Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  “He didn't,” I say, and it's technically true, but I can't keep this up or Ryan will see through me. He sees through everyone, through all their bullshit.

  “Then tell me what really happened.”

  I maintain my silence.

  “Fine,” he says. “You don't have to tell me what's wrong, but I'm not going to listen to a bunch of lies.”

  “Ryan, I'm sorry.”

  “If you're sorry, tell me the truth,” he says.

  He doesn't kiss me goodbye. I bury myself under the covers and try to sleep. Nothing comes. This is what Ryan would want—for me to think about what I did, why I did it. It was Luke. The horrible emptiness he made me feel. I've been losing control ever since the first time I felt his lips on mine.

  It's not fair. Why can Luke rouse all these things in me? Who the fuck does he think he is, telling me to leave Ryan, flirting with me in front of my boyfriend? Who the fuck does he think he is, making me believe he cares about me? How much can he care when he's still holding a candle for Samantha?

  I feel the hole in my stomach again. Acid. It must be the acid. It can't possibly be because Luke is still in love with his ex-girlfriend. If she's even his ex-girlfriend. The fucking asshole.

  I wrap myself in a sheet and sit on the balcony. See, Ryan trusts me. He didn't lock the balcony, and Ryan would never overlook a balcony. Not when he's so sure I'm unstable.

  The breeze is soft and cool, and I am so tired of all this anguish. These feelings are dangerous and I'm not strong enough to handle them. I can't handle anything. It's why I need Ryan. It's why I need to go back to the life waiting for me. I will be Ryan's wife and only Ryan's wife. That's all I can handle.

  I close my eyes and, finally, in the salty air of the Pacific, I fall asleep.

  Chapter 17

  When I wake, Ryan is in the bedroom, changing into his street clothes—jeans and a black t-shirt. It's not like him to dress so casually. Even in the apartment, he is usually in his suit, or on the weekends, in khakis and a polo shirt. He doesn't change into pajamas until 3 minutes before bed.

  But it's not as if he's trying to compare himself to Luke. Lots of people wear jeans and t-shirts. And, Ryan is smart enough to realize he's not competing with Luke.

  Besides, Luke looks a lot better in anything.

  Or nothing.

  Ryan fixes me dinner. It's not fish and rice and vegetables today. It's some kind of soup and a few bottles of Pedialyte. Yes, the drink for sick babies is an old bulimic trick—perfect for replenishing lost electrolytes. Perfect for staying just healthy enough to keep yourself out of the hospital.

  If only I had been more careful, I could still be on Together, holding myself together, with none of this engagement or affair business to deal with.

  Only I'd be another year into an eating disorder with almost no hope of clawing my way out.

  I drink half a dozen glasses of water, but, still, acid attacks the walls of my stomach. I did this to myself. I deserve every second of suffering.

  Ryan and I don't talk. I can't exactly blame him. I don't deserve any more chances to lie. He mentions work. He brings up my therapist and gets me to agree to see her again. Once a week. Maybe two or three days a week. Something to fix me and get me under control.

  We take a walk on the beach as the sun sets. I press my bare feet into the sand. It is cool and rough, but Ryan's hand is strong and soft and warm around mine. I try to lean into him, to hug him and hold him tightly, but he isn't receptive. I collapse onto the sand, pulling my knees into my chest, and watch the waves pound the beach. Ryan sits next to me. He's quiet for a while, but he eventually offers his hand and I rest my head on his shoulder.

  We used to spend a lot of nights and days like this. We used to be closer. We used to care about each other more. He really was worried about me. He really did think I might die. He really did love me. Didn't he?

  “You need to get this under control, sweetheart,” he says. “I can't bear to watch you break down again.”

  “I will. I promise I will.”

  He nods, and we sit like that for a while, as the sky grows darker, into a brilliant blue. The stars and moon are silver against it, little beacons of light in a dark sky. It's all so brilliant it makes me sick. I feel Ryan's fingers on mine. He's feeling my ring finger for my engagement ring. I'm not wearing it. I never wear it.

  “I can't wear it to work,” I say.

  “It's the weekend,” he says. He is suspicious. I'll have to wear the ring when he's around. I'll have to wear the ring when I go see Luke and demand an explanation. If I go see Luke and demand an explanation.

  I'll have to wear the ring if I fuck Luke again.

  We return to the condo. Ryan dotes on me as I brush my teeth and put on my pajamas. He insists I go to bed early, even though I spent half the day sleeping. I pray that he will kiss me and touch me and distract me for the next 20 minutes, but all he does is kiss my forehead and send an email to my therapist requesting an appointment.

  He sleeps in the spare room. Supposedly, I need to be alone with my thoughts. I know better. It's not the thoughts that matter. It's the alone. He wants me to remember how it feels to be without him.

  I am tired, but I can't sleep. The air conditioning is on full blast, and I can't get warm no matter how tightly I hold the covers. It is never this cold when Ryan is in the bed.

  Outside my window, the ocean rolls for miles. I watch waves rock from the horizon to the sand. I spend so much time in this room, in this apartment. Is it a sanctuary or a prison? Does it matter? Either way, I am not strong enough to leave it. Not on my own.

  I wake, once again, to the sound of Ryan's voice. He places my gym clothes on the bed. “Come on, sweetheart,” he says. “It's time to get back to your routine.”

  I brush my teeth, tie my hair back, change into my clothes. An email distracts Ryan. “I'll be there in a few minutes,” he promises. I take the stairs. Less chance of running into Luke.

  The gym is small. A few treadmills, a few weight machines, a few exercise mats. And Luke, on the floor, sweat dripping off his chiseled abs. What is he doing lying on the floor, looking sexy as fuck, practically begging me to mount him?

  “I was hoping I'd see you here,” he says.

  “Lucky coincidence,” I reply and step onto the treadmill. I can't push myself too hard after yesterday. Two miles at four miles per hour. Maybe three.

  The treadmill hits full speed.

  “I know you were in my room last night,” he says.

  “Ryan will be here soon,” I say. He steps onto the treadmill next to mine and matches my speed.

  “I didn't realize Ryan was in charge of who is or isn't allowed in the building's gym,” he says.

  “There's nothing to talk about.”

  “Tell me you're in love with Ryan and I'll never bother you again.”

  “I love him,” I say. What does Luke know about love? He probably dreams about Samantha every night. He's probably infatuated with her.

  “I want to tell you what happened, Alyssa. I want you to understand.”

  “You aren't obligated to tell me and I'm not obligated to listen.” My fingers squeeze the sides of the treadmill.

  “Are you okay?” he asks.

  “Why?”

  “You look like hell.”

  “Thanks.” The door opens behind us. It's Ryan, I can tell it's Ryan from the footsteps and the sound of his breath.

  Luke steps off the treadmill. His eyes hit mine and it takes everything inside me not to crumble again. I'm not built for this kind of sneaking around.

  He nods to Ryan, “I'll see you later, buddy,” and makes for the exit.

  I wait until Luke is out of the gym to exhale. Steady now. One foot in front of the other. It's just walking. It's easy, or do you need Ryan's help to do that also?

  No. Of course I don't need Ryan's help. I'm a big girl. Bigger if you keep losing your self-control.

  I put on my headphones and shut out my thought
s. Ryan is beside me, running twice as fast as I am walking. I want to run, I want to sweat out all these feelings, but I will get dizzy and faint and Ryan will insist we go to the hospital.

  We return to the apartment and eat our usual breakfasts. An egg white omelet for Ryan, oatmeal and fruit for me. I am back on my recovery diet. Every day, the same. Oatmeal and fruit for breakfast. Soup and salad for lunch. Nuts or yogurt for a snack, maybe a smoothie if I'm really feeling up to it. Fish and brown rice and steamed vegetables for dinner. Dark chocolate for dessert. Of course, most days, I skip the dark chocolate. It's too tempting to eat the entire bar, and I don't deserve it. Why should I reward myself for sitting on my ass all day, watching TV reruns?

  It's boring, but it's safe. Except for the chocolate, there are no temptations. I never get hungry enough to overeat. I am never so full I want to empty my stomach. I am never too close or too far away from a potential treat, even if I do skip the chocolate almost every day.

  But that wasn't enough, was it? I lost control yesterday and it's all because of Luke.

  How can he do this to me? I've been good for so long. Good enough to drink two or three or four tequilas without giving into the temptation to binge and purge on that pantry full of chocolate bars. How can I suddenly be so weak I'm willing to do anything to chase away my feelings?

  How can I care enough about him to lose control?

  The warzone in my stomach has calmed, but it still doesn't feel quite right. I eat slowly, drinking black coffee. It's awful black, but I can't stomach the thought of putting any more sugar in my body after last night.

  “You look better today,” Ryan says. “Do you feel better?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  “Are you ready to tell me what really happened yesterday?” Ryan asks.

  “Nothing happened.”

  “Do you know how much I worry about you? I couldn't sleep last night. I won't be able to concentrate in my meetings today.”

  What can I tell Ryan? How can I make him understand without confessing? How can I let him know that I want to purge my mind of Luke? So I'll never feel like this again.

  “Is this about Luke? Has he been bothering you?” Damn mind-reading lawyer skills.

  “I said no last night.”

  “I was hoping you'd be ready to tell me the truth today.” I say nothing, and Ryan launches into an accusation. “He's been flirting with you.”

  “He's very flirtatious.”

  “I know he's handsome, funny, permissive. Hell, I even enjoy talking to him sometimes. He's almost as well-read as you are, and he knows all those indie films I've never heard of. But he wants more from you than friendship.”

  “Why do you work with someone you don't trust?”

  “He's a great lawyer. Doesn't sleep. Works all night.” Ryan takes my hand and kisses me on the nose. “I have to go, but we'll talk more tonight. I'll be home early. I need you near me or I'll be a worried wreck.”

  “You've never been a worried wreck in your life.”

  “I was, every day you were in treatment.” He certainly knows how to shut me up.

  Ryan kisses me on the forehead. It's soft and sweet, especially for him. Ryan steps into the shower. I go to join him, to put everything between us back on track, but the door is locked. He doesn't want me there.

  After Ryan leaves, I drive myself to therapy. I sit across from my therapist in silence. I tell her more about the role, about the stress, about binging and purging. I do not mention Luke or how empty I felt after finding those letters.

  Therapy sessions used to help, but this one does little to ease my mind. I don't want to work through my thoughts. I want to stuff them into the back of my brain, to some place where no one will ever find them. I don't care about the collateral damage. I don't care if I get depressed for weeks, if I have to binge and purge 100 more times. I have to rid myself of any thoughts of Luke Lawrence. By any means necessary.

  Chapter 18

  I sit in a casting room on a plush orange couch. Laurie sits across from me, next to a suit of some kind. An executive at the network or the production company. Something like that. Some business person who will decide if I am marketable, if I am fuckable enough for the 18-35 male demo.

  If only she could ask Ryan. He would assure her that I am beautiful, and she can use that.

  The suit, and her suit is a glorious slate gray, leaves to take a call on her smart phone. She speaks in low, hushed tones with the kind of seriousness usually reserved for the War Room. I remember working with these kinds of people. The “TV is serious business, more important than curing cancer and you better take it as seriously as I do” people.

  They excel at sucking the fun out of everything.

  Laurie moves to the couch. She spreads out, her feet on the arm rest, her head on my shoulder, her curly hair falling over my arm. Laurie takes off her glasses and plays with their handles.

  “Alyssa, I tell you. These suits are incompetent. Have you ever been in a meeting about meetings?”

  I shake my head.

  “I think it gets them off, seeing meeting on their iCal.” She rolls off the couch and stretches. “Or maybe they hate their families and would rather spend the day in pointless meetings.” She sighs. “It's awful.”

  She shakes her head and returns her glasses to their rightful place. “But don't worry about it. You probably remember what it's like. Everyone assumes the actors are idiots. They won't ask much of you unless you're on camera. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “As long as you remember your lines, you take direction, and you don't act like a diva, they'll love you… God, Listen to me. I'm so obnoxious. You were on that show for three years. You know the routine.”

  “It's fine,” I say. “Really, I appreciate the concern.”

  Relief floods her face. Laurie is weird, but I get it. She's trapped in TV world. That kind of thing makes it hard to engage with normal life.

  “You're reading with Danny and Naomi today, you know, the hot kid and the sister. And, girl, he is damn hot. I know you're engaged or something, but damn. I wonder if he really is into older women.”

  “So you didn't get a little casting couch action going?”

  “I don't seem that desperate, do I?” She asks.

  “Want me to remove his clothing?”

  “Yeah… I mean, your character would do that. Wouldn't she?” Laurie asks.

  “Yeah, it's about the character,” I say.

  Laurie clears her throat. “Do whatever feels natural. I trust you.”

  “Right…” I say.

  I smile. Laurie is fun. She's almost distracting me from the complete misery that was my weekend.

  “Just get into character. Have fun with it.”

  “Sure,” I say.

  The door opens. “Oh, shit, the suit is back. On your best behavior now,” Laurie says and gets back in her executive chair. The suit comes in with a young actor, 18 or 19 maybe. Laurie was right. He is hot—handsome, tall, and muscular with gorgeous olive skin. He looks like a Spanish-American pop star. It's not hard to imagine why Marie Jane is interested in him, and it won't be hard to play scenes where he is the object of my character's lust.

  I might not even need to use Luke as a trigger.

  We shake hands and introduce ourselves. His name is Danny. He was a child actor. He loved me on Together, the sweet suck up. Laurie sets up a video camera, directing us to get within the frame. “Whenever you're ready,” she says.

  Danny starts the scene—his character is working out in the yard. Much to Laurie's delight I'm sure, he takes off his shirt to count out a round of push ups. I don't have much to play, mostly watching him with my tongue hanging out of my mouth until I gain enough sense to try to grab his attention.

  Even though it's only a chemistry read, we get into character. I look at him like he's the only thing I'll ever need. He looks at me with the kind of curiosity only a 17 year old boy could have. It's fun and silly and, for a minute, I am Aly
ssa Summers, hard-working actress, instead of Alyssa Summers, Ryan Knight's fiancée, pathetic, cheating bitch.

  When Laurie calls scene, I am desperate to get back into the flow of acting. “Can we read the next scene?” I ask.

  “We have time before Naomi, don't we?” Laurie asks the suit. The suit nods and Laurie claps. Jeez, the girl is enthusiastic. “Whenever you're ready,” she says.

  I sink into the role. I am Marie Jane, ex-model, desperate attention seeker. I need nothing more than a distraction. I need nothing more than this kid, under me, or on top of me, or behind me. I don't give two fucks how he wants me, I only know I need him to want me, I need him to touch me and kiss me and fuck me. I don't care that it is wrong, that he is underage, that this will make things awkward for my sister. I need to have him or I will never be happy.

  My character brain takes over and my actor brain recedes. It is just Marie Jane, trying to seduce this kid. And, when it comes time for the in-script kiss, when I have to play the deepest, hardest, most intense attraction I've ever felt, I close my eyes and picture Luke. If it was Luke next to me, what kind of things would I do to him? I grab Danny's waist. I press my body into his. I do not go beyond a stage kiss—my lips are closed, pressed against his in a very technical, unsexy way—but I play the position of my body and hands big and loud, the way I would if it were Luke.

  That's not going to help you get him out of your head. Have a little self-control and find some other trigger. Or don't use a trigger at all. This Danny kid is hot enough to warrant your lust. If you were single, you'd be all over him.

  Laurie calls scene and we separate. I apologize to Danny. “That wasn't too much, was it?” I ask. He shakes his head, a smug little smile on his face. This is probably his first time playing the hot dude.

  “Geez, Alyssa, I'm not going to get your fiancé coming after me am I?” Laurie asks. “I think we can consider that ample chemistry.” But this does not satisfy the suit. She is not amused by Laurie's jokes. She goes into details of the scene, the lines, the chemistry. They watch the scene again on their little camera.

  “That was great, guys,” she says and dismisses Danny. We wait a few minutes for Naomi. Laurie gives me a little background on her, and how she's been playing my character's sister.