replies. “Today. I'm going today.”
He's visiting his fiancée today. His poor fiancée, who is probably still in some mental hospital recovering from a suicide attempt.
