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I exhale, pushing all the air out of my lungs. "I know," I say. "But I have an idea."
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Luke
The last year or so, the world has been bright, vivid, colorful. Alyssa has been mine, and she's filled me with the purest, sweetest warmth.
Without her, everything is dull and drab.
I can't be selfish. Alyssa deserves to feel what I feel for her. She deserves someone who brightens her life, who fills all her days with color and joy. She deserves to be as in love with someone as I am in love with her.
As promised, Laurie sends me daily updates. It's the same every day. "She's okay." That's it. "She's okay."
The days pass slowly. Usually, at times like these, I'd work until I was too numb to feel anything. After my mother died, after my father died, after every fight with my damn ex, I'd fill every waking moment with whatever semi-productive activity I could find.
But I can't bring myself to put in an extra twenty hours at the office. I love my job. I love helping people in miserable marriages get divorced. But there's so much more to life than working. Every minute I spent with Alyssa, even the ones that were sheer pain, was magic.
And that is what I need in my life--more of the magic. So I make plans to go back to my old schedule, the one I kept when I was convinced I could make things work with Samantha if only I had more time. I arrive at nine every morning and leave at six every night.
The house is lonely without Alyssa, but it's a pain I can bear. I do my best to clean up--to put aside anything I know she'll need immediately. There isn't much, really. She has her clothes, her plays, her coffee maker. The only thing she'll care about is her pour-over coffee maker.
Every Sunday morning she measures her water and coffee carefully so she can make the perfect cup of coffee. I'm sure she does it every morning. But for so long, we weren't spending the mornings together. She had an early call time or she was off and I wanted her to sleep in.
I place the appliance in a paper bag. Some eight or nine months ago, I bought it for her. I wanted her to have this tiny thing that would make her happy.
There's a heaviness in my chest. This is not going to be easy, but it's what I have to do.
Late that night, Alyssa leaves a message. Her voice is soft, tired, like she doesn't have an ounce of energy left. "Hey, Luke. I hope you're doing well. I miss you, but... I won't get into that. I'm going to stop by for my things tomorrow morning. Around ten or so. Let me know if you'll be there." The message ends with a long stretch of silence.
She sounds miserable, defeated.
But this is a necessary step, a necessary moment of pain.
Alyssa is going to move on. She's going to be happier in the end. But that doesn't mean I can't do something to ease her pain right now. That doesn't mean we can't be friends.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Alyssa
My hands are shaking too damn much to pick up any of these notebooks. They're all the same. It doesn't matter if I grab a ninety-nine cent notebook in an awful shade of yellow or if I spring for the fifteen dollar leather-bound journal. Or even if I buy one of those hot pink things with a high heel on the cover.
The notebook isn't what matters.
But picking one of these books makes this plan so real. It's the first step towards opening myself up and spilling my guts on the page. The first step towards showing Luke I'm willing to let him in, showing him how ugly things really get.
I scan the notebooks again. They're a mess, loosely organized by how much they prefer form over function. The cheap, plain, college-ruled things are together. The ridiculously girly things are together. The classy, I'm a damn executive, look at my fancy notebook...
I take a deep breath. It doesn't matter what the notebook looks like. I can't delay this any longer. Not when it's my best chance of convincing Luke we can do this.
There. I pick up a little black notebook with a slick faux leather cover. It's simple enough. Not something that screams these are all my horribly dramati
c thoughts. That's what you wanted, right?
The girl at the register gives me an aren't-you-that-girl kind of look. I pay cash so she can't check the name on my credit card and start some conversation about my career.
I don't have the energy.
"Thank you," I say, and I move quickly to my car.
