Like that isn't what you want. Didn't Ryan save you from yourself?
But Ryan didn't save me the way sensitive boys on TV save pretty girls on TV. He didn't profess his love, or write me poems, or convince me I don't need to be a size 0 to be beautiful. He didn't save me with pathetic, empty sweetness. He saved me with tough love. There is nothing sweet or romantic about me and Ryan, and there will never be anything sweet or romantic about us.
He will never love me the way boys on TV love girls on TV. But that is how it should be—the love on TV is fake. It's manufactured by camera movements and scores and screen kisses. I've been the pretty, empty love interest enough times to know it's all a crock of bullshit.
But Luke doesn't know better. He's romantic, with all these sweeping ideas about choosing love over comfort or duty. He's going to be disappointed when, three months into our relationship, I am still damaged goods. I am still fucked up. I am still a recovering bulimic, unable to go a day without thinking of restricting or binging or purging.
He'll try. He'll really try, but he'll never be able to shake this idea he has that love can save me. His love can save me. But it won't. I'll still be a fucked up mess, and he'll feel like a failure and hate himself. And then, when it gets too hard, he'll leave, and I'll be all alone, no one to help me, no one to save me, no one to care about me.
Ryan may not love me the way other men love other women, but he does love me, and he does care about me, and he does want me to be healthy.
But maybe I'm getting ahead of myself. We agreed, no expectations. Maybe I don't need to know if Luke could handle being my boyfriend. Maybe I don't need to know if I love Ryan enough to marry him. It's not as if Ryan is pushing me to set a date.
Maybe I don't need any idea of who I'll be with next week. I'm finally craving something besides the distraction of a binge and purge. Sure, the something is still bad news, but it's a step in the right direction. I haven't thought about my calorie count all day. I've been too busy thinking about Luke.
Besides, I know what will happen next week. I have all the Model Citizen business to take care of. Laurie warned me—I'll be busy. Chemistry reads, fittings, contracts, rehearsals. And then, a week from Monday we start shooting. Some three odd months of 12 hour days. It's not a particularly grueling schedule for TV, but it's a big change from sitting around this apartment in my pajamas. It's a big change even from Together. I was second billing. I only worked two or three days a week. Everything wasn't riding on my shoulders.
But all that work isn't going to save me from this. A day on set is always half waiting around. I'll have nothing to do but think. I'll have nothing to do but want Luke.
Get a grip, Alyssa, you barely know him.
But I want to know more of him. I want to know more about him. I want to be around him all the time. Can I really deny this feeling because Luke might be bad at relationships? It doesn't have to be a relationship. It can be a fling. A few weeks of fun.
Can't it?
I can spend time with Luke without falling in love with him. I can spend time with Luke without throwing away what I have with Ryan. I can keep seeing Luke without falling apart.
Can't I?
When I get out of the bath, my phone greets me with a series of text messages.
From Luke.
I had fun. I like you. I hope I'm not putting too much pressure on this.
And, despite my best intentions, I spend the next two hours texting Luke, not really paying attention to the TV. We don't talk about anything important, really, but it feels so good to talk to him about nothing.
It's fun, right? Just fun? I can keep doing this without letting it become more than fun. I can keep doing this without falling for Luke.
Can't I?
***
Ryan arrives much later than usual. We eat dinner together, the same fish and rice and vegetables we usually eat. He talks about work, some boring details about his meetings, some stern lecture about my behavior at dinner. He is sure he lost out on a client because of the way Luke and I acted. I nod and smile, doing my best not to rile Ryan. It won't do me any good to argue with him. I got my permission to take the role. And, really, after fucking Luke twice in the last 24 hours, I don't have a leg to stand on.
I try to concentrate on Ryan, but my thoughts keep drifting back to the movie theater and the bookstore. I should focus on how amazing it felt when Luke touched me, but, instead, I keep replaying his words in my head.
He has an ex-girlfriend. She means a lot to him, or meant a lot to him. It's a fucked up situation. He said ex, didn't he? He did say ex…
I nod along with Ryan, waiting for him to bring up Luke. Finally, Ryan circles back to the dinner. Another stern lecture about the value of following his lead. “Luke has a lot of nerve,” I say, and Ryan nods in delight. Keep going like that. It's what he wants to hear.
“What does he know about relationships?” I ask. Ryan has such a good memory. He might realize Luke never brought this up, but I can play it off. “It's not like his worked out.”
“I don't remember him bringing up Samantha,” Ryan says. Her name rolls off his tongue, like he thinks highly of her. Samantha. Is she the smart woman who always outshined Luke? “It's really a shame what happened to her.”
“What was that?” I ask, trying my best to act disinterested.
“You don't need to worry about that. I'll never let something like that happen to you.”
Huh?
“Are they still together?” I ask.
He looks at me funny. So he knows I'm getting at something.
But he doesn't say no.
“Sweetheart, don't worry about Luke and Samantha. You have a lot on your plate. You can't deal with other people's problems.”
“What problems?”
“Don't tell me you've developed an interest in Luke Lawrence.”
“He's your business partner. I should at least know the guy.”
“He was flirting with you,” Ryan says.
“He was being friendly.”
“No, I saw the way he looked at you. He's interested.”
“There's no other way to look at me in that dress.”
“That's not it.”
“What does it matter? It's not like he's going to go after me if he has a girlfriend. He's probably just flirtatious by nature.” Come on, Ryan, deny this or confirm it. You know if he has a girlfriend. You know if he's with Samantha or not. Just tell me. Tell me the truth.
“Sweetheart, you know what men are like. It hardly matters if they have a girlfriend or a fiancée or a wife. Especially not with a woman as beautiful as you.”
Why does he say it like it's a weapon or a liability? You're beautiful, Alyssa, we can use that to manipulate my client. You're beautiful, Alyssa, but that means you have to fend off male advances. You're beautiful, Alyssa, and it's the only interesting thing about you.
It's never a sincere compliment. Never anything like you look beautiful tonight or even a crude you're so sexy, I want to fuck you. Never you happen to be beautiful or I enjoy looking at you because I love you. No, it's only, you're beautiful, we can use that.
“He doesn't seem like the type to cheat,” I say.
“Trust me. Everyone's the type to cheat. And you're beautiful, successful, and articulate. Girls like you are catnip to these wealthy, educated guys.”
What does that mean?
“You're over-estimating me,” I say.
“No,” Ryan says. “You should have seen the looks on people's faces when they found out we were engaged. They were mad with jealousy, wondering how I could get so lucky to have such a beautiful fiancée.”
There it is again.
You're beautiful, Alyssa, we can use that to make other people jealous.
You're beautiful, Alyssa, we can use that as a status symbol.
You're beautiful, Alyssa, and that is the only reason why I keep you around.
***
Ryan and I play rummy until work calls him
away, and he spends the rest of the night at his laptop. I watch TV for a while. He tries to make conversation during commercials, but we don't manage to get very far.
I flirt with Luke via text when Ryan isn't paying attention. I try to drop hints, to give him the opportunity to tell me about his relationship with Samantha, to tell me it's over, that he never loved her, that I am the only woman for him.
But we are far from that point, and it's not fair for me to expect anything. I am engaged to Ryan. I can't make any demands, and I shouldn't want to make any demands. This is just fun. This is just a fling. This is just a distraction for the next few weeks, to get me through the transition back to Alyssa Summers, TV actress.
I text without thinking. “I want to see you tomorrow.”
“What about Ryan?” he asks.
“I can say I'm going to the gym. It will give me an hour.”
“I'll leave a key in your mailbox in the morning.” he replies. “You can come in and stay anytime. You should have somewhere to go if Ryan ever crosses the line.”
Crosses the line into what?
Chapter 16
I wake up in a sweaty panic, once again sure the last few days were a dream. I could never cheat on Ryan. I could never go to another man's apartment to fuck him. And I certainly could not ask him for a key to his apartment, so I can go fuck him anytime.
Like right now.
It's early, but Ryan is already out of bed. It's so quiet here, he must be at the gym. That buys me an hour or so, more if I claim I went for a walk, or if I claim I had a craving for a latte from my favorite coffee spot.
I brush my teeth and get dressed, but I don't bother with breakfast. I text Ryan. “Going to grab a latte and study my script. Be back by lunch.” I used to do this kind of thing all the time. He might believe me.
I take the elevator to the mailbox and find the key in a little envelope marked “Alyssa.” I take the elevator to Luke's apartment, and I slip the key into the door without knocking. My hands are shaky. Why are my hands shaky?
And it is quiet. He isn't here. I should leave. I should respect his privacy. But I'm already here. I'm already dressed. I look around his desk. An iPad. A laptop. A bunch of disorganized papers printed with legal language. His apartment is otherwise clean and bare. I check the bedside drawer. Nothing. Luke's clothes lie in a heap on the floor. He must be at the gym or on a run. When will he be back? It could be thirty seconds or thirty minutes.
Maybe I should leave. Come back later, when I know Ryan won't get suspicious, when I know Luke will be here.
But I might not get this opportunity again.
I look through his drawers. As I suspected, T-shirts and sweaters in one drawer, jeans in a second, boxers in a third. My hands hit something hard. A silver keepsake box. Unlocked. I press my fingers into the cold metal of the box. I shouldn't look in it. It's none of my business. But, then again…
I pry it open and dump it on the bed. A dozen pictures fall out. Pictures of Luke with another woman. Samantha. She is one of those girl-next-door types. Long, brown hair. Perfect figure. Plain features, but very pretty. And she and Luke look so happy. In every picture, they smile and hug each other. Celebration pictures. Vacation pictures. Pictures around the house—Luke's house. And, in the last picture, a ring on her finger and an excited grin on her face. Engaged. They are engaged.
Luke is engaged to Samantha.
Or he was. But if things are really over, why does he have the pictures? Why wouldn't Ryan deny they were together?
I look at the bed. There are notes. Handwritten notes. They must be love notes. I don't want to know what some other woman said to Luke. She was his, and he was hers. I am not Luke's. I am Ryan's. That's how it has to go.
But my hands have a mind of their own. I unwrap the note and scan as quickly as I can. Love, passion, desire, blah, blah, blah. Did she leave him? Does he still hold a candle for her? Does he still daydream about her? Is he just filling some void with me, using me to quell his loneliness?
Oh, like you're any better.
I read another letter. It's the same thing. Talk about their life together. I want to hate this woman who has Luke's heart, but she's a damn good writer for someone so mushy in love.
The last note is different—a copy of a handwritten letter.
“Luke, I want you to know this doesn't mean I don't love you. This isn't your fault. But I can't stay with you. I can't be your wife. This is too hard, and I'm not strong enough to get through it. It hurts too much. I hope you understand. I hope you can forgive me for my cowardice. Love, Samantha.”
Luke loved a woman and she left him. She left him. It happens to everyone. It doesn't mean he can't love me. It doesn't mean he's still in love with her. So, he kept old pictures. So, he kept old letters. Who wouldn't? Why am I crying? It's going to be okay. Luke loved and lost. It happens to everyone.
Then why does this hurt so much?
Go back to your room, Alyssa. Wait for Ryan. Ryan has never loved anyone but you. He is yours. You are his. Just like Samantha. She is Luke's. He is hers. Not yours. Never yours.
My hands are so shaky I can barely return the letters and photos to their pouch. I mean to walk the two flights back to my room, but I find myself in the parking lot, a sweaty, tired mess. I find myself in the car, the engine firing, the rubber burning as I rush out of the parking lot. I find myself in the grocery store across the street, no memory of parking or getting out of the car. I find myself in the checkout line, my arms filled with junk food. A bag of fun-sized candy bars. Two pints of premium ice cream. No. Put back the candy bars. Just the ice cream. And not two pints. Three. It goes down easy and comes up easier.
Sad girl. Are you really this weak without Ryan to watch over you?
Ryan won't know. Not if I'm fast. I buy the ice cream with a wad of crumpled bills. I probably overpaid, but I don't care enough to wait for the change. I rush back to the car, the parking lot, the apartment, the bathroom.
Okay, Alyssa, give in. This is what you wanted all along. Give in and crumble and let Ryan put the pieces together.
No. Ryan won't know. He can't know. Shit, I forgot a spoon. I push off the tile floor. My feet pound the hardwood. I find a spoon in the kitchen. I hesitate, just for a moment. I don't have to do this. I can stop. I can push this aside.
But I am so empty and I need something to push away the hurt.
The bathroom is so fluorescent and bright and blindingly white. The ice cream freezes my metal spoon and it sticks to my tongue. I inhale the pint. What flavor is it? Strawberry? Vanilla? Does it even matter? I am too far in now. I can't go back. I finish the second pint. I work through the third. I do not stop because I am full. No, I am beyond full—ready to burst. I only stop when every last drop is gone.
I was wrong to think I could handle this, to handle Luke, to handle acting, to handle fighting with Ryan. But there's no time to consider that.
I take my position in front of the toilet. How did this go again? Yeah, lift the lid. Lift the seat. My hair hangs around my face. I find a tie on the corner of the sink and pull my hair into a pony tail. I brace myself for the awful feeling, the awful gagging, but it comes easily, like second nature. How can it be so easy?
I push my pointer and middle fingers into the back of my throat. I keep pushing them farther and farther. I hurl over my hand, into the toilet. I do it again, and again, until my eyes burn, until my throat burns, until my stomach rids itself completely.
I flush the toilet. I wash my hands. I wipe off any evidence of my bad behavior. Ryan will be here soon, but I shouldn't brush my teeth. The acid is bad for them—I remember that much. I rinse with water and take another shower. Maybe it's been long enough? I rinse again, and again, but I can still smell it. Maybe if I eat something… no, that's the last thing I need to do. I won't eat the rest of the day. But Ryan will know something is wrong when he takes me to dinner. Fine, I'll eat dinner, but tomorrow, I'll run five miles. Breakfast and dinner with Ryan, no lunch.
I'll get back on track the next day, the day after. Back on my recovery diet. Easy foods. Healthy foods. Foods without temptation.
Fuck it. I brush my teeth. How bad can the acid be? I won't do it again. I can't. Not ever.
I go to the bed. I can say I got home early, I'm reading, but I am so tired, I fall asleep.
And the voice that wakes me is angry.
***
Ryan stands before the bed, holding the trash can. Shit, I forgot to hide the evidence. How can I be so fucking stupid when the compactor in the hall is only 100 feet away?
“I thought you were better,” Ryan says. He looks me over. I always look terrible after a purge. Red, puffy eyes, bloated stomach, chipped nails.
“I slipped. It won't happen again.”
“I'll make sure it won't.” He sits next to me.
I try to move off the bed. “No,” Ryan barks. “Stay here. You need to think about what you've done. You need to remember how bad this feels, so you never do it again.”
“I won't. I promise.”
“The dehydration can kill you. You know that, don't you?”
“Yes. I know. I drank a Gatorade.”
“Why did this happen, Alyssa?” He must be mad. He only calls me Alyssa when he's mad.
“It's us,” I lie. “All the fighting. I worry you'll get sick of me.”
“Alyssa…”
“I'm sorry,” I say. I hug my knees into my chest, turning away from Ryan. He places his hand on my shoulder and turns me back towards him.
“Was it Luke?” he asks.
“What would he want with me?”
“Sweetheart, you aren't that naïve. You're gorgeous and charming. What else would he want with you?”
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