Rouse Me

by Crystal Kaswell

  Naomi enters the room, and I can tell she is a force to be reckoned with. She is no-nonsense, dressed all business casual, in sensible pumps and a knee-length skirt. She has hard features—a thin figure, strong cheekbones, neat hair. She's the responsible sister, a harsh rule maker with no sense of fun. Someone like Ryan.

  We introduce ourselves and shake hands. She doesn't look me in the eye, but she does read her lines, playing each one of them. Unlike Danny, Naomi doesn't get into her role or give me much room to play. She jumps in with her next line the second I finish mine, probably eager to be done with this. We finish the scene, neither one of us really into character, neither one of us hitting the emotional or comedic beats.

  Laurie doesn't like it. The suit doesn't like it. They leave the room to talk about us. They claim it's for a phone call, but it's obviously to talk about us. Naomi turns to me, her eyes narrow.

  “You quit your last show,” she says.

  “I had to. Health reasons,” I say.

  “Which health reasons—Adderall or Percocet?”

  “Different health reasons.”

  “Yeah, right.” She mimes snorting coke. I roll my eyes. Some people are impossible.

  But she's signed a contract. I haven't. If I want to secure my role 100%, I have to get her on my side.

  “I know this is frustrating for you,” I say. “You've done it before. But the only way we're going to get through it, is if you work with me. We both want this show to make it. We both want it to go for 100 episodes and make us rich. So, can you help me convince these suits we're both right for these parts?”

  “Yeah, whatever,” she says. But, when Laurie and the suit return, and we read our next scene, Naomi gets into character, allowing me to steal moments and have a little fun with my lines. The sisters come to life, sparring and arguing to much more comedic effects. They like this version better. Hopefully, they like it enough they'll keep me on.

  My last chemistry read is easy. My character's ex-boyfriend. A sweet guy, but far too dull for Marie Jane. The actor, Brett, is gregarious and fun, but I can see why Marie Jane would leave a guy like him. She needs someone with more to offer. Someone more interesting. Someone who loves life and seeks out knowledge. Someone who cares about more than working to the bone. Someone who would fuck her in a movie theater.

  We finish with a long conversation about Model Citizen. Laurie is sure the network will approve me. I should have the contract tonight. The rest of the week will be wardrobe fittings and rehearsals. We start shooting the following Monday. Next week will be my last week of freedom before 10 weeks of 12 hour days.

  I drive home, willing my brain to stay on the meeting. It went well. I was acting again and I was killing it. It's one thing I actually know how to do.

  But my thoughts are a jumble, and they keep jumping around between Luke and Ryan and this whole mess.

  ***

  I spend the afternoon in the apartment, pacing around the living room, flipping through channels on TV. Luke texts. I'm worried about you. What would he say if he knew what really happened? What would he do if he caught me binging and purging? Would he freak out, utterly unable to handle it? Or would he stay calm and collected like Ryan does?

  It's not like I do it all the time. This was the first time I've done it since treatment. But it might happen again, and I can't be with someone who can't handle it. I can't be with someone who is scared of how ugly I can get.

  I'm getting ahead of myself again. Luke hasn't had a chance to fuck things up yet. He might not even want to fuck things up. He might want to be with Samantha.

  Besides, I'm not supposed to be thinking of him at all. I'm supposed to eradicate him from my thoughts.

  But he offered an explanation, and I want to hear it.

  Or do you want another chance to be in his apartment, in his presence, his skin pressed against yours?

  I text Luke. “When do I get this explanation?”

  He replies 30 minutes later. “Ryan has an early meeting tomorrow. Come by my apartment at 8. We'll have at least two hours before he could possibly interrupt.”

  “What do you think you're getting in your apartment?” I reply.

  “Well, my first choice would be a long day with you. Breakfast, tea, conversation, a movie, something black and white maybe. Then we could try using the bed. I hear those are popular.”

  “Luke…” I reply.

  “I'm not an idiot. All I expect is 15 minutes to explain things. Okay?”

  But what if I'd rather skip all the talking and try using the bed? What if I want to channel Marie Jane and find the perfect distraction from how much I've fucked everything up?

  What if Luke really is in love with this other woman?

  Chapter 19

  My cell phone alarm rings at 7:30. The sunrise fills the empty room. I reach over to Ryan's side of the bed, but he isn't there. He's already gone.

  Ryan will be angry if he finds out, but I don't care. Luke must have some explanation.

  I spend far too long picking out a flattering dress, fitted and low-cut enough to demand his attention, casual enough to convince myself I'm not trying at this. My hand is hopelessly unsteady as I apply my usual swipe of brown eyeliner.

  Really, Alyssa, why bother? Perfect makeup isn't going to erase his engagement.

  I walk the stairs to his floor. My footsteps echo. Why are they so loud? My fluid levels must still be off. That's what happens when you throw up three pints of ice cream.

  I knock on the door and it's loud, so loud. Luke lets me inside and envelopes me in a hug. I shouldn't let him touch me. I shouldn't let myself touch him. But his arms feel so warm and safe. His arms feel like home.

  “Are you okay?” he asks. “Okay, stupid question. Can I get you anything?”

  “Just water,” I say and he brings me a glass.

  “Did you ask Ryan to fill you in on the details of my love life?”

  “Need to figure out how to cover up your lie?”

  “It's complicated,” he says.

  “When I say that, you tell me it's bullshit.”

  “You're right. It's bullshit,” he says. “But it's true. Are you sure you don't want something else? Tea? Coffee?”

  “You have coffee?”

  He checks his cabinets. They're almost entirely bare, except for a few boxes of cereal and a few metal tins. “Tea,” he offers again. “Do you like Earl Grey or English breakfast?”

  “Just tell me.”

  “Okay, Earl Grey. You'll like it. It's strong, but sweet. ”

  “Tell me,” I say, and I try not to notice the wounded look in his big, brown eyes. Dammit. I'm supposed to be angry. I'm supposed to demand an explanation. But, one look at those big, brown eyes and I want to wrap my arms around him.

  “You saw the pictures when you were here last time, right?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “The letters too?”

  “Some of them.”

  “Then I'll start at the beginning.”

  “I don't want the history of your relationship. I want to know if you're still with this woman,” I say.

  “Just let me explain everything. Okay?”

  He fills a fancy electric water heater. It's the only appliance in his empty kitchen. Dammit, there I go again, feeling sorry for him and his empty apartment.

  “Samantha and I met our last year at USC. I was instantly smitten with her. She was so ambitious and passionate about law, and no one is passionate about law by their third year in law school. But, somehow, she liked me, at least for a while. Every few months we'd fight over my apathy or lack of drive, but we'd make up, and things would be good for a while. She let me drag her to indie films. I pretended to understand the poetry books she adored.”

  “Luke—”

  “I know. I'm getting to it.” The little red light on the water heater switches off. Luke grabs a tin of tea and scoops it into some kind of plastic tea maker. He pours hot water into the tea maker and sets a timer. Five mi
nutes.

  “I knew I had to do something to grab her attention,” he continues. “So, after we graduated and took the bar, I asked her to marry me. She said yes. I have no idea why she said yes, but she did, and, even though we’d been growing apart for a while, I was happy.

  I was starting a business with Ryan, which was a stupid ‘fuck you’ to my dad, even stupider since Samantha worked at his firm. It was a spot he wanted me to fill, but, really, she was so much more qualified, and she did so much better than I would have. We were both so busy, working so many hours, that it seemed normal for her to come home late, or spend the weekends catching up with her friends, or to make excuses for why she didn't want to, you know…”

  “Luke.”

  “Then one day, we're having dinner, and I ask about the wedding, if she wants to set a date. She starts crying, really bawling, and she tells me she's having an affair.”

  “Jesus.”

  “It gets better,” he says. “She was fucking my father. Had been fucking him for years, even before I asked her to marry me. And she loved him, she loved him so much, in a way she'd never loved me. She gave me all that cliché bullshit about how she didn't mean to hurt me, but she was fucking my father.”

  He tries to hide the pained look on his face, but I can see it. Is that what I'm going to do to Ryan if I confess? Is that what I'm going to do to Ryan if I leave him? Am I any better than this woman who broke Luke's heart?

  “And, even though she wasn't sure he'd have her, she had to leave me and take that chance. Poor girl had no idea what an asshole he is. He wouldn't risk his reputation to be with her, even though he'd been a widower for years. It wouldn't look good, a Senior Partner with an associate. She offered to leave the firm, but he wouldn't do it.”

  The tea timer dings and Luke takes the excuse to pour us two cups. He spoons honey into each.

  “I was too pathetic to end things with her. I knew she didn't love me, that I was a second choice, and not even a close second, but I still wanted to be with her. Then, my father got sick. Lung cancer—the idiot smoked a pack a day for years. It was already Stage 4. He didn't make it much longer.”

  He takes a long sip of his tea, stirring his spoon mindlessly.

  “She was so sad after he died, and every time I saw how sad she was, I felt like she was stabbing me in the heart. She was broken up over this asshole who rejected her for his reputation. And the asshole was the same asshole I'd hated my entire life.”

  “Luke,” I say. “Are you with her or not?”

  “Let me finish,” he says. “The point is—I knew something was wrong, really wrong. I knew it was more than grief over her ex-lover's death. But I was angry and jealous, and I was upset about my dad's death, too. I had more right to be upset than she did. He's my fucking dad.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, his eyes turning towards the sunny day outside. “I was practically ignoring her,” he continues. “I wanted space, but I wanted her to love me, and I wouldn't give her any room to get over it. I worked all the time. I couldn't sleep. I got this prescription for heavy duty sleeping pills, and they worked, but they gave me nightmares, so I stopped taking them.”

  “Luke—”

  “I'm not telling you all this so you feel sorry for me. I want you to understand why I failed her. She needed me. It wasn't in the way I wanted her to need me, but she needed me, and I ignored it. She was so sad, so much sadder than normal. She even started calling in sick to work. I knew, but I didn't…”

  He shakes his head, his eyes on the floor. “I left my bottle on the bedside table. It's not like I did it on purpose, not exactly…But I left it right there, right where she'd look, where it would be so easy for her. I knew I should’ve hidden them or locked them in a drawer, but I didn't think she would…I hoped she wouldn't.

  “Then, one day, it was a Friday, I think… I get this call from the hospital. Some doctor tells me she's in the ER. Samantha had swallowed my bottle of sleeping pills. I don't even know who found her. They pumped her stomach. She was okay. She lived. There was this note by her bed, our bed. Everything you'd expect.”

  I feel my heart in my throat.

  “That was only a month ago,” he says. “She's still in the hospital.”

  All the air leaves my lungs. I try to move my fingers, but I can't feel any part of my body. I can't feel anything. Luke's fiancée tried to kill herself a month ago. He left out his bottle of sleeping pills. He left them there for her. He must have known…

  How is this possible?

  “You're still engaged.”

  “Technically, we never broke up,” he says.

  “Technically?”

  “It's been over for a long time. We both know it's over.”

  “No, you're engaged. There's no over. There's engaged or not engaged.”

  “You're engaged,” he says.

  “But you knew that. You knew I was engaged and you decided to go ahead.”

  “You're right,” he says. “I'm sorry. I should have told you, but I didn't think…”

  “You just wanted to fuck me?”

  “I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me after that.”

  “Do you still love her?” I ask.

  “I thought I did,” he says. “Until recently.”

  “How recently?”

  “Until I met you, and I remembered how it felt to be alive.”

  How am I supposed to stay angry when he says things like that?

  “Does she know about us?” I ask.

  “Since when is there an ‘us’?”

  “Does she know we're fucking?” I correct myself.

  “No,” he says. “But I'm going to see her this weekend and I'm going to end things officially.”

  I sit on his couch and sip my ignored tea. It's sweet, as sweet as my usual coffee, and it saves me from the need to form a coherent response.

  “Were you ever going to tell me?” I ask.

  “Eventually.”

  “I should go. If Ryan finds out I'm here—”

  “Don't. Please.” He grabs my wrist, harder than he has before.

  “Stop it,” I say.

  “Please, Alyssa, I already failed one woman I care about. I can't fail you, too. You need someone and it shouldn't be Ryan.”

  “You can't fail me, because we aren't anything. I am with Ryan, and I love Ryan. He takes care of me. He protects me.” Why does my chest hurt? Why does it feel hard to breathe?

  “Yes, you say that a lot.”

  “I'm not your pity project,” I say. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Then why don't you?”

  “What do you know about taking care of someone you love? You watched your fiancée slip into depression, and you did nothing to help her. You left her with a bottle of sleeping pills. You knew she was depressed. Were you pissed off she cheated or were you just tired of dealing with her?”

  The color drains from his face. I went too far. He loved her. He didn't do it on purpose. But, still…

  I'm not his fucking pity project.

  I move to the door. This time, Luke doesn't try to stop me.

  I try to ignore the heavy feeling in my chest. I've only known Luke two weeks. He won't make me hurt. He won't make me lose control. Not again.

  Chapter 20

  My body aches and a cup of coffee does nothing to ease the hurt. That look of pain on Luke's face shouldn't affect me. The thought of him sitting in his sad little apartment, by himself, shouldn't affect me. We had a fling. It's over. The end.

  He's engaged for Christ's sake.

  I love Ryan. He protects me. He takes care of me. Luke could never take care of me. He saw all the signs his fiancée was falling apart, but he ignored them. He's weak. If I started slipping, he'd be too scared to help. He could never take care of me the way Ryan does. So what if I'll never fall in love with Ryan or laugh with Ryan or have an interesting conversation with Ryan? I can joke with my friends, or talk with my friends. I can drink and hike and advent
ure with my friends.

  But I don't have any friends.

  It's not Ryan's fault. It's my fault. I sit in this apartment all day and I read or watch movies. I have a car. I have keys. But there are all sorts of temptations outside the house—grocery stores and bars and ice cream parlors—and I can't always handle them, especially not without Ryan there to keep me in line.

  So what if I don't have any friends? I don't need friends. And I certainly don't need the feeling I get in my body when Luke touches me. Those are luxuries I don't deserve. Those are luxuries I am not strong enough to handle.

  But I want it all so much. I want to be in the world again. I want to be with people again. I want to be with Luke. I want all the things I'll get from being with him—the laughter, the conversations, the feeling in my body when he touches me.

  It's not really possible, is it? I need Ryan or I'll fall apart. And, up until pretty recently, he was in love with someone else, someone who needed him. Someone who still needs him.

  I stare out my windows. It's a brilliant day outside. Blue sky, bright sun, puffy, white clouds. It's so beautiful, I want to throw up, but I can't stay in the condo a minute longer, or I'll be in the kitchen, finding every single drop of junk in the cabinets.

  I change into my swim suit and cover-up. I need the freezing cold water of the Pacific surrounding me, numbing me, allowing me to feel anything except this.

  I take the elevator downstairs, trying to avoid my reflection in the mirrored ceiling. But, still, I see it, and I am not sure I recognize myself. It's the same physically, but there's something so different about me.

  The concrete path is blindingly white. It's warm against my feet, even through my flimsy flip-flops. It's so bright I squint. Why didn't I bring my sunglasses? I close my eyes for a minute and soak in the warmth of the sun.

  And when I open my eyes, I see Luke, on the grass, under the shade of that same tree. He's sweaty and flushed. No shirt, blue running shorts. He looks at me as if I am some minor irritation, a bug flying in his face. Then, he looks back to the grass in front of him as if I am even less than a bug. At least he'd try to shoo a bug.