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Chapter 22
An irritating beep pierces my ears. I try to open my eyes, but it's so fucking bright. The beep continues, so loud, so familiar. But it's not mine. I must be in Ryan's room. I roll over, reaching toward his side of the bed, but he isn't there.
I pry my eyelids open. My head throbs, a horrible ache everywhere. Jesus, how much did I drink last night?
The alarm beeps again. Going and going and going. I scramble to the bedside table and smack the snooze. It stops. Quiet. But my head still throbs. I try to conjure up images of last night, but it's fuzzy. Ryan and I at dinner. Ryan and I on the couch. Shit. Did I really beg him to fuck me?
Yes, you stupid hypocrite. When did you become so insatiable? You used to go weeks between sack sessions with Ryan.
What am I supposed to do—tell my fiancé I won't fuck him because I'm fucking someone else?
Last time I checked, you were the one who begged Ryan to fuck you. What, you're going to think of Luke the whole time to split the difference? That's stupid logic, even for you, even after five or six tequilas.
I was drunk. I was tired. I can't expect myself to remember exactly what went through my mind when I fucked Ryan. So, maybe Luke crossed my mind. It's not like I could ever convince myself I was fucking Luke and not Ryan.
Yeah, but you tried, didn't you?
I stumble into the bathroom, brush my teeth, comb my hair. Ryan sits at the breakfast table, showered and dressed, eating his egg white omelet in tiny bites. He is chipper. Well, not chipper, Ryan is never chipper, but he shows no signs of a hangover.
“Last night was a pleasant surprise,” he says, kissing me on the forehead. I feel sick, but I play it off as a hangover. He fetches ibuprofen and club soda without me asking. I nod and thank him and make small talk about the weather. It's a nice day today. It's a nice day every day.
Ryan kisses me goodbye. “Be careful with your eating and drinking,” he whispers in my ear. “I'm worried about you.”
I kill the hours before my meeting—Laurie is showing me off to a few of the other producers—studying a scene. I try to get into Marie Jane's head, but I can't stop thinking about Luke and Samantha, worrying that he's as desperately in need of comfort as I am.
Some double standard, Alyssa. Doesn't he deserve the same right to fuck his fiancée? It's not like you two agreed to stop fucking other people. How would it feel for him to do the same thing you did? How would it feel if she made him come?
In the middle of the meeting, I get a text from Luke. He's back, and we have a lot to talk about.
I try to make small talk with Luke when we break for lunch, and he plays along for a while. This movie or that book. I even mention the weather, and it's not remarkable weather—another warm, sunny day.
Laurie ropes me into a conversation, asking me questions about what I see for Marie Jane's future. Finally, something I can do. Something I understand. For a little while, I forget this whole, horrible situation.
And, after the meeting, when I am back home, locked in my bedroom, when I am ready to unleash everything, I turn back to my phone.
But Luke is done with flirting and small talk:
“We need to talk.”
“Come over. We can talk about anything you want,” I reply.
“Not that kind of talk.”
“We can talk after you fuck me.” I reply.
I peel off my dress and send him a picture.
“It's important.”
No, it can't be important, because if it's important, it might be that he realized he's still in love with Samantha. It might be that he's realized he doesn't want to deal with someone like me. It might be he's realized this needs to end sooner rather than later.
I peel off my bra and send him another picture.
“Jesus, Alyssa, you don't have to make this so hard.”
“But I like to make things hard.” I even add a winking smiley face.
“I want to. More than anything, I want to fuck you. But I can't. Not until we talk,” he replies.
