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She lets out a tiny hint of a sigh. "I'm only going out on the condition that you don't ask that question again."
"This morning or ever?"
She moves away from me. Steps into her underwear. "Ever would be too much to ask."
She pulls her dress over her head. No bra. She's not wearing a bra.
She's doing it just to torture me.
"Okay," I say. "We don't have to talk about anything but our coffee."
"Deal."
***
We dress and drive to Alyssa's favorite coffee spot in Santa Monica. It's a few blocks from the tourist mecca of Third Street Promenade, but this early it's nearly empty.
Alyssa is quiet, but she keeps her hand pressed against mine. I rack my brain for alternate ways of asking how she is, but I know that isn't the point.
She doesn't want to talk about how she feels today. I could wait until she's ready, but I can't. There's a sense of dread in my gut. Something is wrong, and I'm not going to let her suffer alone.
We order our drinks--they make one cup at a time at this place--and wait at a tiny table. The store is flooded with sunlight and it's falling over Alyssa like it was in bed.
She looks like an angel, like some kind of divine being dead set on locking everyone else out.
"Do you want to talk about anything?" I ask.
She shakes her head. "Maybe later." She turns to me and offers a half-smile. "I'm okay. Really."
"Then why can't I shake the sense that something is horribly wrong?"
"It's your natural state of being." She laughs like it's a joke, but there's no joy on her face.
"Ally..."
The barista calls out our drinks and Alyssa rushes to the counter. I'm not going to get anything out of her like this.
I need another strategy.
Alyssa squeezes the drinks, thanks the barista, and returns to me. She hands me a cup and I take a sip. It's her coffee, a dark roast with plenty of honey and plenty of almond milk.
"You like it?" she asks.
"It tastes like you."
She bites her lip. There's something to her expression, but I can't place it.
She switches cups. "How about we take a walk?"
"Perfect."
It's warm outside, but there's a pleasant breeze. The air smells faintly of salt and the sun is bouncing off the concrete. Alyssa digs her sunglasses out of her purse and slides them on. She's practically hiding behind them.
But still, she presses her hand against mine. She squeezes tight.
There has to be some way I can get her to open up here.
"You were at the movies when I called Saturday," I say.
