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“What difference does it make? I choose you. I'm with you.”
“Do you prefer him or not?” Ryan asks.
“Anything I say will hurt you.”
“Can you give me one reason why I shouldn't kick you out of this apartment?”
“Because I love you.”
“But not as much as you love him?” Ryan asks.
“I don't love him the way I love you.” That part, at least, is true enough.
But Ryan sees through me. He locks himself in our bedroom and spends the night alone. I sleep in the spare room, trying desperately to convince myself I was right to let Luke walk away.
Chapter 32
The view is so beautiful it makes me sick. The entire city of Los Angeles lies on our left—the Santa Monica Pier, Century City, Downtown—and an endless expanse of ocean is on our right. The sky is so clear, I can see for miles. How far away is the horizon? Ten miles? Twenty? A hundred? How far would be far enough to be away from all this?
Laurie takes a picture with her phone. She motions to me—get in the photo—but I stay put. She's horribly addicted to social media, and I don't want to be retweeted or liked or reblogged. I gave up my accounts when I went into treatment and I have no desire to regain a web presence.
“You're no fun,” she says, and I suck water from my reusable bottle. Why didn't I cancel this hike? Why didn't I resign myself to a weekend at home? I should be with Ryan after last night. I should be there, with him, working everything out.
But wouldn't you rather be anywhere than with Ryan?
I zip up my backpack and sling it over my shoulders. “Let's keep walking,” I say. “We have another few miles before we turn around.”
Laurie groans in agony, but she follows me up the next hill. It's hot today—it's always hot in the Santa Monica Mountains—and there is almost no shade on this path, but I am not going to stop. I am not going to stop hiking until I collapse, an exhausted, dehydrated mess.
“Alyssa, I'm trying to respect that you're in some kind of awful, hung-over mood. But you promised details,” she gasps for air, “and I want my details.”
“There's nothing to talk about.”
“You lost your shit at work. I don't care how hot Mr. Hot Divorce Lawyer is, he's a fucking asshole for making you feel like that.”
“He's not,” I say. “And I didn't lose my shit. I just got caught up in the scene.”
“It's the weekend. You don't have to deal with obnoxious showrunner Laurie and her ridiculous demands.”
“Lucky me.”
“Come on,” she says. “You can talk to me.”
“It was my fault,” I say.
“Tell me what's happening.”
“Laurie!”
“Tell me, tell me, tell me,” she squeals. “Please, I'm so tired of thinking about Model Citizen. I think about it on the way home. I think about it when I eat dinner—which is usually at work by the way. I think about it when I try to fall asleep. I can't sleep because I drink coffee non-stop. And then, if I finally do fall asleep, I dream about it. I dream about this stupid show.”
“So I'm the woman of your dreams?” It could not sound less like a playful joke if I tried.
“I'm not going to stop asking what happened. Not unless your mood does a 180 and I actually believe you're okay.”
“I don't want to talk about it.”
“Okay, don't tell friend Laurie, but obnoxious showrunner Laurie is concerned. I don't want to make any accusations, Alyssa, but I need you in a good mental space. I can't spare you for a few days. Do you understand me?”
