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Is he done with me already?
His key is still in my purse, buried at the bottom of one of its many flaps. My fingers slide over it, feeling every one of its rusty teeth. He broke up with me. He probably wants his key back. He probably wants me out of his apartment. He broke up with me.
He probably wants me out of his life.
I slide the key into the door and unlock it. I look around. It is still barren here, a little messy, but barren. He has the same view as Ryan—the gentle waves of the marina, the sun bleeding red into the sky—and it's as beautiful as the view from the mountain. It's so beautiful it makes me sick.
What am I doing here, in Luke’s apartment? I need to leave. I need to respect his desire to move on with his fucking life. I need to go back to my life and take care of my shit, whatever that means.
The sooner you go home, the sooner you're with Ryan. You really think he's going to go easy on you after last night? He'll probably want you to “make it up to him.”
I check the apartment for signs of Luke. There's a pair of shoes at the door, a heap of clothing on the bedroom floor, a few dishes in the sink. He could have been here an hour ago or three days ago. He could be back in 30 seconds or in three weeks.
Leave, Alyssa. You need to go clean up your mess. You need to go back to Ryan. You need him, remember? And if you want him to forgive you, you really should think about making it up to him. Is it really so bad?
No. I'm not going back to the apartment right now. I'm not apologizing again. I'm not offering to make this up to Ryan.
I walk to the kitchen. Maybe I need something sweet. Something to get my spirits up. I know, I know, I'm not supposed to eat my feelings. What is it my therapist always said—healthy coping mechanisms, write in a journal, express yourself, all that bullshit. I try to tell her it's my job to express myself. It is now, at least. Does she really think expressing myself as this other character does anything to push aside my feelings for Luke?
But I can't think about that right now. I can't think about that ever.
I pull open the freezer. It's depressingly desolate—a few TV dinners and bags of frozen broccoli—but there is one gold mine. A pint of drugstore ice cream.
I'm 26. I'm a grown ass woman. I should be able to handle eating one serving of ice cream without falling apart.
But you can't, can you? You can't handle anything without Ryan. You can't even tie your own shoelaces, can you?
I pull the carton from the freezer and look for a bowl. I find one, a teal, ceramic thing from Target or Ikea, and a shiny silver spoon.
Come on, Alyssa, stop pretending. You aren't in this for one serving of crap generic ice cream. You're not going to numb yourself with one little serving.
No, I don't hurt. I don't. I have Ryan. He loves me. I should be happy. Ryan and I are meant to be together. Ryan and I are soul mates. Ryan and I are going to get married and raise a family.
I should be happy.
I have to be happy.
I close my eyes and imagine the feel of the ice cream on my mouth, sweet and creamy and cold. I feel the rush of sugar in my veins, the fullness in my stomach, the utter inability to focus on anything else but the feeling of this food.
Jesus, don't you have any standards? You used to use the good stuff for this—the premium, $6 a pint shit. As long as you have no self-respect, you might as well get it over with. You'll feel better. It's the only thing that will make you feel better.
I take my first bite, and the rest of the world fades away. It is cold and creamy and sweet and rich. Chocolate. I take another. Another. Another. Faster, and faster, until I can no longer taste it. I can only feel the ice cream sliding down my throat, filling my stomach, numbing my thoughts. It starts to hit me. Nausea. A rush of sugar in my veins. The impending sense of doom if I don't fix this situation. I finish all three pints. I am ready to burst. I am ready to be done with this.
I close the bathroom door and take my spot in front of the toilet. It is not easy to will my fingers into my throat, but I push past the coughing and gagging, until I feel my stomach heave. Almost there. The first one is always the hardest. But it gets easier. I hope it gets easier.
My fingers find the back of my throat, again, and again, until I lurch over the toilet, throwing up melted ice cream. I cough and gag. My hair swings in my face. Fuck. No hair band, but I can't stop now. I have to beat Ryan home.
I push my fingers into my throat. I vomit. I do it again and again, until I throw up nothing but acid, until I am the emptiest I have ever been. My body floods with relief. If only it were so simple to erase other mistakes. I need water now. I need to gargle and wash the acid from my mouth.
I go to the sink and rinse my mouth, avoiding my reflection in the mirror. Who is that person staring at me? Whoever she is, she needs to leave, to get out of here. I can't stay here. I made my decisions. I have to go back to Ryan. I have to shower and change and pretend everything is perfect.
But I don't move.
I step into the shower and run the water. I don't even take off my clothes. Instead, I sink to my feet, pulling my knees into my chest. My clothes get wet and heavy, sticking to my skin, and I lean my back against the tile.
It's over. And I lost. And I have nothing left to look forward to except finding a way to fall apart.
Chapter 33
