Fill Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  "That's ridiculous."

  "Less ridiculous that what you'll be doing later."

  A tiny sigh escapes her lips. Damn. I bet she's flushed and nervous, that adorable blush across her cheeks.

  "Don't give me ideas," she says. There are some noises from the phone, movement or something. Perhaps she's actually hugging that pillow. "You get so excited about these things. About an engagement and a wedding. And you're so fucking sexy when you're excited too. It feels like I'd crush you if I told you things aren't perfect."

  "Knowing how you feel could never crush me."

  "Okay." She lets out a tiny sigh. "I'm not sure if I'm ready."

  My muscles tighten. She's not sure if she's ready. That's normal. Hell, I should have expected it. But that does nothing to make me hate it less, and it certainly doesn't help the tension building in my neck.

  "Okay," I say.

  "Luke, I know it's not okay."

  "If this is too fast for you, I'll slow down. We don't have to set a date. We don't have to plan anything. You'll be ready for it eventually."

  There's a long moment of silence. "What if I'm not?"

  "How did you feel when I proposed? Right in that moment?"

  "Excited."

  There's a hint of fear in her voice. She's still trying not to disappoint me.

  "You've got to stop this, Ally. Stop this fear of hurting me. Sure, I don't like that you're terrified, but I want to know, so we can work through it together."

  "It's not that easy." Her tone is sharp now. Annoyed.

  "You're right. I'll remind you a million times if I have to. I want to know everything about you, no matter how ugly you think it is, no matter how much it might hurt me. Because it's going to hurt a million times worse if you keep it from me."

  "I'm terrified," she says, her voice weak and small. "I'm terrified I'll disappear again. Because, once again, I'm not doing all that well without you."

  I start to protest--she's living by herself while working in an incredibly demanding field--but that's exactly the type of thing that makes her recoil. I have to listen.

  "Why do you feel like that?" I ask.

  "It's getting harder for me to hold on to everything. I'm tempted to drown out my thoughts any way I know how."

  "What kinds of thoughts?"

  She exhales into the phone. "Thoughts that I'll fail, ruin what we have, nosedive in my career. Something awful. Or that you..." Her voice gets smaller, weaker.

  "You can tell me."

  "Okay." She sucks the air back into her lungs. "That you'll keep wanting more from me, and I'll keep failing to deliver."

  My stomach clenches. It's a fair assessment. However much she gives me, I want more, and I'm not shy about making my feelings known.

  She takes another breath. "Or worse. That you'll change. You'll get tired of supporting my career, and start encouraging me to stay home, to not take gigs, to close myself off from the world again. And I'll do it, because it's easy and familiar. You'll start to work all the time, until it's the only thing you care about. And our weekends together will become you at the office and me on the couch, hugging my Kindle, wondering how we fucked things up this badly."

  "I'm afraid of the same things."

  "We're far apart. We're both working too much. But those are just excuses..." She trails off, her voice getting lower and lower.

  We're quiet for a moment, nothing in the room except the sound of our breaths.

  "How about I try and keep you on level ground and you try and keep me from turning into my father?"

  "Okay," she says. She sounds better, like some life has returned to her.

  "I'm taking a week off at the end of next month. I'm going to spend it in New York with you."

  "But I'll be working the whole time," she says.

  "What is that--three hours a day?"

  She laughs, and I swear I could float.

  "Shut up. Asshole."

  "Is it more like four hours?"

  "I got the point." She laughs again, the tension melting from her voice. "I will be free most of the morning and day to hang out with you."

  My muscles relax as I exhale. This is going to be okay. No, it's going to be great.

  "I'll stay out of your hair when you're working," I say. "But when you're not, I'm going to make your days so fucking great you won't be able to stand it."

  "What kind of things will you do?" Her voice is soft and sultry.

  My body wakes up again. I never did make it all the way out of these stupid clothes. "Maybe I can give you a preview."

  "Do you, um..." She lets out a nervous laugh. "Do you want to try Skype again?"

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Alyssa

  "That could be arranged." Luke's voice is playful, but there's a heaviness to it. Exhaustion maybe. He's not great at hiding his impatience over my inability to feel ready, whatever that means.

  There's not a good way to phrase it, to say don't fucking do this just because you think it's the only thing I want from you. There's not a good way to tell your boyfriend, fiancé actually, that you suspect he is only giving in to your requests for sex to placate you.

  I bite my lip. I hate being in my head at a time like this, when the only thing coursing through my brain should be how much I want to get Luke's clothes off.

  Sure, he's not really here. The best I can hope for is his voice in my ears and his body on my computer monitor. But I'm still paralyzed by the same damn thought.

  He isn't going to put up with my doubt any longer.

  "Ally?" It's soft with only a hint of concern. But a hint is more than none.

  "Sorry. I was just thinking..." About how fucking crushed I'll be when you get tired of me.

  Fuck. A tear rolls down my cheek. It stings, salty and hot. I can't cry. Not now. Not after we had one of those I can be patient, I love you, I don't mind putting up with all your bullshit conversations.

  "I'm sure asking if you want to talk will only make things worse." There's no annoyance in his voice.

  It's still playful. He's joking now. But when we're back in the same place and this still isn't resolved...

  "Maybe I should go," I say.

  "Maybe you should humor me and tell me what you were 'just thinking.'"

  I press the phone against my ear, sliding my fingers over its glass back. "You won't like it."

  "You aren't the expert on everything I like. There are plenty of things I like that you know nothing about."

  Another tear rolls down my cheek. I try and blink it away, but it only makes everything around me blurry, like some kind of Instagram filter from hell. Stop. Please fucking stop. I can't cry, not now, not on the phone with Luke, not after we supposedly solved whatever the hell this is.

  Not now.

  I choke back a sob. Fuck. My throat is dry and ragged, my face stinging from this god damn onslaught of tears.

  "Ally."

  He's concerned. Again. I merit concern. Again.

  "It's nothing." I wipe the tears from my cheeks, wiping my hand against the sheets to dry it.

  "Talk to me."

  "I can't."

  He sighs, low and heavy. "You were talking a few minutes ago."

  "I'm going to go." I slide my fingers over the edges of the phone. It's so slick and smooth. It repels anything that tries to stick to the surface.

  It's resistant but not strong. One little drop and its screen will shatter.

  "And cry in your room by yourself?"

  "I'm fine."

  He sighs, again. Annoyed, again. "Don't do this. Don't shut me out."

  "I'm not doing anything. I'm fine. Tired, but fine."

  "You're crying."

  "I'm well aware of that." I blink back another tear, breathing deep to calm my stupid fucking diaphragm. Tears, I can hide. But I can't do anything about these stupid sobs.

  There's a long moment of silence. He takes a deep breath and exhales slowly.

  The room closes in around me. It's so blue outsi
de, so bright and dark at the same time. There are no stars in the sky here. That shouldn't be possible. It isn't right that the only damn lights in the sky are fluorescent.

  I can't even see the damn moon.

  "We were talking," he says.

  There's no fight in his voice. He's losing patience and I can't blame him.

  The quiet surrounds me. There's nothing outside--no horns, no pedestrians, no wind. This room is empty. This apartment is empty. The whole damn world is empty.

  Or maybe it's me. I've been empty ever since I started recovery, and this relationship isn't going to be the thing to fill me.

  Nothing is.

  "Ally..." His words are soft, like he's stroking my hair, like he's whispering in my ear. "You can't scare me off like this."

  "I'm a lost cause," I say. "You can cut your losses now. Get out before you sink another year into a relationship that isn't what you want."

  My lungs are empty and my heart is pounding against my chest. This room is so dark and heavy. The walls are closing in around me.

  I have to stop myself or he's going to take me up on my offer. I can barely do this with Luke, but without him...

  I'd be even more of a hopeless case.

  He takes another deep breath. Another slow exhale. "Is that really what you want?"

  I shake my head, wiping another round of tears from my cheeks. "No." My voice is a rough whisper, but it's the only thing I can get past my ragged throat.

  "Me either."

  I move to the window and press my palm against it. The glass is cold and sleek, but I almost believe I'm touching the night outside.

  I almost believe I'm not in a prison of my own design.

  "Don't give up on me," I say. It's so weak, so quiet. A pathetic plea when it should be a demand.

  "I don't want to," he says. But there's a hesitation to it.

  It's not I won't. It's I don't want to. So he might. He knows he might.

  "But," he continues. "I'm not going to be able to do this if you keep locking me out."

  Another sob wells up in my throat, but I choke it back. He's asking for something I can't deliver. This won't end well. It will end in flames and tears.

  But not yet. Not now. I have to push this aside, somewhere where it won't eat at me again. I was doing okay with talking before. I can do it again.

  "I understand," I say. "But I really am tired."

  He doesn't want the truth. He'll freak out. He'll run away. It's better to keep this to myself, so at least he'll be around.

  "Ally."

  "I'll talk to you later, okay?"

  He hesitates, another sigh escaping his lips. "I don't want to give up on you."

  But if I keep this up, he will.

  "Goodnight." I hang up the phone before he has the chance to reply. Before he has the chance to confirm my suspicions that he can't put up with me much longer.

  ***

  A day passes without any word from Luke. We don't text or call or email. I sleep in late and spend forever on the couch nursing yet another cup of coffee. I skip my usual oatmeal. As far as I can tell, everyone is against me eating it anyway. I may as well eat nothing.

  My Kindle becomes my enemy instead of my best friend. The once-comfortable breezy chick lit mocks me. I can only read War and Peace for so long before I'm convinced life is a bleak shithole, and I can't stomach these sassy quests for satisfaction.

  Eventually I go to the gym, shower, and take a silent subway ride to the theater. The only break from my numbness is performing on stage. It's the only place where I can feel things without imploding.

  Ellen invites me out for a drink. She asks about Luke and I distract her by changing the subject to sex. I am careful not to over indulge. Two or three drinks max. But it's enough to unlock all the thoughts I'm trying to drown.

  Luke isn't here, and it's not just the distance. It's so much more than that.

  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.

  I spend the flight to New York thinking about how I'm going to make this up to her.

  I'm starting to doubt step one of my plan, but it's too late to back out now.

  It's for the best, no matter what happens.

  ***

  There's a pleasantness to the coldness of New York City in the fall. It seeps in from the gray streets, to the front of every building.

  Everywhere I go is either freezing from the cold outside or swelt
ering from a heater. There's no just right, no place where it's comfortable to sit without a coat.

  I check my clock. She's late. It's not like I expected Alyssa's mother to show up early, but she can't show up late. She won't be let into the play.

  I pace around the theater's lobby with my hands in my pockets. I'm sure I look crazed. A man in a suit pacing around like he's waiting for an execution. But I have to do something to keep my anger in check.

  Alyssa has never had any particularly kind words about her mother, but I can't believe that her mother would care so little about the play. The least she could do is get here on time.

  It's twenty minutes until curtain when Barbara arrives. She pushes the door open with a weak grip. She looks like her picture. Mid-forties, short, with her ash brown hair pulled into a loose bun. There's a weariness about her. It's like she's not actually here.

  Alyssa has never been shy about pointing out her mother's near alcoholism.

  But I'd hope she'd show up sober for this.

  She spots me, a hint of recognition on her face. I wave her over and she nods like she finally gets it.

  We shake. Her grip is weak. Her attention is somewhere else.

  But still, I smile. "I'm Luke, Ms. Summers. We spoke on the phone."

  She nods. "It's nice to meet you." She looks me over, just a glance, the kind I'd expect from a mother assessing her daughter's boyfriend for potential.

  "Have you heard much about Alyssa's play?"

  She shakes her head. "I've never been one for theater." Her gaze turns towards the bar.

  "Haven't seen anything since Alyssa was in high school?"

  She offers a weak smile. I'll take that as a no. So she couldn't be bothered to care much about Alyssa then either.

  Still, I smile. "She's great in it. You're lucky. Your daughter is very talented."

  She nods and her eyes turn back to the bar. There's a need to her expression, like she'd kill for a drink.

  She seems sober enough. There shouldn't be much harm in having a glass of wine.

  I motion to the bar. "Would you care for a drink."

  Her eyes light up, but she tries to play it off. "That would be nice."

  Of course it would.

  I offer to help her out of her coat but she shakes her head. We move to the bar, making small talk about the weather while we wait. She's trying to have a conversation. That counts for something.