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Chapter 30
I watch as Luke dresses. He buttons his shirt slowly. He adjusts his tie over and over.
“Are you okay?” I ask.
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I've been putting off this conversation.”
I don't like the sound of that.
“I've been telling myself it can wait. That I'm not crazy about you. That my lack of sleep and the nauseous feeling in my stomach is from something else. Something besides this affair,” he says.
“Oh.”
“I'm so happy when I'm with you. So fucking happy. I told you, Alyssa. You make me feel alive. I've never felt like that before.”
“Even with Samantha?”
“Even in the beginning, when everything felt magical.”
“You're happy. I'm happy. The end.”
“Alyssa—”
“You keep telling me this isn't complicated,” I say.
“I feel sick whenever you leave. I try to focus on my work, but everything is Lawrence and Knight. Then I see Ryan's smug little face and I think I'm going to hurl. I daydream about wiping that smug look off his face with my fists. I've never hit anyone, but I could try. I want him to hurt. I want him to hurt as badly as I hurt knowing you'd rather be with him.”
“That's not true,” I say.
“I'm your second choice.”
“No, you're not.”
“You're with him. You go to his home every night. You share a fucking checking account.”
“But…”
“I can't keep sneaking around. I can't keep waiting for the scraps you're throwing at me.”
“I wake up at 5 A.M. to see you. If that's a scrap—”
“It's the only time you can get away with it,” he says.
“But…”
“I know it's hard. Half of me wants to wait around for you forever, just for the slim chance you'll wake up and realize you'd rather be with me. But I've waited for a woman who didn't love me before, and I learned my lesson.”
“Who says I don't love you?”
“Please don't say the words. It will only make this harder.”
I meet his gaze. God, those eyes, full of unspeakable pain. Did I really do that to him? Does he really care about me that much? Or is it something else, someone else, some penance for past mistakes?
“So that's it? You're, you're…” I can barely think it, much less say it.
I feel a pang in my chest. This can't really be happening. Not here, in my dressing room, in between scenes. Not now, not on a Friday. Not when I have to spend the weekend with Ryan. Not when I have to come up for an excuse for why I'm sulking in my bedroom. Not now. Please. Not now. Just a few more weeks. A few more days. A few more hours even.
I look at the floor. A stupid blue carpet, hard and uncomfortable. I press my nail into my thumb until it leaves a mark. It is so quiet and it feels like a million years have passed.
