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It's not like him to go cold. It's certainly not like him to punish me for being so damn difficult.
He must be hurt. Of course he's hurt. Most people would be running for the hills in this situation. I should jump for joy that he's only hurt.
The weekend comes and goes, and I start to hear a few peeps from Luke. A "hey" here or an "I miss you" there. We keep things light and easy, no mentions of trust or communication or, God forbid, whether or not I'm eating.
We talk on the phone, but it's about nothing. About TV or work or, God forbid, the weather. He's holding back. It's not like I blame him. He's entitled to space if needs to lick his wounds.
But he won't admit he's upset. He won't admit I'm disappointing him.
One week turns into two. Then three. Then four. I push lunch later and later, but I manage to eat a little bit every day. It's not because I want to, or even because I know I should. It's only because I know how devastated he would be if he found out I wasn't eating.
It shouldn't be like this. I shouldn't be so fucking terrified all the time.
Then he emails me that he's delaying his trip.
Hey Ally,
I'm so sorry, but I have to move this trip. Remember me talking about Mrs. Waters? Well, she won't be talked into settling (even though a judge is going to give her half the alimony her husband is offering. I swear. She's ridiculous). And, ethical obligation, all that bullshit. I can't pawn her off on someone else when it's just me here.
I'm taking most of a month off at the end of your run. I'll spend two weeks with you in New York. Then we can go wherever you want. Somewhere warm and gorgeous where there's a ton to see (but we'll stay in the hotel room anyway).
I love you, Ally. I'm so sorry about this. I promise it has nothing to do with you. I'm not mad at you or punishing you. It's just work butting into my life the way it tends to.
I can't wait to see you. It will be here before you know it.
Love,
Luke
A fucking email. He tells me this in a fucking email. Yes, the email is time-stamped at a very unreasonably late hour. And, sure, I would have hated it if he'd called be at six a.m. (what the hell was he doing up at three?), but it's not like he found out about his client's bullshit sometime after midnight.
He could have called.
Sure, he promises it has nothing to do with me. But he's always promising something.
It's not that far away. It's only an extra month. Only one more month of everything falling apart.
And then it will just be us again, back together again, with absolutely no excuse for why things aren't working the way they should.
With no excuse for why I'm not gung ho about planning some damn wedding.
He tries harder, calling me after my performance to tell me goodnight, offering to come for a day and a half. Talking to me, offering more of himself.
But it's no good.
As soon as he's back here, he'll see things for what they are. He's probably just biding his time so he can break up with me in person.
It's sweet, really, that he'd wait until I finished my show. That he'd wait until I have time to really fall apart.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Luke
Time passes quickly. I'm busy. Alyssa is busy. We barely have room for our usual phone calls.
There's a nagging voice in my brain. Telling me I didn't try hard enough to convince Mrs. Waters, that I could have convinced her to settle if I'd cared more, that, deep down, I wanted to cancel the trip. That I couldn't face Alyssa if there was a chance she'd fallen out of love with me.
But that's ridiculous.
